jlsammy25

[jlsammy25]

Damn. Nothing to say as usual 😞

All Of Your Pieces (30 - All Of Your Pieces)

Chapter Summary: “I’d give anything to keep you,” Wanda whispers into your neck. “Can’t we—please—I need more time.”

You kiss her temple, then her nose, her cheek, her jaw, stopping just before the ache tips you into begging for the same thing. “I know,” you murmur. “But it has to be now, Wanda. It’s time.”

She starts to protest, shaking her head, so you hold her a little tighter.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 1.5k | Chapter Tags: Angst

A/N: The shortest chapter I've written for this series. But this particular scenes needs to be its own chapter and nothing else. // More author's notes here. GIF grabbed from marvelgifs.

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It feels like an ordinary evening, yet both of you know it is anything but.

The boys have wandered upstairs, leaving the house in a deafening silence. You and Wanda remain at the dining table, two half-burned candles and an unfinished bottle of wine between you. She is on her second glass while yours sits nearly full.

Earlier, when she led you, Billy, and Tommy home, you watched the Hex collapse, shrinking until it hugged only the property line. Wanda slipped into everyday clothes, prepared dinner as if it were any other Tuesday, and the four of you shared what you suspect will be your last meal together.

You don’t know what’s going to happen, only that it has to.

Your wife sits across from you, cheeks tinted by wine and a laughter winding down. One of the things you love about her is how easy it’s always been to make her laugh. Even if it’s probably premature, Agatha’s defeat has quickly become a comic relief, a way to pretend the clock isn’t running out. 

But time continues to move, so that a beat, and then two, passes. 

“Wanda?”

She sets her glass down, her eyes still soft from the wine but sobering quickly. “Mm?”

You trace the rim of your own glass, searching for the right place to start.

“I’ve been thinking…” The words barely rise above a murmur, but she hears them. You watch her shoulders shift the way they always do when she’s wary.

“About?”

You think about the simple question. There’s so much you could say—about what you are, what this is. About where you end and the real world begins. About the ticking truth pressing in from the corners of the town, from the corners of your own mind.

But before you can shape any of it into words, she reaches across the table and brushes her fingers against yours. It’s enough to still the storm inside you.

“Should we tuck in the boys?” she asks, softly. “Say good night?”

You meet her gaze. Something in the way she says good night sounds like she really means goodbye.

You nod, unable to trust your voice at the thought of parting your boys—yours and Wanda’s.

You push back your chair and follow her upstairs. The house is quiet, and you swear you can already feel it thinning, like the air itself is waiting to let you go.

Billy’s already curled beneath his blanket when you peek in. Tommy’s half-asleep, sprawled sideways and mumbling about finishing a game tomorrow. You smile, gently pulling the covers back over him.

Wanda moves to Billy’s side first. She smooths his hair, leans in to whisper something only he can hear, then presses a kiss to his forehead. You do the same, hoping the moment will outlive you both.

Tommy’s blanket has slid off again. Wanda tucks it back around him while you smooth the edge with a trembling hand.

“Night, champ,” you whisper.

He mumbles something—probably an I love you. He always does before sleep takes him. Soon, his breathing steadies, his small chest rising and falling beneath the blanket you’ve both finally managed to keep in place.

Wanda lingers a moment longer, fingertips brushing a loose strand of his hair. Then she pulls back, eyes glistening in the night‑light. She turns away, gets up and returns to stand by the doorframe. You join her, your arm grazing hers as you lean against the frame in silent invitation. Almost instantly, she folds into you, the only person holding her together. Her breath, warm against your collarbone, is the only sound in the silence.

Together, you watch the boys one last time.

—

Wanda walks down the stairs first, her hand trailing lightly along the banister. You take a moment to yourself, preparing for a goodbye you’re not ready to give.

When you walk into the living room, she is already reaching for the light switch on the far wall.

“Leave one on,” you say softly.

Her hand stills. She looks back at you in question.

“I want to see you,” you elaborate. “And I read somewhere it’s bad luck to say goodbye in the dark.”

A small, surprised smile pulls at her lips. “You’ve read all sorts of things, haven’t you?”

You grin faintly. “Made that one up, actually.”

She chuckles, appreciating and mourning the fact that you’re still putting an effort not to upset her for as long as you can. To spare her this imminent heartbreak, although there’s absolutely nothing you can do to be able to prevent that for her.

Wanda looks away, only for a second. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye,” she says suddenly. “I can release the rest of the town, and just… keep this. Keep us. I can protect you and the boys here. We can—”

You move around the sofa, meeting her halfway, and shake your head gently before she can finish. “Wanda, it’s not really much of a life… being confined to a single house.” You say it softly, hoping it lands more as love than refusal.

She stares at you for a moment, then looks away, nodding faintly. “No. You’re right,” she murmurs. “It would be cruel… to keep you all here like prisoners. Just… existing for me.”

You don’t know what to say to that. There’s no comfort in the truth. It’s the right thing, but it doesn’t feel noble. It just feels harrowing in a different way.

Words fail you, so you cross the space between and gather her into your arms. She melts against you, as if she has been waiting. Her fingers clutch your shirt; yours slide into her hair, cradling her while you still can.

You close your eyes and breathe Wanda in. There’s a ticking sensation behind your ribs, a knowing that it’s only a matter of time. But in this moment, pressed against her heart, you let yourself forget everything except the feel of her body against yours.

If this is the last thing you ever get, you’ll make it count.

“I’d give anything to keep you,” Wanda whispers into your neck. “Can’t we—please—I need more time.”

You kiss her temple, then her nose, her cheek, her jaw, stopping just before the ache tips you into begging for the same thing. “I know,” you murmur. “But it has to be now, Wanda. It’s time.”

She starts to protest, shaking her head, so you hold her a little tighter.

“She’s out there,” you remind her. “The real Y/N—the one who bled and broke right alongside you. You haven’t lost everything, no matter how it feels.”

Wanda stiffens in your arms, then wrenches back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing, lips trembling.

“Out there?” she spits. “Out there she abandoned me. You abandoned me.” Her fists twist in your shirt, yanking you closer, shoving you away. “You don’t want me. You proved that when—”

“Wanda.” You cup her face. “I want you. She wants you. In every version of me, it’s always you.”

And you believe that with all your heart. Despite her hesitation when you made her promise that Wanda won’t be alone. 

The anger drains from her features, leaving only raw, quavering hurt. She slackens in your arms, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms cinching around your waist as if bracing for impact. You wrap her up, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other smoothing idle circles between her shoulder blades. 

You still have a thousand questions—fragments of thoughts that have kept you up at night, memories and emotions that never felt entirely your own. Most of them, you know, will never be answered. There’s no time, no space, and maybe no truth that would ever make them make sense. 

But there’s still time for the one question that matters most to you.

“Wanda?” you murmur into her hair. “Before I go, I feel I must know. What am I?”

She pulls back, just far enough to search your face, adoration swimming in her green eyes. 

“You are…” she starts, but her voice falters. She swallows and tries again. “You are my sadness.”

Her thumb catches a tear you hadn’t felt fall.

“And my hope.”

Her hands cradle your face—the one she remembers and loves so dearly—tender like she’s memorizing it for the last time.

“And mostly,” she breathes, tears slipping free as her forehead rests against yours, “you’re my love.”

It washes over you like a final note in a song that was always meant to end. Real and devastating and whole.

“Is it going to hurt?” you ask as you finally close your eyes. You feel the Hex closing in, its energy now mere inches, pulling at your essence. 

“No,” she promises, “not for you.”

You release a soft breath. “Thank you,” you murmur, and press a kiss to her cheek—light, lingering, reverent—before resting your face against hers, cheek to cheek, the way you’ve always felt closest to her.

Then you start to slip away.

There’s no pain. No fire. No cold. Only Wanda Maximoff, holding you as if you are the most fragile thing in the world.

She was right.

It doesn’t hurt.

[jlsammy25]

That's it.

All Of Your Pieces (29 - The One She Chose)

Chapter Summary: The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.5k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Welcome to Part 3! The final part. Starts immediately after the end of Part 1. Warning, this might give you whiplash. Hopefully I'll finish writing the entire series before school starts again :) // More author's notes here.

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“This wasn’t in my bingo card.”

Everyone turns to Jimmy, who breaks the silence with a dry shake of his head, still reeling from the truth behind your voluntary disappearance. He shrugs helplessly. “Just saying. You fake your own death, let Wanda think you’re gone, take the fall for Barton… Kinda hard to top.”

You huff a humorless breath. “Give it time. I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

Clint says nothing. He just stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes shifting between you and the crackling red shimmer of the Hex. Hayward and his men are down, thanks to you and Clint, but the urgency outside hasn’t gone away. A few minutes ago, the signal blacked out. No matter how many experts dig into it, no one’s been able to bring it back.

Still, for some reason, Jimmy and Monica can’t get past one simple fact: the real you is alive and well—just also a convicted international criminal. For Monica, that fact comes with too many questions.

What if you hadn’t taken Clint’s place?

What if Wanda knew you were never really gone?

She knows there’s more to your story than the version you’ve allowed them to hear, but it’s hard not to feel a semblance of resentment. Your choices (however noble or necessary they might’ve seemed) helped bring everyone to this point.

Monica studies you closely, still trying to make sense of the present situation. “They really tagged you?”

You nod once. “Injected. Somewhere deep. I don’t know where.” You glance down at your hands like they’ll tell you. “Not that it matters. If I run, they’ll know. They’ll come.”

Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “From what we’ve seen this past week, I’d say Wanda could fix that problem for you.”

“I didn’t come here to run,” you say. “I’m not looking for an escape, Agent Woo.”

“Then why are you here?” Monica asks. There’s a chill in her tone, sharper than she intended, but not entirely unearned.

You take a slow breath, well aware that the whole truth—every last brittle piece of it—won’t land clean with anyone here.

“I came because Clint asked. Because this whole town did, in one way or another,” you say.

You never meant to see her again. Five years is a long time to stay gone, long enough to convince yourself she is safer believing you died. A reunion was the last thing on your mind, certainly not one like this. If she recognizes you now, your arrest, your sacrifice, the quiet erasure of your life—all of it will have been for nothing.

But none of that matters if you do not stop her. If this continues, everything else is beside the point.

You still can’t believe Wanda did this—built a cage from her grief and pulled a whole town inside. But maybe you should have seen it coming. Maybe you, more than anyone, should have recognized the signs.

After all, you’ve done worse.

Jimmy surprises you then, by asking, “How do we even know you're not the copy?”

You meet his gaze, fighting back a laugh. “I mean, look at me,” you say, glancing down at your own weary, thin frame, worn down in a way the replica Clint described could never be.

The wind picks up then, cutting through you like a blade. You square your shoulders and try to bear it. You’ve never been fond of the cold. 

Monica starts pacing in circles, and you gaze at her curiously. Whatever’s running through her mind, you’ve got a feeling it won’t break in your favor.

“It’s cruel,” she starts quietly, “letting Wanda believe you died. You really think she would’ve done any of this if she knew you were out there?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “You know her?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen how desperate she was in there. That’s enough to—”

You cut her off with a sharp breath, bristling. There it is—that tone. As if she has Wanda figured out. As if one week inside the Hex gives her the right to speak like an authority. It grates on you more than you expect.

“No offense, but you can’t be sure of what she would or wouldn’t have done.”

Monica’s expression hardens, but you keep going.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you bite out. “And you don’t have the right to stand there and act like I chose wrong. Like any of this was easy.”

She starts to reply, but you talk over her.

“She was gone, Monica. Gone. And I had to live with that for five years. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”

Your voice shakes, not from weakness, but from how tightly you’re holding everything back.

“I buried her in my mind. Mourned her like she was never coming back. Then all at once, she was here again. And you think I could just… show up? After everything? After what I—”

“Y/N, that’s enough.”

Clint’s voice instantly puts a stop to your rant. Monica’s jab lit the fuse fast, but the anger burns out just as quickly, leaving only fatigue. You’re sick of second-guessing, of tallying every consequence, of defending choices you never asked for.

Exhausted isn’t even the word.

“This isn’t the time or place,” Clint says softly. “You don’t owe anyone here an explanation.”

Monica throws him a look—equal parts frustrated and disbelieving—but Clint just shrugs.

“I’m not taking sides,” he says plainly. “You’re both right in your own ways. But we’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

You look away, jaw clenched, heart still racing. He’s right. As much as you want to keep going, now isn’t the time.

The silence settles again, taut and uneasy. You can still feel Monica’s stare, but she says nothing more.

Then Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay… so what’s the plan, then?”

“I’m going in,” you say simply. 

“That’s it?” Jimmy asks, brows raised.

You nod. “That’s it.” You already know what you’ll do once you see her. And with everything happening so fast, there hasn’t been a chance to iron out the details, anyway.

“So you’re just gonna wing it?”

“Pretty much.”

Monica gives a dry laugh. “Wow, did you lose the rest of the plan on the way here?”

You arch a brow. “Got a better one?”

She folds her arms and looks away, biting back a retort.

“Thought so.”

Before she can protest, you add, “Wanda never lets anyone in unless she wants them. Darcy only got pulled in because the Hex expanded.”

A tired smile tugs at your mouth as you point past her. “Take a good look now.”

She turns. The Hex shivers, pulsing like a slow blink. Gaps open and close, an open wound trying to knit itself shut.

“It started a few minutes ago,” you say. “Whatever’s happening inside is tearing it apart. That’s my doorway.”

“And once you’re through?” Jimmy asks quietly.

You study the shimmering wall one last time, then lower your hand.

“Then I figure it out.”

—

“What do you need me to do?”

Darcy blinks, surprised by how quickly you’ve turned around.

“You’re… sure?” she asks, standing up, brushing gravel from her hands. “Because like, five minutes ago you looked ready to knock me out cold.”

You don’t answer right away, just glance down at your wedding ring. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” you say quietly. “But if there’s even a chance you’re right, then I need to do something.”

“I wish I could tell you what to do. I don’t know how we fix this. No one does.”

You look up. “But you think she’ll listen to me.”

“If she’ll listen to anyone,” Darcy says, “it’s probably you, yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I thought the same.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, breathing as much air as you could—while you can. “I thought… if I could just talk to her, get her to see what this is doing—not just to me, but to everyone—she’d understand. She always did. That was our thing, you know? We heard each other.”

Darcy stays quiet, letting you work through it.

“But now… I can’t remember if I ever actually tried. If I even asked her,” you go on, voice hollow with realization. “Which means…maybe she didn’t let me. Maybe she never gave me the chance.”

Darcy’s face softens. “You think she’s keeping you from remembering?”

You shrug. “She doesn’t want to hear it. Not from me. And if Wanda doesn’t want something—”

A deafening crash shatters the moment, and both you and Darcy whip around to find the sky roiling in a storm-like upheaval.

Your feet are already moving. “Come on.”

Darcy stumbles after you, wide-eyed. “That’s Wanda, isn’t it? That has to be Wanda—”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” you mutter, yanking the passenger door open and sliding into the seat, “but I need to get to her and the kids before someone else does.”

The engine groans before roaring to life. You don’t wait for it to warm up. Gravel kicks up behind the tires as you take off down the street. 

“What do you think is going on?” Darcy yells, knuckles white on the grab handle as you barrel down the road at triple the speed limit.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble distractedly. You do have a hunch, though. Whatever this is, it feels like the end—of what, you can’t quite say. All you know is that Wanda and the twins come first.

You turn the wheel hard, rounding a corner as another pulse of purple lightning flickers in your periphery. You slow slightly as you pass a neighborhood block, instincts flaring.

People are outside.

Not just one or two—dozens. Men, women, even children. Pouring out of their homes, blinking under the distorted sky like they’ve just woken from a deep sleep. Their movements are stiff, uncertain. Some clutch their heads. Others stumble down driveways, eyes wide, lips moving without sound.

But it’s not the confusion that makes your stomach turn.

It’s their faces when they see you.

A woman points at your car, mouth twisting. A man beside her clenches his fists. Another starts to shout—words you can’t hear through the windshield, but you know what they mean.

The bad feeling that’s been sitting low in your gut blooms tenfold. 

“Why are they all looking at us like that?” Darcy asks, glancing around nervously.

“They’re not looking at us,” you say, throat tight. “They’re looking at me.”

Darcy leans back in her seat, eyes still darting to the growing crowd on either side of the road. “Right,” she mutters. “The First Lady of Westview’s benevolent dictatorship.”

You shoot her a look.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “Too soon?”

Well, she’s not wrong.

You don’t linger under the scathing stares. It’s too late to say anything, and there’s no time to try. You push down on the accelerator, jerking the wheel to pass a cluster of panic-stricken townspeople that nearly spill into the street. Darcy hisses in alarm, bracing a hand on the dashboard as you swerve.

Soon, the heart of Westview comes into sight. At the same time, the sky pulses in red and purple, and something far more terrifying.

The townspeople are out and fully conscious. Fully aware. And they’re panicking. Their faces wear all kinds of emotions—fear, anger, disbelief—and a lot of it is aimed at you. They recognize you. Or at least, who they think you are.

You park the car haphazardly, door still swinging open behind you as you break into a run. Darcy scrambles after you, glancing up at the roiling sky, her face tight with fear. You push through them, gently but urgently, until the square opens up, eyes tracking upward—and then you stop cold.

You look up. Floating high overhead are Wanda and… “Agnes?” The name slips out in a stunned whisper.

But she isn’t how you remember her. The face is the same, but the disguise has fallen. She looks like someone you’ve never met. And somehow, this look fits her better. Like something’s finally clicked into place. 

Wanda levitates opposite her, and even from this distance, you can tell she’s losing ground, her movements uncertain, her form barely holding together. Both are wrapped in a strange violet smoke, seeping outward from Agatha—or at least, that’s your best guess. Then—

“Mom!”

The twins.

Billy and Tommy break through the ring of stunned onlookers, bolting toward you as fast as their legs can carry them. You barely register the gasp from someone behind you before you’re dropping to your knees, catching them both in your arms.

They’re shaking and so are you. Darcy gives you and the children some space.

You pull them close, clinging to them like they’re the only solid thing left in a world that’s rapidly coming apart. And maybe they are. No matter what you’ve learned about yourself, about Wanda, about this town, it doesn’t change what you feel now. What you know.

They’re real. They’re yours.

“You’re here, mom,” Tommy breathes, clinging to your side.

“Of course I’m here,” you whisper, looking between your sons. “Are you guys okay?”

They both nod.

Another explosion rings your ears. Agatha pulls another surge of energy from Wanda. Around you, the townspeople form a jagged, trembling ring—some pleading with Wanda to stop, others begging her to let them go. All of them stare at you like you’re in on it, like you’re part of whatever’s holding them here.

“Stay behind me,” you tell the boys, rising to your feet. 

That’s when you hear it—your name, being yelled from somewhere in the distance.

You whip around to see Geraldine—no, Monica—running towards you. You breathe a sigh of relief at seeing a familiar face, a potential ally in all of this. 

Then you see what’s trailing behind her.

And your breath goes still.

It’s… you?

Or someone who looks close enough to make your skin crawl.

And just like that, everything Darcy Lewis told you comes crashing down twice as hard, knocking the wind right out of you.

—

You’d imagined a dozen different ways you might come face-to-face with your doppelganger once you got inside the town. If you were being honest, you’d hoped to find Wanda first—maybe talk her down, get her to release the town, unravel whatever illusions she’d conjured, including this other version of you.

Clint gave you everything he knew when he pulled you from lockup, but even then, his intel was scattered at best. He couldn’t explain why there was another you in there—only that there was.

What stuck with you most was how easily he believed it. How convinced he’d been that it was really you. He didn’t even hesitate—until he saw that version start to come apart right in front of him. 

But not like someone dying. More like something made, and then being unmade.

And maybe that’s what haunts you most. Because you’re not sure how to feel about it—about what happens when Wanda finally lets go of all this. What happens to her version of you, of the children that cannot be identified by S.W.O.R.D, when the Hex comes down.

You’re not sure if you should feel guilty. If you should mourn her. But if she was just made to believe, made to love, made to fit—

Was that ever a real person at all?

And then you think of Wanda. Of how she would feel to lose you—again. You don’t know what she’ll do when it all falls apart. When the fantasy cracks and the house she built collapses into nothing. When this version of you that never broke her heart disappears with the rest of it.

What will she feel, standing in the wreckage of the world she made just to feel whole?

You think about the weight of that and how much of it started with you. How your fake death became the matchstick. How you let her suffer because the alternative was harder: telling her the truth.

That while she was gone, you became someone else. Someone she wouldn’t have recognized. That you let go of the best parts of yourself—the parts she loved—just to survive. No, you didn’t die. Not physically. But the person Wanda knew did.

And in time, you learned how to love someone else.

Monica makes it to them just in time for another explosion in the sky. You’re still a few meters back when your stride falters, eyes fixed on the boys now that they’re close enough to touch.

When Clint said Wanda had twins, you pictured something Vision‑like. One look kills that idea. Your other self is with them, one arm stretched protectively in front of their chests. She looks the part perfectly—brave, hopeful, composed. A picture of someone you used to be.

One boy spots you. You know their names but never matched them to faces; there was no time. He nudges his brother, who looks up, and both go still. Your double follows their gaze, the same uncertain expression on her face.

Something cracks open inside you at the resemblance binding the three of them.

A family.

Your heart leaps to your throat. For a moment you freeze, unsure what to say to children who believe you are already standing beside them.

The smaller boy—Billy, you think—steps forward.

You feel it then. A pull of some sort. Familiar and gut-wrenching. Regret sinks in, clawing deeper with every passing second. Was returning the mistake, or taking Clint’s fall? You cannot decide.

They were born from Wanda’s longing, her love and desperation given flesh. Yet, looking at them now, they are heartbreakingly real, and somehow they feel like yours.

The thought pierces you, because you know this can only end one way.

—

“Mom?” Billy whispers, eyes fixed on Monica’s companion. The woman is almost your mirror, only more weathered to your eye. “Why does she look like you?”

You turn to Monica, panic trembling under your skin. “Who is that? I don’t understand.”

“Y/N, look at me.” Monica darts forward, her hands settling on your shoulders—steady, not rough. “I’ll explain, I swear. But right now you need to focus.”

She points toward the churning sky. “What’s happening up there?”

You follow her finger, and in that instant, lightning flares in your eyes. Above, Agatha and Wanda remain locked in a standoff that feels less like a battle and more like a full-blown war. Wanda’s movements are slowing, her blasts thinning out, growing more frantic with each strike.

You’re caught between protecting your kids and reaching your wife, and you’ve never felt more helpless.

“I... I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze darting anxiously between your double and the approaching townspeople. Concentrating feels impossible.

That’s when Darcy reappears, a bit winded from calming down half the square. She plants herself beside Monica and raises a hand. “Hey, Monica. Miss me?”

Monica pulls her into a quick hug. “Glad you’re okay.”

Darcy pulls in a breath, brushing hair from her face. “Okay, headline edition: the whole town’s awake now. They remember everything—days on repeat, their minds on mute, all of it. A few tried to leave, but the Hex won’t let them. So they marched here looking for answers from Wanda.” She jerks a thumb skyward. “And then, get this—” she leans in slightly, voice dropping, “—nosy neighbor Agnes? Her real name’s Agatha. Turns out to be some sort of a witch all along.”

Monica blinks. “A witch witch?”

“According to the guy she had playing her husband and locked in the attic? Yeah.”

A violet bolt flares above you—too bright to track—then slams into Wanda’s shield with a crack that rattles windows. The shield shatters. She’s hurled earthward like a comet.

Concrete erupts when she hits, skidding her across the street; asphalt peels up in her wake. The sound alone makes your ribs ache. Agatha drifts down after her, slow and graceful, savoring every wince.

Within a second you’re on your feet. You sprint, leaving the twins with Monica and Darcy. 

“Wanda!” You scream at the top of your lungs.

Wanda lies on her side, clawing for breath, one trembling hand searching for purchase.

You push the boys behind you and take two steps, then five, courage swelling with each stride—

But someone else reaches her first, dropping to their knees at her side.

You pull up short, as if you’ve slammed into a wall. Your world-worn double cradles Wanda with the ease of long practice, murmuring quiet assurances in a voice that is yours, only rougher.

Wanda stirs at the sound, eyelids fluttering. “Y/N?” she breathes.

The other you nods.

All you can do is stand there and watch.

You brace for Wanda to collapse into the woman’s arms, but confusion spiders across her face instead. She studies the lines of that face (older, worn, but unmistakably yours) then glances up and catches sight of you—the one she’s more familiar with—standing a few feet away.

Her eyes go wide.

They dart between you and the stranger Darcy swore was dead. Bewilderment sharpens into panic, her breathing hitching. She winces upright, bracing on an elbow before forcing herself to sit.

“Wanda,” you start, “I—”

“Well, isn’t this delicious?” Agatha drawls behind you, strolling forward like she has all the time in the world. “Two Y/Ns? Tell me, were you keeping a spare in your basement all this time?”

Her words stain your confusion with something new. Wanda looks at you as though the breath has been driven from her body, eyes shining with hurt and bewilderment. Whatever is happening—whatever brought this other version of you into being—it is clear that Wanda had no part in it.

Before you can move, Billy and Tommy break from Monica’s grasp and sprint to their mother. “Mom!” Tommy drops beside her, clutching her hands with trembling fingers. Billy follows, positioning himself like a shield between Wanda and Agatha, fists clenched.

Then the other you speaks.

“Help her,” she addresses you, easing Wanda gently back so the twins can reach her. Then she strides right up to Agatha, placing herself between the witch and everything that matters. “Touch her again,” she warns, voice like iron, “and I peel the smile off your face.”

Agatha’s grin twitches. “Oh, darling—do try,” she purrs, tilting her head as though assessing a new piece on the board.

You seize the moment and drop to Wanda’s side, gathering her and the boys into one fierce embrace. They collapse against you, limbs and tears tangling until the four of you fit together as though made to. Wanda’s breath hitches against your neck. “Y/N,” she whispers.

“Shh.” You kiss her temple, brushing the blood-matted hair. “Are you hurt?”

She gives a shaky but certain nod. With a groan, she shifts, and you help her to her feet while Billy and Tommy steady her other side.

“Monica! Darcy!” you bark, hoping Wanda regains her strength soon while you buy her time. “Clear the houses, move everyone toward the nearest boundary. Keep them low and lock it down.”

Monica hesitates. “What about you? You’re not exactly Captain America.”

“I never said I’d win,” your double answers, eyes locked on Agatha. “I said I won’t let her touch my family again. Go.”

Darcy grabs Monica’s sleeve. “Come on. We’ve got people to move.” They sprint off, herding panicked residents into motion.

You tighten your arm around Wanda. Billy lifts his fists; Tommy squares his stance. In front of you, the other Y/N rolls her shoulders once, then settles in; ready to absorb the first hit so the rest of you don’t have to.

Agatha raises her hands, magic pooling like storm clouds in her palms. “Family reunion,” she sneers. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

And then she strikes. A jagged bolt of violet lightning tears toward the four of you—fast, vicious.

You brace for impact.

But Wanda throws her arms out and roars.

Scarlet power detonates, slamming into the ground and blooming into a dome. A shell of red light snaps around everyone—including your double—and the shockwave leaves your ears ringing.

Agatha laughs, giddy and ravenous. “More… give me more.”

Wanda presses both palms against the barrier. The violet threads burrow into the scarlet shell, leeching color until the red dims and begins to sink into Agatha’s hands like water into dry earth.

Wanda grits her teeth, sweat beading at her brow.

Eventually, the barrier shatters like glass, sending a shockwave to shove everyone to their knees.

When the light fades, Wanda is swaying. Agatha stands a few steps away, smoke curling from her fingers.

Wanda looks down to see the skin of her hands mottled and ashen gray. 

Agatha’s grin widens, charred fingertips flexing. “Round two?”

—

In the end, the fight comes down to Wanda and Agatha alone.

They rise into the sky, disappearing above the dark shroud curling over Westview. You lose sight of them, but flashes ripple through the clouds—mostly violet, not red. Your stomach twists with dread. Red would signal Wanda gaining ground, but every violet flash tells you she’s still losing.

Then a loud rumble comes. A line of Humvees grinds to a halt at the edge of the square, headlights spearing the gloom. Soldiers fan out, cradling rifles in front of them. 

If Clint were still babysitting Hayward, the cavalry wouldn’t be here. Something’s gone sideways.

You force yourself upright, every muscle protesting after Agatha’s parting blow. The other you is crouched protectively in front of Billy and Tommy, breathing hard. She’s been their mother every second of their existence here; you have no claim, no matter how much it hurts to stay back.

Monica steps between the troops and the crowd, palms open. “Stand down,” she calls, “they’re not your targets.”

The ranking officer hesitates just long enough. You watch, almost impressed, as one by one the soldiers are disarmed before they can even react. Rifles vanish from their hands like magic, dropped in a growing pile ten feet away. Tommy zips past them again, grinning like it’s a game, and somehow it does look that easy—like stealing candy from a baby. You can’t help but feel a little proud.

By the time it’s over, not a single soldier is armed. Monica reiterates her call for a truce. 

“We’re not the enemy. Wanda’s ending this—just give her time,” she tells them. 

That’s when Hayward steps out of one of the tactical vehicles, gun already in hand. He raises it without hesitation, aiming directly at the kids.

But you’ve been waiting for this. Watching him. Timing him. Your Westview counterpart moves instinctively, stepping in front of the twins without hesitation. Monica joins her a heartbeat later, forming a wall between the children and the barrel of Hayward’s gun.

His finger barely tenses on the trigger before you’re behind him. You twist the gun from his grip in one swift, practiced motion, then wrench his arm back harder than necessary. His knees buckle with a grunt of pain.

“Try that again,” you growl in his ear, “and you’ll lose more than your gun.”

A single nod to Monica and the ranking officer is all it takes. They’ve seen enough. Whatever authority Hayward tried to parade disappears the instant he aimed at children. They cuff him without ceremony and haul him away while he spits useless orders.

With that threat gone, you glance around. 

What now? 

Wanda’s still in the sky, locked in a silent, brutal battle, and you have no idea how long she can hold her own, or what you’re supposed to do from down here.

You’re on the edge of spiraling when you hear footsteps behind you.

Westview Y/N approaches, cautiously, with the twins close behind her. Monica, off to the side, is already issuing post-op commands to the military, stepping seamlessly into a role she was always meant to assume.

You square your shoulders as she draws closer.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, even though the situation is startling in itself.

You nod once. “Hey.”

It’s strange, looking at yourself like this. Same face. Same eyes. An exact copy of who you were five years ago. The version you’ve spent years aching to become again. And now, looking at her, you finally understand. 

You can’t go back. You can never be her again, no matter how hard you wish or how much you try.

Her eyes sweep over you—clenched fists, the blood from your run-in with Agatha—then tip up to the sky. “She’s almost done.”

You follow her stare. “Or almost gone,” you mutter, praying you’re wrong.

She waits a beat, then steps closer, the kids tight at her side. “Billy says she’s winning,” she murmurs. “He can feel it.”

Billy and Tommy peek around her waist, wide‑eyed but unafraid now that the guns have fallen silent. You give them a quick smile, unsure whether it reassures them or you.

Your clone takes a long breath. “So, what’s the plan?”

The truth is you have no real plan. All you carry is the promise to end this before it consumes Wanda. “First we keep the boys safe. After that…” You let the words die there. Saying the rest—asking Wanda to let go—feels like another betrayal. Worse, it feels like the very thing that might not keep the boys safe.

She nods anyway, reading the rest, and says, “You’re here to break the spell.” She turns to the twins. “Boys, go with Monica for a minute, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”

They hesitate, then obey when Monica waves them over. Once they’re out of earshot, she walks closer, eyes shining with something between resolve and resignation. “When this ends, so do I—and they go with me. You know that.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “I was made for a purpose, and you’re here to finish it.” She searches your face. “Just promise me she won’t be alone.”

You open your mouth, close it, and try again; only a thin breath escapes. Each time you reach for the right answer, it slips through your fingers.

Your double waits, steady and expectant. All she wants is a simple yes. You wish Wanda could have everything—could do the right thing and still keep her happiness—but life rarely offers perfect outcomes. Every road forks, and none leads to a tidy ending.

So you do the one thing you swore you never would. 

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, giving her the words she needs, though they are not the whole truth. “She won’t face this alone. I promise.”

Relief loosens her features—soft, perilous relief that feeds on your guilt. She believes you. Worse, she needs to.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand.

At the back of your mind, you wonder.

You wonder if the Snap had never happened, if you’d settled down in some quiet town with Wanda instead of tearing across the world in a grief-fueled rampage—could this have been you? The gentler, mother of two. The one who built a life instead of burning it down. You envy her, this softer reflection of yourself. It stings to realize she will have to disappear soon, erased along with the dream she represents. Then only you will remain: bitter, broken, and, as ever, not enough.

A second later, a hush sweeps the square.

The clouds above split open, pouring crimson light onto the pavement. Wanda drifts down through the glow, no longer battered and faltering. A dark crown burns at her brow, copper hair fanning wild around her. The armor she wears looks less like clothing than an extension of the power thrumming beneath her skin.

Wanda touches down like the ground belongs to her.

Soldiers gape, speechless. Even Monica’s breath hitches before she gives a single, satisfied nod—just what she’d hoped to see.

Wanda doesn’t spare the troops a glance. She walks—no, saunters—toward her family like the storm never touched her. Not even the soldiers dare raise a hand, their fear is instinctual.

The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Her—the person she pulled from memory, shaped from fragments of who you were five years ago, and brought to life inside her world.

Wanda extends a hand and draws her in as well. The four of them fold together, a tight huddle. A family.

You feel Monica’s eyes on you. Darcy’s too. You don’t have to turn to know they’re both watching. Waiting.

Because this… this isn’t over. Not while the Hex still holds. The mission isn’t done, and you’re the only one who can finish it.

You steady your breath and take a step forward. Just one. But it takes everything in you.

Wanda rises at the same moment, fingers laced with Westview Y/N. Her eyes meet yours, flat and unreadable, a chill sliding down your spine. If she feels recognition, grief, or anger, she masks it perfectly.

She turns, guiding her family toward the street that leads home. The boys keep pace, and your double sends you a glance, part apology, part pity, then squeezes Wanda’s hand and follows.

You stand your ground until they pass.

“Wanda—”

She keeps walking as if hearing nothing.

You try again, a little louder. “Wanda!”

The air answers before she does. A low pressure hums off her like heat from summer asphalt, shaking loose panes in the shopfronts. A wordless warning; the only answer she’s giving. You have no choice but to take it. 

Monica appears at your side, a hand light on your arm. Her head moves in a slow, firm no. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Give her space. Give her time.”

You watch the four of them shrink into the hazy light until the far corner swallows them. Only then does Monica speak again.

“Maybe you can’t end this,” she says, voice level but kind. “But she can.” She nods after Westview Y/N. “You and she? The same heartbeat. She’ll say what Wanda needs to hear.”

Monica’s right. She is you. 

But she’s better because she’s the one Wanda chose.

[jlsammy25]

You know, I just wanna, I just wanna, I just...

(This is for Y/N, don't worry 😁)

But, damn, you really have to do us like that?

All Of Your Pieces (28 - Coming Home)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k | Chapter Tags: Angst all the way

A/N: Can you believe we are more than halfway to the end? Thank you for sticking with me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Three years have passed.

A gentle exhale brushed your skin, slow and steady, like waves retreating from the shore. The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight slipping through the curtains—it was Kia’s arm draped loosely over your waist, her leg tangled with yours. She was still asleep, pressed close, her body radiating heat that expelled the never-ending cold of Reykjavik. Three years and you were still not used to its climate. You blinked once, twice, trying to shake away the remnants of dreams that clung to your mind. 

Then you shifted, careful not to wake Kia. But she stirred anyway, sensing your movement, her eyelids fluttering as she peeked at you through one half-lidded eye. Her dark hair was mussed, and you almost laughed at how absolutely perfect she looked—sleep-warmed cheeks, lips parted in a silent yawn. She fixed her eyes on you, and a smile slowly crawled its way to her dry lips.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky. 

You responded by pressing a soft kiss to her temple. In return, Kia took your hand and let her lips graze lightly across your knuckles. Your mornings had been like this nearly every day—quiet, simple, sweet. The kind of peace you never thought possible back when you were sweating through old mattresses in rundown rentals as Ronin. That life feels like a distant nightmare now—one Kia somehow managed to wake you from. 

You shifted to prop yourself on one elbow, looking down at her. “So… any chance you could stay home today?” you asked, light teasing in your tone as you massaged her neck, causing her to purr. “I know you have to work, but I was thinking… we could call it a personal day.”

She laughed weakly. “I can’t exactly make a habit of it. Besides, I don’t think my patients would appreciate me vanishing on a whim.” She reached to smooth the collar of your sleep shirt, her fingertips dancing down your collarbone. “You know I’d love to, though.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “You never bent the rules for me,” you said, hoping to coax another smile from her.

“I did,” she replied softly. “Just not the ones that put other people’s health at risk.”

“You’re irritatingly noble, Dr. Heimisson.”

She leaned in for a kiss. It lingered, your fingers sliding into her hair. You tilted your head, chasing more, your mouth parting slightly as your tongue brushed against hers—testing, asking. She didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in, her hand tightening at the back of your neck. You smiled into it, knowing exactly what you were doing. 

Then, just as things started to tip, she pulled back. “I’ll make us coffee,” she said, her voice low and a little reluctant. 

She sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing just for a second before standing. Her scrubs were still folded on the chair from last night. Always neat.

By the time she’d pulled on a shirt and stepped out of the bedroom, you found yourself glancing around the room, the life you’d built together mapped out in the small details. A couple of photos on the dresser. A shared sock drawer. A small stack of your books in the corner (you’d stopped hoarding them a while ago), trading in the ones you’d finished for used copies you hadn’t, from the only bookstore in town. Sometimes, in moments like this, you could still feel the shape of who you used to be. The horrible things you’ve done. But it didn’t take over anymore. Not like it used to.

You passed into the kitchen and saw her hovering by the coffeemaker, quietly humming a tune you had taught her. She offered you a mug, steam curling into the air. 

“You heading out today?” she asked, her soft blue eyes curious. It’s your favorite part of her body. Eyes always held the most power over you, capable of commanding you in ways nothing else ever could.

“Just errands,” you answered. “Groceries, maybe. If you think of anything else we need, text me.”

She nodded before inching closer to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear like she always did. You reached past her for the sugar; her hip nudged yours, a silent order to hold still. You answered with a playful grin, letting her plant a quick kiss on your cheek before she slipped out, the front door clicking shut behind her. 

The house went still. You stood there for a while, basking in the quiet morning.

You didn’t know it yet, but that quiet wasn’t going to last.

—

A call came a few hours later. You were halfway through your grocery list, staring at tomatoes that didn’t look particularly ripe, when your phone vibrated. You missed it. But it was quickly followed by a text, signed by a name glowing on the screen that made your pulse spike.

Steve Rogers. You hadn’t heard that name in… well, in a long time.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone from the old team in the last three years. Just a handful of letters from Natasha after she somehow tracked you down. You responded, politely, once. You told her you were okay, but asked her not to write again, and she respected that.

When you stepped into life with Kia, you swore off everything that came before. No ghosts, no familiar faces, a clean slate. You told yourself it was the only way anything could feel real again.

Though, somehow, you never managed to throw out Wanda’s things.

They stayed in the basement, buried in boxes you hadn’t opened in years. Somewhere back there were old photos, her worn red jacket. The ring you picked out together—meant to match Wanda’s—now hangs from a chain around your neck. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, but you couldn’t wear it either.

Hers, you imagine, turned to dust long ago.

Your phone when it rang again, causing you to jump in surprise. For an instant, you almost let it go to voicemail. Old instincts kicked in, though—your heart pounded with the sense that if you ignored it, you might have regretted it forever. So you tapped the answer button, pressing the phone to your ear.

“Y/N?”

That voice that used to inspire a room of heroes was unmistakable. It really was him. Your response got stuck in your throat, so you managed little more than, “Steve… yeah. Hey.”

He asked how you were, and you gave him the kind of answer people give when they don’t want to get into it. He tried to stretch the small talk, but you could feel it—this wasn’t that kind of call.

“You can skip the pleasantries, Steve,” you said, not unkindly.

He let out a quiet sigh, then got to the point. “There’s a way. A way to bring them back.”

You swore the world tilted. You gripped your phone tighter, your steps faltering. “What are you talking about?” you asked, but you already knew. The question was just instinct, something to fill the space where air had suddenly become hard to find.

Steve breathed heavily on the other end. This wasn’t some vague, wishful bring-them-back idea, you could tell that much already. Whatever it was, it ran deeper than a theory. It felt like driftwood tossed to the drowning—long overdue, and just barely enough to hold onto. And he was clearly trying to figure out how to explain it to you. Still, you held out any hope that it was true.

“We’re close to a plan,” he explained. “We think we can reverse what happened five years ago—undo the Snap entirely. Tony and Bruce have figured out how the Quantum Realm—”

“What’s that?”

Steve paused. You could practically hear the internal God help me sigh. It made your lips quirk a little into a small smile.

“It’s… okay, so, it’s like a pocket dimension where time moves differently. Or slower. Or maybe not. I don’t know, it’s—” He stopped himself, clearly spiraling. “Look, kid, if you want more science, you’re gonna have to ask Banner or Tony. Or basically anyone else on the team.”

You let out a small, stunned breath. “Okay…”

“All I know is, they’re almost entirely sure that it would work. And we need you.”

That last part settled into your chest and lodged itself there. 

“We’ll retrieve the Infinity Stones from different points in our past, bring them back here, and use them to bring everyone back,” Steve continued. “But we’ll only have one shot at this. Once we’ve fixed things, we’ll return the Stones to their rightful moments so we don’t create alternate timelines.”

“You’re saying time travel?” It came out in a choked whisper.

“Yes. It’s a ‘time heist,’ as Scott calls it.”

The longer the call dragged on, the more questions piled up—none with clear answers. But for now, you let them sit. There’d be time to sort through the mess later.

“What exactly do you need from me?”

“Tony’s got two jobs for you,” he began. “First, there’s a mineral he needs for the time-space GPS we’re building. Without it, the machine might be too unstable to use. There’s a museum in Houston that has it. It’s heavily guarded. Unofficially, too, since this mineral isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“And after I hand over this mineral?” you asked.

“You’ll join the team to retrieve the stones.”

It sounded simple enough. But you were curious about one more thing. 

“Why me?” you asked.

“This has to be a stealth job, and with Natasha going after Clint, there’s no one else who can handle this off-the-radar. You’ve got the skill and the anonymity.”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the ‘end call’ button, giving yourself one last chance to forget about all this. “So… no official channels?”

“Exactly,” Steve said. “We don’t want to risk alerting the government, or anyone else. If this fails, it could devastate people all over again.”

“You said it would work,” you replied evenly.

“I know this will work. It has to.”

You wanted to laugh at the irony. The phone felt hot against your ear.

“Do I have time to think about it?” you asked.

Steve sighed. “You have until tonight.”

—

The hours between that call and Kia’s arrival home were excruciating. You found yourself pacing the living room, your mind stewing in guilt as it replayed Wanda’s laughter, the perfect shape of her face and the feel of her hand in yours. Over and over and over again. 

And then there was Kia. The woman who’d patiently, gently pieced your broken heart back together, who had stayed through the wreckage until life began to feel solid again. Who loved you at your worst. Was it even right to push against destiny like this? To rewrite history, bend the universe to your will, and reverse events already set in motion?

But as quickly as you questioned it, your own logic countered: nothing about Thanos snapping half of all life into oblivion had ever been natural or just. Maybe this—this chance Steve offered—wasn't defiance at all, but a way to correct a cruel imbalance, to make things whole again. You’d never felt whole since that incident. And neither did Kia even though she’d never said it out loud. 

You told yourself firmly this wasn't a choice between Wanda and Kia. But deep down, from the moment Steve uttered those three impossible words—bring them back—you knew the decision had already been made. If there was even the slightest chance to undo the damage, you'd reach out and take it, consequences be damned.

By the time Kia’s key rattled in the lock, you’ve turned over Steve’s proposal a thousand times in your head. She stepped in, setting her work bag on the nearest chair. The way she looked at you—face drawn, concern evident in her eyes—told you she could sense your tension.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately, drawing near.

You forced yourself to speak. You told her about Steve’s call, about the mission to reverse the Snap, the potential to bring back everyone who vanished. The unspoken word at the center was Wanda, but there was so much more: thousands of families, including Kia’s. Her own daughter, her husband. 

Kia stood perfectly still as she processed it. You saw the flicker of hope in her eyes even as her features twisted with longing and fear. 

Then she spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Is this really possible? Can they… can they bring my daughter back?”

That question squeezed your heart. Suddenly, you realized that your desire to see Wanda again paled next to Kia’s longing for her child. She had carried that emptiness with her every single day. 

“Yes,” you managed to say, your voice thick. “We think so.”

Kia’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t cry, but you could feel how much she’s holding back.

“Then do it,” she said. “Help them.”

You reached for her hand, needing to feel her close, even as the distance between what you had and what might come stretched wider by the second. Neither of you said it out loud, but the truth hung there. If this plan worked, everything would change. Bringing everyone back meant rewriting entire lives, and this thing between you and Kia, it didn’t exactly fit into the world before, or the one that might follow.

Even thinking about it felt wrong. Selfish. Ugly.

You could feel yourself splitting into two realities. This reality with Kia, and the reality that dissolved with Wanda. You couldn’t find the words. You just held her hand tighter.

Kia looked away for a moment, like she could already see the ripple effects waiting on the horizon. Then her eyes found yours again. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “we do this for them. For everyone who didn’t get a choice.”

In that moment, your love for her swelled and bloomed and gave you courage. 

—

You left before dawn the next morning, a small duffel in hand, its contents carefully chosen and arranged the night before. Sleep had come in sparse increments, anxiety keeping you company. Houston was a thirteen-hour flight away; Tony had arranged an unregistered Quinjet, and you spent the journey reviewing the museum’s floor plans on a tablet.

The museum in question was near the outskirts of downtown Houston, housed in a stately old building renowned for its obscure geological exhibits. The public wasn’t aware of just how rare that “obscure” gem in its vault truly was. According to Tony’s notes, it was a type of mineral that reacted unusually to quantum energy—a piece critical for stabilizing the time-space GPS he and Bruce Banner were building. Without it, the device might overload on its own power.

As soon as you landed, you made your way to a safehouse on the city’s edge—just a nondescript apartment Tony had secured. There, you changed into dark clothing that offered maximum agility and minimal interference. You double-checked your infiltration tools—glass cutters, a slim electronic lockpick, and a tiny EMP device for any modern security measures.

There were nerves crawling under your skin you hadn’t felt in years. After everything—the missions,bloodshed you and Clint left scattered across cities, you didn’t think you were capable of feeling this shaken anymore.

Maybe it was because the entire operation hinged on this one task. If you failed, the rest of the plan fell apart. You cursed Tony under your breath. Now it made sense why he picked you. If things went sideways, you were the easiest to blame. He probably never thought much of you to begin with.

But he wasn’t wrong to choose you. Because no one had more riding on this than you, and no one was more determined to see it through.

Kia’s face flashed in your mind. Then Wanda’s. You forced your thoughts back to the present mission. “Let’s do this,” you muttered. 

It was close to midnight when you arrived at the museum. The streets were quiet, most of the late-night commuters having already cleared out. You surveyed the main entrance from a safe distance—bright spotlights illuminated the grand facade, and security cameras perched like watchful owls along the eaves. Slipping around the side, you found a smaller service door just beyond a chain-link fence. There was a single guard on patrol, circling the perimeter with the slow, practiced boredom of someone who never expected trouble.

You timed the guard’s route, waiting behind a low hedge until he disappeared around the next corner. A quick jolt from your custom lockpick shorted the rusted padlock on the fence; it fell open with a dull click. You eased through, crossing the short distance to the service door in a half-crouch. Its old keypad glowed faintly. You attached a signal disruptor over the panel and waited, heart pounding in your ears, until the tiny light flickered green. The door clicked open.

Inside, darkness swallowed you. Only emergency exit signs and faint overhead safety bulbs gave any illumination. You consulted the mental map you’d memorized from Tony’s briefing, picturing the route to the restricted vault near the geological exhibits. There’d be motion sensors in the main corridors, so you stayed pressed to the walls, gliding past an open archway into a side hallway. You activated your handheld scanner, just enough to detect where infrared beams might crisscross. Sure enough, a series of faint red lines sliced through the corridor ahead. You ducked below one beam, then twisted sideways to avoid another. The entire maneuver would have made your old trainers proud.

Though there was a dull ache in your lower back from having been sedentary all these years.

Step by careful step, you progressed until you reached the thick, steel-reinforced door of the vault. A digital keypad glowed in the quiet gloom, showing an eight-digit lock. You expected that. What you hadn’t expected was the second biometric scanner installed next to it—an update not in Tony’s blueprint. You forced yourself to calm down, reminding yourself you’d done this before. Stealth ops always required a bit of improvisation. 

You removed a small device from your belt pouch—another one of Tony’s countless inventions. It emitted a pulse that temporarily scrambled biometric scanners, forcing them to default to a bypass code if the user had one. But that code changed daily. You hoped the museum staff wouldn’t have updated the secondary system just yet.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or Tony’s genius), the device beeped once, and the scanner’s screen flickered. A prompt for a four-digit override code replaced the biometric prompt. With your electronic lockpick engaged, you let it cycle through potential combinations at high speed. Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, a soft click hissed from the latch, and the vault door slid open two inches, revealing a small interior chamber lined with secure cases.

Your target lay in a sealed glass cylinder at the center, the mineral’s deep violet hue faintly luminous even in the shadows. In that moment, you sensed how important it was, how it seemed like a full circle moment. This was the literal keystone for rewriting history, for forging a path back to life as it once was. Or as close as it could get.

Carefully, you placed a glass cutter against the cylinder. The diamond tip whirred almost silently, creating a neat circular hole in the thick glass. You inserted a slim vacuum rod and slipped out the mineral. It was heavier than expected, humming with an odd energy in your hand.

Before you left, you remembered your promise. You took a small folded note from your pocket (paper, so it couldn’t be easily traced), and placed it inside the now-empty cylinder. 

It read:

“I’m sorry I had to do this. Don’t worry—I’ll return what I borrowed exactly two weeks from today. It needs to save the world first.”

You signed it with only a small symbol at the bottom—a private insignia you once used on covert ops, but nothing that would blatantly identify you. Then you turned, tucking the mineral into a padded case in your suit.

A short ride later, you were safely back at the safehouse, the artifact secured. You tossed your gear onto the small kitchen table and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The note you left would cause a stir; the museum might tighten security. But you planned to keep your promise. 

You just hoped you’d live to see that day.

—

Three days later, you’re back where it all started. 

You thought you’d be a little teary-eyed, considering this is where you’ve spent nearly half of your life. But what you felt instead was relief. Relief that the compound still stood. You watched the building for a long moment, soaking up the calm before the storm. In your right hand, you clutched the mineral that would complete the time machine. 

“Aren’t you coming inside?” 

You’d know that voice anywhere.

Clint Barton stood a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched, looking nothing like the Ronin persona he’d worn over the past few years. He looked more like the old Clint, the one you didn’t know you missed so terribly. 

You offered a faint nod and took a step forward, your boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Didn’t expect to see you here first,” you said.

He gave you a wry smile. “Didn’t expect to be here at all.”

You exhaled slowly. The mineral pulsed faintly in your hand—your hand that had once gripped a weapon more than anything else, had learned to hold Wanda’s fingers with reverence, and later, Kia’s with gratitude.

Clint’s gaze dropped to it. “That’s what I think it is?”

You gave a small nod. “Final piece.”

“So… we’re really doing this?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I’m not sure we are. This part’s on me.” You offered Clint the mineral and he cupped it carefully, turning it over in his hand.

“I thought you’d be suiting up with us,” he said. “Steve and Tony said you’d bring the piece. Didn’t think you’d just—”

“Drop it off and leave?” you finished, managing a faint smile. “That was the plan.”

Clint tilted his head. “Mind telling me why?”

“I told Steve and Tony I’d help find the last component. That’s it. That felt… enough.”

Clint stared at you for a beat. After all these years, he knew you too well to take your words at face value. “That’s all there is to it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No. Of course not.”

Clint waited, giving you the space to say it when you were ready.

“There’s a whole life waiting for me,” you said. “Far away from this place. With Kia. We built something that doesn’t need saving. And if I sign up for this—really sign up for this—I’d have to see it through to the end. To the moment someone snaps their fingers and brings everyone back.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze.

“And if she’s there, if Wanda comes back before I’m ready—” your voice faltered. “I don’t know if I’d be able to make a fair choice.”

Clint was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes soft. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.

“I get it,” he said. “God, I really do.”

He kicked at the gravel lightly. “I used to tell myself I went down that path to protect my family. After they were gone, I needed someone to blame for the world falling apart. You know that better than anyone.”

“I do,” you murmured.

“I dragged you down with me,” Clint added. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging. “No. We dragged each other. We weren’t… good for one another back then. We weren’t accountable. We made each other worse.”

Clint looked away, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, watching the horizon blur into a late afternoon haze.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” you asked.

“It has to,” he said.

“And when it does?” you asked. “What are you going to do when you get them back?”

He glanced at you, resignation in his eyes.

“I’m going to surrender,” he said simply. “Turn myself in. The Accords were a mess, sure, but they weren’t wrong about everything. We need to be kept in check. All of us. We don’t get to come back from the things we did without consequence.”

You hadn’t expected that. Not from the man who once broke half a dozen laws to make it home in time for his kid’s birthday.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly.

Clint nodded. “Even if the mission works. Even if they come back… I won’t get to just go back. I’m not the person they left, Y/N.”

You swallowed, his words hitting too close to home.

“They’ll still love you,” you offered, though it felt insufficient. They didn’t land with the comfort you intended. Maybe because you didn’t believe them yourself.

Because you’d been asking yourself the same question for years. 

Kia had offered you peace when the world gave you nothing but silence. She saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen. She gave you a reason to keep going.

And yet, Wanda’s absence had never stopped aching through your bones. Her memory lived beneath your skin like a scar that would never fully heal. And as much as you tried to let go, there were nights when you lay awake wondering what she’d think if she ever saw you now. If she’d understand the choices you made in her absence. The quiet, ruthless way you’d turned off parts of yourself just to survive. If Wanda came back, would she still love you? You didn’t know. And the truth of not knowing had been eating at you for longer than you were willing to admit.

“Yeah,” Clint said, almost smiling.

You nodded slowly, not sure whether to admire him or mourn him.

“I hope they see the man who kept trying,” you said softly.

Clint gave a small smile. “You too.”

He held out the mineral to return it, but you shook your head.  

“Give my regards to Tony,” you said. 

You reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bring them home,” you said. “All of them.”

“I will.”

He looked down at the mineral in his hand again, and then back at you.

“Go,” Clint said. “Before you change your mind.”

You nodded, taking one last look at what remained of your past before turning away. You wouldn’t look back. Not this time.

—

You returned to Reyjavik a few days later. By then, it was all over the news—

The impossible had happened. The Avengers had done it. They brought everyone back. 

Airports were flooded with reunions. There was celebration and chaos. The world was finally waking up from a nightmare. And you… you were still trying to process the fact that it worked.

The first thing you did was look for Kia. You needed to see her face, hold her hand—just know she was okay. You walked into the apartment and found it empty, cold in a way that went beyond the absence of people. Kia wasn’t waiting for you at the door. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her back to you, shoulders rigid. Her fingers were curled tightly around a mug. 

You spoke her name—soft, almost a prayer.

She turned, and that’s when you saw it. Something in her had already retreated.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said.

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You hadn’t expected a joyful reunion, not with everything this victory implied. But you also didn’t expect it to feel this fragile, like tiptoeing across eggshells.

Kia looked down at her lap, and for the first time, you couldn’t read her at all. Moments later, she stood up and walked to the window. 

“Maria is back,” she said. “And so is her father.”

‘Her father’, and not ‘my husband’. A deliberate choice of words. Kia talked to you often about them, but it was different now that they aren't gone.

You forced a smile. Whatever this might mean for you, some part of you was genuinely happy for her. Deeply, fiercely happy.

Because you remembered the way Kia used to trace the shape of her daughter’s photo with her fingers late at night when she thought you were asleep. You remembered how she’d spoken about her husband with reverence and regret in equal measure. The two deepest holes punched through her soul—now filled again.

“They’re back,” you said softly, like you needed to say it yourself to believe it.

She still hadn’t looked at you. “They’ve relocated to the other side of town for now. Temporarily.”

Temporarily.

A quiet warning. A gentle ending dressed up as a maybe.

You nodded, jaw clenched against the tremble that wanted to rise.

“Are you okay?” you asked, because it mattered more than anything else. Even now. 

Especially now.

She turned to face you then, finally. Her eyes were raw, rimmed with exhaustion and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “You gave me a reason to keep living. You helped me breathe again. But he’s here. They’re here. And I—God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Your heart split clean down the middle, slow and silent.

You took a step back, giving her space even though you were already drowning in the distance.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you said. “You’re allowed to not know.”

Her eyes continued to brim with tears. “This—them—none of it would be possible without you,” she prattled on.

You opened your mouth, not knowing what to say, but then she closed the distance between you.

And kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Tasting of salt, mostly. Her hands tangled in the collar of your jacket like she was scared to let go, and for a moment, you let yourself believe.

But you felt it. The tremor in her fingers. The guilt in her kiss. How it was more of gratitude than desire.

“I love you,” she said again and again against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You closed your eyes.

Because you believed her. You really did.

But you also knew.

You had always known.

This was the last fire before the ashes. She would always carry you in her heart. She would always remember what you gave her. But you would not be the person she came home to when the dust settled.

And you would never, ever ask her to be. You wouldn’t be the one to imprison her in your arms when everything she’d ever lost had finally come back to her.

You brushed her cheek with the backs of your fingers and kissed her forehead. 

“I know,” you said quietly. 

She tried to hold your gaze, eyes swimming with confusion, as if she could see something in you starting to slip away. She wiped at her face, breath shaky. “What should I make for dinner?”

You smiled at her gently. “Nothing. Just relax, okay? I’ll pick something up from our favorite place.”

Kia blinked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded.

You gave her one more look, soft and grateful, then turned your back before she could see you fall apart.

And as soon as you reached the patio, your shoulders shook.

You pressed your hand to your chest to steady yourself, biting back the sound that wanted to escape your throat.

Because that kiss—her love—was real.

But it wasn’t enough. 

—

You turned yourself in to the international authority a week later, after making sure everything was in place for you to disappear cleanly.

Steve handled the details—wiping your existence from every known database, scrubbing records, clearing traces. All except one. A single dossier remained, buried in Stark’s system, written by Natasha herself. Steve couldn’t bring himself to erase it. Not something she’d written. Not even if it’s something as small as a file about you.

You understood. All you asked was that he marked your status as deceased. He tried to talk you out of it, of course. That there were other ways. 

But when that didn’t work, he reached for the one thing he thought might—

“You were the first person Wanda looked for,” he’d said quietly. Well, you weren’t that person from five years ago. Wanda would’ve been mistaken. 

You took Clint’s place without asking his permission. He had too much to lose, and you figured you didn’t—at least not compared to him. You listed the crimes in clear, practiced detail. The missions you’d completed. The blood on your hands. The times you looked away. You took it all. 

Owned it all.

Not because they were all yours—but because someone had to.

They processed you like any other criminal. Stripped you down. Tagged your belongings. Asked you questions you didn’t flinch answering.

Clint was furious when he found out. He caught up with you before the transfer. They had you in cuffs, but it was immaterial. The guards gave you both a moment, recognizing that Clint wasn’t going to be stopped by protocol. After everything, they’d grown lenient with the Avengers. Especially now, with the miracle of the return still fresh in everyone’s minds. They didn’t even understand why they were incarcerating one of them in the first place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint’s voice cracked, his hands fisting at his sides. “This wasn’t the plan.”

You didn’t bother correcting him. There had never really been a plan after you retrieved that mineral. 

You shrugged. “Oops.”

Clint slammed his fist against the nearest wall, startling the guard by the door. “Goddammit, I was supposed to be the one—”

“Your family is waiting for you,” you told him gently. “Natasha didn’t sacrifice herself so you could just throw your life away. You know that.”

The name alone unraveled him. “And she didn’t die so you could do this, either.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m making sure something good comes from all of it.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the desire to talk you out of it, to remind you that Wanda would want a choice in the matter. But you had already made yours, and time felt precious then.

“I’m not just taking the fall for you, Clint,” you said softly. “I’m taking responsibility. For the things I’ve done. The choices I made. I can carry this.”

His eyes reddened, tears threatening to spill. You’d only ever seen him like this once before.

“I never wanted this,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he asked the one thing you’d been waiting for. “What about Wanda?”

Wanda was alive and well now. There’s no more war left to fight. You could still picture her living in the suburbs, watching her sitcoms, maybe even finding love again someday.

“Give her back everything,” you said. “The things I’ve kept. The property in New Jersey. It’s hers. She should have a home.”

“It’s going to kill her to think you’re gone.”

You exhaled slowly. “Wanda’s stronger than anyone thinks. Stronger than she thinks.”

Clint shook his head. “She’s not stronger than losing you.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. There’s just the hollow ache of knowing you wouldn’t be there to see if your words held true. Instead, you merely asked Clint to look after her. 

And when the guard finally escorted Clint out, your entire frame gave out like a deflated balloon.

You spent your first night in the cell sitting upright, hands in your lap, staring at the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you. The world outside moved on.

And inside, you stayed very still.

You had given Wanda your heart.

You had given Kia your hope.

And now, you have given away your liberty.

Somewhere, in a kinder universe, they all got to live their lives without grief. And maybe, you were there with them. 

[jlsammy25]

How much longer!!?? 😭😭

All Of Your Pieces (27 - Anywhere But Home)

Chapter Summary: If you stopped running—if you tried to live—would she see it as betrayal? Would she be disappointed?

Or would she just be sad that it had taken you this long?

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, mentions of smut

A/N: Is it the last chapter yet? :p Writing Part 3 is giving me headaches // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

One of your favorite memories in Scotland with Wanda was a small, ordinary miracle—one you never thought you’d get to experience. It happened on Valentine’s Day, a holiday both of you usually found a bit cliché, but you had planned something special anyway.

It started in the late afternoon. You had surprised Wanda by insisting she dress up for the evening. Nothing fancy—just a cozy sweater dress she loved, paired with a slightly worn jacket, her hair pulled back in that effortlessly messy style that always drove you insane in the best possible way. You chose an outfit you knew would make her raise an eyebrow and smirk—a fitted shirt under a soft jacket, decent jeans, and that cologne she had once idly mentioned made her toes curl.

Your heart fluttered in a way you couldn’t quite name when, halfway through getting ready, Wanda paused in front of the mirror to check her reflection. She turned to give you a pointed, playful look, silently asking if she looked all right. You met her gaze and nodded, warmth spreading across your chest as you realized, This is our life now.

You led her to an old-fashioned cinema nestled between a bakery and a bookstore, the sort that still used a marquee with changeable letters to announce showtimes.

“Did you plan this?” Wanda asked softly as you approached the theater, glancing at you with a curious smile.

“Guilty,” you admitted, hoping your cheeks weren’t turning too red. “Figured maybe it’s time we, uh, actually go on a date.”

She looped her arm through yours. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to be romantic,” she teased.

“I’m not,” you argued, blushing at being called romantic. You never thought of yourself as one. You were practical—almost to a fault.

The small lobby smelled of popcorn and worn carpet. The walls were lined with posters of classic films that Wanda ogled like a child in a candy store. You made a mental note to get her one of those posters for the bedroom (okay, maybe you were a little bit of a romantic).

Wanda had giggled when you had offered to pay for everything, leaning in to whisper that you should at least let her buy the drinks. You had refused, and she had rolled her eyes but let you handle it.

By the time you had guided her to two seats near the back—best view in the house, in your opinion—the lights had already begun to dim. You had settled in with popcorn balanced on your knees, and to your surprise, you had realized you were actually a little nervous. Never mind that you had done everything up to this point in reverse, having slept together before any semblance of a first date. You’d chosen the movie, and you were hoping she’d like it. 

Halfway through the movie, you had become acutely aware of how close Wanda was moving toward you. Inch by inch, she had slid nearer until her thigh had pressed lightly against yours. You had nearly forgotten the film’s plot entirely because all you could focus on was the soft sound of Wanda breathing, the warmth of her body, the subtle spice of her perfume. At one point, she had reached for your hand, interlacing her fingers with yours, and you had sworn your heart had nearly pounded its way out of your chest. It was unfair how much Wanda could still make you feel this way—even though she was the person you had always felt most comfortable with, the one who had made it easy to be yourself without reservation.

When you had risked a glance down at her, you had caught the corner of her mouth quirking up in a small, secret smile—one that said, I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

The glow from the screen had illuminated her features, and for a moment, you had to look away because the sight of her was overwhelming. 

She was happy. You were happy. And—

You woke up—not from the pain, but because sleep wouldn’t hold without another pill.  

The remnants of your dream clung to you, painfully warm, like Wanda’s fingers tracing lazy circles on your palm in that old Scottish theater. You knew you’d been smiling in your sleep; you could still feel the ghost of it lingering at the corners of your lips.  

But the moment your eyes opened, it was gone.

You exhaled sharply, rolling onto your side—the one that didn’t make your ribs scream in protest. Your arm draped over your stomach, fingers clenching briefly around the thin blanket before you forced them to relax.

You told yourself to stop doing this. Stop waking up expecting her to be there. Stop chasing sleep just to be with her again.

But some nights—most nights—it was all you had left.

Three days after you’d slipped away from Doctor Kia’s ward, leaving behind a crumpled wad of bills worth more than your entire treatment, you returned to your shoebox rental. The bed squeaked whenever you shifted, and the windows rattled each time a truck passed on the street below. Not exactly a place to rest and recover, but it was better than being disturbed every few hours by strangers in white coats. 

Clint hadn’t contacted you again. Most people would have worried, but you’d trained yourself to expect the silent spaces in your life, the long stretches of not knowing if your only ally in this godforsaken fight was alive or dead. You tried not to care. But you were never good at lying to yourself; a part of you felt uneasy, a restless energy crawling under your skin. You tested your body’s limits daily. It started with small walks around the block—pushing through the ache in your ribs, ignoring the protest of bandages that were still damp and sullied come afternoon. The first time you circled the neighborhood, you managed maybe two blocks before a spike of white-hot pain radiated through your side, forcing you to sit on a curb and catch your breath. Today, you made it a mile before your vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges.

And still, you refused the painkillers—at least for a while. Every day, you told yourself you could go without them, that you needed to feel just how broken you really were. But the threshold always crept up: your ribcage catching fire, your lung seizing, your shoulder burning from bullet trauma that hadn’t healed as cleanly as you’d hoped. And every time, when the pain got bad enough to make your teeth clench and sweat bead along your brow, you reached for the bottle anyway.

That was the point you reached tonight. After dry-swallowing the tablet, you stared at your reflection in the smudged bathroom mirror, taking in the hollow eyes, the slight gauntness in your cheeks. Wanda wouldn’t even recognize you. You wondered what she’d say. You wondered if she’d be disgusted enough to leave you. 

You sank onto the lumpy couch—an ugly green thing that smelled faintly of mildew—and tried to focus on something other than your throbbing body. Memories of Wanda floated back unbidden, teasing at the ragged edges of your consciousness. You thought about that old theater again, the way she’d linked her arm through yours, as if you were something precious worth guarding. Her smile in the darkness, the soft brush of her breath. You remembered the jolt of nerves when she’d caught you looking.

You closed your eyes. Maybe if you could just hold onto that recollection, you wouldn’t feel so damn trapped. But the moment you pictured her face, your eyes flew open, and the colorless walls of your rental apartment mocked you. Wanda was gone. Clint was gone. You were alone.

And the pain, even dampened by medication, reminded you that living was its own form of punishment.

—

It’s business as usual a week later, when Clint showed up at your doorstep unannounced, to personally hand you a fresh list of names to hunt down. You stared at Clint leaning in the doorway, your mouth hanging in surprise.

He tossed a thin manila folder onto your tiny kitchen table. “Fresh intel,” he said.

You cast a wry glance at the papers, then back at him. “You could’ve just texted,” you said, smiling weakly. “Didn’t have to drop by and grace me with your presence.”

Clint’s gaze swept over you, from the bruised shadows under your eyes to the careful way you stood. It felt like a silent assessment, the same way a hunter might eye a wounded animal to judge if it was still worth chasing. Finally, he shrugged. “Wanted to see if you were still standing,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not here to check if you’re okay. I just need to know if you can handle the job—or if I’ve gotta do it myself.”

“I’m good,” you bit out.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Sure you are.”

He brushed past you into your cramped rental, tossing a glance at the unwashed dishes in the sink, the worn blankets spilling off the couch. His lips twitched in what might have been a grin if it didn’t look so tired. The man had a decade on you, at least, but objectively, he looked way better than you did.

“Close the door,” he said simply. “Might as well talk inside. People around here got eyes in the back of their heads.”

You shut the door and clicked the flimsy lock into place.

Clint perched on the arm of your squeaky couch, crossing his arms. “You look like you’re about to keel over.” He didn’t say it like a concern, more like an observation.

“I’ve had worse,” you countered. “This little hole in my lung isn’t half as bad as it looks.”

Clint didn’t look like he believed it, but he didn’t make further comments on your physical status. “We’ve got one last stretch of criminals here in Bangkok,” he began, “They’re a small ring by comparison, but they’ve dug in near the old port district. Word is they’re guarding a shipment headed out next week—weapons, and maybe people, too. Once we clear them out, Bangkok’s done. Clean enough, anyway.”

You nodded. You couldn’t wait to get out of this city.  “You sure this is it?”

He nodded. “I’m sure. No more stragglers.”

A heavy pause settled before you spoke again. “So… what’s next?”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “Tokyo. There’s a bigger syndicate out there than we realized.  I’ve been picking up whispers, and it’s messy. We’re talking multiple layers of corruption.” He looked up, eyes narrowed. “They’ll be armed to the teeth.”

You managed a humorless grin. “Sounds fun.”

“It won’t be,” he said bluntly. “Question is, can you handle this? You’re not exactly at full strength.” When you didn’t answer, he tipped his head, voice dropping into something softer. “You know you can stop anytime, right?”

You let out a quiet scoff. “Stop? That’s the last thing I want.”

“All right,” Clint said, pushing off the wall. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

—

It took you over a week to carve your way through the final list in Bangkok. The first half went fast enough, scoped out through the lens of a sniper rifle from rooftops you accessed easily with your charm. You sometimes lay still for hours, prone on concrete, sweat drenching your collar as you counted heartbeats between each trigger pull. By the time you’d crossed off target number seven, you knew the remaining names would be on guard, circling their wagons. Stealth and distance weren’t going to cut it anymore.

So you moved in closer. The traditional way.

Even injured, your body somehow kept up—swinging blades and trading punches with a single-minded focus. You felt the pull of your stitches, the flare of old burns, but each fight ended the way you’d intended: another threat off the board. Clint checked in via text a couple of times, never asking how you were holding up—just wanting status updates, wanting to know when the Bangkok chapter was done. You gave him the bullet points he needed and no more.

Tonight, the final name had just breathed his last. You slipped out of a cramped warehouse near the docks, blending into the humid darkness. Your ribs ached with every stride as you replayed the fight in your head, wondering if you’d made too much noise this time. Too many bullets had ricocheted off rusted metal. There’d been a close call or two, but you shrugged it off. It was nothing you hadn’t handled before.

Instead of heading straight back to your rental, you took a detour to your favorite hole-in-the-wall. Cravings weren’t common for you, but after clearing the list, tonight felt like it deserved a small celebration.

Then you heard it—a muffled scream, followed by a string of curses. Your senses snapped to attention. Just ahead, three men surrounded a smaller figure, backs turned to you. Every muscle in your frame tensed, and you found yourself moving before you could think it through.

When the attackers shifted, you caught a brief glimpse of their victim’s face. 

Dr. Kia.

A surge of rage flared in your gut, but you clamped down on the instinct to unsheathe your sword. You were too close, and you refused to cut anyone down in front of her—someone who had spent her life stitching people back together, not tearing them apart. She didn’t need to see more blood on your hands than she already had.

You lunged instead, driving your fist into the first man’s jaw. The force rattled through your knuckles, sending him sprawling into a stack of boxes. The second spun around, raising a short-bladed knife. You snatched his wrist, twisting sharply until the blade clattered to the ground, then drove your elbow into his ribcage. He wheezed and doubled over, dropping to his knees. 

The last one charged you with a frantic yell. A quick jab to the throat sent him staggering back, gasping for air. A final kick knocked him away from Kia, leaving him crumpled on the pavement.

With the street quiet again, you turned to find Kia still pressed against the wall, her chest heaving, eyes wide. She didn’t look relieved at all to see you there, having done those things.

“Are you okay?” you rasped, surprised by how ragged you sounded.

She blinked, then nodded shakily. “Yes, I—I think so.” Her gaze locked on your hands, bruised and trembling at your sides. “You’re hurt. Let me—” She fumbled inside her bag. “I have ointment for those cuts—”

“No,” you cut her off, a surge of anger slamming through you. You didn’t need help. Or gratitude. 

She stepped closer. “Please, just—”

You lost it. Your arm snapped out, and before you knew what you were doing, you’d wrapped your hand around her throat, pinning her to the alley wall. Her eyes went huge with shock. She tried to speak, but only a broken gasp emerged. 

Realization slammed into you like a freight train. You were hurting the one person here who didn’t deserve any of this—the one person who had shown you even a shred of genuine care.

You yanked your hand away, stumbling back. Kia clutched her neck, leaning heavily against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Anger warred with shame in your chest.

“Don’t—” you snarled, voice shaking. “Don’t follow me, don’t try to help. Stay away from trouble.” Your voice hitched. “Stay away from me.”

She stared at you, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. For a split second, Wanda’s face flashed in your mind—the way she looked that day she patched you up after weeks of silence. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.  

You realized Kia had struck a nerve. Because this—patching you up, tending to your wounds, putting you back together—this belonged to Wanda. It was hers in a way no one else could ever claim.

Even so, Kia didn’t deserve your reaction. You wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. It had been a long time since you’d apologized to anyone. So you proceeded to do the only thing you knew these days.

You pivoted toward the trio of men, still groaning on the ground. Before you left, you slammed your heel into the pavement beside the nearest attacker’s hand, making him jerk away in alarm.

“If I catch you near her again,” you growled, voice low, “it’ll be worse.”

They scrambled back, eyes wide with fear, clutching their ribs and bruised limbs, hurriedly gathering themselves to flee. Satisfied they wouldn’t dare turn on Kia again anytime soon, you spat the last of your anger onto the alley floor.

You turned away, stepping over the groaning men on the ground, forcing yourself to keep moving. Despite feeling Kia’s eyes tracking your every move, you refused to look back.

—

Your suitcase sat packed by the door.

Clint had already texted from the airstrip, asking if you were on your way. You'd stared at the message and told yourself you'd reply soon.

But that was five days ago. 

You surprised yourself when you didn’t leave the first morning. And again the second, when Clint’s texts started piling up, questioning, terse, increasingly frustrated. You couldn’t explain why you weren’t on a plane bound for Tokyo.

Now here you were, standing on the street outside Kia’s hospital, feeling like an idiot. You told yourself you were only here to say… goodbye? Thank you? You weren’t really sure. All you knew was that after the night she was nearly assaulted, you needed to see for yourself that she was okay—that you’d done your job, that she’d come out of it unharmed.  

You’d been cleansing the streets of criminals, but that never meant saving anyone directly. The good you thought you were doing was always implied, an indirect cause-and-effect. But saving Kia—that was the first time you had stepped in, not for vengeance, not for some faceless idea of justice, but simply to keep someone alive.

After what felt like hours, Kia finally stepped out, white coat draped across her arm. She froze the moment she spotted you, eyes surveying the bruises on your knuckles, checking if they were healing just fine.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said flatly. There was no accusation, just a weary resignation.

“Kia,” you managed, though it came out croaky and unsure. Almost vulnerable.

She stalled, shoulders rigid, then faced you. Her eyes scanned the wreckage on your face, and something in her eased. Without another word, she tilted her head, gesturing for you to follow.

—

Her apartment was a modest space on the fourth floor of an older building. It wasn’t large or lavish—just two cramped rooms and a kitchenette. It smelled of herbal disinfectant and wilted flowers. You welcomed it. 

The door had barely latched when Kia spun and caught your mouth. You instinctively froze, just for a second, because the last person you’d kissed was Wanda. It felt wrong—unthinkable—to be standing here now, pressed up against someone else’s body, tasting someone else’s breath.

If Kia hadn’t initiated it, you wouldn’t have. You were certain of that. And as her lips moved hungrily against yours, you couldn’t stop the way your body answered. It felt good to be this close to someone after years in isolation. You’re overwhelmed by guilt and want all at once, making you kiss Kia back just as fiercely. 

In that second, the only thing you wanted was to get lost in someone other than yourself. 

You kicked off your boots and slid an arm around her waist, dragging her close. What followed was messy and raw. It lacked the poetry you remembered with Wanda. Kia’s back thudded against the wall. One hand braced beside her head while the other yanked at stubborn fabric, impatience sparking in every tug. She gasped, breath hot against your mouth as your teeth clicked, neither of you bothering with grace. Her fingers curled into your hair, pulling tight enough to sting but spurring you on all the same. Your lungs burned as you tried to breathe between frantic kisses, each one laced with a hunger you hadn’t let yourself feel in too long. You shoved aside the last barrier of cloth, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

She responded in kind, nails raking over your shoulders as she clung to you, pulling you deeper into the moment. You squeezed your eyes shut, shoving thoughts of Wanda aside, forcing yourself to focus on the physical now, the unmistakable heat coiling in your belly.

Afterwards, the sheets tangled around your legs, and you stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering away. Kia lay beside you, breathing unevenly, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. The apartment was stifling; overhead, the ceiling fan ticked through its lazy revolutions. You felt her gaze through half-lidded eyes, fighting sleep, and the effort grated on you.

“Let me see your stitches,” she murmured, propping herself on one elbow. “They might’ve torn.”

You sighed and turned away. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kia released a slow, trembling breath. If your dismissal hurt, she didn’t show it. She pressed her lips together, glancing around like she wasn’t sure what to do next, loose hair sticking to her damp skin in stray strands.

“Do you want something to eat?” she asked, voice soft and cautious, as if you were a skittish animal she might scare off. “Or… anything else?”

You nodded, though you weren’t really hungry. Truth be told, you just needed her to leave you alone for a minute, because you could feel tears building at the back of your throat—hot, stinging, impossible to swallow. If she stayed, you weren’t sure how long you could keep them at bay, and you despised the idea of breaking down in front of anyone.

—

You and Kia fell into a strange rhythm—never truly discussing what you both were, just sliding into each other’s lives whenever you touched down in Bangkok. You bought roundtrip tickets to Tokyo, claiming it was easier to keep your options open, but you both knew the real reason: you wanted a guaranteed way back to her bed. 

You told yourself you only returned for sex, that maybe it helped you blow off the steam you’d otherwise drown in. Your arrangement with Kia was unspoken. You hardly texted, and only called if a flight ran late. Most nights you simply appeared at her door unannounced. Her eyes would roam over your body, as if assessing damage—and then she’d let you in. Within minutes, your clothes would be hitting the floor. 

It was never gentle, never particularly sweet. You were never going to stay. She never asked you to, not with words. If you ever let yourself wonder why she kept letting you in, you pushed the thought aside. It was convenient. That’s all.

However, there was one thing that Kia kept on doing that blurred this arrangement into something other than sex.

She insisted on tending to your injuries.

At first, you refused to let her touch your bruises, pulling away whenever her fingers came close. You told her you didn't need it—that you were fine. So she started doing it secretly, when you weren’t paying attention.

When she thought you were asleep, she'd quietly patch you up, gently pressing ice packs to swollen skin, smoothing ointment over fresh cuts. You didn't even notice at first, too exhausted or numb to pay attention. But one night, you woke to the soft pressure of a damp cloth on a fresh gash, Kia's face scrunching up as if she were feeling the pain itself. 

You should've pulled away. Should've stopped her, stuck to the boundaries you'd built around yourself. But you didn't. Maybe you liked the feeling of someone wanting to take care of you even if you'd never admit it out loud. So you closed your eyes again, and let her continue. After that, you stopped resisting.

Clint eventually picked up on your pattern. One night in a back-alley bar in Shinjuku, he finally brought it up. You’d just finished discussing intel for your next target, when he leaned back on the creaky stool and said, “So how long you staying this time before hopping back to Bangkok again?”

You glared at him over the rim of your glass. “What’s it to you?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… if you’ve found a reason to keep going back, that’s okay.”

You stiffened. “It’s none of your business.”

A moment passed. He glanced down at the table, exhaling. “Fine. Forget I said anything.”

But you couldn’t let it go. 

“I’m not ‘happy,’ if that’s what you’re implying. I’m—” You hesitated, cursing yourself for sounding so defensive. “She’s just—she’s nothing.”

Clint searched your face for a second. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck off,” you hissed, standing so abruptly that your chair scraped the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was partly true. You weren’t happy because you refused to be. Not without Wanda. 

He watched you grab your jacket but didn’t protest. You realized you didn’t truly want to leave—yet the idea of him seeing how deeply he’d struck a nerve by suggesting you were moving on felt unbearable, so you walked away anyway.

—

A couple of months into your no-strings arrangement with Kia, you stopped counting how many times you’d flown in and out of Bangkok. Your spare shirt hung in her closet, a few pairs of your socks folded into her dresser drawers. You realized you’d left enough random belongings strewn around her apartment out of careless habit.

One evening, after arriving jet-lagged and bone-tired, you skipped everything that usually came next. Kia stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of tea. She took a breath and said, “I’m leaving soon.”

You blinked, unsure if she meant a late-night grocery run or something else entirely.

“Leaving… where?”

She shrugged, avoiding your eyes for a second. “Back home.”

It hit you, then, that you had no idea where her home even was. You frowned, crossing your arms. “And where’s that exactly?”

She paused, studying your face as if measuring how much she should say. “Somewhere north of Europe.”

You raised an eyebrow. “North of Europe is… what, Scandinavia?”

Kia chuckled, but her eyes stayed flat. “Iceland,” she said.

Before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Why are you telling me this?” You didn’t even know what answer you wanted—a goodbye, an invitation, or nothing at all.

She gave a small shrug, eyes drifting to the clutter you’ve scattered around—keys, a phone charger, a few shirts. “In case you haven’t noticed, your stuff is everywhere,” she said evenly. “Thought I’d give you a heads up, so you can pack. Unless…” She trailed off, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. “Unless you want to take over the lease.”

You felt a spike of irritation. Or maybe regret. “Thanks for the heads up,” you said curtly, cutting her off.

She nodded, falling silent. 

Several tense minutes passed, the silence drawing out like a tightened string. You turned your back partly to her, pretending to be busy with your phone. Kia stayed near the kitchen, arms folded, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point on the floor.

Finally, she spoke. “Aren’t you ever going to ask me?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Ask you what?”

She met your eyes with a steady look. “What I lost in the blip.”

Your stomach twisted, a prickle creeping up the back of your neck. You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you wanted to hear about anyone else’s grief. But Kia wasn’t just anyone—no matter how much you tried to pretend she was.

Kia sighed, as if steeling herself. “I researched you, you know?” she said. 

This revelation was not really surprising to you. 

“I know you’re not just a wrecking ball chasing trouble. You were an Avenger. I think…” She hesitated, searching your expression. “I think you lost someone important enough to—” She gestured vaguely at you. “—end up like this.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “End up like what?” you asked, almost daring her to say it. 

Kia didn’t hesitate this time. “A coward.”

It didn’t offend you.It should have. Maybe two years ago, it would’ve. But now it only stirred a faint nostalgia when Wanda had called you that once, too.

Two people had called you a coward in your lifetime, and they were the only two who had ever really known you. Kia, for everything you’ve kept from her, arrived at the same conclusion. 

You thought about your last night with Wanda—when you had admitted you were afraid. Afraid of what would happen if she died. If you died. If both of you made it out of this war and had to figure out how to just be in the aftermath. You had never known what it was to have something worth staying for, until Wanda.

She had made you brave.

And when she disappeared, so did that version of you—the one that had existed solely because she had looked at you like you could be more than just a character in a league of heroes.

You had faced down armies. You had fought against forces that should have killed you. By all definitions, that should be what bravery embodies. But Kia was right. You had been running all this time.

Running from the places that reminded you of Wanda. Running from the people who might ask questions you didn’t want to answer.

Running everywhere.

Because you could go everywhere.

Except home.

Wanda had taken home with her.

“The truth is,” Kia began when she realized you weren’t going to say anything to her insult. “I wanted you to come with me.”

Wanted. Past tense?

“When you saved me that night, you didn’t just save me from those people,” she continued.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your hands dropping to your side.

Kia cleared her throat, her eyes darting everywhere. “I was going to end it,” she said quietly, swallowing hard. “I’d been thinking about it for months. Maybe go out exactly like that night you found me. I didn’t care about anything anymore.”

You remembered the alleyway—her body pinned against the wall, her voice trembling under your hand. It hadn’t occurred to you that she might have been courting that danger on purpose.

“But then you showed up,” Kia continued, smiling to herself at the memory like it was something precious. “I don’t know why, but I looked at you and thought, maybe not tonight.”

You swallowed, unable to formulate any kind of response. 

Kia let the silence settle for a moment, giving you time to absorb everything. “I ran too,” she admitted a while later. “After losing my husband and daughter, I left home. I thought if I just kept moving, if I threw myself into something good—medical missions, disaster relief—maybe I could…balance the scales somehow. Maybe help with—with the grief.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed on. “But it never worked. No matter how many people I saved, it didn’t bring them back. It didn’t fill the emptiness.”

She looked at you then. “And I think you know exactly what I mean.”

You did.

It sat in your ribs every morning you woke up, in every step you took down a nameless street in a nameless city, in every body you cut down without flinching.

Kia sighed, rubbing a hand over her face like she was so tired of it all. You’d used her—not out of malice, but because you needed her more than she ever needed you. That part was obvious now, perhaps always had been. 

“So, yeah. I wanted you to come with me. To Iceland. I thought maybe, I don’t know… maybe neither of us would have to keep running.”

There. She’d said it.

This wasn’t just about sex. At least not for her.

“How old was your—” you cut yourself off, thinking maybe it wasn’t your place to ask.

But Kia smiled at your nascent question. Like she’d welcome any question, any opportunity to talk about them.

“She was four.”

“Were you… was your husband and daughter with you when it happened?”

She shook her head. “They were at home. I was in the hospital, helping out with a minor surgery. Then half of everyone just—” Her hand sliced through the air, mimicking dust scattering in the wind. “By the time I got there, I found no one.”

For a moment, you thought about Wanda’s face, the way the dust had slipped through your fingers, the sickening sense of disbelief that lingered even after she was gone.

“What was her name?”

“Maria,” Kia said, her eyes shining, her smile bittersweet. “She was four, but she thought she was already grown up. Always insisting on doing things by herself. Her father and I used to joke that we’d have our hands full when she became a teenager.”

You nodded, unsure what to say, how to respond to a pain so parallel yet so uniquely her own.

“Thank you,” you said finally. “For telling me.”

Kia merely shrugged. “I realized I don’t want to forget them. Not anymore. Talking about them… helps me remember the good things, too.”

You nodded. Should you talk about Wanda too? The mere prospect of it was enough to break you. You didn’t think you could utter a single word without falling apart. 

In the back of your mind, you weighed your options.

You could go to Iceland. You could stop running. Maybe even try to build something new. It wouldn’t be love—not in the way it had been with Wanda—but maybe it would be enough. Maybe you could teach yourself to want peace instead of vengeance.

Or you could leave, like you always did. Book another flight, chase another war, throw yourself into the next fight because it was easier than stopping.

You wondered if Wanda would forgive you, no matter which path you chose.

If you stopped running—if you tried to live—would she see it as betrayal? Would she be disappointed?

Or would she just be sad that it had taken you this long?

[jlsammy25]

OMG!!

All Of Your Pieces (26 - Death and His Friends)

Chapter Summary: If she hadn’t looked at you the way she did, whispered your name like it was a prayer, melted into you like you were her home—maybe you wouldn’t be here, drunk, half-mad, half-burning alive just to save the scraps of a life that didn’t exist anymore. She should’ve been cruel. Should’ve been indifferent. Should’ve been impossible to love. But Wanda had been none of those things.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4.9k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, violence, and more angst Warning: graphic violence suicidal thoughts

A/N: More depressing stuff. Two more chapters after this, and we will close Part 2 :) I'm not thrilled about that because I have a lot of catching up to do yikes // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warning: graphic violence suicidal thoughts

The night tasted like your own sweat, and then blood that wasn’t yours. It’s not criminal if it’s criminals you were bringing down—one by one. At least that’s what you kept convincing yourself to believe for the past year.

Somewhere between the grit under your boots and the sound of your blade slicing through flesh, you realized that vengeance never tasted as sweet as you once thought it would. It was bitter. The tang of iron lingered stubbornly on your lips a little too long, and even as you wiped your face with a trembling hand, nothing felt cleaner. The city never slept. Nor did you. 

Rest seemingly died with Wanda.

Clint was the only one who understood, or at least he acted like it. When you slipped into the shadows together, he gave you the same name he had been carrying around: Ronin. A wandering vigilante without a master. You wondered if you should have been called something else, because you weren’t convinced that you both didn’t have masters. Grief was the master—it’s what kept you both going.

But perhaps Ronin was enough. It meant a directionless sword turned on those who deserved it. 

You kept a single suitcase with you, living on the road, never staying in one place long enough to remember which city you woke up in. The suitcase was mostly Wanda’s. Her worn jacket was still there, the threads fraying a bit at the cuffs. You used to breathe in its scent, pressing your face into the fabric just to catch a trace of her perfume. But now, it just smelled of you. And every time you zipped it up, you wondered if you were sealing the last fragments of her inside, keeping them safe, trying not to let them slip away the same way she did.

Sometimes, when the adrenaline faded and your heart pounded so loud you couldn’t hear anything else, you turned that jacket into a makeshift pillowcase, holding it close to your chest as if it could hold you back. It never did. If anything, it only reminded you of her absence, the emptiness next to you that you couldn’t fill no matter how many bad people you put six feet under.

The Snap might have happened more than a year ago, but it felt like it had just happened yesterday. Every morning you woke up to an empty horizon, and every night you sank deeper into your mattress. The need to punish someone—anyone—for taking her away was a drumbeat in your chest that just wouldn’t stop.

You caught sight of yourself in a broken window sometimes: blood-smeared and wild-eyed, unrecognizable. You thought, Wanda wouldn’t want to see me like this. The thought made your chest tighten. It wasn’t enough to make you stop, though. Because stopping meant facing the truth that she was never coming back. Stopping meant letting go of that last fragile hope that she’d appear from around the corner, gentle smile on her lips, her hand reaching out for yours again.

Sometimes you wondered if Clint ever had the same thoughts—if the burn of his grief cut him as deeply. You saw it in his eyes when there was a lull in the fight, that distant look that mirrored your own. But you never asked. Maybe you were afraid he’d say no, and you’d realize you were truly alone in this darkness. Or maybe you were even more afraid he’d say yes, and neither of you would know how to crawl out of it once it was spoken aloud.

“Hey,” Clint’s voice pulled you from the haze.

You blinked and looked up to find him dragging two men across the blood-slick floor. They thrashed weakly in his grip, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror. He shoved them forward, and they collapsed at your feet, trembling.

“You can stop anytime,” Clint reminded you. His knuckles were split and raw, his eyes dark with exhaustion. “Just say the word.”

You shook your head. No words were necessary. The sword was already in your hand again. With two swift strikes, it was over. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and the blood pooled beneath them like ink spreading across paper.

In that moment, you realized just how natural this had become. You barely reached for your pistols anymore. Clint stayed for a moment, watching to make sure you finished the job. When the bodies lay still, he turned away without a word and walked off in the opposite direction. You never discussed the logistics of this arrangement. You didn’t know where he slept whenever you tore through a city, crossing names off your lists. You never told him about the apartments you rented either. Your paths only crossed when there was a target—when you were both doing the work that needed to be done.

When his footsteps finally faded into the distance, your hands began to tremble. The sword slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a sharp, metallic clang. You buried your face in your hands and choked on a sob no one was there to hear.

Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. The bodies you and Clint left outside were horrifying enough to cause a small panic from unsuspecting civilians who were just trying to get home from a hard day’s work. 

Tomorrow, you’d paint the walls red again. But that night, you let yourself break.

For her.

For the life you lost.

For the pieces of yourself you would never get back.

—

You drifted into a dream that felt more alive than the actual world you currently lived in. The sheets were tangled at your ankles. Her hair fanned across the pillow, soft as a sunrise. You had just made love for the second time that night, your skin still singing with the memory of her touch. It was achingly similar to the last night you shared in Wakanda.

Wanda lay beside you, her head resting on your chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles along your ribs. You stared at the ceiling, counting seconds in the silence, wishing you could make time slow down. The battle loomed just hours away, but here—it was just you and her. The world hadn't ended yet.

“You're not sleeping,” she whispered.

You kissed the top of her head. “Neither are you.”

She hummed softly, her breath warm against your skin. “I'm scared,” she admitted. “About tomorrow.”

“Me too,” you said. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

Wanda shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at you. She let the sheet fall away, revealing the soft swells of her breast. 

“What if,” you began before Wanda’s nakedness could distract you any further. “What if one of us didn’t make it?”

“I won’t let that happen,” she said, voice caught somewhere between a plea and a promise. “Not to you. Not to me.” Wanda used to gamble her own life without a second thought after Pietro died, as though nothing mattered. But that changed when she found you. “I want to live,” she confessed. “Really live—you know?”

You swallowed the ache in your throat. “Then promise me,” you said. “After this—after Thanos, after all of it—we vanish somewhere quiet.”

She gave you a ghost of a smile, brushed her lips against yours. “I promise.”

Then the dream warped. Wanda looked down at her hands, watched them crumble, every piece of her turning to dust. You lunged for her, desperation burning in your chest, but she disappeared like a whisper in a storm.

—

You woke with a start. Your throat felt dry, and the taste of stale liquor coated your tongue. A throbbing headache pulsed behind your temples—there were at least three empty bottles of something you barely remembered opening, scattered near your feet. Your vision blurred, tears mixing with the afterimages of Wanda’s face. For a second, you forgot where you were. Then reality flooded in like poison.

Anger sank its claws into your gut, white-hot and suffocating. You hated everything: this dingy flat you had borrowed for the night, your own useless heartbeat, the hollow echo of a promise that never stood a chance. You hated yourself. 

And maybe, in that twisted heartbeat of a moment, you hated Wanda too.

If she hadn’t looked at you the way she did, whispered your name like it was a prayer, melted into you like you were her home—maybe you wouldn’t be here, drunk, half-mad, half-burning alive just to save the scraps of a life that didn’t exist anymore.

She should’ve been cruel. Should’ve been indifferent. Should’ve been impossible to love.

But Wanda had been none of those things.

She was warmth in a world that never gave you much. She was soft hands in your hair after a long day, laughter against your throat, breathless kisses under the covers, sunlight pooling over her bare skin in the mornings when the war felt far away. She was the kind of love that seeped into your bones without permission, the kind that made you forget how to live without it.

And now she was gone. And you hated her for that, too.

Wanda’s jacket lay crumpled on a chair, surrounded by the scattered remnants of her things—the ones you carried with you wherever you went, hauling them from place to place, pretending she was with you.

You swept them all up without pausing to think. You stuffed them into a sack as though hoarding contraband. Your fingers trembled around the lighter. One flick—two—and a tiny flame sprang to life, hungry for something to devour. It tasted the edge of the sack, glowing brighter.

The fire spread. You stood there, breathing in sharp, rattling gasps, tears cutting hot paths down your cheeks. Smoke stung your eyes and finally tore you free from whatever madness had taken hold. Horror crashed into you when you realized you were about to let the last pieces of Wanda burn.

“No… no, no, no!”

You dropped to your knees, slapping at the flames with desperate hands. Your shirt caught fire first, eating its way up your sleeve. Pain lashed at your nerves, but fear of losing what was left of her stung a thousand times worse. You fought the blaze until you choked on the smoke and your vision blurred.

When it was over, the room reeked of burnt cotton and scorched flesh. The edges of Wanda’s jacket were singed, blackened holes marring the pattern she once wore. But it was still there—still real in your arms.

Shaking, you pressed it to your chest, ignoring the burn wounds throbbing along your arm. You sank to the floor and closed your eyes. A gust of wind rattled the window, shifting the smoke in heavy swirls, gathering dust with them.

Eventually, you forced yourself to stand. You swayed like a ghost in your own skin, unsteady on your feet, the jacket pressed against your ribs. You surveyed the wreckage before gathering what’s left of Wanda’s belongings and cradling them into your arms, full of regret. 

Wanda had once told you she wanted to live. She had promised you both would run away somewhere untouched by war or duty, but no promise could stand against the universe that swallowed her whole. You felt betrayed by the memory. You felt lost in its wake.

Trembling, you limped toward the sink, your eyes stinging more from grief than any leftover smoke. You tried to douse the throbbing burn on your arm with cold water, but it did little to soothe the ache. 

Everything in you felt rubbed raw.

—

Several weeks bled into each other, and you barely noticed.

Your burns had healed just enough to leave angry pink scars across your arm, but they still stung when you moved too fast. The rest of your body wasn’t much better off. A cracked rib that you refused to see a doctor for. A split lip that wouldn’t stop bleeding every time you bit down in anger or frustration. You told Clint it was all fine, but he wasn’t an idiot—he saw how you winced when you swung your sword, how you downed painkillers like breath mints.

He never said much about it, though. Maybe he figured you’d talk when you were ready—or maybe he was giving you the same distance he needed for himself. Some nights you caught him looking at you with something like pity, but you shook it off. You weren’t Clint’s charity case, and you certainly weren’t interested in a pep talk.

This time, the two of you had rolled into a run-down stretch of a town just outside of Bangkok. The main target was some mid-level crime boss with enough hired guns to make it “a real party,” in Clint’s words. He had briefed you on the specifics: smuggling ring, trafficking, a laundry list of atrocities that, a couple of years ago, would make your skin crawl. Now they simply just  made you more numb to the idea of writing them off the Earth more convincing and assuring.

Even so, a part of you itched with restlessness. The memory of nearly burning Wanda’s things was fresh behind your eyes. You remembered hating her for leaving you—and then hating yourself more for thinking it. You wondered if letting go was the only way to stop hurting, but you were too much of a coward to do that cleanly. So you kept marching toward every fight like you were daring someone else to do it for you.

You crouched beside Clint in the dirty alleyway, listening to the distant thrum of a generator. The rotting stench of garbage and stale sweat clung to the walls, and broken glass crunched beneath your boots. You felt yourself slipping into that cold, steady calm you had come to rely on during missions. 

The plan was simple enough. Clint wanted to get inside the warehouse and dig up every record, ledger, or scrap of intel that could unravel this syndicate from the inside out. You were there to keep the hired guns occupied long enough for him to do it. Neither of you said it, but you both knew you’d be dealing with far more than a handful of guards. And maybe you were counting on that.

It wasn’t just about the mission anymore. A twisted part of you craved the chaos, the rush, the possibility that one stray bullet might make all your nightmares vanish for good. You hated that about yourself—that tiny, traitorous thought kept whispering that maybe, on this night, you wouldn’t bother to dodge when your instincts told you to.

You forced your cracked rib to stop complaining, ignored the dull throb of the burns on your arm. Your split lip had opened up again, you could taste the iron tang of blood on your tongue. Clint glanced your way, arrow nocked. He gave a curt nod, and you returned it. 

Moments later, you slipped through the back entrance, steel blade in hand. The first guard never even turned around—by the time he heard your footsteps, your sword was already cutting through muscle and bone. There was no time for him to scream.

Clint veered right, making for the office where he could lock down the ledgers and hacked systems. You pushed ahead, weaving through the maze of crates. Every time your sword cut through the air, you marveled at how weightless it felt. By all rights, your arms should’ve given out—hell, you’d swung this thing over a hundred times tonight—but your body kept moving. Running on autopilot. Running on adrenaline, anger, and a deep, gnawing ache you refused to acknowledge.

Shouts echoed in the distance as more men poured into the corridor. Part of you recognized this was a setup—that they knew you were here. But instead of warning Clint or retreating, you stepped out into the open, letting them see you, letting them surge toward you with guns and knives raised. It was suicide, and you knew it. A hollow part of you almost wished one of them would be good enough to make you bleed out on the cold cement floor.

They weren’t. You cut through them with eerie precision, each blow landing home. Blood splattered across your suit, red mist hanging in the air. Gunfire stuttered behind you, but you didn’t so much as flinch. A bullet sliced past your ribs, carving a fresh line of pain, but you barely registered it. Your focus stayed locked on the next body, the next target—because right now, that was all that mattered.

Eventually, the corridor fell silent except for your ragged breaths. Men lay sprawled across the floor, each one worse off than the last. You stepped gingerly over the bodies as if they were pavement, as you made your way back to Clint.

Out of the corner of your eye, Clint burst from the office, a black duffel slung over his shoulder, stuffed with whatever intel he’d scraped together. He gave you another nod. You didn’t nod back. You just stood there, blood in your mouth, heartbeat in your ears.

And then you turned. A mistake.

A single gunshot shattered the suffocating silence. The impact slammed into you from behind, just beneath your shoulder blade. You had enough time to feel the white-hot shock before your muscles went slack.

Blood bloomed across your suit, warm and sticky. You tried to breathe, but the air refused to come. Your knees gave out, sending you crashing onto the cold concrete. Vaguely, through the haze, you heard Clint’s shout—angry, desperate—followed by the heavy thud of another body hitting the ground.

Your vision swam, black creeping in at the edges. You tried to inhale again, but each breath rattled uselessly in your throat.

In the final moment before you lost consciousness, your thoughts drifted to Wanda. You almost laughed at the idea that you'd ever believed you could hate her. Because the truth was—you'd have given anything to have her there, just once more, before you took your last breath.

For the first time in months, you smiled.

—

You woke to white. 

White walls, white sheets, white lights overhead. For a moment, you wondered if you were dead. If this was the afterlife, maybe some waiting room before the pearly gates. But the thought barely lasted a heartbeat. You remembered what you’d done over the past year—how many lives you’d ended, how many lines you’d crossed, all in the name of vengeance that still left you hollow. No way in hell heaven would open its doors for you.

Then you thought of Wanda. If heaven existed, she’d be its ambassador. But the thought turned bitter almost instantly—because if she was up there, somewhere beyond all this, and you were still down here, waiting for oblivion to take you, what did that say? A wave of sorrow washed over you so fierce it almost had you choking on your own breath. You pressed your eyes shut, wishing you had done every damned thing differently.

Your skull throbbed with a dull ache, and your body refused to move in one solid piece. You felt bandages, tight across your chest, your shoulder, the place on your arm where your burns still festered. A monitor beeped somewhere near your head, an annoying reminder that you weren’t free of your body yet.

The door creaked open. Soft footsteps. You cracked your eyes to see a woman in a white uniform—like everything else in the room—walking in with a clipboard pressed to her side. She said something in Thai, her tone calm and professional. You stared at her, blinking, the words tumbling around your already-battered mind. 

She paused, probably recognizing your blank expression. Then she switched to English, the smooth shift of her voice almost startling. “Hello,” she said gently. “I’m Doctor Kia. How are you feeling?”

You tried to answer, but your tongue felt thick, your mouth dry. Instead, you managed a small croak, which was enough for her to spring into action and offer you a cup with a straw. You sipped slowly, the water cool against your parched throat.

“Your injuries were quite severe,” she went on, scanning your chart. “The bullet punctured your right lung. There was significant internal bleeding. You also have older injuries—burns, possibly cracked rib that didn’t heal properly. We’ve taken care of the worst of it, but you’ll need time, medication, and rest.”

You didn’t say anything. It all felt surreal—like she was a judge listing your crimes rather than a doctor reading your chart. In your half-dazed mind, you wondered if heaven would put you through the same process if you showed up at its gates. Would they read off every name you’d killed, every line you’d crossed, before slamming the doors in your face? Probably.

Doctor Kia’s voice droned on but you’d stopped listening to specifics the moment she mentioned internal bleeding and fractured bones. She might as well have been describing someone else’s broken body. You had no idea why you were still breathing, anyway.

She stepped closer to the bed, her brows pulled tightly together. You felt her gaze on you like a spotlight, bright and uncomfortable. “How did you get these injuries?” she asked, voice quiet, just above a whisper.

You shifted your eyes away, refusing to meet her stare. A cold wave of anger or shame—maybe both—knotted in your stomach. You didn’t feel like conversation, certainly not about the life you’d carved out of your own misery. She’d leave eventually if you kept silent. Once she was gone, you could slip away too.

But Doctor Kia didn’t leave. She hovered there, determined, tapping her pen against the clipboard. Finally, she said something about women trapped in cycles of violence, about the importance of speaking up, of reaching out for help. Her words dripped with earnestness, like she’d seen one too many battered wives pass through her ward with too many excuses. Maybe she thought you were one of them.

The noise in your head rose to a roar, drowning out every word. The guilt, the hate, the sting of Wanda’s memory—it all churned under your skin. You felt your teeth clench, your jaw tighten. You turned your head, shooting her a look that begged her to stop talking.

She didn’t read the warning. Another sentence tumbled out of her mouth, something about how you weren’t alone in this.

“Stop,” you bit out, harsher than you meant.

Doctor Kia paused, her mouth open, eyes full of concern. For a long second, neither of you moved. You pressed your palms into the stiff sheets, ignoring the pain. You saw her sympathy and wanted to throw it back in her face.

But you said nothing more. She seemed to get the message. Her shoulders stiffened, and she exhaled through her nose, carefully shutting whatever speech she had prepared. Wordlessly, she scribbled a note on the clipboard, turned on her heel, and left you alone with the sound of your own labored breathing.

As soon as Doctor Kia’s footsteps faded into the corridor, you tried to move. You propped yourself on one elbow, teeth clamped against the groan that rattled in your chest. The pain was white-hot—sharp enough to steal your breath. She hadn’t been exaggerating about your injuries. A bullet to the lung, a second degree burn, and a cracked rib weren’t exactly sprained ankles. Right now, you felt every bit of it.

Still, your mind fixated on one thing: escape. You forced yourself upright, hissing at the stab of agony under your ribs. Your vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing. If you pushed any harder, you’d pass out again.

When you looked to your right, you spotted your bag sitting on a plastic chair. Clint must have dumped it there before taking off. After a second, you reached out, slow and shaky, managing to snag the edge of the bag and drag it closer.

Your hand fumbled with the zipper, every movement a fresh ache. Inside, you found your phone tucked beneath a spare shirt and some other essentials you’d barely remembered packing. Relief flooded you when you saw it was still charged. The screen lit up, one new message glowed at the top:

GONE FISHING. STAY PUT. BE BACK SOON. 

Your thumb hovered over the keys, ready to tap out a warning, to say, “Be careful, don’t get yourself killed.” But you stopped. After everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Clint what to do, couldn’t bring yourself to admit you still cared if he lived or died. In the end, you erased every letter you typed and let the phone slip from your grasp onto the bed. The pain was getting worse, demanding you stop moving.

—

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you felt was a sudden prick at your arm. Your eyes shot open on instinct. You jerked away and grabbed the wrist of whoever was leaning over you. The nurse yelped, dropping the syringe. She stumbled back, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting a sedated patient to lash out like that.

Your ribs screamed in protest at the sudden movement, and you hissed in pain. The nurse was already halfway to the door, muttering anxious apologies and something you couldn’t decipher. She fled before you could even get an apology out.

A few minutes later, the door swung open again. Doctor Kia. Her white uniform was rumpled, her hair barely tamed by the clip at the back of her head.

“What happened?” she demanded, glancing from your tense posture to the scattered supplies on the floor.

“I was asleep,” you muttered. “Didn’t know what she was doing.”

“She’s trying to help you, Y/N.” A sigh escaped her, heavy with exasperation. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

You sank back against the pillows, turning onto your side—the uninjured one—and shutting your eyes as if that might dismiss her. The bed creaked under the slightest movement. “It’s fine,” you said. “Let me sleep.”

Doctor Kia ignored your dismissive tone. She stooped, picking up the fallen syringe and examining it. Then she approached you and started prepping the cotton and alcohol. 

When you opened your eyes again, she was poised by your IV stand. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Pain relief,” she answered curtly. “You obviously need it. Your hair’s soaked with sweat, your lips are white, and your cheeks are pale.” Her gaze flicked over you, calculating. “Your body is telling you it can’t handle the pain anymore.”

“I don’t need—”

Whatever protest you were going to make died on your tongue as she slid the needle into your arm with cold efficiency. It was rather more painful than you were expecting. You caught a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes—smug, almost. Maybe that was her little way of getting back at you—for being such a nightmare of a patient.

The sedative worked fast. Within moments, your limbs felt heavier, and that razor-sharp edge of agony dulled to a distant throb. Exhaustion swept through your veins like a black tide, and your eyelids drooped into a deeper sleep.

—

Two days later, your body finally recovered enough for you to climb down a six-story building. Or at least, you were counting on it. You couldn’t stay here anymore, caged in that white-walled room. So you waited until midnight to make sure there were barely any staff roaming the halls—then slid out of bed with a grunt and stuffed your belongings into your bag.

The second your feet hit the floor, your healing wounds reminded you they weren’t done complaining. Your ribs screamed, your shoulder twinged, and a dull headache pounded in the back of your skull. But you clenched your teeth and kept moving, ignoring the beads of sweat that broke out on your forehead.

You’d just made it to the hallway when Doctor Kia appeared at the opposite end, spotting you with a startled frown. “What are you doing?” she asked, striding closer.

You exhaled hard. “Leaving.”

Her eyes dipped to your half-buttoned shirt, the fresh bandages peeking out beneath. “You’re in no condition to leave. At least wait until we can—”

You cut her off by thrusting a wad of bills into her hand—easily three times what this hospital stay was worth. She looked down at the money, stunned and worried.

“Keep the change,” you muttered. “Use it for…whatever.”

She clutched the cash, glancing from it to you, her eyebrows knitting in concern. “You shouldn’t be going yet. Your injuries—”

“I’ll manage.”

There was a beat of silence. You both knew you were a walking disaster, barely held together by gauze and painkillers. But the conversation ended there. You had no intention of listening to another lecture.

Slowly, Doctor Kia closed her hand around the money. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t try to stop you. Maybe she realized it was pointless. Maybe she sensed that you’d tear your stitches rather than stay another minute.

Without another word, you turned your back on the sterile corridor. Every step jarred your ribs, made your chest ache, but you forced yourself onward. You didn’t look back, and you didn’t let yourself think about how your body was screaming for rest.

This place had never been a refuge—it was just another prison in a world that stopped making sense the day Wanda faded into dust. And so you limped into the daylight, still in one piece, more or less, but not sure how many more pieces you had left to lose.

[jlsammy25]

All Of Your Pieces (25 - Anger and Bargaining)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence used up all the hurt you could feel, until you were just a husk, observing and unfeeling.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4.4k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, violence, and more angst Warning: thoughts of self-harm and suicide

A/N: There will be a few chapters without Wanda, but I promise you will get your answers about Y/N // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Forty days had passed since you last felt her heartbeat next to yours.

Time moved differently after that loss.

Forty days had passed, and you still woke up expecting to find Wanda tangled in the sheets beside you, hair splayed on the pillow, her sleepy smile lighting up your whole goddamn universe. And every morning, without fail, you reached over to cold, empty sheets. It was as though some tiny part of you still believed in a world where the Snap was temporary. Where you’d press a kiss to Wanda’s forehead and feel her warm breath against your neck.

Steve Rogers didn’t quit. Not right away. The moment you all returned, he and Carol pored over galactic maps, trying every back-channel cosmic contact she had. If there was a whisper of a rumor that might undo the Snap without the Stones, they chased it. But every lead fizzled eventually.

After some time, Carol got called away to help other worlds pick up the pieces Thanos left behind. Some had missing leaders, others had entire fleets wiped out. She promised to keep looking, but the fact was, the universe still needed her out there. You knew she carried an unspoken guilt—like she was leaving you all short-handed—and maybe she was. But you couldn’t hold it against her.

Tony, on the other hand, took an entirely different route. You remembered the day he stood in front of the compound’s main table, staring at the empty chairs around it, then just... shook his head. He’d gone off to direct a wide-scale humanitarian effort—food drops, medical camps, building shelters for those left behind. 

That left Steve and Natasha, holding down the fort in the old Avengers compound. They answered crisis calls, put out smaller fires. You sometimes forced yourself to be there, but the truth was, you mostly holed up in your room. On a good day, you managed a half-hearted pitch of ideas or opinion. But eventually, the good days ran out. Your absences grew more frequent, until the four walls of your room became your entire world.

Natasha, for her part, never complained. She’d set food in front of you—a sandwich, a salad, sometimes just a handful of nuts—because that was all you could stomach before your throat closed up. She’d give you space when you needed it, which was often. It wasn’t fair, but you couldn’t stop. If the world was going to keep spinning without Wanda, then everyone else might as well feel miserable, too. 

Steve didn’t know how to fix you, either. You caught him trying to say something uplifting once or twice, always cutting off at the last second, like he realized it was useless. And maybe he was right. The bright-eyed captain who believed wholeheartedly in second chances looked haunted now, and it was supposed to hurt you too, seeing him this way, but Wanda’s absence used up all the hurt you could feel, until you were just a husk, observing and unfeeling.

In the end, it all boiled over. It was a Thursday (or was it Wednesday? You couldn’t tell anymore and you didn’t care) and you were in your usual state, laying on your side, eyes drifting unfocused over the rumpled sheets and the plain wall beyond them. You barely registered the footsteps in the hallway anymore, the way people whispered outside your door.

You heard the door open and didn’t bother turning to see who it was. You knew it had to be Natasha. She came by at least twice a day to see if you’d eaten or taken a breath that wasn’t soaked in sorrow. You waited for the usual quiet routine: maybe she’d try to hand you a plate, maybe she’d hover for a few seconds before closing the door again. But this time, she stayed put.

“Get up,” she said, voice hard.

You didn’t bother looking. “Not hungry,” you muttered.

Natasha snorted. “I wasn’t asking if you were.”

Something stirred in your chest, but you pushed it down. “I’ll get off this bed when we have a plan to bring them back,” you mumbled.

“Right, because you’re the only one in the entire goddamn universe who’s lost something,” she snapped.  

You clenched your jaw but refused to take the bait. Instead, you stayed wrapped in the thick blanket that was starting to smell faintly, a reminder that it had been too long since you last showered.

Natasha walked further into the room until she was standing by the foot of the bed. “So, what? You’re just gonna lay here while everyone else does the heavy lifting? Maybe we’ll draw straws on who gets to babysit you tomorrow.”

You felt a flash of heat behind your eyes, a protest waiting on your tongue. She didn’t give you the chance.

“You’re pathetic,” she says, her voice cold. “Sulking, while the rest of us try to pick up the pieces.”

You stayed silent, fists clenched, but Natasha wasn’t done.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” she continued, her tone colder than you’d ever heard it. “I see someone who had the nerve to get married in the middle of a war and is now lying down like it’s over. Someone who had Wanda—Wanda, of all people—and still can’t get out of bed to fight for her memory.”

“Natasha, that’s enough,” you growled, jaw aching from how hard you were clenching it.

“She promised you she’d come back, didn’t she? And you’re what she’s supposed to come back to? This?” Natasha gestured toward you, surrounded by the remnants of uneaten meals and discarded clothes. Filth.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, and for a moment you couldn’t believe what you’d just heard come out of Natasha’s mouth. You shoved off the bed and glared at her, the anger spiking hard and fast.

That final jab ignited you. You tossed the blankets aside and stood, eyes burning with a fury that wanted a target, any target. “What the hell do you want?” you snarled. “You come in here, wave her name around—”

She didn’t blink. “I want you to remember we’re a family,” she said, voice dropping a notch,  like that single word ought to mend every wound. “And don’t give me that crap about how Wanda was your only family. I get that she meant everything to you. But that doesn’t mean you get to shut down and isolate yourself while the rest of us are trying to—”

Before she could finish, you turned on your heel and yanked open the closet door. You started rifling through the small stash of clean clothes you hadn’t touched in days. Jeans, sweatshirts—whatever you could grab first, you shoved into a battered backpack without bothering to fold.

Natasha’s stance went rigid. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” you spat, wrestling the zipper. “I need space, and I can’t get it here. I’m done being your charity case. Hell, I’m done being mine.”

“So, you’re just gonna run?” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “You think that fixes anything?”

“I’m not running,” you countered, but it rang hollow even to your own ears. “I’m just… I’m tired. Of disappointing you, of pretending to believe that one day, it’ll get better. Whoever you think we’re still searching for—whoever you want me to be right now—is gone.”

“That’s not true,” she tried, but it came out weak. You slung the backpack over your shoulder and glared at her.

“Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t sound it.

You had no idea that would be the last time you’d speak to her for half a decade.

—

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Perhaps a distraction? Or maybe confirmation that you’d burned all your bridges or that there was nothing left to lose? Whatever the reason, you found yourself on the road, drifting from state to state in a sedan with a busted radio, living off gas station coffee. The entire country looked exactly how you’d imagine the aftermath of an apocalypse. Everyone was still lost in their own heads, grappling with a new reality that marched on regardless. When night fell, you’d grab a cheap motel or doze off behind the wheel in a rest stop parking lot. 

Eventually, your thoughts circled back to the single question that always seemed to latch on whenever you’re on your own: What happened to her? The woman who gave birth to you, then chose everything else over you. The mother who hated you for a crime you never intended—for being the twin who survived when your brother didn’t. She’d never let you forget it, either, though it was your father who raised you until the day he died. She’d gone on to build a new life with a new family. You’d never bothered to find out how that turned out.

Against your better judgement, you decided to see for yourself.

You tracked down her address, almost expecting to feel a thrill of righteous anger or maybe a sense of closure. But when you parked outside a modest home in a suburban corner of Indiana, the only thing you felt was numb. A battered pickup sat in the driveway. A neat row of hedges trimmed the walkway. There was a “Welcome” sign on the porch that felt like a mockery of everything your relationship wasn’t.

You rang the bell, heart thudding like a judge’s gavel in your ears. When the door opened, you found yourself looking at a teenage boy—gangly, messy hair, a fading bruise on his chin. His eyes flicked over you, wary.

“Uh, hi,” he said, voice cracking a bit.

You didn’t know how to start, so you just said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m looking for—” You almost choked on her name. The woman who’d turned her back on you for most of your life.

His face went still. “She’s gone,” he muttered, stepping back a fraction, hand still on the doorknob.

You stood there dumbly, trying to make sense of why you came here in the first place. You’d come all this way, expecting maybe you’d find some closure or a reason to hate her more. Instead, the universe had already taken her, the same way it had taken Wanda.

Your mother was gone, and so was the chance for any resolution. A pit settled in your stomach, but it wasn’t grief. More like resignation.

“You’re her son, then?” you asked, not sure if you were talking to him or to yourself. 

He nodded, shrinking into the doorway. You blinked, realizing with a jolt that this boy—your half-brother—had lost a mother, and now he was dealing with a stranger on his doorstep.

Some half-formed apology stumbled out of your mouth. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was just—”

“Who are you?”

You stood there dumbly, trying to make sense of why you came here in the first place. You’d kept tabs on her off and on for years—checking the local high school’s teacher listings, scanning social media posts from former students who mentioned her name. Even if your mother had cut you loose all those years ago, you couldn’t shake the need to make sure she was okay. It was a habit. Or maybe a compulsion. You never confronted her, never tried to mend the rift, but you watched from the wings, hoping she’d change her mind about you one day.

“I— I was one of her students,” you lied, the words scraping out as though they barely belonged to you.

Your half-brother frowned. “Her student?”

You nodded.

“She taught high school English. You look… older than most students.”

You forced a small, self-conscious shrug. “Yeah. I—graduated some years ago,” you improvised. “But, uh, she really helped me. You know, with…” You let the sentence hang, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

His brow smoothed a little. “So you came all this way just to—what, see her?”

You nodded, trying to act more confident than you felt. “Yeah, I guess. I’d been out of state. I heard about everything that happened…the—I didn’t know if she was—” You paused, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “I hoped she made it.”

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as the realization hit—you truly meant it. You were genuinely hoping your mother survived. 

He pressed his lips together, the corners turning down. “She didn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. You’d imagined confronting her, maybe not violently, but definitely letting some of your pent-up rage loose. But Thanos had gotten to her first, just like Wanda.

“So… that’s it,” you murmured, bitterness coating every word. “She’s gone.”

He nodded, looking as uncomfortable as you felt. 

You glanced past him into the living room—torn blankets, battered furniture, the marks of a family living with one less body than before. It made you think of the compound, of Natasha and Steve and the vacant seats around the briefing table. Anger surged again, but this time, it sputtered out almost instantly. You were just too tired.

Your half-brother stared, waiting for you to leave. Eventually, you offered some hollow farewell and dragged yourself back to your car. 

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time before turning the key. You tried to drum up some of that anger—something to keep you standing. But all that remained was the same lonely ache you’d fled the compound to escape.

That truth was, you hoped your mother would learn to forgive you. That if she didn’t see you long enough, she’d start hating you less, and maybe hating less would make room for love that you craved from her. But she never reached out once, all these years. 

And that piece of fact kept something in you alive.

If your mother could hate you so passionately, refusing to forget, maybe that meant you could hold on to Wanda just as fiercely. Because if forgetting your mother’s cruelty was impossible, then letting go of Wanda’s love was unthinkable.

With a shaky breath, you pulled away from the curb. 

—

The next few months passed in a dull, furious blur. You ended up in a one-room apartment on the edges of Manhattan, taking advantage of the fact that rent had plummeted with half the city’s tenants gone. It was cheap—no argument there—but also claustrophobic: four walls, a tiny bed, and a single lamp that flickered off and on if you leaned on the wall too hard. You told yourself it was temporary, but you’d stopped believing your own excuses weeks ago.

Half the world was locked in grief, and it showed. You couldn’t walk down a block without seeing signs offering counseling or “miracle cures” for heartbreak—some free, some borderline scams. You ignored them all. Some days, you’d get cornered by self-proclaimed grief coaches, waving pamphlets in your face, promising that acceptance started with a single step. It took everything in you not to bark out a bitter laugh. 

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror told a brutal story. You’d lost weight, enough that your cheeks looked sunken, and your hair was a matted disaster. It clung together in greasy clumps that made brushing an impossible task. More than once, you’d tried to work a comb through it, only to end up yanking out knotted clumps. But it was easier to do that than bother with shampoo or conditioner. Sometimes you felt you deserved the pain, just for having the audacity to survive.

You didn’t socialize, rarely ate, spent most of your time in stale sweatpants staring at the peeling wallpaper. At night, you’d lie on the squeaking bed, that infuriating half-broken coil stabbing your back, and think about how easy it would be to check out—just drift off into oblivion. You’d picture Wanda’s face, and for half a second, you could almost convince yourself you’d see her again if you just let go.

But something always pulled you back. 

Wanda’s memory, stronger than the morbid allure of death. She’d never want you to hurt yourself, and you couldn’t betray her like that. You’d close your eyes, mouth twisted with grief, and whisper, “I’m sorry,” to the empty room. Sorry you couldn’t be better at coping, sorry you had no way to bring her back. 

Sometimes you caught yourself imagining the impossible. A miracle. And if, by some freak occurrence, you cut your life short before that miracle arrived? The idea of Wanda coming back and finding you gone—it made your chest tighten so hard you could barely breathe.

No, dying wouldn’t do. You told yourself that every time the thought crept in. You had to be here—just in case. And until that day came, or never came at all, you’d sit in that lonely apartment, hair tangled, knuckles white, battered by regret. And if death knocked on the door one evening… you weren’t sure you’d say no, but you’d at least wait to see if Wanda could somehow be on the other side instead.

—

For the next several months, you drifted in that numbing routine: sleeping too little, eating too little, and caring about even less. You spent your days in your crumbling Manhattan apartment, flipping through channels that couldn’t decide whether to focus on the lost or the survivors. After finding nothing to hold your interest, you muted the TV entirely and let the images pass by like a grim slideshow.

Then you caught a name—Ronin—and froze.

There’d been sightings of a masked vigilante cutting down criminals with lethal precision, first in Indianapolis, then Houston, and now, apparently, San Antonio. The camera panned to shaky phone footage—a black-clad figure, swords flashing, leaving a trail of bodies. Your pulse picked up speed. You recognized the stance, the lethal economy of movement. 

Clint Barton.

No one else came to mind. The man who’d trained you in close-quarters combat, who’d taught you how to hit your targets with almost the same precision. All this time, this is what he’d been up to, dispensing justice on a scale that made you question if you really knew the man.

Suddenly, you weren’t so detached anymore. Ronin might be consumed by vengeance, but a part of you envied what he was getting out of it.

Retribution. 

If the Avengers’ moral code had died with half of the universe—maybe you could join him on that side of the line. Or stop him before he burned out. You didn’t know which impulse guided you harder.

—

The drive to San Antonio took exactly two days and five hours. You had tried to make it faster, but the monotony of the journey wore on you, making the road feel endless. Fatigue set in quicker than usual, a combination of restlessness and the fact that you’d been surviving mostly on energy bars, neglecting to properly fuel your body. It was no surprise your efficiency as a driver had taken a hit.

Clint’s pattern wasn’t hard to figure out, once you knew what to look for: big fish, small pond. You staked out the grimiest part of town, where word on the street said Ronin was likely to strike next. 

But you found the target first.

He was holed up in a dingy suite on the third floor of an abandoned hotel. You broke in through a cracked balcony window. Almost too easy, you thought, adrenaline rushing through you like a drug.

Inside, you found him alone—his guards apparently out—and when he swung around at the sound of your footsteps, his face went pale at the sight of your drawn sidearm.

“Who the—” He didn’t finish. You cracked him across the jaw with a single punch, sending him stumbling back. In your old life, you might have hesitated, let him speak, read him his rights or something. But that compassion was gone.

The old you was gone. It figured.

You bound his wrists with cable ties and dragged him out to the balcony, your heart pounding. You’d never felt so in control. So… alive. Not since—

Something in the air suddenly moved. 

Clint, perched on a ledge a few floors down. You recognized his silhouette, the lean set of his shoulders. His hood concealed half his face, but not the unmistakable shape of his jaw. He sprang up with grace you’d seen a thousand times on the battlefield, landing silently on your balcony.

The moment he recognized you, he pulled back his hood, grimacing but otherwise composed. If you hadn’t known him for so long, you might have thought he wasn’t surprised at all. He started to say something, his mouth opening slightly, but you cut him off, your voice icier than you’d ever heard it.

“What the hell are you doing, Clint?”

His jaw tightened, and he pulled his sword free, pointing it at your captive. “He’s mine,” he growled.

“You’re welcome,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saved you the trouble.”

You yanked your captive to his feet. He started babbling—pleading with you, with Clint, it didn’t matter. You didn’t really hear him, though, not in any language your mind was willing to process. Without hesitation, you shoved the muzzle of your gun against the side of his skull and—

Wanda, lying in bed one lazy morning. She’d been propped up on her elbows, her hair a mess, the covers bunched around her waist. You had just cracked one of those stupid jokes she always pretended not to understand. The punchline hovered for a few seconds before slowly, like the sun peeking over the horizon—it dawned on her. 

Her entire face had lit up, a blush creeping into her cheeks, her laughter bright yet still sleepy-soft. The joy washed across her expression in deliberate waves, and it was like watching daylight burst through the clouds. You swore you could feel the warmth against your skin, bathing you in light, making you remember for the thousandth time just how deeply you loved her.

—pulled the trigger.

The body crumpled in front of you, a burst of red spraying the concrete, some landing on your neck and cheek. You lowered the gun, arms shaking with the aftermath. 

Clint said nothing at first. He just stared, his sword lowered. He looked like he was ready for you to attack him next, or maybe for him to do the same. 

You didn’t return your pistol back to its holster right away, just in case. You stared right back, tears sliding free and rolling down your cheeks. No shame in it. Your lips curved into a small, defiant smile, one that felt alien but unstoppable. You didn’t bother wiping your tears or the blood. You just smiled.

“You’ve gone nuts,” Clint muttered tightly.

“Take me with you,” you said. “Bring me along, Clint. Whatever you do next… I can help. We can… we can double the body count of all the scum that crawled out of hiding after the—”

He narrowed his eyes. For a moment, you thought he might strike you down right there, disown you for crossing that invisible line. But he only stood in rigid silence, shoulders coiled like a trapped animal. 

“I work alone,” he said at last.

You nodded, tears still falling, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward in a sort of quiet resolve. “Nothing has to change. You keep doing your thing. Just… point me in the right direction. You and me, Clint—we can watch each other’s backs.”

He stared at you like he was seeing a stranger, not the person he once trained. The lines around his eyes deepened. “Does Nat know you’re here?”

The slight narrowing of your eyes was all he needed as an answer. After a beat, he turned away, dismissing you completely. Something in your gut lurched.

You didn’t really think it through—maybe you wanted to scare him, maybe you wanted to force him to acknowledge you. But Clint heard the click, spun around, and dropped low before you could squeeze off a shot.

He spun, dropped low, and let an arrow fly in one smooth motion. It sliced past your temple, drew a thin line of blood on your forehead, then lodged itself in the wall behind you. 

The cut stung, but you were used to much worse pain.

“You’re slipping,” you said coolly, ignoring the warm trickle down your face.

He huffed, a sound with no humor. “I’d say I hit my mark.” He notched another arrow but never loosed it. Instead, he took a step to the balcony’s edge, glanced over his shoulder with a look you couldn’t quite read, then vaulted off.

You rushed to see where he landed, but all you saw was neon glow and dark emptiness. He was gone, swallowed by the city.

—

A week later, you found him again—this time in a dusty backwater city, two states over. Rumors flew about a masked swordsman butchering gangs before they knew what hit them. You traced the stories, interrogated survivors, and stumbled across Clint on a rooftop under a weak moon. He wasted no time trying to lose you, weaving in and out of abandoned warehouses and barely-lit alleys until it felt like a game of cat and mouse. You knew it was a test, maybe even a taunt.

At last, in a crumbling storage building where mold clung to the walls, Clint stopped running. You stepped inside, gun in hand just to show you could. He was leaning against a fractured window, mask tugged above his jaw. He watched you for a beat, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from his belt and tossed it at your feet.

A map—circles, scribbled names, locations. You could almost taste the violence in every ink stroke: gang leaders, arms traffickers, crooked syndicates. You ran a finger over one of the circles, a knot of tension forming in your stomach.

“Deal with them,” Clint said, voice low but clear in the still air. “If you can. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Pushing off the window frame, he adjusted his hood and left by a half-collapsed doorway before you could ask if he’d changed his mind about teaming up.

Your fingers tightened on the map. A surge of grim satisfaction ran through your veins. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to channel your anger into action? Your grip shook a little, thinking of Wanda, how far you’d drifted from the person she’d known. But you slid the map into your jacket all the same.

[jlsammy25]

So much angst

Maybe I am a masochist after all🤦‍♀️

All Of Your Pieces (24 - The Last Day)

Chapter Summary: “Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, smut

A/N: Infinity War > Endgame, honestly. There won't be an update next Wednesday as it's already finals week for me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wakanda was a fortress. 

From where you stood, gazing at the seemingly endless plains and lush forests that cloaked the hidden nation, you could almost believe you were safe. The sight of the golden African sun spilling over the landscape had a sort of hypnotic effect—like it was trying to convince you there was no danger beyond these borders. 

Of course, you knew better. Nowhere was safe with Thanos out there, collecting the Infinity Stones one by one. 

You tore your gaze away from the sweeping view, letting out a heavy sigh before turning to Wanda. She stood beside you on the balcony, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face etched with quiet worry as she stared into the distance. With Vision gravely wounded and the impossible task of removing the Mind Stone without ending his life looming over everyone, she’d been on edge. You didn’t blame her. Vision was her friend and she cared about him. 

You slid closer, pressing a comforting hand to her back. “You okay?”

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t take her eyes off the horizon. “I will be,” she murmured, her Sokovian accent thickening with anxiety. You didn’t even realize it was still there. “It’s just… I hate waiting like this.”

You remembered the feeling of helplessness in Scotland: Vision had been pinned down, helpless, and you and Wanda had been forced to watch as he was nearly killed for the stone in his head. You closed your eyes, shoved the memory down, deep into that place where unwelcome things go to rot. You were both seconds away from the same fate—until Steve and Natasha arrived, pulling you all back from the brink. Just in time. Always just in time.

“They’re good people here,” you assured her. “They’ll find a way.”

“I know. I just…” Wanda swallowed thickly, her words catching in the process. “I… we were naive to think this was just another assignment. We’ve lost so much already.”

She didn’t have to say who else she was referring to. You knew about her parents, her brother, everything she had endured. And now, this war was threatening to take more. You gently pulled her into a side embrace, resting your forehead against hers for a moment.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” you promised, and you meant it.

—

You left Wanda alone with her thoughts and headed to the lab. It was a pressure cooker—hissing, ready to blow—filled with people moving like they were on rails, locked into some critical task. Everyone had a job, a purpose and no task felt too small when the goal was stopping Thanos. 

You came here because you needed to know your place in all of this—what you could do, how you could help. You couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around while everyone else carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Bruce Banner stood at a console, studying Vision’s neural scans. He didn’t look happy. You worried he’d start turning green from all the stress of figuring out the impossible task of separating the Mind Stone from Vision without reducing him to something less of a being and more like his former iteration. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked.

Bruce didn’t glance up. “Stable, for now,” he said. “Shuri’s stasis is the only thing keeping him that way.” He finally met your eyes. “If we remove the stone and botch it, we lose him completely. We don’t have a margin for error.”

Shuri spun around, sweeping a hologram to the side. “Banner, look here,” she said, pointing to a tangle of code. “If we sever this pathway first, we won’t risk a chain reaction in the cerebral cortex.”

Bruce studied it. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” Shuri replied, not missing a beat. “But I’ll need time to reroute all these connections.” Her face tightened. “If Thanos shows up in the middle of that, or if anyone so much as unplugs the wrong cable, Vision’s done.”

Across the lab, T’Challa and Okoye conferred with Natasha Romanoff over a holographic map showing Wakanda’s borders. Multiple defensive lines lit up around the perimeter, funneling any possible attackers into one choke point.

Okoye pointed at the display. “We force them here,” she said. “We strike from both sides, and the rest of our forces remain mobile—ready to reinforce wherever the line thins.”

Natasha didn’t look away from the map. “Works for me. If Thanos wants what’s in Vision’s head, he’ll have to go through an army of Wakandans first.”

You caught T’Challa’s eye. “Where do you need me?”

T’Challa broke away from the map and leveled his gaze on you. “I need you with Shuri,” he said, “I hear you’ve been trained by Barton and Romanoff—made a habit of picking up new skills fast. My sister needs the best at her side.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. You understood what he meant without him spelling it out. If Shuri’s lab got breached, there wouldn’t be much left to protect outside.

“Tell Wanda I want to speak with her.” T’Challa added.

It wasn’t your place to ask, but you needed to know. “Where do you need her?”

He let his gaze drift to the massive layout of Wakanda’s borders. “The front lines.”

You’d been afraid he’d say that. You knew Wanda could handle herself, but the thought of her out there—exposed to whatever Thanos threw their way—turned your blood cold. Still, there was only one answer to give.

“Understood,” you said.

—

You stepped out of the lab, feeling a strain behind your eyes you couldn’t shake. Down the hall’s half-light, you spotted Steve and Natasha talking in low voices. Whatever it was, you could tell right away it wasn’t a happy conversation—probably the number of casualties from other places, other worlds, an entire universe. 

Steve caught sight of you first. His eyes dipped to your hand. “That a ring?” he asked. Then, without waiting for your answer, he offered a soft smile. “Congratulations. And… I’m sorry.” You understood exactly what he meant—sorry that a moment like marriage had to happen with a crisis looming.

“Thanks,” you said, offering him a timid smile. “For that and for coming to help me and Wanda in Scotland. I owe you.”

Steve shook his head. “No debts among friends.”

You cleared your throat again, forcing your nerves down. “Mind if I talk to Natasha alone?”

He glanced at her, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ll go see how Shuri’s doing.”

With that, Steve gave you a pat on the shoulder and slipped away, leaving you alone with Nat.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest and gave you a once-over. Her eyes landed on the ring before she spoke. “So,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You got married, and I didn’t even get an invite?”

You fumbled for a response. “It wasn’t exactly a ceremony—”

She waved you off. “Relax, I know the details. Wanda and I caught up already.”

“Oh.”

Natasha’ss lips twitched into a half-smile. “So you married your assignment. I guess you really like to go above and beyond.”

A laugh escaped you, along with some relief. “We both know you only gave me that job so I’d have a valid excuse to chase after her.”

Natasha merely smiled, letting you know she was waiting for what you really came here for.

“Listen, Natasha. About the messages you sent…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Look, I’m sorry about that. Things… they got complicated, and I just—” You trailed off, not sure how to put it all into words.

Natasha gave a slight shrug, like she’d seen all this coming. “I get it now,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. If I thought we couldn’t do without you, trust me, I’d have found a way to drag you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t need me, then?”

“Of course we do,” she shot back, “but it also means if you’d walked away, I’d understand.”

You exhaled slowly, guilt chewing at you. “I walked out on Steve, you know.”

A corner of Natasha’s mouth tugged up. “Steve told me he couldn’t find you.”

You looked down, your foot scraping the floor. Natasha took a step closer to you, her entire posture becoming a little rigid.

“This Thanos thing isn’t just another mission. It’s everything—our lives, the lives of everyone in this universe. Mine, yours, Wanda’s. I promise I’ll fight to the end for all of us. For this team. And I hope you’ll do the same,” she said.

You felt an odd calm settle over you. “I promise. For Wanda, for you, for all of them.”

Natasha’s face softened, and she clapped you gently on the shoulder. “I’m glad to have you back, Y/N.”

—

You found her in the small quarters Wakanda had assigned the two of you, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing pajamas you recognized from your old drawer in Scotland. The cotton was a bit wrinkled—made sense, given you’d both only had ten minutes to pack what you could before leaving the life you’d built together.

Wanda looked up when you entered, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hey,” she said.

You set your jacket on a nearby chair, letting out a long breath. “Hey yourself.”

You crossed to the bed, and for a moment, all you wanted was to sink into her warmth, forget the day, and pretend tomorrow didn’t exist. But the world wouldn’t let you off that easily.

“Natasha filled me in,” you said. “I’ll be posted in the lab with Shuri. Make sure no one interferes with her while she works on Vision.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up in quiet relief. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Someone has to watch out for him.” She set aside whatever she had been distracting herself with. “You’re the best person for that job.”

You blew out a breath. “Doesn’t mean I’m thrilled you’ll be out there on the front lines, Maximoff.”

Wanda giggled and tapped the spot beside her. With an exaggerated sigh, you flopped onto it, resting your head comfortably in her lap. “You worry about me?”

You closed your eyes and she started massaging your scalp, making you mewl in appreciation. “Of course, I do. I’m your wife.”

Wanda laughed. “Wife,” she repeated fondly. Then she sighed and said, “I need to be where the fight is. All this power… what good is it if I’m not going to use it to protect the people I love?”

You opened your mouth, but no argument came out. You wanted to tell her to stay safe, to keep her away from Thanos’s reach, but you knew there was no talking her out of a fight she believed in. She had never backed down.

“Just… be careful,” you whispered, voicing the same plea you’d made countless times, even though you both knew Wanda could handle herself as well as anyone.

Wanda huffed softly, her hand smoothing over your hair. “I’m always careful,” she murmured, eyes softening with concern. “But I also have to do what I can out there. You know that.”

“I do,” you admitted, shifting so you could look up at her. 

The bed dipped as she scooted beside you, the cotton of her pajamas brushing your arm. Wanda leaned down, her hand settling at the side of your face. Your hand slid around Wanda’s waist, pulling her closer until she was nearly on top of you, your lips parting against hers in a  tentative kiss.

“Wanda…” you breathed, voice catching on the edge of desperation.  You had missed her. It felt like an eternity had passed in the single day you couldn’t be alone together. She didn’t answer, only kissed you deeper, pouring a day’s worth of tension into the press of her body against yours.

You rose from your position and tugged her with you onto the bed fully, your fingers curling into her shirt. She helped you yank it off, and then she was pulling at yours, too, the scent of her hair flooding your senses. You helped each other strip away clothes that felt suddenly cumbersome, until there was nothing left but skin on skin. You found yourself pressed into the bed, Wanda’s body above yours, her hair falling like a curtain around your face.

In that moment, you could no longer stop yourself from being selfish.

“Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

She froze, her mouth curved into that coy smile at hearing your repetitive plea. You could see the flicker of mild annoyance at your overprotectiveness—like she thought you were being adorably childish. But then you felt your throat tighten, tears suddenly burning in your eyes at the thought of losing her.

“Please,” you choked out, a tear slipping free. “Please, Wanda… I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

The teasing smile she wore vanished instantly. “Oh, love,” she whispered, pulling you into her arms. You let yourself cry silently into her shoulder for a few moments, feeling a little pathetic for breaking down like this. You knew asking Wanda to run was an absurd request, but you had to say it. Deep down, you knew it would absolutely destroy you to lose her in any way.

Wanda’s own voice cracked as she cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back to hers. “I’ll come back to you,” she promised. “I promise—if there’s nowhere else to go, I’ll run. I’ll run straight to you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, brushing away your tears with the back of your hand.

Wanda kissed you again, and this time, her hands slid lower, her hips shifting against yours. You surged up to meet her, your palms sliding over her ribs as she gasped into your mouth. The slow, careful strokes turned into something more insistent: hungry, messy, a collision of lips and muffled pleas.

“Y/N, please…” Wanda mumbled almost incoherently as she moved down your jaw. The huskiness in her voice sent a thrill through you, and you pecked her inviting mouth one more time before moving behind her and circling your arm around her waist, as she braced herself on all fours. Her skin was warm under your touch, her back arching instinctively as she pressed her hips back against you.

Leaning forward, you pressed a line of kisses down her spine, your lips lingering at the base where her back dipped. She shivered, her breath hitching as your other hand trailed down her side, fingertips grazing her hip before settling between her thighs.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmured roughly as you watched her body respond to your touch.

Her only response was a soft moan, her hands gripping the sheets as your fingers found her wetness. You teased her entrance, sliding two fingers slowly inside, feeling her walls tighten around you as you filled her. Wanda gasped, her head dropping forward as her thighs trembled, trying to adjust to the sensation.

“God, you’re always so tight,” you groaned, curling your fingers slightly to press against her sweet spot. “And so fucking wet for me…”

She whimpered, her hips instinctively rocking back against your hand. You set a slow rhythm, pulling your fingers out before pushing them back in, deeper each time. The sound of her arousal, slick and wet, only made your hand work harder, your body pressed closer, your clit brushing against the soft curve of her buttocks. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky moan. You adjusted slightly, angling your hips so your clit slid more deliberately against her with each thrust of your fingers.

Wanda’s moans grew louder, and with every motion of your hand, you felt her body tense, her back arching against you. She pushed her hips back more insistently, searching for the friction she needed. “Y/N… I’m so close,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling under your hands, her walls fluttering around your fingers.

But you weren’t ready to let her go over that edge yet. You slowed your pace deliberately, still lazily pressing your clit against her slippery skin. “Not yet, baby,” you murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Just hold out a little longer for me…”

A frustrated moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her hips back more aggressively, trying to coax you into giving her the release she craved. But you held your pace, savoring the way her body trembled under your control.

“I want to come,” she whimpered, her hands clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Patience, baby,” you said, dragging your fingers almost completely out of her before easing them back in, slow and deliberate.

The friction of her skin against your clit, her soft gasps, the way she was so pliant beneath you—it was all driving you dangerously close to the edge. But you held back, biting your lip as you drew out the moment, not wanting it to end too quickly.

Your free hand, which had been holding her steadily against you, slid lower, fingers brushing over her swollen clit. The second you started rubbing her there, your own body jolted with need. Your hips snapped forward, rubbing yourself against her shamelessly.

“I’m close,” you ground out, fingers working Wanda’s slick flesh at a fast, demanding pace. “C-Come with me…”

Her body tensed, her walls clenching around your fingers as a broken sob of your name fell from her lips. You didn’t stop, didn’t ease up as your own orgasm hit, your hips grinding harder against her as you rode the waves of pleasure together.

Wanda’s cries blended with your moans, the two of you lost in each other as you shuddered and gasped. Your hand stayed on her clit, guiding her through every aftershock until her body went limp beneath you, her breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to her shoulder as you both came down, your bodies still trembling. “You’re so perfect,” you murmured softly, kissing the damp skin of her neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Wanda let out a soft, tired laugh, her hand reaching back to thread through your hair. You collapsed beside your wife, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. A shaky breath left your lips as you rolled onto your back, exhaustion settling into your bones like a warm, heavy blanket.

Wanda was quick to shift position, sliding over to curl around you. She coaxed you onto your side, gathering you in her arms as though you weighed nothing. 

“Come here,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You sighed contentedly, letting yourself sink into her embrace. It felt so safe—like no matter what happened outside this room, no matter what the world threw your way, you could face anything.

“You love me,” you murmured, already drifting toward sleep. You felt her smile against your skin—amused by this little ritual of yours, saying the other’s love out loud first.

“You love me too,” she whispered back.

Wanda’s fingers moved in slow, soothing patterns across your back—until they stopped. She let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For making you cry earlier. For—”

You cut her off with a soft shake of your head, your arms tightening around her waist. “Just promise me,” you said.

“I promise,” she whispered, her own eyes shining. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

—

It’s twenty-three days later, and Wanda’s promise never came true.

People wandered around in dazed confusion, half of them gone, the other half trying to make sense of what remained. You barely recognized the place. You barely recognized what was left of your team—or even yourself.

You had no idea where the motivation to wake up each morning came from. Maybe it was the faint ember of hope burning inside you, the belief that whatever the stones had done could somehow be undone. That if Thanos had caused this, he could reverse it. You just had to find him. As long as he was out there, there was a chance to bring everyone—and Wanda—back.

It tore at you to see Wanda’s location still pinned on your phone, only to realize it led to the bedroom you had shared in Wakanda. She had left it there that morning, tucked under her pillow on her side of the bed before joining Natasha on the frontlines. It killed you to know her true location was nowhere. And yet, in moments of weakness, you found yourself checking her GPS as if it would somehow change. Old habits die hard—and you couldn’t seem to escape this one no matter how much it amplified the Wanda-shaped hole in your heart. 

This morning, you found yourself at the old Avengers compound. The halls felt cavernous and too quiet. You checked in, as usual, with Natasha, Bruce, Steve—whoever was around. Most folks you ran into had that same thousand-yard stare, the same one that greeted you in the mirror every time you looked.

You spent hours in front of the massive digital map that dwarfed the main operations room, searching for any scrap that might lead you to Thanos. Where’d he gone? How had he disappeared so thoroughly? You chewed on the question day after day, ignoring exhaustion, heartbreak, and even hunger. If there was a lead, you’d chase it. If there was a whisper of information, you’d hunt it down.

Steve approached as you stood at the console, looking weary in a way you had never seen before. He was usually so determined and motivated, but now, for once, he seemed human—no longer everyone’s constant beacon of hope. He rested a hand on your shoulder, a gesture he’d been making with everyone lately. You figured it was his way of reassuring himself that you were still there, after watching the people he cared about turn to nothing but particles in the air.

“You’ve gotta give yourself a break,” he murmured. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

You pulled away gently, shrugging him off. “I can rest after we find him,” you said, voice clipped. You tried to keep the desperation under control, and so far, it was working. 

Steve exhaled, resting his hands on his hips. “We’re working on it,” he said. “As soon as we locate Tony—”

“That’s one of my concerns, actually,” you cut him off, rounding the center table to put distance between you. “We don’t know if he’s even still alive, Steve. It’s been three weeks since—”

Steve’s posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Finding Tony is the top priority,” he said, voice low and taut, like he’d repeated it a hundred times already. “If Banner’s right—if the people we lost can be brought back somehow—anyone we lose now might be gone for good.”

You let out a scoff and almost regretted it immediately, knowing how apathetic it must have sounded. “It’s been three weeks, Steve. If he’s out there, do you honestly believe he’s got enough air, water, or food to survive? We’re gambling on a possibility that shrinks every day.”

“Those are the orders,” Steve fired back, his jaw set. “We focus on finding Tony.”

“Orders?” Your laugh came out harsh. “Whose orders, exactly?”

“Mine,” Steve said, squaring his shoulders. “And I’m not asking.”

You felt your pulse surge. “So that’s it? We chase a ghost ship with no sign of life, no backup plan—while the rest of the universe dangles by a thread?”

Steve’s hand slammed down on the table. “We don’t abandon our own!”

You closed the distance between you, anger flaring. “Don’t talk to me about abandoning anyone! I’m trying to be realistic—”

“That’s enough.” His voice was ice. “You’re out of line.”

“Am I?” You leaned in, practically nose-to-nose. “We all want Tony back, but it’s time we—”

Natasha, who had just arrived, slipped between you. She pressed a firm hand against your chest. “Both of you, stop. We don’t have time for this.”

Steve backed off first, turning away with a muttered oath. You stayed put, adrenaline coursing, hands balled into fists.

Natasha grabbed your arm and steered you out of the room. Once in the hall, she spun you around, eyes blazing. “Hit me.”

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

She dropped into a ready stance. “I said hit me. Clearly you need to let it out.”

You didn’t move. “No.”

She shook her head. “If you don’t acknowledge what you’ve lost, it’s gonna eat you alive.”

“There’s nothing to grieve,” you said evenly, willing yourself to believe your own words with every fiber of your being.  By now, Natasha understood that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t get through to you. She knew Wanda meant the world to you, and you were driven by a personal mission. In her opinion, you were still handling it better than Clint, who had lost his entire family.

“Look, Steve needs you,” she said after a moment. “And I—”

Her sentence was cut short by a sudden commotion from outside. You both froze, exchanged a quick glance, and then ran for the exit. 

People were already gathered on the makeshift runway by the compound’s wide hangar doors. You elbowed your way through the small crowd—Bruce, Rhodey, Steve, and a handful of others—until you reached the front.

And there, at the heart of it all, Carol Danvers was bringing Tony Stark home.

—

It figured that the missing piece to finding Thanos was his own daughter, Nebula.  A snap-like energy signature had been detected across the galaxy just two days earlier, and with the new information she provided, Steve gave the team only a few hours to prepare before setting a course for Planet 0259-S.

If you had been a little apprehensive about the plan to find Thanos, the actual act of locating him—now the biggest hurdle solved—allowed you to fully lean into the expectation that it was only a matter of time before everyone was back, and everything returned to how it was supposed to be. The Avengers had never lost to anyone, not even gods. There was no doubt in your mind that you could all overcome a mere Titan.

So you and the remaining team boarded the modified Benatar—Nebula insisted it was the only ship fast enough to reach the planet in time. You still remembered the moment the engines roared to life, and you caught yourself thinking about Wanda. She would’ve stood at the viewport, eyes wide, taking in the stars with that sense of wonder she always had. But you also reminded yourself that you wouldn’t even be here if Wanda—and trillions of others—hadn’t vanished into dust. 

It was your first trip beyond Earth’s orbit, but it felt like mere minutes before Nebula’s voice crackled through the comms: “Entering the atmosphere now. We’ll touch down in thirty seconds.” Below stretched a battered field of half-dead crops under a sky like stale ash. You and the others fanned out once the ramp lowered—Steve, Banner, Rhodes, Thor, Carol, Natasha, Rocket, and Nebula. Even with the thinning hope in your veins, you still felt a faint thrill of certainty that you’d see that monster face to face and force him to undo this nightmare.

Thanos appeared in your line of sight, sitting on a makeshift stoop in front of a tumbledown shack, his left arm twisted and scarred from the energy of the Gauntlet. He looked worn, as if using the Stones had left him a husk of what he’d been. 

From this point on, it was an ambush—the most ruthless attack Steve had ever sanctioned for the team. You were surprised to see he had it in him. You wanted to strike Thanos yourself, but Natasha held you back, letting the superpowered members and those equipped with advanced suits handle the dirty work. Thor didn’t hesitate to hack off the Titan’s hand, and you actually smiled at Thanos’s screams as you, Natasha, and Steve closed in on the shack.

Rocket rolled over Thanos’s severed hand, the gauntlet still attached. What you all saw next pushed you further into madness:

Every single stone was missing.

Blood had rushed to your head, but you could still hear Steve very calmly inquire where the stones were, despite the ringing that had started in your ears. 

“...after that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation…” Thanos uttered.

“Where are the stones?” Natasha repeated, her patience slipping in a rare moment of unease in front of an enemy.

“Gone,” Thanos uttered. “Reduced to atoms.”

“You used them two days ago!” Banner yelled.

“I destroyed the stones… using the stones.”

Everything turned to static the moment you heard the word destroyed. You’d pinned your hope on the Stones—on using them to bring her back. Now there was nothing. It was like the ground gave out beneath you, your entire center of gravity tilting around one brutal truth: Thanos hadn’t just wiped out half the universe—he’d taken your only way of undoing it.

The blood pounding in your ears muffled the exchanges. You saw Nebula’s lips move. You heard Thanos’ bullshit about realizing too late how he mistreated his own daughter. But it was like you were trapped in an echo chamber, drowning out the present.

Gone. Reduced to atoms.

He’d destroyed the Stones. You would never see Wanda again.

It was over.

You were quick to draw your pistols and fire a shot straight into his eye, but Thor was quicker—his axe already swinging, aimed directly for the head.

There should have been relief, or maybe some triumph in exacting revenge on the monster who’d purged half the universe. But there wasn’t. Only emptiness. The final blow had landed, and it changed nothing. Wanda was still gone, along with the rest.

A sick sense of finality wrapped around you, the suffocating knowledge that the Snap was permanent.

A few seconds later, Natasha laid a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t bother looking at her. You could feel her gaze, searching your face for any sign of composure. She’d find none. Nebula stood at a distance, staring at the father who had never been a father.

Someone—Carol maybe—muttered, “Let’s go.” And so you did. You stumbled away, feet dragging as if the scorched earth itself was holding you back.

It wasn't a victory. Not by a long shot. It was just the end of one more impossible avenue, closing shut.

The crushing grief welled up inside you, too much to contain. Finally, a scream ripped free from your throat, raw and guttural. It didn’t make you feel any better. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

But for a fleeting moment, it was all you could do to keep from drowning.

[jlsammy25]

Ooh boy. OMG. Here we go.

All Of Your Pieces (23 - The First Days of Spring)

Chapter Summary: You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: fluff and minor angst, mentions of child abuse

A/N: And just like that, we’re back in the real world, closer and closer to the conclusion of Part II. Everything from here rolls downhill fast. // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Spring was a slow hatchling, taking its time to crack through winter's brittle shell. Patches of green clawed stubbornly out of the thawing earth, and somewhere in the distance, birdsong threaded through the air. You’d almost forgotten about birds. The weeks had been muddy, and today, the sky hung heavy with the promise of rain. Still, you couldn’t help but look forward to sunlit picnics with Wanda—to making her little sandwiches, spreading out a blanket, and reading to her until the light faded into soft gold.

But Wanda didn’t care about the season or the idea of picnics in the park.

She cared about a certain kid.

It was the boy from the orphanage where she volunteered. The one with the hollowed-out eyes, bruises that never seemed to fade, and a never-ending string of “accidents” from the roughest home you could imagine. Wanda had seen his mother once, yelling in the parking lot, yanking his arm hard enough that his tiny sneakers skidded on the pavement.

And now the mother was yelling again, and the child was crying, his face streaked with dirt and tears, and the woman’s grip was so tight it was leaving red marks on the kid’s pale skin. 

Somehow, Wanda had managed to track them to their home, a run-down shack on the edge of the woods, border of the city.

“Wanda!” you called, hurrying across the cracked asphalt. The second you saw her face that morning—heard her say she had something to take care of—you followed. “Hey! What’s going on?”

“She hit him,” Wanda said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “I saw it, Y/N. She—she grabbed him so hard he screamed.”

The boy hiccupped through his sobs, shrinking back against his mother’s hip. 

“Wanda,” you tried again, taking a calculated step. “You need to breathe.”

The wind kicked up around you, whipping Wanda’s hair across her face. Her hand twitched, her fingers curling ever so slightly. You knew what that meant.

She was seconds away from doing something she wouldn’t be able to take back.

“Wanda, listen to me,” you said, stepping in front of her, blocking her line of sight to the house—of the mother. “You can’t do this. You know you can’t.”

Wanda’s eyes blazed red as she regarded you, your presence clearly not doing anything for her temper. “You want me to let her keep hurting him?” she spat. “Is that it?”

“No, of course not,” you said. “I’m saying we report her. We get someone involved who can actually do something about it.”

“You know we can’t go to the police, Y/N.”

That was true. Over a year had passed, yet your names still sat on Interpol's most-wanted list. If the authorities caught even a hint of your presence here in Scotland, it wouldn’t just be trouble for the two of you—it would put Steve and the entire group that followed him, at risk.

Time hadn’t dulled the relentless pressure of being hunted—it just gave you a breather.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said, voice lower now. “We’ve dealt with worse than this, Wanda.”

She closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath as her shoulders rose and fell with the effort to keep herself together. When she looked at you again, the glow in her had vanished, only to be replaced by something that broke your heart to see.

The woman clung to her child like she might never let go. Then, while you tried to calm Wanda, she seized the moment and quietly led her son away, both of them slipping off down the street, not daring to look back.

Wanda stayed rooted in place, but didn’t pull away when you stepped closer and rested your hands on her arms. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you told her quietly. “You can’t save everyone. Not like this.”

Her green eyes were glassy, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I just—he’s a kid, Y/N. He’s just… a kid.” She let herself collapse against you, her forehead pressing into your shoulder as her breathing slowed.

“I know,” you nodded, your thumbs brushing soothing circles against her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against your shirt.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft. “You care, Wanda. That’s not a bad thing. But we have to be careful. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll find a way to help.”

You felt her nod against your chest, her arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if she was afraid to let go.

The storm clouds broke overhead a few minutes later, the first raindrops pattering against the pavement as you stood there in the middle of the empty street, holding Wanda close.

The burner phone buzzed again in your pocket. Natasha had been calling for days, and you’d been ignoring every single one. You kept the phone on you anyway, unable to decide if you were ready to let go of this life with Wanda—or if you ever would be. But you weren’t about to answer now, not with Wanda falling apart in your arms.

—

The anonymous tip didn’t go the way you’d hoped.

You’d sent it carefully—no trace, no connection to you or Wanda. The police arrived at the address hours later, long after the mother and her boy had vanished. The shed was empty, save for a few discarded pieces of clothing and a broken chair. No neighbors spoke up. No one had seen anything, heard anything.

Without a witness, without evidence, the case was marked resolved. A polite way of saying nothing to see here.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Wanda. She would blame herself, spiral into guilt and anger for not acting when she had the chance.

The picnic was your way of distracting her, of giving her something to smile about. It was a Monday morning, your lunch break from the library unusually long thanks to a slow day and some traded shifts.

Wanda sat on the checkered blanket, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her cheeks rosy from the brisk air. She was opening a container of sandwiches you’d packed when you slid closer to her, a sly grin spreading across your face.

“You know,” you started, leaning in just enough to make her glance at you, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as good as you do holding a Tupperware lid.”

She rolled her eyes. “You might want to get your eyes checked,” she said, laughing softly as she placed the sandwiches between you.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “You look so hot doing everything and nothing.”

She shook her head, her smile growing as she pushed a sandwich toward you. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s working.”

You took the sandwich from her hands, but your appetite had waned. Wanda, bathed in sunlight, laughing softly as she brushed crumbs from her sweater—it was such a simple thing, so ordinary, yet it felt impossibly fragile. Like if you blinked too long, it would disappear.

But then Wanda looked at you, chewing thoughtfully as the corners of her mouth curled into a small smile, and you swore she looked like she belonged in a painting—like something precious and eternal that you didn’t deserve but somehow had anyway.

If you went back to your old lives—if Natasha’s calls meant what you thought they did—this fragile world you and Wanda had built could crumble. She was the one thing that made you feel whole, the only thing that mattered. And if that was ripped away...

“You know,” you said casually, as if you were discussing the weather, “I think we should get married.”

Wanda froze mid-chew, a tiny piece of lettuce still sticking out from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes widened, blinking rapidly as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard you correctly. She swallowed hard, her hand slowly setting the half-eaten sandwich down onto the Tupperware lid.

“What… what did you just say?”

You shrugged, your grin turning softer, more sincere. “I mean it. I love you, Wanda. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So, what do you say?”

She stared at you, her mouth opening and closing like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” you said, your hand finding hers on the blanket. “I didn’t bring a ring or anything. I guess I’m not that great at planning picnics. But I’m serious, Wanda.”

“You’re asking me this now? Here?” Wanda repeated, looking at you like you’d grown another three heads. 

You shrugged, feigning cool but deep inside you were panicking. “Well, the sun’s out, you’re ridiculously beautiful, and I’ve… always wanted to.”

Wanda let out an unrestrained laugh, her head tipping downward as her hands came up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders trembled, and for a second, you worried she was upset—maybe even angry. 

You worried she was going to say no.

“Did you even plan this?”  

The truth was, you had a ring. It had been sitting inside one of your socks in the cabinet drawer for weeks. You’d tucked it away, thinking you’d wait a few years before getting down on one knee. But lately, patience had been wearing thin. You’d been catching yourself imagining that moment more and more often. Timing was never your strong suit, though—and asking? You were even worse at that.

Wanda took your face in her hands, her laughter fading as she looked into your eyes earnestly. 

“Y/N, you realize we can’t even get a marriage license, right?” she began, “We’re living under false identities. We don’t exist on paper, at least not as the people we are now. And that’s just the start. We’d have to fake even more documents, find someone willing to look the other way, and don’t even get me started on what happens if someone decides to dig into our backgrounds—”

She paused to take a breath, but she wasn’t done. “It’s not like we can just waltz into city hall in our wedding gowns with flowers and sign our names on a certificate. I can’t risk that. We can’t risk that. And even if we tried, what happens when someone recognizes us? What happens when—”

“Wanda.”

You said her name softly, but it was enough to stop her in her tracks. 

“What?” she asked impatiently, and you could see her conflicted thoughts still tumbling around in her head. 

You took her hands that were cupping your face and put them on your lap, lacing your fingers with hers. “You haven’t actually said yes yet,” you murmured. “And I’m starting to think you’re looking for a way to say no.”

“Y/N—”

“I know we can’t go sign papers and flash rings in front of a government clerk, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” You swallowed hard, trying to keep the rising knot of disappointment out of your throat.

“I’m saying we don’t need them, Wanda. We don’t need papers or signatures or any of that. We don’t even need witnesses. We can just… do it. Now, or back at home, wherever you want. Say our vows—”

“You’ve written your vows?”

You could feel her eyes on you, but you were not brave enough to look back up. At least, until you’ve gotten everything out in the open.

“Uh, yeah. And I have a ring back at home,” you admitted nervously. “It’s not fancy, but if you want to make it feel more official, it’s there. But if you say ‘I do’ right now, Wanda…”

You let the words hang between you, your thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It’ll be real. For me.”

“You really are serious,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, and the blush on your cheeks deepened.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

For a moment, you thought she might start another rant, might bring up all the reasons this wasn’t practical or why you should wait. But instead, she lifted your chin and put her face close to yours, her breath warm against your lips as she whispered, “Okay then. I do.”

You finally lifted your eyes to hers. “You do?” you said, your voice breaking on a laugh.

“I do,” she repeated, her smile so wide it looked like it might split her face.

The world didn’t stop, but it might as well have. You leaned in, slow and unsure, like it really was the first time. And in a way, it was. The first kiss as people who married themselves. Her lips were soft, a little chapped, and she tasted faintly of ketchup. But the kiss remained perfect in every way.

When you opened your eyes, Wanda’s were shining, watery, like she’d been standing too close to the edge of something and didn’t know how far she might fall.

You didn’t realize you were crying too until her thumb brushed just under your eye.

“So… are we married now?” she asked softly, her nose brushing against yours.

You grinned, your chest feeling impossibly light. “I mean, yeah. In the ways that matter most, yeah.”

“Good,” she whispered, pulling you into another kiss. “Although I still want that ring and vows once we get home.”

You grinned. “As you wish, Mrs. Maximoff.”

You were married. In every way that mattered.

—

The very next thing you did after marrying Wanda in private was buy a property—well, more of a gift, really, since Wanda had no idea you were planning it. You picked New Jersey because it was close to New York without actually being New York, and that felt perfect. It’s somewhere near enough to your roots while still granting you a buffer of peace. Scotland had been beautiful and perfect for your time away, but it wasn’t truly home. It was part of the identities you’d been using to stay off the radar. Home was where you could be Y/N, and Wanda could be Wanda.

So, the day after your spontaneous wedding, you made a call to Clint. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, “What’s new?”

“For someone who’s on house arrest you sound happy.”

“I have everything I want here, kid. My family. A farm.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” you said, into the receiver. “Anyway, I got married yesterday.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a throaty laugh. “You never do anything halfway, do you?”

“It wasn’t anything formal. It was just between me and Wanda, but it’s—it’s real.”

“I’m happy for you, kid.”

You smiled, looking down at the ring on your finger, still feeling a little lightheaded from happiness. “Thanks. Listen, I need a favor, and you’re the only one I trust. I want to buy a piece of land in Jersey. Under my real name.”

“Hang on,” Clint said, voice turning serious. “Under your real name?”

“Yes,” you confirmed. “This is for me and Wanda—for our future. No more fake names. I just want to make sure everything goes smoothly and nobody starts asking questions.”

He made a thoughtful sound, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair. “Alright. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”

True to his word, Clint came through. Within two days, he sent you a secure link to sign electronic documents for the deed of sale and the lot map. You practically hovered over the laptop, heart pounding as you set your digital signature to something you hadn’t used in what felt like lifetimes: your real name.

It made you strangely emotional to see it there, crisp and official on the deed. A document that said, for better or worse, that you existed—and you were claiming a little piece of the world as your own.

You printed the deed and the lot map, carefully rolling them up. Then you unrolled the map again, pulled out a pen, and scrawled your message in neat handwriting along the side: Where Maximoff will torment me for the rest of my days.

Your heart gave a fond lurch at the thought. Wanda’s teasing, her jokes at your expense, the way she’d get that mischievous glint in her eye. You slipped the map into an envelope, pressing down the seal firmly. 

You set the envelope aside, your mind already spinning with how you’d present it. If you made too big a deal out of it, Wanda might freeze, thinking about all the risks. But if you made it too unserious, she might not realize just how monumental this was for you. You wanted to show her you believed in a future that was truly yours. A future where you were Y/N, and she was Wanda Maximoff, and no one could take that away from you.

Taking a breath, you forced yourself to refocus. There was dinner to prepare, chores to do, excuses to be made for why you were holed up in the study all afternoon. But just for a moment, you stayed with the vision of a little house in New Jersey.

—

When Wanda brought up having kids, you were halfway through your second boba and nearly choked on a tapioca pearl. You recovered quickly, but Wanda studied you for a long moment, her gaze sharper than you were used to—like she was reading every micro-expression, searching for the truth behind your reflexive panic.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you said, but even you could hear how unconvincing you sounded.

She didn’t let it go. “Are you sure?”

You cursed yourself internally. If she could see through you this easily, what hope did you have for any real secrets?

“Yeah,” you repeated, mustering a small smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But she was already circling back to her question. “So… about having kids. Did you… want that?”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering all over again. “Wait—do you mean, like, in general? Do I like kids? Or… did you mean…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, suddenly aware of how warm your face felt. “Like, us? Having kids. Together.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. You tried to gauge her expression, but she gave nothing away—her tone could have been light, or maybe it was serious.

“Kids in general,” Wanda said, finally, her face unreadable.

You hadn’t lied to Wanda in a long time, and it felt natural—automatic, even—to give her the truth the moment you had the chance.

So you told her, “Yeah, I like kids. And they seem to like me too.” Wanda gave you a good-natured smirk at that, like she wasn’t surprised at all.

“You’re good with them,” she said, and you could hear the warmth behind it. She was probably thinking about all those afternoons you spent volunteering at the orphanage back in New York, letting the kids braid your hair or climb all over you without hesitation. 

You nodded, but after a second, your gaze drifted. “I mean, I think I am. But… I’m not sure if that’s the same as having my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up in a broken family, Wanda. I don’t really know what good parenting looks like. I don’t know if I’d even know how to raise a kid right, or if I’d be able to love them the way they deserve.”

Wanda smiled at you. “You love me properly.”

You grinned, quick and crooked. “Yeah, but you can be pretty childish sometimes.”

She shook her head, pretending to be offended, but her playful warning was ruined by the way she was already laughing.

The laughter tapered off, and then you met Wanda’s eyes again. 

“So,” you asked after a beat, “why are you suddenly thinking about kids?”

She balked, rolling her straw between her fingers. “What if we adopted?” she said, almost ordinary—except her voice caught on the last syllable.

You went still. “Adopt?” A dozen thoughts went through your head before you arrived at a conclusion. “You’re thinking about that boy again, aren’t you?”

She looked away, then nodded. “Yeah.”

You reached for your words like they might keep the ground from tilting beneath you. “I don’t know, Wanda. It sounds like a beautiful idea, it really does, but… it scares me.”

The words seemed to catch her off guard—like she hadn’t expected you to be so direct, or maybe she hadn’t really considered a flat no was even possible from you.

She didn’t answer right away. And that silence was worse.

You felt yourself scramble to soften the blow, even though you knew you were just being honest. “It’s not a never. I want to have this conversation again. With you.”

Wanda nodded slowly, like she was reining something in. “Yeah. You’re right,” she murmured. “And… we’re still hiding. We’re not…” Her voice trailed off.

“Not exactly living normal lives,” you finished for her.

“Yeah,” she said again.

You didn’t regret your answer, but you hated how uncertain it made everything feel. Was she disappointed in you?

She stood a second later, the motion a little too brisk to be casual. “I, um… I should check the laundry. If I leave it too long it’ll start to smell like rain.”

You didn’t know if you’d just had your first fight, or a pre-fight, or maybe a warning shot of something more.

But whatever it was, it didn’t feel resolved.

—

You were halfway through a battered copy of East of Eden when Steve Rogers walked into the library. You weren’t supposed to be reading—not technically. Your job was to stand near the entrance, smile politely at patrons, and make sure no one smuggled an entire encyclopedia set under their coat. But slow days meant slow rules, and the library staff didn’t mind you leaning against the shelves, book in hand, as long as you did your job.

You were underlining a passage with your finger—“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.”—when his footsteps reached your ears. You recognized those boots, that walk. 

Your thumb caught on the corner of the paper and when you looked up, Steve was already walking toward you, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. And though you’d braced yourself for the day someone from that life might walk through those glass doors, you weren’t prepared for the beard.

It softened him somehow, made him look less like the man you’d followed into fire and more like someone who fixed motorcycles for fun on weekends. But it was still him. And you didn’t realize until now that you kind of missed him too. 

“Steve,” you said, snapping the book shut and tucking it under your arm. “You know you could’ve just texted.”

“Would you have answered?” he asked.

Fair question.

“Come on,” you said, jerking your head toward the stacks. Somewhere private.

The two of you walked deeper into the stacks, where the tall shelves swallowed up the view from the front desk.

You stopped near the philosophy section, surrounded by musty-smelling pages and the faces of long-dead thinkers staring out from their book covers.

“So,” you said, leaning back against the shelf. “What’s the pitch?”

“It’s not a pitch,” Steve said.

“It’s always a pitch with you guys,” you said, your lips curling into a humorless smile.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. Up close, you could see the way exhaustion had settled into his features. Just what had he been doing this past year? Most importantly, you really wanted to ask him about the beard.

“Natasha thought you’d take this more seriously if I came instead of her,” he said.

“That’s because Natasha knows I’d block her number before she finished the word ‘favor.’”

Steve almost smiled at that. Almost. You glanced down, staring at the cover of the book under your arm. East of Eden. A story about choices, consequences. How fitting.

“I can’t help you,” you said finally before he could say more.

“Y/N—”

“You know,” you started, crossing your arms over your chest, “you’re the one who told us to do this. You looked us all in the eye and said, Run. Find somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Build a life. Be happy. And now you’re here, in my library, with that face—like you want to take it all back.”

“That was then,” he said quietly. “Things have changed.”

“What exactly changed?”

“We don’t have all the details, yet, but,” Steve sighed. “I wouldn’t be here if things weren’t… worse.”

You glanced away, frustration simmering. “You can’t just show up here and ask me to… what, suit up again? To leave her? To leave this life behind because the sky’s falling again?” Your voice cracked slightly, and you cursed yourself for letting him hear it.

Steve nodded empathically. You didn’t usually believe people when they said they got it—but with Steve, you knew he did. He’d been here before, more times than anyone should. He’d lost more, had things—people—ripped away from him in ways you couldn’t imagine.

You looked down at your feet, suddenly feeling guilty for saying no to him. “You gave us the order to be here, Steve. And now I’ve built something—something good, something real. I wake up next to her, and for the first time in my life, I’m happy. And you want me to trade that in?”

Steve stood there and took everything you had to give. “I don’t want you to trade anything,” he finally said after a few beats. “You’re right. I told you to run. Told all of you to find something better. You did what I asked. You did everything I asked.”

He put a hand on your shoulder. “It’s really good to see you, Y/N.” 

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the books behind him, your eyes skimming the spines of books about dead men who’d all tried their best.

“And you and Wanda,” he continued, pulling his hand back slowly, like he was afraid you’d shatter under his touch, “take care of each other.”

—

You spotted them a few blocks from the orphanage, just past an alleyway, Steve’s visit still hanging over your head. Wanda stood stiffly, arms wrapped around herself, her chin tilted up as she talked to her ex-boyfriend. You thought it was just Steve who came to Scotland to talk to you—it didn’t occur to you that they would try to get Wanda back too.

You were supposed to announce yourself. Step forward, call out her name, and break up the little reunion. But instead, you hung back, hovering just out of sight like some kind of coward. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Wanda—you did, completely. But Vision wasn’t just anyone. He was… well, he was almost in your place now. If the Accords hadn’t happened, maybe it’d be him married to Wanda. Maybe they’d be the ones in Scotland, sharing that little apartment.

You hid behind some bushes, trying to make out their conversation. You couldn’t hear every word, but you caught enough.

“...It’s always been your fight. Our fight. You know that.”

“Don’t do that, Vision. Don’t make it sound like I’m running.”

“You’re choosing to look away.”

“I’ve chosen to live. That’s what this is.”

“And what happens when living isn’t enough? When the people you love are in danger?”

“You don’t get to talk about the people I love.”

That’s when you decided to come out of hiding, startling Wanda. Vision didn’t seem surprised—if you had to guess, he already knew you were there, listening in on their conversation the entire time. He just didn’t care.

“Y/N,” she said, your name falling somewhere between a sigh and an apology.

But you were more focused on Vision. “That’s enough,” you said, glaring at him. “You can’t force Wanda into anything.”

Vision regarded you with an unreadable expression. Over the past year, without the constant presence of people around him, he’d grown more machine-like, more distant, than he’d ever been back at the compound. 

“I’m not forcing her,” he said evenly. “I’m simply making my case. If it came off as otherwise, I apologize.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, torn. She looked at you, then at Vision, and you could practically see the conflicting emotions plastered across her face. You moved closer, sliding an arm around her waist, quite tempted to keep her behind you like a shield. 

“So,” you said, letting out a shaky breath, “Steve dropped by. Tried to rope me back in.”

Vision dipped his head in a small nod. “Yes. And from what I understand, you refused.” His stare was polite, but the implication stung.

Your cheeks heated. He might as well have said you’re letting the world down for how it sounded. You swallowed, trying not to let the shame bleed into your voice. “I told him no. I have a life here. So does Wanda.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped you would be more open to our situation.”

Was he trying to guilt-trip you? Your lungs felt too small for the breath you were holding. “I—” you started, then let it go, tightening your grip on Wanda’s waist.

“I have faith in Wanda,” Vision continued. “Regardless of how the world has treated her—she can still do the right thing. I believe she will do the right thing.”

You felt Wanda stiffen in your arms. You gritted your teeth. Vision knew how to play his cards around Wanda. You hate that he still knew how, after all this time.

“Vision…” Wanda murmured.

You swallowed, turning to Wanda fully. “Do you… do you want to go back?”

Wanda sucked in a breath, her gaze softening as she looked at you. “I want to stay here,” she said quietly. “I want to be with you.”

She wasn’t lying. But Wanda could want two different things at the same time—and she did. She wanted to be with you, to continue this peaceful life, but she also wanted a shot at redemption. Though Wanda’s guilt had lessened during your time together, you knew she always wanted to do something to make up for what happened in Lagos.

“Wherever you go, I’ll follow,” you assured her, reaching out to gently take her hand. “You never have to worry about losing me. You’ll never lose me.”

Just then, a low rumble crawled across the sky.

At first, you thought it was thunder—an early storm rolling in over the rooftops. But storms never formed this quickly, or with this much spectacle. 

Vision angled his head skyward, eyes reflecting the strange phenomenon. “They found us.”

[jlsammy25]

Wanda and R need this lol

Calm before the storm, huh? I am ready.

All Of Your Pieces (22 - The Warmest Winter)

Chapter Summary: But when you touched her that night, slow and careful, when you pushed into her for the first time and her breath hitched so beautifully—it was like watching someone unlock a part of themselves they hadn’t realized was hidden away. Wanda clung to you, her body trembling, moaning your name like a god in her prayers.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: smut, breeding kink, oral sex (r receiving), enchanted strap (wanda receiving), somnophilia, tooth-rotting fluff, y/n and wanda being modern idiots in love

A/N: More smut and bittersweet girlfriend stuff before we the start of the end of part 2. Enjoy! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

In the days that followed, you didn’t sleep. Because Wanda didn’t sleep. Because neither of you could stand the thought of closing your eyes and missing one more piece of each other in the dark. Wanda breathed beside you and you heard her heartbeat through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

One particularly late evening—closer to dawn than night—you were both propped up in bed, backs against the headboard. Wanda sat with her legs folded to the side, absently tracing circles on your arm as she studied your face. She said, “I sort of used Vision to get over you,” then looked away in shame, picking a loose thread on some carnival-prize blanket. “But we had a connection,” she continued, “from the Mind Stone. He was the first person who made me feel welcomed. Cared for. In a way, he was my best friend.”

You hadn’t noticed you were scowling until Wanda glanced at you with a tiny, bemused smile. 

“What’s with the kicked puppy look?”

“I’m your best friend,” you said.

Wanda gave a lopsided grin, the ghost of her smile tipping into something teasing and a little sad. “Oh, so you’re jealous,” she said.

You swallowed hard. “He was a friend, but I’m—”

“You’re my best friend now,” she interrupted smoothly. She turned, tucked one leg under the other, and leaned closer. You caught a waft of laundry soap and shampoo. In your head, that smell was already labeled Wanda, like it was trademarked. This was what staying awake with Wanda meant—you were always one flutter of her lashes away from your heart stalling.

“Don’t mind me,” you said, shrugging like you didn’t care as much as you did. “I just thought we had a monopoly on best friend status, you know?”

“We do.” She slid her hand around the back of your neck, a gesture that made your muscles go slack. “You’re my girlfriend. My best friend. Sometimes my favorite enemy.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “My… my short-order cook when you’re feeling nice… you’re everything.”

A pulse throbbed in your throat, strong and heavy like a misfiring engine. You’d waited a lifetime (or so it felt) to hear her say that. She leaned in and kissed you on the cheek. For a moment, all the sensations you’d collected—her warmth, her scent—threatened to short-circuit you.

Her breath fanned across your ear. “Everything,” she repeated before angling your face toward her just so, allowing her to kiss you properly (but also a bit messily).

The carnival blanket slid off her lap, revealing pale thighs covered in goosebumps.

You let out a shaky breath when Wanda pulled away just enough for your foreheads to brush, her body half-draped across your lap.

“We should… we should probably get some sleep,” you mumbled, though it lacked any conviction. 

“In a minute,” she murmured before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, trailing down along your jaw, and then lower, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You tilted your head slightly, giving her more access without even realizing it. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“I’m going to prove that you’re my best friend… and much, much more.” You felt her smile against your neck before she continued, her mouth moving lower, placing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. 

“Wanda…” you tried again, before you could completely lose yourself to the sensations she’s giving you.

Her hands were already sneaking under the hem of your shirt, her fingers tracing light patterns over your stomach, leaving fire in their wake. “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” you breathed.

You shivered. She smiled.

“Good.”

She kissed you again, slow and deliberate, her hands slipping lower until they were toying with the waistband of your shorts. In the next moment, she began tugging them down your hips impatiently.

When she settled between your thighs, her breath hot against your skin, she tilted her head, biting her bottom lip. “You know… I read something online.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, trying to look at her past the heat smothering your brain. “Wanda, honey, aren’t you tired? It’s almost 4 a.m.”

She smirked. “It’s Saturday.” Like that explained everything. “Besides, I read somewhere that sleep is better after an orgasm—or two.”

“Wanda…” Your voice cracked.

“Shh,” she soothed, her fingers grazing up your inner thigh, so slow it was almost torturous. “Just relax. Trust me.”

You felt her lips press a soft kiss just below your belly button before she moved lower. Instead of diving in right away, Wanda tilted her head and began with something… different. Her lips formed an “O” shape as she exhaled softly against you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you were about to say turned into a sharp gasp as Wanda pressed her mouth to you.

Warm. Wet. Her tongue grinding against you, slow at first. Lazy. Like she had all the time in the world just for this.

You moaned softly, your head falling back against the pillows. “Wanda… please…”

But she didn’t stop her teasing. She switched to her fingers, spreading you open slightly with one hand while her tongue traced impossibly light, slow figure-eights over your clit. Wanda wasn’t just doing this—she was studying you, learning how each tiny movement made your body respond.

“God, you’re so sensitive,” she whispered against you, her lips brushing against your skin. “Every time I move, you flinch. I love it.”

You let out a shaky breath, gripping the sheets beneath you as she continued her maddeningly slow rhythm. 

Suddenly, Wanda pulled back, lips slick with your cum, breath heavy against your inner thigh. A sly grin crept across her face, her eyes glinting crimson for just a moment. You felt it before you saw it—a surge of her power blooming low in your belly, spreading out in lazy, electric pulses that made your thighs clench.

“You trust me, right?” she asked softly, just wanting to check on you before she could proceed with her little “experiment”.

You nodded, because speech was impossible at this point. Your tongue was useless, your brain almost nonexistent.

Wanda smirked as her fingers left your hips and trailed upward, her palms gliding over your stomach before settling firmly on your breasts, her thumbs grazing your nipples. She squeezed gently, her thumbs circling slowly.

But that wasn’t all. Something teased at your core, an invisible touch that circled your clit with a precision no human fingers could mimic. 

“Wanda, what—how are you doing this?”

“Let’s call it… improvisation.” Her thumbs traced slow circles over your nipples. “There’s not exactly an article for this kind of thing. No ‘10 Ways to Use Your Powers in the Bedroom’ blog posts out there. So, I had to figure it out myself.”

And then she ducked her head, her tongue sliding inside you without preamble. For a brief, dizzying moment, you wondered if she’d somehow managed to make it longer because it felt like she was reaching places you didn’t think were possible. Or maybe it was just the overwhelming flood of sensations—the pull at your nipples, the ache at your clit.

Either way, one thing was certain: Wanda was going to kill you with sex. If not tonight, then someday—and you were pretty sure you’d welcome it.

And oh—it’d be the sweetest death.

Her hands, still full of your breasts, squeezed rhythmically, in time with the undulations of her tongue. You twisted the sheets in clenched fists, your body a string pulled taut, vibrating with tension. 

“Wanda—fuck,” you choked out, your hips rolling up to meet her mouth, chasing more, chasing everything.

The climax when it came was cataclysmic, a seismic event that you had absolutely no control of. Your body arched, your hands clutching at the sheets, at her hair, at anything you could hold onto as you fell apart under her mouth, her hands, her power. You screamed her name—loud and shameless—as dawn crept through the curtains, the sound so vulgar, it made your upstairs neighbors retaliate with furious bangs on the ceiling.

As the waves receded, leaving you shipwrecked and gasping on the shores of your bed, Wanda crawled up your body with the grace of a satisfied predator. She swept your hair back from your sweat-damp forehead before wiping the corner of her mouth, making sure you caught the filthy evidence of what she’d done to you. 

You gazed up at her, your eyelids heavy, exhaustion and drowsiness pulling you under with every slow blink.

“So?” she whispered, pressing kisses here and there, so tenderly that it lulled you further into slumber. “Did I… prove my point?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you managed to crack a weak smile, your hand finding her cheek. “Point taken… Maximoff.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, sleep took you easily.

—

You’d always heard about Scotland’s breath-stealing winters, and after spending the last few years in New York, you thought you’d be prepared for the worst of it. Clearly, you were mistaken. Your breath steamed in the icy air as you struggled to breathe through your stuffy nose, hands buried deep in your gloved pockets. You hurried home, desperate for the warmth of Wanda—or any fragment of heat, for that matter.

It was, unequivocally, your least favorite season. 

When you pushed open the door to the apartment you’d been sharing with Wanda, warmth greeted you like an old friend, but it wasn’t the scent of soup or candles that stopped you dead in your tracks—it was Wanda, in just a towel, standing barefoot in the bathroom doorway with wet hair dripping onto her shoulders.

She was holding up two bottles of hair dye, one in each hand—crimson in her left, blonde in her right. She was wearing one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves hanging over her hands, and her expression was deadly serious.

“Someone told me today I look like her,” she said, lips pursed.

You dropped your bag by the door and cocked your head. “Her…?”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, and it clicked. 

“Ah. The ex-Avenger from Europe,” you said, echoing a comment you’d once read on an internet forum back when Steve’s so-called “rebellion” was all anyone could talk about.

She rolled her eyes, shaking the bottles slightly, as if demanding you make a choice. “Well? Pick one.”

You stepped closer, taking a moment to really look at her—the damp hair clinging to her neck, her bare feet pressed into the rug, the tiny crease between her brows. You pointed at the crimson bottle with a teasing smile. “I’ve always had a thing for redheads.”

Wanda froze. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous little slits, and you felt the temperature in the room drop about ten degrees.

“Oh,” she said slowly, voice dropping into something lethal. It was a tone you rarely encountered—Wanda was usually such a delight to live with, even when she’d accidentally burn dinner after getting distracted by a show on TV. In those moments, she'd let out a string of curses in her native language—the sound so strangely thrilling, it always made your mouth go dry.

Now, though, it just made you incredibly nervous.

“Have you now?”

The smirk faded from your lips. “Hey… I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, please—elaborate.” She clutched the crimson bottle tighter in her hand. “You’ve always had a thing for redheads? You mean like Natasha?”

You snorted—actually snorted—and then doubled over laughing. “Oh my God, Wanda, are you serious?”

Her green eyes zeroed in on yours like crosshairs, and the amusement drained from your face as fast as it had come.

“Oh no,” you said, holding up your hands. “Nope. Nope, nope. That’s not what I meant.”

Her silence was withering. 

You took a careful step towards her, trying to suppress the grin that kept threatening to break through. “Wanda… ew. That’s like saying I have a thing for my sister.”

Her glare softened—barely—but she still looked like she could throw you into a wall without a second thought.

“Seriously,” you continued, taking her chin and running your thumb over it, trying to make her pout go away. “Natasha was, like, cool aunt vibes. Protective, scary when mad, and way too good at throwing knives. Not exactly my type.”

She looked down at the two bottles in her hands before giving you a side-eye that still had a bit of venom in it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m lucky you’re cute.”

“But just so you know, if you did have a thing for Natasha, I would’ve fought her for you.”

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, leaning in until your noses nearly touched. “She would’ve mopped the floor with you.”

Wanda scowled. You kissed her quickly before she could retaliate, pulling away with a smirk as she swatted weakly at your shoulder. “So, crimson it is?”

You grinned. “Crimson. Always crimson. But for the record, I’d love you even if you were bald, Maximoff.”

She smirked, stepping back toward the bathroom. “Good to know. But if I’m bald, you’re shaving your head too. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said without a second thought, grinning as you leaned against the doorframe to watch her disappear into the steamy bathroom.

—

Winter had a way of shrinking things—streets, schedules, daylight hours. Even the library wasn’t immune to its grasp. Closing hours crept earlier and earlier as the season deepened, and the thick blanket of snow outside made even the warmest buildings feel temporary. On most days, you’d shrug on your coat, wave goodbye to your coworkers, and sometimes let yourself be talked into grabbing drinks at a pub down the street. It wasn’t that you loved the company or the overpriced beer, but killing time felt easier when it wasn’t in an empty apartment.

Wanda’s schedule, though, was immune to its bite. The orphanage couldn’t afford to, not when so many of the volunteers called in sick or flaked on their duties. “It’s not like they’re getting paid,” Wanda had said once, brushing snow off her scarf as she explained why she was pulling yet another double shift. “They don’t have to come in.”

But Wanda did. Of course she did. The kids needed her, and Wanda didn’t know how to say no to people who needed her.

Meanwhile, you found the apartment unbearably empty without her. On days when Wanda was busy, you’d escape to local pubs or any lively spot just to distract you from her absence. Sometimes, you’d stay up late, a book forgotten in your lap as you lost yourself in thoughts of Wanda. You’d wonder how she was doing and toy with the idea of picking her up yourself when she missed the time she was supposed to be home. And then, just as you were considering it, Wanda would walk through the door, cheeks flushed from the cold, exhaustion etched into every line of her body—but her eyes would still light up when she saw you waiting there.

But on your busy days, when Wanda had the apartment to herself, she didn’t seem to need anything more than her own headspace. She was a homebody at heart, content to stay curled up on the couch flicking through channels, or stretched out with headphones plugged in, music carrying her away to places you couldn’t follow. 

One evening, the smell of fried street food still clinging to your coat, you came home to find her like that. She was lying on her back, legs crossed at the ankle, hair spilling out around her like ink on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved softly, forming the words of a song you recognized only after a moment.

“Oh no, I’ve said too much… I haven’t said enough,” she sang. You giggled softly. It wasn’t the kind of voice meant for an audience—there was no showmanship in it—but you could tell she enjoyed singing and didn’t care if she was out of tune—she always felt her way through a song.

“That’s me in the corner… that’s me in the spotlight…”

You stood there for what felt like forever, torn between two instincts: walk over and nudge her foot, let her know you were there, maybe tease her a little for being so emo on a Wednesday afternoon… or turn around quietly and start making dinner.

You picked the latter. You started chopping vegetables for a quick soup, letting Wanda’s voice serve as your background music while you worked.

By the time she finally came out, her hair a little mussed and her cheeks faintly flushed, the soup was simmering, and the music had stopped.

“You’re home,” she said, surprised, brushing her hands through her hair as if to straighten herself out.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling as you stirred the pot. “Heard you singing. It was nice.”

Her blush deepened, and she laughed softly, leaning against the doorway. “Didn’t know I had an audience.”

“Always,” you said, grinning. “Even if you don’t know it.”

She padded over, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing her face into your shoulder, her hair warm from the heat of the apartment. 

When she pulled back, there was something mischievous brewing behind her eyes.

“Can I see your phone?” she asked casually.

You blinked at her, already fishing it out of your pocket. “Sure, here—” You handed it over without thinking, only for suspicion to settle in the back of your mind a second later. “Wait, why?”

Wanda didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her own phone off the kitchen counter and started typing. She looked serious as she kept glancing between the two screens like she was disarming a bomb instead of… whatever she was doing.

“Wanda…” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “What are you up to?”

“Shh,” she muttered, her tongue peeking out slightly in focus. A few seconds later, she finally looked up, holding both phones triumphantly. “There. Done.”

“What’s done?” you asked, snatching your phone back and scrolling through your notifications. You blinked as you saw her name under a newly added location-sharing app.

“Now we’re sharing locations,” she said simply, holding up her own phone to show you the notification. “It’s synced. So I can see where you are, and you can see where I am.”

You stared at her. “Oh. Well… okay.”

“It’s practical,” she said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “If you’re stuck somewhere, or if I’m out late at the orphanage, now we don’t have to text back and forth asking where we are.”

You knew it was practical—and if you were being honest, you’d thought about it yourself more than once over the past few months. The tracker you’d slipped into her jacket back when you were chasing her still sat in a hidden vault beneath the floorboards, gathering dust alongside your real passports and the documents tied to your true identity. It was easy to forget you’d once lived an entirely different life. The thought of Wanda wanting to track you on her iPhone was something the old you would’ve found almost laughable.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “That sounds an awful lot like something a clingy girlfriend would say.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “It’s also something a responsible girlfriend would say.”

Winter raged outside. But your chest never felt this warm, this full.

“I love this life with you,” you blurted out. 

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. And now, thanks to technology, neither are you,” Wanda said.

You laughed, pulling her closer for a kiss. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to being tracked by my girlfriend.”

“I’m afraid so,” she said with a smirk, pulling you back into her arms. “And don’t even think about disabling it. I will know.”

—

A strap arrived in a discreet box days later, tucked under other deliveries. And you didn’t even know your girlfriend ordered one until Wanda insisted you open it together, the two of you sitting cross-legged on the bed like kids about to open a birthday gift. She blushed furiously as you adjusted the harness around your hips, laughing nervously when you made a playful pose in the mirror.

But when you touched her that night, slow and careful, when you pushed into her for the first time and her breath hitched so beautifully—it was like watching someone unlock a part of themselves they hadn’t realized was hidden away. Wanda clung to you, her body trembling, moaning your name like a god in her prayers.

—

But Wanda was nothing if not a fast learner.

The first time she’d pinned you down and taken control, she’d been nervous, biting her lip every other second, checking if you were okay. But now—weeks later—there were times when her confidence left you breathless. When she’d pull you onto her lap on the couch, her hands bold as they explored every inch of you. Times when she’d whisper filthy things in Sokovian into your ear, her teeth grazing your skin as she smirked against your neck.

But nothing—not even those moments—could’ve prepared you for that morning.

—

You were deep in sleep, wrapped snugly under the blankets, utterly unaware.

Wanda straddled your hips, her hair a wild cascade over her shoulders, her green eyes darkened with anticipation. She’d been awake for a while, watching you, her fingers ghosting over your bare skin, tracing patterns that had no rhythm but were steeped in affection. She was learning—about herself, about you—and this morning, she decided to take control.

The strap-on was securely fastened around your hips, enchanted by Wanda just minutes before. To test her spell, she began to stroke it, drawing out a faint whimper from you—it was working; you could feel everything she was doing.

Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest as she lined herself up, biting her lip to stifle a moan at the sensation of the head pressing against her slick folds. Slowly, she sank down onto it, her body trembling as the toy filled her inch by inch.

“Y/N… nghh…” Wanda gasped once you bottomed out inside of her.

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, only to find Wanda above you, her body already moving slowly against you. The sight was enough to jolt you awake, the combination of her flushed face, the way her nails dug lightly into your chest, and the intense sensation of being inside her making your breath hitch.

“Baby? What—” you started, but she cut you off with a kiss, her lips demanding and insistent.

Her hips rolled eagerly, grinding down onto the strap as the enchantment worked its magic. You gasped against her mouth, your hands instinctively finding her waist, gripping tightly as you tried to slow her down.

How could you possibly feel every ridge, every curve, every soft part of Wanda so vividly? How could her powers do this? How could she craft something so tender and so devastating all at once? You couldn’t help but be in awe of her—not just because of what she could do, but because of how she chose to use it. She could’ve had anything, bent anyone to her will, yet she was pouring all of herself into this—into you. 

Your eyes drifted lower, drawn to where your bodies met. You watched, entranced, as Wanda sank down onto the strap, her slick folds parting around the silicone shaft with every roll of her hips. The toy glistened wet with her arousal, disappearing into her before reappearing, glistening and coated and, fuck—

She was warm, wet, and impossibly tight, and the way she rode you with growing confidence made you dizzy.

You wanted more.

The next time Wanda sank down onto you, you stilled her hips with firm hands. Her eyes snapped open, wide and questioning as she let out a shaky breath.

“Y/N…?” she whispered, her voice trembling as her hands settled on your shoulders.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you gripped her waist and rolled your bodies, switching positions with practiced ease. Wanda let out a soft gasp as her back met the mattress, her hair spreading out like a halo around her flushed face.

You hovered above her, pressing your forehead to hers briefly before leaning down to kiss her—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Trust me,” you murmured softly against her lips before pulling back.

She nodded, breath hitching as you sat back on your knees and grabbed the back of her knees, spreading her wide. Carefully, you pushed her legs upward, folding her almost in half until her ankles rested on either side of your face. Her hips tilted up, her ass barely touching the mattress, leaving her completely open to you.

The sight nearly undid you.

You adjusted your position, aligning yourself with her soaked entrance, and pushed in slowly, watching every inch disappear inside her. Wanda’s body arched off the mattress, a broken moan escaping her throat as you bottomed out.

The angle was divine. You could feel every flutter, every squeeze of her walls around you. The tight heat around you made you clench your jaw, fighting the instinct to chase your own release.

“Look at you,” you rasped, “you’re taking me so well, Wanda. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Wanda cried out, her head tipping back against the pillow, her hands clutching the sheets as you filled her completely. Her walls fluttered around the strap, her thighs trembling as you pulled out just enough before pushing back in, deeper this time.

“You feel that, baby?” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met. “You feel how deep I am inside you?”

“Yes—oh god, yes,” Wanda gasped, unable to do anything but let you use her however way when she couldn’t literally do much else in this position.

That’s when a thought hit you.

Your rhythm faltered for a brief moment as the image seared itself into your brain—Wanda, her hands resting protectively over her belly. It wasn’t even physically possible, you knew that, but the idea of it… of leaving something permanent, something undeniably yours inside her—

Wanda’s eyes blinked open, glazed over and hazy with pleasure, but sharp enough to notice your hesitation. “Y/N?” she whispered softly.

You shook your head quickly, leaning down to press your forehead against hers. “I’m okay,” you murmured, your lips brushing against hers. “I just love you so much. You don’t even know.”

Her breath hitched as you started moving again, deeper, slower, like you were savoring every moment, every second inside her. Your hands roamed over her stomach, your palms pressing flat against the soft skin there before trailing up to cup her breasts, your thumbs flicking over her nipples as Wanda let out a guttural cry.

“You’d be so good for me, Wanda,” you murmured, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead as you picked up your pace. “So perfect. You’d take everything I give you, wouldn’t you?”

Wanda could only nod as you continued to hit something deep inside her. 

“Say it,” you demanded through gritted teeth, feeling the tight coil in your belly starting to snap. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I—I want it… I want you.”

That was all it took. With a deep, guttural moan, you buried yourself to the hilt, your body shaking as your climax tore through you. The enchanted strap made the sensation almost unbearable—like fire licking at your nerves, pleasure consuming every inch of you as you pressed deep into her.

“Mine,” you rasped against her skin, your voice rough and low. “You’re mine, Wanda. All fucking mine.”

You waited patiently for her to stop fluttering around you, jogging your hips to help her through the tailend of her orgasm. As you slowly withdrew, Wanda let out a small whimper, her body still sensitive from everything you’d given her. You carefully lay down beside her, pulling her into your arms as you tucked her head under your chin.

After some time, Wanda spoke, “Where the hell did that come from?”

You chuckled, the sound rumbling in your chest. “I could ask you the same thing,” you countered, brushing a hand lazily through her tousled hair. “Where’d the idea of waking me up with sex come from?”

Wanda stiffened slightly in your arms, her brows furrowing as she pulled back just enough to look at you fully. Her lips parted as if to say something, but she looked too conflicted to formulate her thoughts.

“Was that… okay?” she asked. “We talked about consent, and, you know, trying things that might be a little risky, so I thought…”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile inwardly at Wanda’s innocence—how, even after all this, she could still be so earnest, so endearingly unsure.

You pressed a kiss to her temple, before murmuring, “It was the best way I could’ve ever woken up.”

Wanda blinked up at you, her lips twitching into a shy smile. “Really?”

You smirked, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, really. I didn’t think you had it in you to pull something like that off, Maximoff. But clearly, I underestimated you.”

Her confidence returned in full force as she stood up from the bed, pulling one of your oversized sweaters over her head.

“You know where else you underestimate me?” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a grin. “American breakfast.”

“Bacon is the easiest food to fry, my love. I still don’t understand how you manage to turn it into charcoal half the time.”

She stuck her tongue out at you before hurrying out of the room, her stomach growling loud enough to make you laugh.

The sound trailed off as your phone buzzed—not the one you’d been using these past several months, but the burner phone stashed in a drawer, forever plugged in just in case. Your smile faded as you stared at it, dread draining the color from your previously flushed face.

Fingers trembling slightly, you pulled it from the drawer. The screen lit up with a simple notification: a text from Natasha that simply read, “Talk soon.”

You had always known that this life wasn’t built to last. But it didn’t make it any easier for you to accept the fact that it might be coming to an end.

[jlsammy25]

Just ...

Damn.

All Of Your Pieces (21 - The Autumn Singes)

Chapter Summary: It was very childlike—how she went about her day doing the most innocent things. And yet—

You couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt pressed against you. How soft her lips were when you kissed them. How wet she’d been that night, soaked from the rain and from wanting you. Since moving to Scotland, neither of you had brought it up—not once. And every time you thought about circling back to that moment, you realized you still couldn’t find the right time. Sometimes the memory of it felt like a distant dream, and you were left questioning whether it really happened or not.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: First time, fluff, smut

A/N: Things finally align for Wanda and Y/N. More importantly, smut is back. But it's so tender and loving and sappy so be warned! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The first thing you did when you and Wanda arrived in Scotland was clean up the small, nondescript apartment Natasha had directed you to. It smelled of dust and damp wood, and the wallpaper peeled at the corners, stained with colors you’d rather not think too hard about. But underneath it all, the bones were solid. Sturdy. It was something to build on.

Most of all, it was yours now. 

Yours and Wanda’s.

As you scrubbed the counters and unpacked the meager belongings you brought with you, you told her the truth. Natasha had helped you acquire a new identity, complete with forged documents, a thin but convincing backstory, and a job that surprisingly appealed to you. You couldn’t help but smile when you told Wanda it was the job of your dreams—and how it was also a chance to start fresh, doing something that mattered to you. And, because Natasha never did things halfway, she’d also arranged for a second job offer. One you’d held out to Wanda, despite knowing she probably wouldn’t take it.

She didn’t. Wanda had looked at you, her lips quirking in that soft, amused way she had when she wanted to be polite. “I’ll figure it out on my own,” she said, leaning against the counter, watching you work. She’d always had this way of saying no without making it feel like rejection, like her refusal wasn’t about you at all.

You glanced at her, pausing to wipe your hands on a towel. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s not glamorous, but it’s something.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve been careful with my money. And besides,” she added, her voice breezy but not dismissive, “I’ve survived worse.”

Wanda was careful with her money, you learned quickly. Frugal, almost to a fault. Where you had your savings tied up in an account you couldn’t even access without some bureaucratic headache, Wanda had cash. Actual, physical cash—small bills tucked into an envelope she kept in a knapsack. You’d teased her about it once, back when things between you were still easy and new. She’d shrugged and said, “Pietro and I didn’t keep bank accounts back then. Force of habit, I guess.”

There had been instances when you’ve been short on money, and well, you always found some bills tucked in your socks every now and then.

—

Your first day as a security officer at the library began with a shirt that sat stiff on your shoulders and a badge so heavy it tugged awkwardly at the fabric where it was pinned. The library itself was grand but weathered—arched windows, polished wooden counters, and a faint smell of old paper and mildew that you’ve always found comforting. 

You spent the morning being introduced to everyone: the head librarian, a stern but kind woman named Marion; two younger assistants, Callum and Fiona, who proudly professed their caffeine addictions and carried them around like marks of pride; and a janitor named Angus.

It surprised you how easily they folded you into their world. Callum and Fiona took you out for lunch that day, leading you to the Subway shop down the street. You almost said no and thought of some excuse about needing to check the perimeter, but something about the way she said, “Come on, it’s tradition,” made you cave. You sat awkwardly at the corner of their little table, your new uniform chafing against your skin, wondering if they could smell the fraud on you. But they didn’t. They talked about books, weekend plans, and the eccentric patrons who frequented the library. 

It was bittersweet—the way they welcomed you without hesitation, without suspicion. They didn’t know who you really were. They had no idea you’d saved the world more times than you could count on both hands—or that you’d taken lives in the process. They didn’t know your face was plastered across Interpol’s most-wanted list, with a bounty large enough to make anyone who recognized you instantly rich. 

You reminded yourself of that constantly. This wasn’t permanent. You weren’t supposed to get attached. But somehow, lunch became routine. Three of you, sometimes four, depending on who could slip away from their duties.

It was a fragile little slice of normal, and you couldn’t help but hold onto it, even if you knew it wasn’t yours to keep.

—

Wanda, on the other hand, moved at her own pace. 

She wasn’t working—not officially—and at first, it bothered you. Not because you thought she should be working, but because you weren’t sure if she was acquainting herself with a new town and a new identity just fine.

To you, it looked like she was doing nothing. But that wasn’t fair judgement. Wanda filled her days in her own subdued way. 

You’d asked her once, while she stirred something on the stove, what she did all day. She’d shrugged without looking at you. “I walk. I try new cafés. I watch people.”

“Watch people?” you asked, curious.

“People tell stories without saying anything. You just have to pay attention.”

Sometimes she went to museums, or sat in parks with a sketchbook you didn’t know she had until one day it was casually left open on the coffee table—a half-finished drawing of a tree, delicate lines forming branches that reached out like arms.

And then there was the TV. Wanda didn’t watch mindlessly; she absorbed. Old sitcoms, cooking shows, documentaries about things you knew she already understood. You’d catch her staring at the screen sometimes, eyes glassy, like she was somewhere else entirely.

Back at the compound, she rarely had time for movie marathons. You figured it was partly because Vision probably discouraged it, and partly because the constant training and meetings left everyone too exhausted by day’s end.

It was very childlike—how she went about her day doing the most innocent things.

And yet—

You couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt pressed against you. How soft her lips were when you kissed them. How wet she’d been that night, soaked from the rain and from wanting you. Since moving to Scotland, neither of you had brought it up—not once. And every time you thought about circling back to that moment, you realized you still couldn’t find the right time. 

Sometimes the memory of it felt like a distant dream, and you were left questioning whether it really happened or not.

—

You got your first pay today—a thin envelope instead of a digital deposit—and it brought this unexpected rush of pride. It wasn’t even a tenth of what you used to rake in from Stark Industries, but somehow it felt more gratifying. 

On your way home from work, you made a quick stop at a takeout place. You’d been craving greasy noodles and sticky-sweet dumplings all day, thinking about sharing them with Wanda. But you wanted something more to celebrate with, and you took your time wandering around town for a clue. 

It wasn’t until you were riding the subway, head leaning against the cold metal pole, your first paycheck stuffed—and a little forgotten—in your pocket, that you started to feel… stupid. You’d been walking around for over an hour, takeout cooling in your hands, looking for something to celebrate this milestone and coming up empty. 

You were close to giving up when you heard it.

Music.

At the far end of the car, three musicians had set up—an older man with a violin, a woman with a cello balanced delicately between her knees, and a teenager, maybe seventeen, strumming a guitar with steady hands. They weren’t playing anything you recognized, but it was something slow and aching, and it made you close your eyes as you let yourself sink into it.

That’s when the image of Wanda’s hands hovering over strings, her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft tilt of her head when she found the sound she was looking for, came to you. You’d never told her how much you liked hearing her play back at the compound.

By the time the subway screeched into your stop, the idea was fully formed. You hopped off the train, take-out bag swinging at your side, and made a beeline for the nearest pawn shop you could find.

—

Wanda opened the door before you even had a chance to fish out your keys, her face breaking into a smile so wide it almost made you worry.

“You’re home!” she exclaimed, breathless and a little flushed. She wore an oversized dress shirt that skimmed just above her knees—normally paired with sweatpants, but tonight her creamy legs were bare for you to admire. 

You swallowed dryly and instinctively hid the gift you’d bought for her behind your back. You hadn’t expected her to greet you like this—she was usually curled up on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her, engrossed in Modern Family, her latest obsession from last week.

She bounced on her toes, practically glowing. “I have news,” she said, fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt. There was a glimmer in her eyes—like she’d been holding onto this all day, just waiting for you to walk through the door.

You nudged the door shut behind you. “What is it?”

She bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back a smile but failing adorably. “I found something I want to do. Well… it’s not exactly a job—more like volunteer work.” Her voice wavered between pride and nerves. “At a foster home. I checked it out this morning. I start next week.”

A grin broke across your face before you could stop it. “Wanda, that’s amazing!”

Without even thinking, you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in. It happened so fast that you weren’t sure she’d welcome the sudden embrace, but her arms came around you just as tightly. You felt her breathe you in, and a small shiver ran through you. For a while you both just stood there, holding each other with your eyes closed.

That’s when you remembered the present you left outside. Carefully, you pulled away, an excited grin lighting up your face. “Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, moving back to the hallway to retrieve your gift. 

Wanda blinked, confused—until her gaze landed on the guitar case. Her eyes widened. “Wait—what…”

You popped the latches and opened the case with a flourish, revealing a glossy, warm-toned acoustic guitar. “Ta-da!”

She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Wha—Y-You didn’t have to—this must’ve cost a fortune!”

You shrugged, grinning. “I absolutely had to,” you said, throwing her a playful wink. “First paycheck.”

Wanda looked from you to the guitar, her eyes glassy with emotion. “You’re too much,” she whispered, fingers brushing the strings. “This is... perfect. Thank you.”

You lifted the guitar from its case and handed it toward her. “Come on, let’s see how you look with it.”

She laughed as you guided her to the couch, placing the guitar strap over her shoulder. It didn’t matter if she knew only two chords or none at all—she'd learn them again, now that she had the means to do so.

“I still can’t believe this,” she murmured, settling her fingers on the fretboard and plucking at the strings.

“You’re going to do great with this,” you said, settling beside her. “And you’re going to be amazing at the foster home. Those kids are going to love hearing you play.”

Wanda laughed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Play something for me?” you asked, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees.

She glanced over at you, head tilted, a soft smile on her lips. “You sure you don’t mind if I play my favorite?”

You shook your head, eager. “Not at all. I’d love to hear it.”

She seemed thoughtful for a moment, then began to play a melody that made your breath catch. It only took a few seconds for you to recognize it—the Sokovian lullaby she used to sing late in the night when she thought everyone else had gone to sleep. You’d heard her hum it to herself every once in a while, sometimes so quietly you weren’t sure she even realized she was doing it. 

The melody she was making was so beautiful, but when her voice joined the guitar, you were enchanted for good. 

We’ve been waiting for you

'tie mi t͡ʃaˈjaɫəm

Now you are here

ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈti e ˈʃte

More perfect than I imagined

ˈdrage wo t͡sto ˈmisliɫəm

Our house is now a home (our house is now a nest)

ˈdom naʃ ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈgnieʒdo

No matter where you go

bez veˈdeɪ̆ doˈkude ˈjit͡ʃiʃ

Sunlight shines on you

ˈʃiʒa ˈsunt͡so nad tiˈe

When she dragged out the final note to its ending, you clapped, a broad grin spreading across your face, and Wanda’s cheeks reddened.

This girl really was amazing—in every sense.

“It’s not much,” she whispered bashfully. 

You swallowed the rush of reverence rising in your chest. “It’s everything,” you murmured, voice thick. “I think it might be my favorite now, too.”

Your applause faded as you noticed the way Wanda was staring at you—intently, unblinking, her green eyes darkening with an intent that made your pulse thump against your rib cage. You opened your mouth, the start of a question on your lips—“Wanda, what’s—”

Before you could finish, she carefully set the guitar on the floor beside her, and then—

And then she launched herself at you.

You barely had time to react as she straddled your hips, her legs on either side of your hips, pressing you back into the cushions. The momentum of her body made your head spin, and any question you had died on your lips as her mouth crashed onto yours.

She kissed you like she couldn’t get close enough, like she was starved for contact. You tried to match her pace, but it was near impossible—her urgency was overwhelming. Your hands found her waist, gripping the soft fabric of her shirt as you let yourself get lost in the taste and feel of her.

A small sound escaped you when her fingers went to the buttons of your uniform, fumbling but dead-set on getting them undone. One by one, she tugged them loose until your shirt hung open, exposing the rise and fall of your chest beneath a black bra.

You caught on quickly, your hands dropping to your belt, fingers trembling slightly as the task suddenly felt far more complicated than it should have. Any focus you had shattered when her mouth found your neck, her teeth sinking into your skin before her tongue followed, soothing the sting.

“Wanda—”

She pulled back just enough to yank her own shirt over her head, and your breath caught in your throat—she wasn’t wearing a bra. The sight of her bare skin sent heat flooding through your veins, and then, in a heartbeat, she was leaning in again, her mouth finding yours with that same consuming hunger.

You broke away from her lips just long enough to tilt your head down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across her chest. A soft groan slipped from Wanda’s lips, and you felt her tug insistently at the ponytail keeping your hair tied back. The band snapped under her fingers—or maybe under a subtle flick of her power—and suddenly your hair was free. She ran her nails over your scalp, scratching gently as you placed a wet kiss over the swell of her breast.

“God, you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” you breathed, trailing your lips up to the sensitive peak of her nipple. You dragged your tongue across it, earning a sharp gasp from her. “You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, voice thick with want.

She let out a breathy laugh, her hands tightening in your hair as you drew a hard nipple into your mouth, sucking softly. The taste and feel of her made your head spin, and you lost yourself in the sensation for a moment, swirling your tongue around the bud. 

“Oh God…” she moaned helplessly. “You too, you’re so…”

Wanda’s sentence ended in a needy whine. You switched to her other breast, giving it the same slow, deliberate attention, sucking softly as you let your palm caress the one you’d just left. Wanda’s lips parted on another helpless sound, and you couldn’t help but smile around the warm skin in your mouth.

Her impatience soon got the better of her. “Off,” she demanded, pushing at the waistband of your pants. “These… off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you breathed, trying to move your hands to the fly of your trousers. But before you could start, you felt a shimmer of Wanda’s power surge around you. With her magic, she unclasped your belt and pushed your pants down your thighs in one swift motion.

A surprised laugh caught in your throat. “Show-off,” you smirked, but there was no mistaking how grateful you were for her ability to make things happen quickly. You wriggled your hips, kicking your pants off the rest of the way. Wanda’s eyes never left you, dark and hungry as she watched every awkward shuffle, every moment of clothing leaving your body.

Wanda’s hands slid up your shoulders and found the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling only for a second before snapping it free. She tossed the garment somewhere behind you, too impatient to care where it landed. A fresh rush of heat bloomed on her cheeks as she let her gaze linger on your bare chest, and she reached out to touch you almost reverently.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, noticing the awe in her eyes and the hesitant way her hands cupped you.

She swallowed, nodding once. “I—I’ve never actually been with a woman before…”

You smiled at her and guided her palms against your breasts, covering her hands with your own so she could feel how you liked to be touched. Your breaths grew shallow and ragged when Wanda’s warm fingers brushed over your taut nipples. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, watching your reactions as she tried different pressures and strokes.

“You’re making me feel good,” you managed to whisper between soft gasps. “So fucking good.”

Wanda’s cheeks burned deeper at the praise, but she didn’t look away. Emboldened, she kneaded your flesh in slow circles, and each pass of her palm sent a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. 

Your own impatience stirred, drawing you to the junction of her thighs. You pushed her panties to the side, and your fingertips traced her slick heat. A low groan escaped you at how soaked she was—she practically pulsed under your touch, swollen and undeniably turned on. The fabric of her panties was ruined, dampness seeping through in the most delicious way.

And then you remembered her confession from weeks ago—she’d never truly come. The thought sent your heart racing, but you fought the urge to ask more questions this time. You didn’t want to make this a test or some sort of milestone. This moment was for her, on her terms, however it played out.

“Let me take care of you, okay?” you murmured, brushing a thumb gently along her jaw.

She gave a shaky nod, her eyes fluttering shut. You gently took Wanda’s hands off your body, shifting your grip to guide her onto the couch. She followed your cue, sitting down with a slight tremor in her legs, her breath already coming in short, uneven bursts. Her cheeks were flushed, and she kept her knees pressed together, almost like she was trying to make herself smaller under your gaze.

You took a deep breath as you slipped off the couch and knelt on the floor between her legs—only you were still high enough that you were at her eye level, able to see the nervous excitement crossing her face. She swallowed hard, then let out a shaky exhale, unclasping her hands where they’d been gripping each other in her lap.

“Hey,” you said softly, sliding your palms along the outsides of her thighs. “Is this okay?”

“I…” Her voice wavered, and she forced herself to meet your eyes. “I trust you,” she finished softly.

Those three words meant everything to you—maybe even more than the other three words Wanda hadn’t said back. Words you weren’t expecting her to say, not anytime soon, maybe not ever. You loved her, and whether or not she loved you in return didn’t change that. Loving her felt like a privilege, something rare and fleeting, and it was enough. More than enough.

Wanda nodded, swallowing hard, then loosened her legs so you could settle closer. With careful hands, you reached for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the waistband of her damp panties. You felt her muscles tense, then slowly relax as she lifted her hips just enough to help you. Bit by bit, you slid her underwear down, revealing soft, warm skin beneath. The garment peeled away, clinging for a second where it was soaked, before slipping past her knees and down to her ankles.

“It’s alright if you want to stop, or slow down,” you reminded her, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze, your nails pressing in just a little more than necessary.

“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered.

That was all you needed. Leaning in, you placed a soft kiss on her mons pubis, feeling her shiver at the contact. You moved slowly, pressing a trail of gentle kisses lower, letting her adjust to each new inch of intimacy. Wanda exhaled a trembling sigh, her hands bunching up the couch cushion on either side as she braced herself.

You kissed every inch of skin in your path, taking your time with her body as you made your way closer to her center. Wanda’s breathing grew more erratic, her thighs trembling under your touch. When you reached her most intimate place, you couldn’t help but pause, taking her in.

Just above her clit, a neat patch of hair framed her perfectly, her clit already engorged and peeking shyly out from beneath its hood. You couldn’t help but smile—she was so beautiful, so vulnerable, letting you see her this way. You brushed your nose lightly across her vulva, pressing a soft kiss nearby as her breath caught. “So stunning…” you murmured against her skin. 

Below a whisper, you added a single word—“Mine”. It was possessive, a fleeting slip of thought that you couldn’t hold back, even if you never intended for her to hear it. Wanda seemed completely unaware, lost in the slow rise and fall of her own breathing. She parted her legs a bit more, silent permission for you to continue.

Gently, you began to massage the area around her pussy, your fingers moving in slow, soothing circles to help relax her muscles while simultaneously teasing her. 

When she opened her mouth to ask, voice trembling with anxious need, “What’s taking you so long?” you finally dived in and gave her a tentative lick, starting from her entrance and dragging your tongue slowly up to her clit.

Wanda’s whole body jolted, and she let out a sharp, unrestrained curse. “Fuck!”

You repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring her shudder and gasp. Her hands gripped the cushions as your tongue explored her—deep, then up to her clit.

Her thighs twitched against your shoulders, your name falling from her lips in a broken moan. Encouraged, you let your tongue move lazily, caressing her in slow, deliberate strokes. It wasn’t long before Wanda began to move on her own, hips rolling, pressing herself against your mouth—chasing every bit of pleasure, fucking herself onto your tongue.

You pressed a hand against her lower belly to keep her grounded, your fingers splaying across her skin as you worked her with your mouth. Each time your tongue dipped into her entrance, you felt her pulse around you, her arousal so obvious in the way she grew wetter with every movement.

“Y/N—Y/N….” She kept calling your name in broken syllables.

Soon enough, Wanda's movements grew more desperate. Her hands, which had been clutching the cushions for support, moved to your head. Fingers threaded through your hair, tangling and pulling gently at first, then with increasing firmness. It was clear she was finding her rhythm, her own way of expressing what felt good, what she needed more of.

You didn’t resist. Instead, you surrendered to her, letting her guide you. Wanda’s hips rolled with purpose now, pressing herself against your mouth. The pressure of her hand on your head left you still, no longer moving on your own. Her clit throbbed against your tongue, and you adjusted subtly, letting the flat of your tongue glide over her sensitive bundle of nerves each time her hips surged forward. 

“Y/N…” she gasped, her voice heavy with need. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

You couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted to. You dug your hands into her hips, holding her steady as she fucked your face with abandon, her moans turning into cries that bordered on incoherent.

Wanda’s movements became more erratic, driven by a strange, swelling pressure that coiled in her lower belly. You sensed her confusion when she stiffened, her hips momentarily faltering.

“I—” she managed, voice shaky, “something’s—”

Wanda looked almost scared, and you’ve rarely seen her afraid. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured against her,  worried you’ve done something she didn’t like. You kept the stimulation on her clit, massaging it in rough circles with your fingers.

She shook her head, her brows knitting together. “It’s tight,” she admitted. “In my stomach. It feels like… like it’s going to—

You could tell she was right at the edge of truly losing control, so you decided to help tip her over. You replaced your fingers with your mouth once more, sucking softly on her sensitive bud, and then, with careful intent, you eased a finger into her soaked entrance—just one at first, letting her body adjust. 

“You’re close,” you said, before blowing over her clit in relief and excitement that she’s about to come—and you’re the first to get her there. “Just let it happen.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered, biting her lip, her hands hovering restlessly near her stomach as if she could stop it from happening.

“You’re safe,” you promised in between licks while curling your finger inside of her. “I’ve got you, okay? Let it happen. I’ll be right here.”

“Y/N,” she whimpered, her voice high-pitched and shaky. “I—I think I’m…”

“You are,” you affirmed gently. “You’re about to come, baby, come for me.”

Her hips jerked spasmodically, and you could feel her clench around your finger. With a few more deliberate strokes, focusing on the rhythm that had her moaning loudest, you felt her body suddenly tighten in a drawn-out moment of suspense.

And then, with a long, keening wail, Wanda finally let go. 

She sobbed your name as her orgasm overtook her, her body tensing and releasing in time with the rippling pleasure. It was raw, overwhelming, and utterly beautiful, and you couldn’t look away as she experienced it for the first time.

The fervor in her eyes melted into awe and disbelief, as if she were unsure she’d actually reached the peak she’d been chasing. She let out a disbelieving laugh, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Oh god… I can’t believe I…”

You gently took your finger out, continuing to stroke her softly with your tongue as you helped her ride out the tail end of her orgasm, her body shuddering with each aftershock. But as the last wave of pleasure rolled through her, Wanda whimpered and tried to push your head away, squirming under your mouth. You relented, pressing one last kiss against her inner thigh before sliding up onto the couch.

A grin tugged at your lips as you climbed over her, feeling more than a little proud of yourself. She was still catching her breath, her flushed skin tempting you again. You placed a hand at her waist and urged her to lie back fully on the cushions, legs tangling together until you were hovering above her.

Leaning closer, your face inches from hers, you smirked. “So… was that to your satisfaction, Maximoff?” 

Wanda’s cheeks turned impossibly red, her lips parting in shock before she let out a breathless laugh. She reached up, her fingers grazing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touched.

“You’re very good,” she whispered softly.

An amused laugh escaped you. “Comes with experience,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows dramatically—though not without a certain smugness.

Instantly, you noticed how Wanda’s face changed. A shadow of something like annoyance passed over her features, and for a brief moment, her eye twitched in an unmistakable display of jealousy. It was almost too cute that it had you bursting into a breathy laugh, earning a small frown from her.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” she huffed, swatting at your shoulder. “You say that like you’ve… you know, done this with a bunch of people.”

You snorted. “A bunch? Hardly.” You hesitated, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Besides… I’m out of practice. I haven’t been with anyone since I met you.”

“Really?” she murmured, eyes searching yours for the truth.

“Really,” you said, your tone serious—though you couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. Because honestly, the moment Wanda entered your life, no one else even registered. Down bad didn’t begin to cover it.

Wanda shifted slightly beneath you, her knee coming into contact accidentally with your soaked underwear. That’s when she realized that the past several minutes had been all about her, and a flush crept up her neck.

“You haven’t…” she began.

You noticed the faint droop of her eyelids, the way her head tilted slightly forward, almost resting against your shoulder. “Wanda,” you said, caressing her cheek in a way that coaxed her further into her exhaustion. “You’re tired.”

She blinked, like she was trying to push through it. “No, I—”

“You should get some rest.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, fingertips resting just below your ear. “You could’ve—” Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, I’m not the only one who should feel good tonight.”

“Hey,” you cooed, “it’s alright. There will be another time… right?” The last word lifted slightly—turning it into a question. You didn’t want to assume anything. For all you knew, this could’ve been a one-time thing. The last thing you wanted was to trap her in expectation.

She gave a heavy-lidded smile and nodded. “I was looking forward to it,” she murmured, then, a beat later, she looked into your eyes with a quiet determination as she added, “I love you, Y/N…”

The world stopped for a second, the moment stretching into something infinite. Then you pressed your lips together, exhaling slowly. “You love me,” you said at last—not a question, but a statement. 

A certainty.

“And you love me too?”

It was almost ridiculous that she had to ask—but you’re more than happy to give the answer. “I do.”

[jlsammy25]

All Of Your Pieces (20 - You Love Me)

Chapter Summary: “Last night,” she said, her voice barely a murmur. “You said you love me.” She glanced down at her hands and you mirrored her. “Did you mean it? Or was it just something you said to shut me up?” she asked.

You wanted to go to her, lift her chin up to look at you, but it felt like a sneaky move to manipulate her into staying with you. So you stayed where you were, but you made sure you were looking at her as you replied. “Every word,” you said, a weak, fleeting tug pulling at your lips. “That’s why I’m leaving you be.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.5k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort, mature content

A/N: I promise, I'm not trying to tease anyone, but this chapter was needed for obvious reasons // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You blinked up at the ceiling, trying to piece the events of last night. The cracked plaster didn’t give any answers, and the faint headache blooming behind your eyes wasn’t helping.

Wanda was still asleep.

And you were on the couch.

Not sitting or slouching but lying there, fully stretched out, one arm draped awkwardly over your stomach and the other hanging off the edge like an afterthought. The blanket—if you could call it that—was half on the floor, and your jacket had been haphazardly thrown over your chest as an afterthought.

You were only able to get some sleep a few hours into the morning, and now that you were fully awake once again, your mind kept going back to what happened—or didn’t happen.

You drank the sight of Wanda at the center of the bed, just as she unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. Your eyes couldn’t help but drift downward, to her underwear, noticeably damp even in the meager light of a quarter-moon slithering through the surrounding darkness.

Shadows fell across Wanda’s bare skin like strokes of a paintbrush, conveniently obscuring the most intimate details while still teasing you at the same time. You couldn’t help staring, mesmerized by the way the soft light outlined her figure. It didn’t hide her eyes, though—those vivid green eyes that had made you weak the moment you first saw them.

You couldn’t deny that you’d thought about this moment before. Flashes of her in your arms, under you, tangled with you—of course, those thoughts had crept in. But not nearly as much as you’d thought about her in other ways. Her well-being. Her happiness. Her loneliness. 

Her very existence.

“Are you just going to watch?” she asked, a shaky breath betraying her impatience. 

“How long have you been up?”

You jerked your head in the direction of Wanda’s voice as it came from the door of the bedroom. She was leaning against the frame, one arm crossed over her chest, the other holding onto the edge of the door. Her hair was a mess, a wild halo of dusky strands falling around her face. 

“Not long,” you croaked out, your voice rough from sleep—or lack thereof. You cleared your throat and sat up, the couch springs groaning under your weight. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Wanda shrugged slightly. “You didn’t.” Then, she bit her bottom lip—a small, unintentional gesture that felt maddeningly attractive—and said, “You were talking in your sleep.”

Your throat went dry. Considering where your thoughts had been just moments ago, whatever you said couldn’t have been innocent.

“What… what did I say?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought she wouldn’t answer. 

“My name.”

“Uh,” you started, your head dipping down, hoping she wouldn’t notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Wanda…”

She shook her head, cutting you off before you could stumble any further. “Don’t. Please. Not right now.”

You snapped your mouth shut and gave a small nod. Did she regret last night?

Wanda sighed, pushing off the doorframe and ambling further into the tiny living room. Bare feet against cheap carpet, a tired grace in the way she moved.

“I’m going out,” she said. “I need to clear my head… and buy some groceries.”

You couldn’t help the snort that you let out. “Groceries?”

“Yes. Groceries.” Her hand dipped into her pocket, and she pulled out the tracker you slipped in her jacket yesterday. She extended it toward you. “You won’t need this.”

You stared at it, and it stared back at you accusingly. “Wanda…” Your voice cracked halfway through her name, and you stopped. You couldn’t form the argument in your throat.

“I’m not going to run,” she said, giving you a wary look. “I’m not going to do anything ‘stupid’, and I’m not going to disappear. You don’t have to follow me.”

“How do I know that? How do I know you’re not just—”

“Do you trust me?”

She could have said anything else, made any argument, but she didn’t. She asked you a question with only one real answer. 

Yes. Of course, you wanted to say yes. And you did trust her—you trusted her in ways you’d never trusted anyone before. But you’d been wrong before, too. You’d trusted her to stay, and she’d left. You’d trusted that she wouldn’t shut you out, and she had. Wanda had a habit of disappearing—of slipping through your fingers like smoke, like some fading dream.

She’d tried to leave before. Tried to be on her own. And she could do it again. Despite the three most dangerous words you said last night. Despite the way her lips had crashed into yours, despite the bruising grip of her hands on your collar, despite the way her breath had trembled against your neck. Despite everything that happened—and didn’t happen.

But she was staring at you now, her green eyes impossibly clear, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that made her look both fragile and unbreakable at the same time.

“I trust you.”

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to cover yourself even though she was the one wearing next to nothing. You’d been so focused on taking in every last detail of her that you’d forgotten about your own clothes.

A small, breathy laugh escaped Wanda as she shifted on the bed, and you noticed her knuckles were tense where she gripped the sheets. The sight of her hands trembling a bit reminded you she was nervous too, even if she tried to hide it.

“I-I’d like to see you,” she murmured, her cheeks turning a subtle shade of pink. 

You took a steadying breath and started to peel off your clothes, one piece at a time. The room felt strangely cold against your skin, and a tremor ran through you. You’d swear it was the cold, but deep down, you knew it was nerves, crawling under your skin and eating away at your self-control. You left your underwear on, figuring it was only fair since Wanda still wore hers. You resisted the absurd urge to sniff yourself, worried you hadn’t prepared enough for a moment like this. You just prayed you’d be okay.

You set a knee on the mattress, feeling the cool sheets under your palm. Wanda’s impatience showed in how she reached for you, fingers hooking behind your neck, guiding you toward her lips. Your heart pounded as you lowered yourself to her, lips brushing hers before deepening into a slow, searching kiss.

Bit by bit, you eased her back against the pillows. Her mouth parted, inviting your tongue to explore further, to taste every secret within her. Feeling her bare skin against yours was a kind of heaven you hadn’t known existed—soft, and so very warm. You broke away—just to get a hold of yourself—breath coming in shallow huffs, your fingers idly smoothing strands of hair off her face. God, she smelled so good. It wasn’t just the lingering scent of her shampoo or lotion; it was her, raw and feminine, her arousal so heady it was almost overwhelming. 

“What do you like?” you asked quietly. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

Wanda’s cheeks burned, and she mumbled something you couldn’t hear. You prompted her gently, but she only gave vague answers—“Just... touch me,” she said, voice low and a little breathless. So you did. Your fingers trailed down her side, over the curve of her waist, before slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear.

Her breath hitched when your fingertips found the heat between her legs. You traced a line along her slit with your index finger, feeling the warm slickness there. A shaky moan escaped her, and her hips tilted reflexively, encouraging you to keep going. You tried different pressures, different rhythms, hoping to find the perfect way to push her over the edge. She only offered tiny whimpers and nods—none of it truly clarifying how best to give her what she’d never had before.

You could still smell her faintly on your fingers. Soap and rainwater and something distinctly sweet. It clung to your skin, to the inside of your lungs, and no matter how many times you rubbed your hands against your jeans or pressed your knuckles to your mouth—it wouldn’t leave you. Long after you’d washed them in the tiny, rust-stained sink. Long after Wanda had slipped out the door that morning, leaving you with half a promise and a leftover pizza.

You felt stupid. Monumentally stupid.

You’d made choices last night—said things, done things, not done things. Your brain wouldn’t shut up, cycling through every detail on an endless loop. Her voice, her hands, the way she looked at you.

You always overthink. It’s your specialty. And last night was no exception. Now, the sinking feeling in your chest whispered that you’d missed your only chance.

But before you could spiral—again—the burner phone buzzed somewhere beneath the mountain of pillows Wanda had buried you under some time in the night.

You dug through the lumpy cushions and pulled it free, thumb swiping across the cracked screen.

Natasha.

You stared at her name for a beat too long, thumb hovering over the screen before you opened the message.

Natasha: How are you holding up?

Natasha: How’s Wanda?

You started typing. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. You didn’t know which to start with. 

I followed her to London.

She knows you asked me to keep an eye on her.

We did more than just kiss last night.

Eventually:

You: We’re doing okay.

Natasha: Good. You still have cash? I can wire you some if you're running low.

Natasha: But listen, Y/N—you need to figure something out. Get a job, something low-key. I can pull some strings, set you up somewhere quiet.

Natasha: Just tell me what you’re good at… besides getting into trouble :)

You rolled your eyes despite the fact Natasha couldn’t see you do it.

What were you good at? Fighting? Running? Making a mess of things with Wanda? You chewed the inside of your cheek and stared at the blinking cursor until your vision blurred.

You: I’ll figure something out.

You hit send before you could second-guess it.

The reply came almost instantly.

Natasha: You better. Keep me updated. Don’t let Wanda out of your sight.

You tossed the burner phone onto the couch cushion next to you and rubbed at your temples, trying to knead the ache out of your skull. The pizza box still sat crooked in the fridge. You still hadn’t moved. You hadn’t eaten in hours, but hunger wasn’t the problem.

Your fingers slid further into Wanda's warmth, spreading her open just a little with your index and middle finger. Her slickness made the motion easy, and you found her clit, circling it softly at first, counterclockwise. Wanda stiffened under your touch, her thighs trembling slightly as her breathing grew more erratic.

You held back, unsure if her reaction was pleasure or discomfort, and your voice came out soft, coaxing. “Tell me what works for you, baby.”

She didn’t answer. Her breathing had grown shallow, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t form the words. Her fingers dug into your shoulder, hard enough that you’d probably have bruises later, but you couldn’t bring yourself to mind.

You wanted to believe you were doing something right, but you had to be sure. “Is this okay?” you asked again. “Do you want me to go faster? Harder?”

Wanda managed a shaky nod, her eyes squeezing shut as her hips twitched under your hand. That tiny, wordless confirmation made your heart soar. You leaned down, keeping your fingers moving over her clit as you took one of her nipples into your hot mouth. 

Wanda gasped—no, she cried out, her back arching sharply against the sheets. The sound sent a thrill straight through you, and you sucked gently, letting your teeth graze her lightly as your fingers picked up their pace.

But as the minutes passed, something changed. Her moans, which had been breathy and raw, started to sound… mechanical. It wasn’t immediate, but you noticed the subtle change and stopped, your fingers stilling as concern began to creep in.

You slowed your hand, lifting your head to look at her face. Her brows were drawn together, her bottom lip trembling slightly. 

“Wanda?” you said softly, your voice gentle but firm. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She opened her eyes, glassy with frustration and something that looked like shame. “I don’t… I don’t know,” she said weakly, her voice breaking. “It feels good, I think, but it’s not… it’s not enough.”

You stopped completely, your fingers still resting against her, but you didn’t move them again. Wanda’s fingers closed around your wrist, and she let out a soft, frustrated groan. “Don’t stop…”

But you shook your head gently, bringing her hand to your lips and kissing her knuckles. “We need to stop,” you said softly. “Not if you’re not comfortable, Wanda. This doesn’t matter unless you’re okay.”

She whimpered but released your wrist reluctantly. Before moving away completely, you brought your fingers to your mouth, looking her in the eye as you slipped them past your lips. The taste of her hit your tongue, sharp and heady, and you couldn’t help the small noise that escaped your throat as you cleaned the traces of her off your fingers. 

You were uncomfortably wet yourself, the ache between your thighs almost unbearable, but you pushed it aside. This wasn’t about you. You eased yourself down beside her, lying on your side so you could face her. Wanda lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling as she collected herself.

Then, without turning to you, she spoke softly to the ceiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever… finished.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Am I… am I your first?”

Wanda let out a soft, tired laugh and finally glanced at you. “No,” she said simply, and didn’t elaborate.

Jealousy overwhelmed you in an instant. You weren’t sure what to do with it, so you shoved it down, forced it into a corner of your mind where it couldn’t claw its way out. Again, you had to remind yourself that this wasn’t about you. And it’s not like you were innocent, either—you’d been around the block more than a few times.

Even as you tried to tell yourself to leave it alone, the question slipped out of your mouth with just a single name. “Vision?”

Wanda flinched, just barely, but enough for you to notice. She shifted on the bed, her body turning slightly away from you, her arms folding over her stomach.

“We never… I mean, we tried a few times. Me with him, him with me…” She trailed off. “But it was hard to let go, to really let myself feel it when it was so clear he was only doing it for my sake. He doesn’t really need sex, Y/N. He doesn’t feel that need.”

Wanda’s voice grew quieter as she continued. “I don’t even know what makes me feel good,” she admitted, almost to herself. Her fingers fidgeted with the sheets, and then she glanced at you with a small, bashful smile. “I was hoping you’d know.”

The heat, the raw hunger you’d felt earlier—the burning desire to claim Wanda, to make her yours in every sense of the word—was gone. Not because you didn’t want her—God, you still wanted her more than anything—

But now, all you could feel was the weight of responsibility, the unspoken pressure to be the one who figured this out for her, who got her there, who didn’t let her down.

It was overwhelming.

You weren’t ready.

An hour ago, the two of you were at each other’s throats. You’d only managed to keep her close because you’d forced the words out, told her you loved her, hoping it would stop her from pushing you away again.

“Maybe… maybe this isn’t the right time to go through with this,” you said, before you could turn over the sentence in your head.

Her face fell instantly, the hopeful smile dissolving. “Oh,” she said softly, so soft it barely registered. 

You panicked. You hadn’t meant it like that. You tried to explain, fumbling over your words. “But I—I meant what I said earlier, about me… you know…” Loving you. You wanted to force the words out, but you were gripped by an uncontrollable fear that you were going to fuck this up somehow. 

Wanda’s face went blank as she nodded. Slowly, she turned away from you, her bare shoulders rigid as she dragged the blanket up over herself, curling onto her side and effectively shutting you out. 

You sat there for a long moment, torn between regretting what you’d just done and convincing yourself it was the right call. Feeling like you could still salvage this, you kept talking.

“Maybe I should sleep on the couch,” you said, trying to sound casual. “The bed’s, uh, small, and I don’t want you to feel crowded. I just… I want you to be comfortable.”

She let out a vague, noncommittal noise—something between a hum and a sigh—but she didn’t turn around. 

You nodded to yourself, despite knowing she couldn’t see you. Awkwardly, you slid off the bed, reaching for your discarded clothes.

You stood abruptly, your body protesting from hours of being folded on the couch. The floor was cold under your bare feet as you crossed the room, grabbed your jacket off the armrest, and slipped it on.

Did Wanda think you didn’t want her? That you’d lied when you said you loved her? Did she realize those words might not have meant enough—might not have meant anything—to her?

That she didn’t want you?

And if she did… you couldn’t blame her. She’d wanted you once, and you’d gone and ruined it.

—

You thought about Natasha's offer longer than you wanted to admit. The idea of a normal life—a clock-in, clock-out routine, steady pay, no running, no hiding—it almost felt like an insult at first. Normal wasn’t something people like you and Wanda got to have. Normal was a word reserved for other people, people whose faces weren’t printed on grainy newspapers with the words ‘AT LARGE’ stamped underneath.

But still, the thought stuck with you. A job. Stability. Natasha wouldn’t have offered if she didn’t think it was possible.

You’d always liked libraries. The smell of old paper (almost as much as you like the smell of new books), the understanding that peace and quiet was prioritized, the way time seemed to slow down inside those walls. You loved books—loved the way they could pull you out of your own head, even if just for a little while. 

The idea of working in a library felt… perfect. It made sense. You didn’t need to be a librarian though, didn’t need a fancy title or even a desk. Security guard, janitor, someone who restocks shelves in the dead of night—you’d take it. To be surrounded by books every day—hook, line and sinker.

But then there was Wanda. 

You needed to consider her in your decision.

You’d never asked her what she wanted. What she might have been if she’d been born somewhere else, to someone else, without powers or war or loss. Who would she have been? Would she have been a student at some sleepy university, studying literature or art history? An artist or a photographer? Maybe she’d own a little flower shop somewhere, her hair tied back with a scarf and soil smudged on her cheek.

You wondered if she’d ever let herself imagine those things. 

You realized then how little you knew about Wanda’s dreams—the ones she might’ve had before the world turned cruel. With her love for sitcoms, maybe she once dreamed of writing for them, creating stories where problems were neatly solved in under thirty minutes, and everyone laughed at the end. Maybe she even dreamed of acting in them. 

Natasha contacted you again around lunch.

Natasha: I’ve got two options for you.

Natasha: Scotland or Prague.

Natasha: Scotland has a state library security position and another opening for back kitchen cleaning at a small diner. Prague offers a factory gig alongside the library job.

You stared at the screen, the two choices sitting there in cold white text. You were literally going to have to make a decision that would shape the next few years of your life.

Scotland. Prague.

Scotland, for you, meant misty mornings, damp stone streets, the smell of rain-soaked grass. Prague, a capital city, was cutthroat, though maybe not quite Manhattan-level—but it wouldn’t feel like downtime which was what you were sort-of looking for.

Neither sounded glamorous, but neither sounded bad, either.

You: Thanks, Nat. I need to talk to Wanda first.

Natasha: Do that. But don’t wait too long. These windows close fast.

—

It was nearly sunset, and Wanda still wasn’t back. 

You wandered into the kitchenette, trying to distract yourself of Wanda still not being back, and Natasha’s two offers. You rummaged through the fridge for its sparse contents—half a bag of pasta, a jar of tomato sauce with smudges on the label, a sad little cluster of herbs in a plastic container.

It wasn’t much, but it would do.

You boiled the water, let the sauce simmer on the stove, stirred absentmindedly as steam fogged the tiny window above the sink. The simple act of cooking calmed you, just a little.

When the pasta was done and the sauce was ladled over it, you left the pot on the stove, covered, and stepped out onto the balcony. 

It was barely big enough to stand on without feeling like you might tip over the railing. You pulled a crumpled cigarette from your pocket and lit it with trembling fingers. You’d quit a long time ago, but somewhere between running, hiding, and trying to keep up with Wanda, you’d picked it back up.

You sighed and took a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs.

Wanda still wasn’t back. Of course, your thoughts drifted to her again, circling like a vulture. Was she okay? Did she eat anything today? Did she find what she was looking for, whatever that was? After thinking about it for some time, you realized you wanted to pick Scotland. You thought about how you’d pitch the idea to her, so she’d pick it too.

You exhaled a lungful of smoke, tapping the ash off the edge of the railing, your eyes drifting absently over the street below.

And then—you froze.

Down the block, just past the small bakery that’s already started closing its doors, you finally spotted Wanda. She was walking in lengthy strides, her bag slung over her shoulder, her hair loose and wild around her face. Relief flooded you, and for a split second, your shoulders sagged.

But she wasn’t alone. A man walked beside her. Blonde, tall, and wearing a long coat, looking so refined. The hair on the back of your neck prickled.

Who the hell is that?

You crushed the cigarette against the railing, ember snuffed out in an instant, and slipped back inside the room. The door clicked softly shut behind you, but you didn’t move far. You hovered by the window, the curtain pulled back just enough to see without being seen.

Wanda and the man were closer now, walking toward the building. You reached blindly for the binoculars stashed near your bag, hands trembling as you raised them to your eyes.

The lenses brought him into focus, and for a second, you thought you were seeing a ghost.

It was none other than Vision. Although, he looked very different from what you’re used to.

He wasn’t red and gold now, no glowing stone in the center of his forehead. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his blonde hair was neatly combed back. He looked… human. And, if you were being honest, a little handsome like this.

You lowered the binoculars, blinking hard like you could shake away the image. But when you raised them again, he was still there, standing next to Wanda, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted slightly as he spoke to her.

What the hell was he doing here?

The last time you saw him was at the airport, and he and Wanda hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. But watching them now, something was different. 

Wanda’s face was tilted downward, her hair hiding her expression from you, but Vision—or whatever version of him this was—was looking at her intently. His pale face was composed, his mouth moving as he spoke, and Wanda nodded slowly in response, her hands stuffed deep into her coat pockets.

They weren’t arguing. They weren’t fighting. 

And you hated it.

You didn’t think it could get worse—until Vision leaned in and pressed a kiss to Wanda’s forehead. That was it. You turned away from the window, pacing across the cramped hotel room. Your thoughts were a mess, tripping over each other.

Your eyes darted back to the window, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look again. Instead, you sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, head in your hands.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours until you heard the soft metallic clink of keys sliding into the lock. You shot to your feet before you even realized you were moving, hands flexing at your sides as the door creaked open. Wanda walked in and set her keys down on the wobbly side table, her back still to you.

You cleared your throat to announce your presence, and Wanda spun around, surprise flashing across her face. Clearly, she hadn’t expected you to be there, waiting for her.

“Hey.”

For all the things you admired about her, being good at lying and pretending everything was fine wasn’t one of them.

“Hey,” you answered back, shoving your hands into your jacket pockets to stop them from shaking. “How was your day?”

“It was fine,” she said with a small shrug, dropping her bag onto the floor by the door.

Fine.

She said it like she hadn’t just walked back here with Vision. Like the whole damn world hadn’t tilted sideways under your feet seeing them together.

You waited.

But when Wanda started unpacking her grocery bag, placing items in the fridge and tucking others into the cupboard, you realized you weren’t waiting for anything at all.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

There was nothing tactical about your line of questioning, but you didn’t care. You wanted answers—now.

Wanda froze. Then, slowly, she turned back to face you. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, shaking your head with a cynical smile. “How long have you been seeing Vision? How long have you been meeting with him behind my back?”

Wanda laughed and it infuriated you even more than you thought possible. “Behind your back?”

“Well, you clearly weren’t planning on telling me that you met up with him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is my business,” you muttered in frustration. “Vision worked for Tony. The same Tony who let us rot in the Raft, Wanda.”

You stepped closer, and Wanda instinctively backed away, setting the jar of peanut butter down on the counter with deliberate care, like it was some kind of buffer between you both.

“You’re practically handing us over to the authorities at this point. Do you even realize how dangerous this is? How reckless? You didn’t just put yourself at risk tonight—you put me at risk too.”

Wanda raised her index finger in front of you. “One—Vision doesn’t work for Tony. He worked with him.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Vision was J.A.R.V.I.S, and he wouldn’t have existed without the AI assistant Tony created. He was his subordinate, and Tony kept a roof over his head from the minute he was born. It was hard to see it any other way.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Wanda didn’t give you the chance.

“Two—he’s not working with Tony anymore. He fled, Y/N. Just like us. He doesn’t know where to go, and when I met up with him, it was because he’d been asking me for weeks and wanted to give him this one chance so he’d move on.”

“Do you really think—”

“And no, I didn’t tell him anything about you—about—” She stopped short. About us.

“I told him he didn’t have to come here,” she continued. “Because he’s not a fugitive like me. He can go back to New York, live freely, make his own choices. If he doesn’t want to work with Tony anymore, he can work for someone else. He has options. So I told him to leave. Because he doesn’t belong here with me, running and hiding. He doesn’t deserve this.”

The fight went out of you the instant you saw a clearer picture of what their meeting had been about. Vision went all the way here to offer her something you couldn’t—a way out.

And she’d turned him down. 

“And what about you?” you asked, quieter now. “Do you think you deserve this?”

Her eyes darted away, somewhere over your shoulder, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

“He came here with a proposition, didn’t he?” you continued. “To take you with him. To give you a way out. If you think about it, he could protect you, Wanda. He could speak for you, argue for you. People would listen to him.”

Wanda didn’t say anything. Her lips pressed together until they turned white.

“Do you want to go with him?” you whispered. 

That forced her eyes back on you. “I… I don’t—”

You sighed. “Wanda, you’re allowed to want that. To want something… better.”

Wanda shook her head. “I don’t want something better.” You weren’t expecting that.

“I want to carve my own path. When I joined the Avengers, it felt like a cop-out for everything I’d done. Like penance wrapped in gratitude, tied up with Tony Stark’s money and Steve’s moral high ground. I’ve spent so long living on someone else’s terms—being who they needed me to be, trying to make up for things I can never undo. I can’t do that anymore.”

She paused to breathe, and you didn’t dare interrupt her—not when she was finally opening up in a way she hadn’t on the night she called you a coward.

“If I go with Vision, it’ll just be the same thing all over again. Another version of running. Another version of someone else’s idea of redemption. I can’t—I won’t do that again.”

You understood what she was trying to tell you, what she needed from you. It wasn’t a savior. It wasn’t someone to push her into the light or pull her out of the dark. It was someone who could stand still long enough for her to find her own footing.

But you’d been doing the opposite all along. You followed her here, against her will, because you couldn’t bear to let her go. Because you were selfish. Because you thought that maybe, you could fix her.

But she wasn’t broken. And she wasn’t yours to fix.

It was a tough pill to swallow. 

“I…” You thought of giving her encouraging words, but you decided it’s best to just give her what she needs—her freedom. “I’ve decided where I want to start over. Scotland.”

That made her blink. “Scotland?”

“Yeah,” you said simply. “There’s this little place I know. Quiet. Green. It’s isolated enough that no one asks questions.”

Her lips parted slightly, brows knitting together in confusion.

“I'm telling you this because you're right. You should be able to carve your own path. I'll leave tonight,” you said.

It didn’t look like she was relieved to hear that you were leaving, like you were expecting her too. 

“Last night,” she said, her voice barely a murmur. “You said you love me.”

A flash of heat raced up your neck, and your stomach lurched.

She glanced down at her hands and you mirrored her. “Did you mean it? Or was it just something you said to shut me up?” she asked. 

You wanted to go to her, lift her chin up to look at you, but it felt like a sneaky move to manipulate her into staying with you. So you stayed where you were, but you made sure you were looking at her as you replied.

“Every word,” you said, a weak, fleeting tug pulling at your lips. “That’s why I’m leaving you be.”

Wanda stepped forward, her arms dropping to her sides. “I’ll go with you. To Scotland.”

Hope flared in your chest, filling your lungs and sparking to life in every corner of your body.

You nodded, slow and cautious, like you might scare her off if you moved too fast. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoed.

[jlsammy25]

And just like that, everything is alright again 😌

All Of Your Pieces (19 - Exile)

Chapter Summary: You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.6k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Whew! Another update in less than a week. Don't get used to it ;) I do have a pleasant surprise at the end of this chapter :P Also, very off topic: I'm so proud of our homegrown talent, tennis player Alex Eala. Doesn't matter if she's unable to beat world #2 later, I'm so damn proud of her! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The pounding on your door jolted you awake. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, but the knocking only grew louder. Relentless. Annoyingly insistent.

“Y/N!” Natasha’s voice came from the otherside, impatient, the crowing roosters doing nothing to drown her out. “Open up!”

With a muffled curse, you kicked the blanket off and stumbled to the door, still half-asleep and not caring that you were barely dressed. “What the hell, Nat?” you muttered, reaching for the handle. “It’s too early for this.”

Yanking the door open, you were ready to unleash a tirade—only to find Wanda standing beside Natasha, already dressed and a little red-faced. Whatever you meant to say died in your throat, your hand subconsciously moving to your chest to cover yourself.

“What’s happening?” you asked, blinking between them.

Natasha crossed her arms, smirking at your half-naked state. Wanda’s turned the other way, out of respect, of course, and well—

“Steve finally called. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Steve called? What did he—”

“Get. Dressed,” Natasha interrupted, emphasizing each word as she turned on her heel and started walking down the hallway.

You glanced at Wanda, who hadn’t said anything yet. “Good morning,” you greeted softly. She shifted slightly under your scrutiny, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “You should hurry,” she said softly before following Natasha out. 

You nodded and closed the door, quickly throwing on whatever you could find. Your mind raced as you moved, trying to piece together what could’ve happened. If Steve was calling now, it meant something had changed—and probably not for the better.

When you stepped back out into the hall, Wanda and Natasha were waiting for you. Wanda’s eyes lingered on you briefly before she looked away. Natasha was already heading toward the exit, her pace brisk.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

—

The burner phone lay in the center of a small, round table, right out in the open of a practically empty café. A few early risers drifted in and out, some grabbing coffee to start their day, others hurrying to catch a bus or a train. Outside, a tram rattled by on its tracks, and the scent of fresh bread drifted out from a bakery down the street. It felt like an ordinary morning in an ordinary city, but you knew better. Everything was balanced on a knife’s edge, and the four of you sat scattered around the table—close enough to show unity, distant enough not to draw too much attention.

For weeks, the four of you had been stuck in this strange holding pattern, drifting from apartment to apartment somewhere in Europe. Nothing here felt like home, and yet you couldn’t say with certainty that it wouldn’t have to be, at least for a while. You’d scrounged for intel, picked up rumors, listened for coded radio transmissions. The lack of progress had gotten under your skin. No one said it, but you all knew it; staying still for too long was dangerous.

Steve had given an exact time to call, and all of you watched the seconds tick closer to the moment he’d promised.

Until, finally, the burner phone buzzed to life.

It was Natasha who snatched the phone up and answered, putting it on speaker but setting the volume so low, only trained ears would be able to hear from it. “Steve.”

“Nat. Everyone there?”

“We’re here,” she said, her eyes darting briefly to the three expectant faces around her. “What’s the situation?”

“I’ll get straight to it,” Steve said. “We’ve regrouped enough people to make a plan, but things are still fragile. Bucky’s safe. He’s in Wakanda, and Shuri’s working on helping him. He’s making progress.”

“Wakanda,” Sam repeated quietly. “Why aren’t we all in Wakanda? It’s got the tech, the resources—hell, it sounds like the safest place for us right now.”

Steve sighed on the other end. “It’s not that simple. T’Challa’s already taken a huge risk harboring Bucky. If we all show up, we’ll draw too much attention to Wakanda. That can’t happen.

“Listen—I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we need to lay low. The Sokovia Accords are in full effect, and we’re all wanted. We can’t operate the way we used to.”

No one so much as shifted at the news. Deep down, you’d expected this, but hearing it out loud just made it more real.

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, “we can’t operate like we used to. And, for an indefinite time, we won’t be able to go home without being arrested. Legally, we can’t do our duty. Maybe it’s time we hang up the cape—for now, at least. Live like normal people. Find some happiness where we can. If something big happens—something we are needed for—we’ll be there. But until then, protect yourselves first. This is your chance to… to live.”

A silence fell. You expected a plan, a rendezvous, something, but not this: a call to stand down and embrace normalcy. After a moment, Steve said his goodbye and the line went quiet with an abrupt finality.

You looked at Natasha. “What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

She set the phone down, her expression resigned. “You heard him. We’re dismissed from duty. We can live anywhere we want. We’re on our own. If there’s something you’ve always wanted—an ordinary job, a hobby, something you never got the chance to pursue—this is it.”

You stared at her, waiting for the punchline. A normal life. After everything that happened, was that even possible?

Sam got up first. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if he’d made up his mind the moment Steve stopped talking. “Where are you going?” you asked softly.

He gave you a wry smile. “Wakanda. Steve might be saying all the right things to keep us from following him, but knowing him? He won’t be taking any time off. He’s too stubborn, too damn noble. He’s not dragging us further into this mess because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, but I know him. He’ll need backup for whatever he’s planning.”

He was probably right. Steve had never been one to truly walk away, and deep down, all of you knew it. But the instinct to follow him, to fall in line like before, wasn’t there anymore. You glanced at Wanda from the corner of your eye, hoping for a clue that she might feel the same way as Sam, but she only kept looking down at her lap. 

“Take care, Sam,” you said, unsure what else to say.

He grinned, giving you a playful salute before nodding to Natasha. “See you around, folks.”

It felt like a farewell that went beyond Steve and Sam. Natasha pulled out a few bills and placed them on the table, and something like dread settled in your chest. Without thinking, you put a hand on her arm, as if that could stop her from leaving too.

Natasha offered you a sad, knowing smile. “I’ve got things of my own to take care of, Y/N. But I’ll check in. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—you’re trouble.”

She glanced at Wanda, who sat there like a statue pretending to be a person, hands clasped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t going to drink, her phone glowing with some useless distraction she wasn’t really looking at.

“You good, Maximoff?” Natasha asked.

Wanda forced a smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and the lie just sat there between the three of you, stinking up the cafe.

Natasha sighed, pushed her chair back, and gave you a quick tilt of her head toward the door. “Walk with me,” she said, already on her feet.

You followed, leaving Wanda alone at the table. She stopped near the restrooms, and you noticed the faint smell of bleach and coffee grounds. When she turned to face you, she wore that familiar look—the one she always had right before saying something you probably didn’t want to hear.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Natasha said. She meant Wanda. “She’s fragile. More fragile than she thinks.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice hardened. “She’s the one most affected by all this. Lagos. The Accords. Vision. If she breaks, it won’t be small. It’ll take everything down with her.”

You wanted to tell her you’d take care of it, that you’d keep Wanda in one piece, but the truth was, you weren’t sure where to start. 

“You don’t blame her for Lagos?” you asked instead, your voice cracking just a little.

Natasha’s laugh was cold, humorless. “Blame? No. But you’re not blind to what she can do. She doesn’t need blame. She needs someone to keep her from drowning in it.”

You nodded again. “I’ll watch her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

Natasha gave you a look, the kind that said, I hope you mean that, because if you don’t, I’m coming back for both of you. She patted your shoulder, almost mockingly. 

“Call me if anything changes,” you said, pushing her hand away. 

“Sure,” she replied, and then she was gone. 

You walked back to the table, the space Natasha left behind feeling like a crater. Wanda looked up at you, her eyes searching yours, but not long enough to find anything. “She’s leaving too, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice flat, drained.

“Yeah,” you said, sinking into your chair.

Wanda nodded, like that explained everything, like people leaving was the only thing she truly understood anymore. She glanced down at her phone, but she wasn’t scrolling this time. She just held it, gripping it and staring at a wallpaper of what looked like a city covered in snow.

“Where’s that?” you asked, nodding toward her phone.

Wanda immediately deposited it facedown on the table. “Sokovia,” she said softly. “At least… what it was before Ultron.”

Sokovia, a place that didn’t exist anymore except on a digital wallpaper and inside her head. You remembered the news footage, the images of destruction on every network, people whispering that it was like the world was falling apart piece by piece. Now it existed only in a snapshot, a memory so distant it might as well have been some dream you both shared and forgot until now.

You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was. 

But it sucked.

It sucked like a vacuum hole in the universe, pulling in every last ounce of consolation you tried to salvage.

There were only two of you now. What happens then?

Wanda pushed back her chair suddenly, the sound scraping against the floor. You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as she stood.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

She grabbed her phone and slid it into her pocket without meeting your eyes. “You heard them. We’re free to leave.”

“To leave?” you repeated, your breath coming in gasps as you tried to catch up. 

“Back to the hotel. I’m packing my things.”

A dumb question hovered on your tongue—Pack them and then what?—but you already knew how pathetic it would sound. She stood there, hands at her sides, looking as if she might bolt at any second. You wondered if she was waiting for you to protest, to say something that could change her mind, something that might tether both of you to this flimsy refuge of a café.

But what could you say? For the first time, the weight of being “free” weighed more than any chain. And freedom, in its very core, meant going off in your own directions and pretending it wasn’t terrifying.

“Right,” you said, voice thin. “Of course.”

That was it, then. You could follow her and hope your presence wasn’t another burden, or you could let her walk away and watch the frangible thread between you stretch thinner and thinner until it snapped.

You looked down at the overturned phone on the table, Sokovia trapped inside it, and thought, This is what’s left of us: old ghosts and borrowed time.

—

Following Wanda out of Valencia wasn’t as easy as you’d expected. Keeping your distance meant relying on old-fashioned methods—no GPS, no tracking devices—anything that might risk being intercepted. It made the task slower, harder, and far more nerve-wracking. 

You could’ve just asked to go with her. But you didn’t know how to ask. And honestly, you were more afraid she’d say no.

Wanda didn’t make it easy, either. The first day, you almost lost her twice. She moved like she was on a strict schedule. You followed her on foot at first, blending into the steady trickle of tourists and sleepy locals making their way through narrow lanes. She’d pause at a corner bakery, pretend to study the display of pastries, then slip down a side passage that led to a different part of the city—like she was testing you, daring you to keep up. You hung back at each corner, counting to ten under your breath, imagining the worst: Interpol agents appearing out of every corner of the street, or maybe even Iron Man himself, coming to deliver you to the authorities himself. 

By late afternoon, Wanda boarded a train heading north, and so did you—two cars down, far enough that she wouldn’t see you if she glanced over her shoulder. The train clattered through towns and countryside, the Spanish sun bleeding into a moody gray as you crossed into France. You’d half-expected her to notice you by now, to turn around and say something like, Why are you here? But she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the passing scenery or on her phone.

By the time you reached Paris, the city was dark and alive in a way that felt too blaring for someone on the run. Wanda didn’t stay for long, just long enough to grab a coffee and switch trains. You stayed in her shadow, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, and it wasn’t until London that she finally slowed down. 

Wanda drifted through the alleys with a kind of restless purpose, like she didn’t know exactly where she was going but couldn’t bring herself to stop. Eventually, she led you to a small, weathered hotel on a quiet street, its faded sign a relic of better days.

You hung back, leaning against the wall across the street, pretending to check your watch as she checked in. Her suitcase rolled behind her, the door clicking shut as she disappeared inside. For a moment, you thought about letting it end there. She’d made her choice—she was free to leave. You weren’t supposed to follow her, weren’t supposed to hold her back.

But even if Natasha hadn’t told you to keep Wanda in sight, you knew you’d still be here, unable to pull yourself away. And that was the crux of the problem lately: you just couldn’t leave Wanda alone.

An hour passed, maybe more, and you were still there, slouched against the crumbling wall across from the hotel, feeling ridiculous. A one-person stakeout for someone who didn’t even know you were watching. Wanda hadn’t left her room, and for all you knew, she’d fallen asleep—or worse, she was sitting by the window, watching you make a fool of yourself out here.

You sighed, shoving your hands deep into your pockets. This was pitiful, even for you. Standing around like some washed-up private eye with no case to solve. You glanced down the street and spotted the neon glow of a pub sign. 

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed off the wall and headed for the pub. If Wanda wasn’t going anywhere tonight, then neither were you—not far, anyway. And if you were going to keep this vigil up, you might as well kill the time inside with something stronger than boredom.

The pub was appropriately poorly lit. You slid onto a stool at the bar, nodding to the bartender as he came over. “Whiskey,” you said.

The first glass went down easy, smooth and burning in all the right ways. It dulled the hundred thoughts in your head, but it wasn’t enough. So you ordered another. And another. 

Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, you started trying to figure out what the hell you were even doing here. What was the plan? Were you supposed to tail Wanda forever, like some overzealous babysitter? What did living even look like now—for you, for her?

In your haze, Steve’s words floated back to you. This is your chance to live. Great advice, except it didn’t come with instructions for people who didn’t know how to do that anymore. It was such a foreign concept, that he might as well have advised you to live outside the planet. 

And Wanda… God, Wanda. Nothing had gone her way in what felt like forever. Sokovia. Her brother. Being an Avenger. Vision.

You stared into your glass, swirling the meager amount of alcohol you’ve left in there. The truth, the ugly truth, was that you didn’t know how to help her. And that was all you cared about right now—helping Wanda.

So you drank. And with every sip, the world blurred a little more, and the questions you couldn’t answer faded into the haze.

 —

You woke up to a splitting headache and the taste of old whiskey on your tongue. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the thin light bleeding through mismatched curtains, and the first thing you noticed was that this definitely wasn’t your hotel room.

Not that it mattered much—you couldn’t recall booking one in the first place. 

You were lying on a lumpy couch, one cushion half-slid to the floor, and a blanket that unduly smelled like laundry detergent draped over you. By the stiffness in your neck and the fuzz in your brain, you guessed it was morning—unfortunately.

You tried to remember how you got here, but that memory was wrapped in cotton and drenched in whiskey. Something about a pub, something about Wanda…

“You caused quite a scene last night.”

Wanda’s voice.

You looked over to see her standing by a small window, arms crossed. She didn’t smile. If anything, her mouth was a tight line, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t exactly look angry—just disappointed in a way that made you want to crawl under the throw pillows and die. 

Wanda tilted her head, arms crossed. “You remember last night?”

You blinked at her, pushing up to a sitting position and holding your throbbing head. You remembered going into the pub. You cleared your throat, tested the waters: “I… might’ve had a little too much.”

Wanda let out a humorless laugh, so subtle you almost missed it. “You were bragging to everyone that you were an Avenger on the run.”

Your stomach lurched. You’d done what? “I was… what?”

“Don’t worry, everyone was too drunk to take you seriously. Half of them were telling stories about being secret princes or rock stars. I think one old guy claimed he was dating the Queen. But you… you really went for it.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t—”

She held up a hand, stopping you. “It’s fine. We’re safe. You just got lucky this time.” Her gaze darted to the window, checking the street beyond. It was quiet out there, no sirens, no S.W.A.T. teams rappelling down. Just a quiet morning in this nowhere part of town.

You rubbed at your face, feeling shame and headache wrestling for dominance in your head. Last night, after you’d realized Wanda wasn’t going anywhere, you decided to kill time by getting drunk off your ass. And because fate had a sense of humor, she’d found you this way—hungover, pathetic, big mouth running off about being a wanted fugitive.

Wanda peeled herself from the window, turned, and leveled her eyes at you. 

“Why were you following me?”

She looked worn out, rings under her eyes, hair slightly askew, as if she’d barely slept. You wondered if she’d stayed up all night, pacing this tiny room, working up the nerve to confront you.

You exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. Your hangover pulsed dully, and you tried to think of how to say what you needed to say. “I… don’t want to do this freedom thing alone.” You swallowed. “And I do enjoy your company, Wanda. You’re—well, you’re my friend. At least, I’d like to think so.”

At that, Wanda snorted, a short, derisive sound. “My friend?” she repeated, as if trying the word on for size. “You’re sure it has nothing to do with what Natasha told you? About keeping an eye on me?”

Your blood chilled. You didn’t think Wanda knew about that conversation—Nat had pulled you aside, quiet and careful. But here she was, calling you out. You realized that, of course, Wanda would’ve picked up on it. She wasn’t just anyone; she noticed things, felt things, that most people overlooked.

She could always read people if she wanted to, in quite the literal sense.

“I—” You started, but your throat closed up. What could you say? That yes, Nat had asked you to watch her, but you would’ve done it anyway? That you actually cared?

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “If that’s why you’re here, if that’s the only reason you think I need you around, you’re wrong.”

“Wanda, I—Nat asked me to look after you because she cares. I care. We all know you’re capable of handling yourself, but she—”

“But she’s worried I’ll lose control, right?” Wanda chuckled humorlessly. “I’m giving you until evening. Find somewhere else to go.”

Your heart sank, and you didn’t bother hiding it. “Wanda, please—”

“Don’t.” She straightened from the wall, her posture rigid, her chin lifted. “I’m going. Don’t be here when I get back.”

—

You did what she asked—at least, you disappeared from her immediate vicinity. It was easy to take her warning seriously; you’d seen Wanda upset before and knew the potential fallout. But leaving didn’t mean you abandoned the idea of watching over her. You just got smarter about it. 

But before you left her room, you made sure to plant something more subtle than your honest intentions. That morning, while Wanda was telling you off, you’d slipped the tracker—a thin, wiry filament not much thicker than a hair—into the inner pocket of her jacket. The one draped over the couch where you’d snored away your idiotic hangover. Insurance, you told yourself. For her safety. That’s what you kept saying in your head, anyway.

You spent most of the day drifting through London like you’d never been here before—because, in some ways, you really hadn’t. You’d only been to this city twice before, and both times it was strictly business, in-and-out missions. So, you did the most stereotypically touristy thing possible: you signed up for a walking tour.

A bright-eyed guide waved a little Union Jack flag like a wand, leading a huddle of strangers through winding streets, pointing out statues and centuries-old plaques. You listened with half an ear, feigning interest in the city’s folklore, the grand architecture, the queen’s guards, all of it. You even snapped some pictures and asked a stranger to take your picture next to a red telephone box. The day was, admittedly, a little perfect—eventful in a good way. Not to mention, it felt safer than just pacing around, waiting for Wanda to make her next move. 

You checked the screen as the walking tour disbanded outside a souvenir shop. The little tracker you’d slipped into Wanda’s jacket the other night showed her location edging into an area of the city you knew only by reputation. You pocketed your phone, excused yourself from the group, and headed in that direction.

—

The closer you got, the less the streets looked like London’s postcard image. Trash littered the sidewalks, and everything looked treacherous at best. But you knew better than to take appearances at face value.

You stuck to the main road until you were a few blocks away, then ducked into an alley to pull out your phone again. Wanda’s blip had settled near an abandoned warehouse, two stories of cracked windows and half-torn posters clinging to the brick.

You hovered near a boarded-up doorway, scanning your surroundings. A pair of men smoking behind a dumpster looked up briefly, but they didn’t seem interested in you. You waited, steadying your breath, making sure no one was following you.

Finally, you spotted movement near the far side of the warehouse. A man in a threadbare coat emerged from the shadows, glancing around nervously. You craned your neck for a better view and spotted Wanda already there, arms folded tightly across her chest.

They exchanged a few words you couldn’t quite catch, no matter how hard you strained to listen. But judging by their expressions, it didn’t look friendly. Wanda’s shoulders were squared, her stance assured rather than defensive. Whatever was going on, she clearly wasn’t afraid. You’ve noticed the man’s hand kept drifting toward his pocket, his movements jerky and uneven, like he was building up to something.

It was suspicious, because you’ve seen this behavior countless times, and it didn’t lead to anything pretty. But you held back, telling yourself—She’s fine. She’s Wanda Maximoff. She can handle herself.

Then it happened, and instinct swallowed logic whole. The man lunged forward slightly, his hand diving into his coat pocket. He’s going for a gun, your brain screamed before you even registered why. You weren’t sure if Wanda had clocked it yet, but you couldn’t risk waiting to find out.

You vaulted over a low stack of crates, crossing the distance in seconds. By the time the man caught sight of you, it was too late—your fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back, cursing, but reached again for his pocket. You grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove him down onto the cracked pavement. A cry tore from his throat as you slammed him against the ground.

“Stop!” Wanda shouted. But her cry fell on deaf ears as you swung your arm again. The dull crack of bone against knuckles reverberated in your ears as the man groaned and flailed weakly against you. 

That’s when you felt it—the force wrapping around your torso, securing you in place like invisible chains. Your arms stiffened, your chest froze mid-breath. You couldn’t move even when you tried to with all your strength.

The man stumbled away from you, gasping and clutching his chest. His face was ghostly pale, his knees buckling slightly. With trembling fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out—

Not a gun.

An envelope.

Crumpled and fat with cash. He held it up like a white flag, shaking so badly you thought he might drop it. You got it then—she was working. Contracting. Bodyguarding. Or whatever job paid her that kind of money. You couldn’t exactly blame her. Tony had frozen everyone’s bank accounts—everyone on Steve’s side—in a calculated effort to isolate you and force you out of hiding.

It was only a matter of time before your own funds dried up. And when they did, you’d be in the same boat, doing the same kind of work Wanda was doing. You had underground connections if you needed them, a way to scrape together cash, but you’d rather not. You didn’t want that for yourself—and you sure as hell didn’t want it for Wanda.

Wanda took the envelope, her eyes hard as she examined it. “Is this the full amount?” she demanded. The man nodded like a bobblehead, wiping a trail of blood from his split lip.

“Leave. And don’t say a word to your boss about this.”

The man, still clutching his side where your fist had landed, nodded frantically. “I won’t,” he stammered. “I swear, I won’t.”

“Good,” Wanda snapped. She stepped aside, just enough to give him space to scramble away. 

The moment he was gone, Wanda spun to face you, her expression murderous. 

“What the hell was that?” she hissed, nostrils flaring.

You rubbed at your neck, still feeling the phantom grip of her magic, but mostly the embarrassment of having gotten it wrong. “He looked like he was pulling a gun, Wanda. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait to find out.”

She shoved you. Not hard, just enough to sting and to make you realize how fast things could escalate. “You think I can’t take care of myself without you lurking around?”

“I think you’re hurting. And I think you’re making shitty decisions because you feel cornered. I’m just trying to help,” you said. 

“You call tailing me through the city and grabbing my arm help?” Her voice rose. “I told you to leave. To get lost. I don’t need you.”

Together—well, not so much so, because Wanda made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you—you slipped into a back street, walking fast, silent and angry. She led the way, and you followed. You always followed.

You stayed a few paces behind her as she stomped through back streets, her fists clenched, her spine rigid. She never once looked back to see if you were still there. She didn’t have to; she could feel you trailing her, the same way she always seemed to sense every other presence around her.

A cold drizzle fell, prickling your skin as you followed Wanda back to her hotel—even though she’d warned you off for the hundredth time. By the time you reached the hallway, Wanda was fiddling with her key, body tense, shoulders drawn up near her ears.

“Go away,” she said without turning around. She fit the key into the lock with unnecessary force, and the door gave a tired creak when it swung open. She hurried inside and just when you were about to step in, Wanda tried to slam the door in your face, but you shoved your arm through the gap, wedging your shoulder against the splintering wood frame. The hinge groaned in protest.

“Get out,” she snarled. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t need Natasha’s living, breathing surveillance on me. You will leave me alone.”

Her voice shook with anger, but her eyes were something else—hurt, or maybe fear of what she might do. You held the door, straining against her strength, feeling the faint trace of her power sparking off her skin. “Wanda, listen to me,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’m not here because of Nat.”

She pushed harder, and you nearly lost your balance, but you refused to budge. “I said,” Wanda growled, “leave me alone. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you fired back, breath catching in your throat. “Not even if Natasha had never asked me to look after you.”

That gave her pause—just enough for you to force the door fully open. She stumbled backward, eyes blazing with fury. “Then why?”

You hesitated, mouth going dry. You’d pictured this moment, but never with so much hostility, never in a dingy hotel room with the rain pounding against the window outside. Wanda’s chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, her hair a tangle around her face, droplets of water still clinging to her jacket. She looked ready to unleash hell.

And maybe you deserved it.

She opened her mouth again, ready to launch into another tirade, but you don’t let her. This was the moment. If you lied or said the wrong thing, you’d lose her completely—you knew it. 

“Because I regret lying to you,” you said, forcing each word out. “That night… that night when I told you I didn’t like you—”

This was it. “I was only being half-truthful when I said that. I didn’t just like you, Wanda. Because I—”

And she cut you off, just like you’d cut her off in so many fights before. “Because you love me?”

It sounded both like a statement of fact and a challenge. She was testing you to see if you’d deny it again—

“Yes,” you said. It rang loud and true. “Because I love you.”

Then Wanda lunged forward, twisting her hand in your jacket. It could’ve been an attack, but it wasn’t. She grabbed you by the collar and yanked you into the room, letting the door slam behind you. 

“You realize how stupid this is?”

You barely got out a nod before she tugged you again, lips crashing against yours in a desperate, angry kiss. Your mind short-circuited. You tasted her fury, the salt of fear in the corner of your mouths, the hunger neither of you could deny. She shoved you against the door, and your hands found her waist, sliding under her jacket.

“This is insane,” she muttered, lips ghosting against your jaw. “We’re insane.”

“Yeah,” you panted, mouth brushing over her ear. “But right now… I don’t care.”

She didn’t either. Judging by the way she pulled you in, pressed her hips against yours, slid her hands around your neck, she definitely didn’t care. She broke away to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I hate that you followed me,” she murmured. “I hate that I still need you here, after everything.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to need me,” you said. “Just want me.”

[jlsammy25]

What the actual hell. Wow.

The Maid - Part 4

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2245

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: Thank you for the continued support! You all make my day with your comments and theories. :)

Read part 3 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

You sit at the kitchen table nervously, drumming your fingers on the wood. You knew Wanda would be home late–she never had the respect to give you a proper timeline for her outings. The clock tells you that it’s a little past midnight, and sleepiness burns in the corners of your eyes, but you told yourself you aren’t going to bed until this is all over. 

You run the lines over in your head. What you want to say to her exactly, what you’ll counter with if she reacts well or poorly. You’ve waited long enough to have this conversation, perhaps too long, but Natasha finally gave you the push you needed.

“Do you still love her?” Natasha asks softly after you tell her the whole story of your wife’s philandering. 

You don’t answer. Deep down, you know your love for her was being tested to its breaking point, and you weren’t so sure it would survive after this. “I’ll talk to her tonight, when she comes home,” you say. “You should probably go home. I can’t imagine it’ll be a pretty conversation.”

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Natasha insists. “You shouldn’t be alone to do something like that.” Your heart melts, and for a moment you want to get up and kiss her. Not that you wanted to pull a Wanda, but you couldn’t ignore how beautiful and generous your maid was. She was excellent at her job; never complained and went above and beyond, even when your wife was being a total bitch. She treated you with the respect and kindness you deserved. She was everything you wanted in a partner and more. 

But you were stuck with Wanda. For now, at least.

“Are you sure? Wanda might be home late and I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay just for me,” you say. 

“It’s fine. She won’t even know I’m here. I can leave out the back door,” Natasha says.

“Thank you, Natasha.” Her support means more to you than you’re allowed to express. 

“You’re welcome.”

Now, with Natasha hiding in the kitchen, the two of you wait.

***********************************************************************

You accidentally doze off and wake with a start when you hear the garage door open. For a moment, you don’t even remember where you are or why.

“Natasha? Are you still here?” you whisper as loud as you dare.

“Yes.” Her head pokes out from around the corner of the kitchen.

Relief fills you. You were worried she would ditch you after all, not that you would’ve blamed her in the slightest. “Wanda’s home,” you tell her, and she nods and disappears again. At least you didn’t have to face your wife entirely alone.

You sit rigidly still on the couch until your wife walks in, almost passing you at first. 

“You’re back,” you say, and she jumps, reaching for the light switch and revealing you on the couch.

“I said I’d be back tonight,” she says.

“Who were you out with?”

“My girlfriends.”

“No.” You stand up and walk over to her. You are a great deal taller than her and for once she looks like she feels her size around you. “Who did you go out with tonight?”

Wanda doesn’t make eye contact with you. “You know…Carol, Darcy–”

“Are you fucking them too?”

“Excuse me?” Wanda draws back from you until she bumps into the bookshelf.

“You heard me,” you say through clenched teeth. “Were you fucking them too?”

“No. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because I know you spend all your free time fucking anything that moves behind my back.”

The silence in the air is electric. Your heart is thundering in your chest so hard you wonder if Natasha can hear it. Wanda’s eyes widen. 

“I...I’ve never done that,” she says, but her falter shows her lie. “How dare you suggest–”

You take your phone out and show Wanda the screen. She squints at it in confusion at first, then a shadow of horror passes over her face when she realizes it’s the camera view from the little ceramic turtle you planted in the china cabinet, now showing the two of you standing there.

“You hid a camera in my own home–” Wanda starts.

“I hid a shit ton of cameras in our home,” you say. 

“So this is why your business is failing,” she cackles, and the switch in topic throws you for a loop. “You spend all day watching and stalking me in our home when you’re supposed to be working. No wonder you don’t bring home any money. Not only are you a shitty spouse, you’re also a shitty worker.”

Anger explodes inside of you, and for a moment your control slips. You lunge for Wanda, not even sure what you’ll do once you grab her, but she slams her palms to your chest and sends you staggering back. She turns and yanks a book off the shelf, removing a revolver from the pages and pointing it towards you with trembling hands.

“Don’t get any closer to me, you fucking creep!” she yells.

Your anger dissolves into concern. “Put the gun down, Wanda. Please. Let’s just talk about this like adults–”

“Oh, now you want to talk like adults?” Wanda laughs manically. “Where was this before you started illegally recording me in my own home?”

“You’re fucking cheating on me!” you scream, losing your composure again. “I moved us into this big house, in this nice neighborhood, and you’re just so fucking ungrateful for any of it!”

“I didn’t want any of it to begin with!” Wanda returns.

“Why not? Because you had to leave behind your fuck buddies in our old neighborhood?”

“You’re the exact same person here as you were over there. A self-righteous piece of shit,” she seethes.

“If you’re so sick of me, why don’t you divorce me?” you ask. “Oh wait.” You snap your fingers. “I bet no one would want to sleep with a washed-up divorcee. Because where’s the fun in that?”

Wanda turns the gun around and points it at her temple. “I’ll kill myself if you divorce me,” she says, then shifts the gun to point towards her chest, “But I’ll make it look like you did it.”

The blood in your veins chills at the thought. “Give me the gun, Wanda.”

“Take it from me,” she goads.

While you have very little confidence in your disarming tactics, you do know you’re stronger and faster than Wanda. You also don’t fully believe that she’ll kill herself right here, so that gives you an advantage of time. 

Before a plan even forms in your head, you reach out with your arm and slap Wanda’s hand away from her head. She startles and drops the gun; you expect her to dive after it but instead she whirls around and punches you in the face. Despite all of her faults, she’s never outright hit you before, and your vision swims as your head whiplashes against the bookshelf. 

“You crazy motherfucker,” Wanda screeches, punching you again and you fall to the floor, instinctively curling into a ball to protect yourself. Her foot slams into your ribs and for a second, you can’t believe you’re getting the beating of a lifetime from your own wife.

Meanwhile, Natasha is in utter shock at the events unfolding in front of her. She feels like she’s overstepping some serious boundaries, but she can’t leave you now, especially with Wanda having the upper hand. 

“Wanda, stop!” she hears you gasp as Wanda grabs hold of Crime and Punishment uses it like a weapon, raising it behind her head and smashing it against your body over and over. Natasha can’t bear to stand there anymore. She has to protect you from your insane, deranged wife.

Natasha crosses the living room in four leaping strides and picks up the revolver. Wanda looks shocked more by her presence than the fact that she’s now staring down the barrel of her own gun. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Wanda says.

“Get away from Y/N,” Natasha says, holding the gun in both hands. The weight feels disconcertingly familiar, and despite her nerves, she isn’t shaking.

“Are you fucking her?” Wanda suddenly turns to you. “You’ve got some nerve watching me get it on with the neighbors when you’ve been fucking our maid–”

“Shut up!” Natasha yells. “I’m not doing anything with Y/N!” she says, although she wishes that wasn’t the truth.

“I don’t believe that.” Wanda marches over to Natasha, leaving you unraveling on the floor. Blood drips from your nose and mouth, and Natasha can see the purpling bruise on your cheek. “Vision told me Y/N took you to see Wicked on my anniversary–”

“Because you couldn’t be bothered to remember and go yourself!” Natasha says.

Wanda is too enraged to quiet. “How dare you enter my house, take advantage of my kindness, and take my partner to bed–”

“Back off!” Natasha says, raising the gun until it’s almost level with Wanda’s eyes. “Not everyone is a cheating whore like you.”

Both Wanda and Natasha seem shocked by her choice of words. Natasha’s arms shake as they drop a few inches. She won’t hold back anymore–but neither will Wanda.

“You little bitch.” Wanda draws her arm back. Natasha flinches and squeezes the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot is much, much louder in an enclosed space, and Natasha’s ears ring so hard they hurt. Wanda stands before her, her jaw dropped in shock. A stain of blood grows on her shirt, centered over her bellybutton. 

“Oh my God. Wanda, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Natasha gasps, unable to wrap her head around her own actions. 

“You…You shot me,” Wanda says, grabbing her stomach as she falls. Natasha tries to catch her but misses; you appear behind Wanda and lower her slowly to the floor. “How is that possible?” She looks up at you and your face is pale with shock. “You fucking shot me!”

“Nat,” you whisper. “Nat, give me the gun.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Natasha cries, handing you the weapon and backing away from the two of you. “I thought she was going to hit me and–”

“It’s okay.” You stand up, wobbling a little, and rush to her side. “Go home Nat, okay? Go through the back door and jump the fences if you have to. And if anyone asks where you were tonight, you weren’t here.”

“No, no.” Natasha fights the tears threatening to spill out. “That’s wrong. I did this, I want to take responsibility for it–”

“No,” you say. “With your background, you’ll be locked in prison the rest of your life, if you don’t get deported first.”

“M-My background?” Natasha stammers. “How do you know about–”

You shake your head, indicating now is not the time to have this discussion. “For the record, it never made me trust you any less.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” You reach out and grab her hand. It calms Natasha instantly. “Go now. Let me handle this. I’ll come find you when this is all over.”

“I’m so sorry,” Natasha sobs.

“It wasn’t your fault. Now get out of here, please!”

Natasha doesn’t wait to hear you instruct her again. She looks at you, her savior, one last time, completely ignoring Wanda laying on the floor, before dashing off towards the garage. It’s pitch-black, but she doesn’t dare turn on a light, and fumbles for the back door. Outside, the air is nippy and her breath clouds in front of her face. She takes a deep breath to orient herself, then runs headfirst towards the neighbor’s fence, hauling herself over it as quietly as she can, crossing their yard, and leaping over the next fence. 

She has to jump over two more yards before she gets to the street, racing to her Nissan and peeling away down the street. In the safety of her car, the realization crashes over her and she can’t stop the waterworks. 

She can’t believe she shot your wife. She can’t believe you knew her background. Clint had told her no one would find out what she had done in Russia after she assumed a new identity, but you had found out somehow. And yet, you were still okay hiring her even after you knew she had killed her former boss. 

The sounds of sirens pierce her thoughts and Natasha seizes up. A black-and-white police car races by. Either you had called them, or a neighbor had heard the shouting and gunshot. Natasha prays her presence had gone undetected. She had never been more thankful Wanda forced her to park down the street, where her car was less likely to be seen. 

She wonders if she’ll ever get to see you again.

***********************************************************************

After Natasha leaves, you take a moment to absorb your surroundings. Wanda is gurgling and crying on the floor, pressing her palms against her stomach, blood spilling through her fingers and on the tiles Natasha had mopped earlier that day.

Your grip tightens on the gun as you move to stand over Wanda, where she can fully see you. Your body throbs where she hit you, and you know you don’t look much better than her. Blood bubbles out of her mouth. She can’t speak anymore, but her eyes are fiery and pleading.

You lift the gun, which feels like a thousand pounds in your hand.

“Someone should’ve done this a long time ago.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Welp, that escalated quickly. Will Wanda live? Should she?? 👀

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[jlsammy25]

Damn.

All Of Your Pieces (18 - The Civil War)

Chapter Summary: “She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat," you said. Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Hell yeah I'm finally done with midterm week! So, as promised, here's an update for Sunday that I was supposed to post last Wednesday. Thank you all for waiting! // More author's notes here. GIF credits to the owner. Let me know is this is yours!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The debate over the Sokovia Accords had always seemed like a bureaucratic exercise to you—a lot of grandstanding and red tape, destined to drag on without anything concrete coming of it. But when it ended in literal casualties, moments after the UN summit in Vienna, you realized how naive that assumption had been.

The explosion dominated every news channel, every forum, for weeks. Footage of the carnage played on a relentless loop, like a ruthless reminder that refused to let the world move on. It stoked their anger and fear of the superpowered intensifying—further solidifying the need for a regulation of some sorts. 

And then there was Steve—Captain America—standing between the law and a man the world had already convicted in its collective mind. Protecting a criminal—or so it seemed at first glance. But if you squinted, if you dug beneath the hysteria, you could see the loopholes in the story.

You were taught to never take things at face value. To investigate, to question, to confirm. The video evidence of James Barnes near the scene of the bombing was damning, but not airtight. The timing was too perfect and the evidence too clean—as if it was designed to be found. And then there was the sheer improbability—someone like Barnes being sloppy enough to leave a clue, to incriminate himself by carrying out such large-scale destruction carelessly.

If it really was him, you figured, no one would know. The world wouldn’t have a name to blame or a face to crucify. 

Steve believed it too. He didn’t just think Barnes was innocent—he knew it. Or at least he believed in him enough to stake his own reputation on it. 

The manhunt for Barnes split the Avengers right down the middle. Tony and Natasha were working with the UN and the German authorities, pushing for Barnes’ immediate capture, while Steve enlisted Sam’s help to find him first and uncover the truth once and for all.

Which left you stuck at the compound with Wanda and Vision—because, of course, that’s just how your luck worked.

—

You’d been keeping to yourself, burying your head in books and doing whatever busywork you could find to keep from dwelling on it all. It wasn’t a peaceful kind of quiet, though—not even close. It was rife with tension, and you hated that your main orders were to stay put. 

You’d seen Vision and Wanda together more lately. They were spending time in the kitchen, of all places. Vision seemed to have developed a fascination with cooking, and Wanda, for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, had decided to humor him. 

That’s how you ended up at the world’s most uncomfortable dinner.

The table stretched long, built to fit the entire team, and you settled a few spots away from them. Vision had made something intricate, his approach to food as overly analytical as you’d expect. Wanda had contributed in small ways—chopping vegetables, stirring sauces—but it was clear who had taken the lead.

You sat across from them, awkwardly poking at the meal on your plate. It was good, technically. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked. But the scene around the table made it hard to enjoy. Vision sat still, weirdly choosing this time not to participate in this human activity. He looked perfectly content watching his two eaters, wanting to see if he had earned their approval. Wanda wasn’t eating much. She was pushing her food around, her eyes darting toward him, then to you, then back to her plate.

“Is it to your liking?” Vision asked. 

“It’s fine,” you said, knowing full well it was much better than that but not feeling generous enough to say so.

“Wanda assisted with the preparation,” he added, almost as if he thought that might tip the scales.

You glanced at her. She gave a small, half-hearted smile and shrugged. “Just chopping and stuff,” she said.

After that, the conversation died again.

It had felt like a good time to disassociate, and you let your mind drift off somewhere else. More specifically, to the growing rift between Tony and Steve. The misunderstandings were no longer petty disagreements but fundamental divides. If push came to shove, you still hadn’t decided where you stood.

You used to joke about Tony and Steve acting like divorced husbands, bickering over every little thing. Now, the irony wasn’t so funny. They were barreling toward something that resembled a real divorce, and you could almost see them dividing the team like children—figuring out who got custody of whom.

But you? You were always the lone wolf. It seemed more likely you’d walk away from them both, let them fight their battles while you disappeared into the shadows. You’d done it before, and the thought of doing it again didn’t terrify you. And maybe that was the problem.

A sharp noise from outside yanked you out of your thoughts. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough to put everyone on edge. Vision’s head cocked slightly, as if concentrating to learn more about what they all just heard.

“Stay here,” he ordered calmly.

“Wait—” you started, but before you or Wanda could get another word out, he disappeared, phasing cleanly through the nearest wall and leaving you both sitting in uneasy silence.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You glanced at Wanda, her fork frozen midair, her eyes trained on the spot where Vision had disappeared. Finally, you exhaled and nudged your plate aside. “This is the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” you murmured.

Wanda’s head snapped up. Then, to your surprise, a laugh slipped out of her—short, almost involuntary, like it had been startled into existence. “I could tell,” she said, her lips curving into something that might’ve been a smile.

It was angelic and utterly contagious. You smiled back, soft and unplanned, like your body decided for you. It’s the most interaction you’d had with her for a while after bringing her to the orphanage weeks ago. 

God, you’d missed her. 

Out of the corner of your eye, something shifted. Without thinking, you were on your feet, moving to Wanda’s side, positioning yourself as a human shield. It was a ridiculous gesture—pathetic, even—considering what she could do versus what you could offer. But instinct doesn’t care about logic. The drive to protect her overrode everything else, propelling you forward before your brain could catch up.

Clint Barton strolled toward you, bow slung over his shoulder, every inch of him looking like he was prepped for a mission. And judging by the timing, it didn’t take a genius to figure out—you, Wanda, and Vision were the mission.

“Clint?” you uttered in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Disappointing my kids,” he replied dryly, stepping fully into view with that familiar half-grin you hadn’t seen in ages. “Cap needs our help. Come on.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not disappointed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered, his eyes scanning the room, barely giving you a glance. “We need to move. Both of you. Now.”

You were on your feet before he could say anything else, your hand closing around Wanda’s wrist without a second thought. It wasn’t until you felt her skin warm under your grip that you realized what you were doing. You let go just as quickly, glancing back at her with a quiet apology in your eyes.

But Wanda wasn’t paying attention to you. She was giving Clint a hard look, her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wanda said, surprising you both.

“Wanda, you can’t stay here,” Clint said. “After Lagos—”

“I’ve caused enough problems,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s better if I stay out of sight. Out of everyone’s way.”

“You gotta help me, Wanda. Look, you wanna mope, you can go to high school. You wanna make amends, you get off your ass. Y/N, help me out here.”

You glanced at Wanda, trying to decipher what she’s thinking but you came up empty-handed. You turned back to Clint. “You let her decide, Clint. You don’t drag her onto your side—or anyone’s. She chooses.”

Clint chuckled, eyeing you like he already expected your answer before you did. “And what about you? Which side are you on?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer—you did. You just weren’t ready to say it out loud.

Because the truth was simple: whichever side Wanda chose, that’s where you’d be.

You’d told yourself you could walk away from this. From the Avengers, from the divide, from the mess of it all. And maybe you could. Maybe you would have.

But Wanda—

You wanted to look after her. 

You were saved from answering altogether when Vision reappeared, phased through the far wall.

“Aw, hell,” Clint muttered, his hand twitching toward his bow.

“Clint Barton,” Vision said. “You are not authorized to be here. Step away from Wanda.”

“Yeah, see, the thing is,” he said, casually shifting his stance as he engaged an arrow, “I don’t really care about authorization.”

Clint didn’t wait for Vision’s retort. He released his arrows and triggered the traps he’d set—an electrified net sprung from the ceiling, enveloping Vision in crackling energy. For a split second, you thought it might actually work.

It didn’t.

Vision freed himself out of the net like it was tissue paper, the electricity harmlessly dissipating around him. 

“Yeah, well, worth a shot,” Clint muttered, already nocking an arrow. He let it fly, but Vision caught it midair with a speed that was almost unfair. 

Clint moved fast, dodging Vision’s strikes with a skill that came from years of experience. He didn’t try to overpower him—he wasn’t stupid—but he kept Vision moving, trying to distract him, to buy time. 

Vision held back, almost smug—you'd think he was waiting for Clint to tire himself out, running circles that led nowhere.

“Y/N, a little help?” Clint called, ducking under a swipe from Vision that could’ve caved his skull. Before you could even think to move, Vision had Clint in a chokehold, his vibranium arm coiling around Clint’s throat. Clint's attempts to break free looked almost pathetic, his fists thumping uselessly against Vision's arm.

You froze for a split second, looking at Wanda. Was this what she wanted? Her face gave you nothing, and in that moment of indecision, Clint’s choking gasps snapped you into action.

You rushed forward, grabbing onto Vision’s arm and hauling yourself up, trying to throw him off balance. He barely budged. Desperation took over as you reached behind your back, pulling a small blade from your pocket.

Vision caught the motion instantly. His free arm shot out, grabbing your wrist and twisting it sharply. Pain shot through your arm as the knife clattered to the floor.

You gritted your teeth, trying to fight through the pain. “Let him go, Vision!”

Clint’s face was red now, his struggles weakening. You kicked at Vision’s side, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

“Vision, that’s enough!”

Vision's grip loosened for just a moment, enough for you to catch your breath, before it cinched tighter. You bit back a whimper, already feeling the marks that would bloom across your skin.

"I said, that’s enough," Wanda commanded as red energy crackled menacingly at her fingertips. 

Vision moved to finish the job and the energy surged from Wanda’s hands, slamming into Vision and lifting him clean off the ground. The moment his hold broke, you and Clint crumpled like discarded ragdolls. 

“If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you,” Vision said. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell Vision he was wrong, but Wanda spoke first.

“I can’t control their fear,” Wanda murmured. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed wearily, looking like she already regretted what she was about to do, knowing it would hurt Vision. “Only my own.”

The ground opened up like a wound, swallowing Vision whole. Wanda’s power didn’t just push him down—it buried him. The compound’s reinforced flooring crumbled like dry leaves, and the sound of his descent—steel on steel, concrete splitting apart—made your stomach churn.

You sat up, head pounding, ribs screaming. Clint was coughing beside you, dragging himself upright with a hand braced against the wall. Neither of you spoke. What could you say?

Wanda stood over the crater she’d made, her hands slack at her sides, red sparks still licking at her fingertips. Her face was blank, but you knew her well enough by now to see through it. Her breathing was too shallow, her shoulders too stiff. She wasn’t fine at all. 

It was a little jarring to think that just a few hours ago, they were cooking together in the kitchen.

“Wanda,” you started, still trying to catch your breath. “Is he—”

“He’ll survive,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Clint gave a weak chuckle, thoroughly impressed and a little horrified. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

—

Things happened dizzyingly fast after that. 

You’d only meant to get Wanda to Clint, to make sure she was safe, but everything spiraled at the airport. You hadn’t thought past that, hadn’t considered the bigger picture or the consequences of leaving the compound with her.

The fight was brutal—friends turning on friends—and you barely kept up, trying to shield Wanda when you could. You’d been hurt, subdued like a criminal, strapped into restraints that bit into your skin. But none of it mattered. Your entire focus was on Wanda—if she was okay, if she was hurt, if she blamed you for any of it.

When they threw you in The Raft, the humiliation of it barely registered. All you could see was Wanda, restrained in that awful straitjacket, her face pale and blank, her hands trembling. It must have been harder on her than anyone else—treated like a criminal with the weight of Lagos hanging over her head. In that moment, you made your choice—Steve had your loyalty now, no matter what came next. But even that didn’t compare to how fiercely you had Wanda’s back. That was something else entirely.

Now, two weeks later, Valencia felt like limbo. A place to breathe—

—with a target on your backs, well, not really.

—

Valencia might’ve been halfway around the globe, but you treated it like hostile territory all the same. Your face—along with the rest of those who backed Steve in his fierce objection to the Sokovia Accords—had hit every newsfeed, and you couldn’t afford to relax here or anywhere else, for that matter. You dressed down, stuck to side streets, and kept your head low. It was Spain, but it might as well have been home—just another place where you were never really safe.

“Have you heard from Clint?”

Natasha nodded before turning the page of the newspaper she’d been reading since this morning. “Yeah. He’s working out a deal with the government.”

You frowned. “What kind of deal?”

“Something about a plea bargain,” she said. “House arrest, probably. It’s the only way he gets to be with his family.”

Clint had fought for all of you, risked everything to stand with Steve, to break Wanda out. It hadn’t fully sunk in just how much he’d sacrificed until now—how much he put on the line for what he believed in.

“That’s messed up,” you muttered, mindlessly stirring the honey you’ve put in your tea a few minutes ago. You’d yet to take a sip.  “If Clint’s willing to sacrifice being with his family, how can Tony not see what we’re standing for?”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tony sees it. He just sees something else too.”

“Like what?”

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you, her gaze steady, like she was weighing her next words. “You weren’t there.”

For a moment, you were confused. “Where?”

“In the Battle of New York. When the sky opened up, and Earth faced the greatest threat it had ever seen—and wasn’t ready for.”

Natasha sighed and took her sunglasses off—a risky move as the cafe was in the middle of a crowded street—but she needed you to more than just hear the words out of her mouth, you needed to see how this wasn’t some trivial disagreement between two people who cared about the same thing. “Tony was at the front lines, throwing everything he had into the fight. There were so many casualties. We couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard we tried. And the guilt of that... it doesn’t wash off, no matter how many victories come after.”

You frowned, gripping your mug a little tighter. “So his solution is what? Autocracy?”

Natasha laughed and put her glasses back on. “I wasn’t aware you knew what autocracy was,” she teased. “Though, if you really did, you’d know what Tony wants is far from it. This is an entirely different situation.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint smirk tugging at your own lips. “If you understand Tony so well, why are you here with us?”

“I’m not here because I switched sides,” she said simply. “I’m here because you need me more than Tony does.”

And she was right. You did. It was bad enough that Clint wasn’t here. You hadn’t realized how much they’d become your safety net until you were on your way and it hit you—you were on your own now. No longer celebrated as a hero but a renowned fugitive. Natasha’s grounding presence was the only thing keeping your nerves from unraveling completely.

“Are you going to drink that?” Natasha asked after a while.

You glanced down at your tea, still stirring the spoon aimlessly. It was cold by now. You shrugged. She waved to the waiter and asked for the bill.

“I tried to convince Wanda to go out today,” Natasha said casually, like she wasn’t sure how you’d take it. “Thought a walk might do her some good.”

You looked up from your tea, surprised. “And?”

“She passed.”

You sighed loudly. “It’s been two weeks.”

“It’s not enough time for some people.”

You didn’t say anything right away, not wanting to push or show how much that affected you. Two weeks felt like forever when you were going over everything in your head when you first got out of the country. For Wanda, it must’ve felt like a lifetime—and not in the way that healed anything.

“Did she say why?” you asked quietly. 

Natasha’s lips twitched, like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or sigh. “She didn’t have to. She thinks stepping outside is dangerous. For her, for everyone. And maybe she’s not wrong.”

“She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat,” you said.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

—

The hotel you’d been staying at for the past three nights was tucked away from the town center, far enough that the food you’d picked up for Wanda had gone cold by the time you got back. The isolation had its perks, though. This part of town had a quiet charm, with streets adorned in LED lights strung like Christmas was a permanent state of mind here.

The team had split up to stay under the radar. Steve accompanied Bucky to Wakanda, bartering a deal with T’Challa. Sam was stationed in a modest inn on the opposite side of the city, while you, Natasha, and Wanda ended up here, in a small, charming hotel surrounded by cobblestone streets and 15th-century architecture. With no mission except to stay hidden, it should’ve been the perfect chance to soak in the city like a tourist, to appreciate the timeless beauty around you.

But instead, you found yourself standing outside Wanda’s hotel room, the takeout bag dangling from your hand. You took a shaky breath, then another, willing your heartbeat to slow. It wasn’t working. Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of the bag, the cheap paper threatening to give out at any second.

Why were you so nervous? It wasn’t like this was the first time you’d seen Wanda since… everything. But things were different now. She felt different, like she was retreating into herself more and more each day.

Another deep breath. You adjusted your grip on the bag, smoothed down the front of your jacket, and gave yourself a silent pep talk. She needed you, just like you needed Natasha. Like you needed Clint.

Finally, you raised your hand, but before your knuckles met the wood, the door creaked open.

Wanda stood there, barefoot, her frame almost swallowed by an oversized shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder. It was frayed at the hem, the fabric softened by too many washes. Her pajama pants—faded plaid—looked like they’d seen better days, one cuff slightly torn where it dragged against the ground. She looked as worn as her clothes, her hair in a messy bun with stray strands framing her face.

For a moment, she just blinked at you.

“You knew it was me?” you asked, your voice coming out thinner than you'd intended. 

“I had a feeling,” Wanda said with a small, knowing smile. “You breathe a little too loud.”

An embarrassed chuckle escaped you, awkward and unsteady, and you suddenly remembered the takeout bag clutched in your hand. Her gaze followed yours, and she tilted her head slightly. 

“What’s that?”

“Oh, right,” you said, your face heating up as you held it up like a peace offering. “It’s for you. Some kind of beef stew—I, uh, forgot the actual name. It’s probably cold now, though. You should—”

Before you could ramble any further, Wanda reached out and took the bag from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours briefly, and the simple touch sent you into a headspin. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking into the bag.

You swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. “You’re welcome, Maximoff.” It felt like the right moment to leave, like you’d done your part, but your feet refused to move. You stood there like a fool, heart hammering, until Wanda—thankfully—broke the silence.

“Would you like to come in, Y/N?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of herself either.

Too nervous to speak, you merely nodded.

—

The room was a bit of a mess—not filthy, but definitely in disarray. Books and papers were scattered across the coffee table, a pair of shoes lay haphazardly near the door, and a jacket was draped over the back of a chair. Wanda must have noticed your gaze drifting across the space because she quickly began tidying up. She grabbed a bundle of clothes from various corners—sweatshirts, a scarf, what looked like a pair of mismatched socks—and folded them into a neat pile. With an almost embarrassed smile, she placed them on the small sofa tucked beneath the room’s single window.

“Sorry,” Wanda murmured, “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your eyes darted back to the room despite yourself. There was something endearing about the lived-in clutter, a reminder that Wanda, for all her power and grace, for all that had happened in recent weeks—was still human in moments like these.

She gestured awkwardly toward the sofa. “You can sit, if you want. Sorry again for the mess.”

“You really don’t have to apologize. My place is worse,” you said. It wasn’t.

Wanda offered you a half-smile as she moved to the kitchenette, pulling open a drawer to grab some utensils. “I find that hard to believe,” she teased lightly.

Busted. Your room at the compound had been practically bare. Your hotel room now was even emptier. You missed your own apartment, but could only assume it had already been raided by the feds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shot back, and she laughed softly, the sound settling something nervous and fluttering in your chest.

Wanda set the bowl on the counter and turned on the stove. You watched as she poured the stew into a small saucepan and stirred it absently. 

“You should eat some too,” she said over her shoulder. “It’ll taste better warm.”

“I already had dinner, actually.”

Wanda glanced back at you, her brow lifting in question. “With Nat?”

You nodded, feeling oddly exposed under her gaze. “Yeah.”

Her lips quirked, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How’s she doing?”

It wasn’t the kind of question that invited much of an answer—it felt more like something to say, just to fill the space. You gave a half-shrug, unsure what else to do with it. “She’s fine.”

Wanda didn’t push for more. She settled onto the sofa beside you, tucking her legs beneath her and taking a small bite of the stew.

You wanted to ask how she was. How she was holding up after everything. But you couldn’t get any word out. You didn’t know how to ask without making it sound like pity, and you didn’t want to do that to her. Still, the question burned at the edge of your thoughts.

It had to be hard, being in the middle of all this again, being wanted—hunted—just like she was when she aligned with Hydra. You couldn’t stop thinking about how Vision was on the other side now, the person who should’ve stood with her through it all, standing with the people determined to stop her. That kind of fracture would break anyone.

You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. She was focused on her food, but the energy radiating off her couldn’t talk you out of asking her if she was okay.

“Wanda?” you started, “Are you—”

“I’m okay,” she said, cutting you off gently, as though she knew what you were going to ask. For a moment you considered if she was reading your mind at the moment. 

She set the bowl down and offered you a faint smile. “Really.”

You nodded, though you didn’t really believe her. The room fell quiet again, and you looked away, legs starting to bounce a little as you thought of what to say next. 

“Has Steve come up with the next plan yet?” Wanda asked.

Her question confused you for a moment, making you feel like you’ve missed something. “Plan? Plan for what?”

She shrugged, chewing her food thoughtfully. “To come back. To clear our names. To return to…” She trailed off. To return to our normal lives.

Oh. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. Being an Avenger never felt anything close to normal, so you weren’t sure you ever really knew what normal was.

You wanted to assure her that Steve’s working on it, but you couldn’t lie to her either. From what you heard from Nat, Steve was preoccupied with helping Bucky’s asylum in Wakanda. And that could take a while. “I don’t think that’s possible anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“Steve and Tony…” You exhaled slowly, trying to find the right way to explain. “Their misunderstanding—it’s serious this time. It’s not something that’s going to blow over.”

“Right,” Wanda said curtly, then fell silent, turning her attention back to her food.

Without thinking, you blurted, “Do you miss Vision?”

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide like she hadn’t been expecting you to mention Vision at any point in this conversation.

“I…” Wanda deliberated. “I do.”

You forced your jealousy down your dry throat. Of course she did. What were you thinking, even asking? Vision was her lover. They were clearly going through something, and here you were, dredging it up. You should’ve left right after giving her the food—that would’ve been the perfect time to go.

“I regret what I did to him,” Wanda said suddenly, breaking through your thoughts. “Burying him w-with…with my powers.” Her hand tightened around the spoon, the metal scraping against the edge of the bowl. “I didn’t think—I just reacted. And it wasn’t just him. I hurt the others too. At the airport.”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t what you expected. “Wanda—”

She shook her head quickly, cutting you off. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I thought I was doing the right thing. Fighting for the right side. But after everything… I don’t know if there is a right side anymore.”

Her honesty floored you. You’d spent so much time blaming Tony for losing control, for going after Bucky, that you never stopped to turn the lens on yourself. You’d had your careless moments, caused your share of injuries to civilians on missions. You were just as responsible for how things unraveled—just like Steve, Tony, and the rest of the team.

“I want to believe we’re all still on the same side,” you muttered, resting your elbows on your knees as you searched for the right words. “That we’re still fighting for the same things—for justice, to protect people, to make things better. We’ve just… messed up how we’re going about it. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. We just need to figure out how to sort it all out.”

You swallowed hard, gathering the courage to speak. “I’m sure Vision forgives you for what happened. He… he loves you. And you two? You’re going to be okay.”

Her head snapped up at that. “What do you mean, ‘we’re going to be okay?’”

You winced, awkwardly scratching the back of your neck as you tried to clarify. “I just mean, yeah, sure, it might be a deal breaker for some people—getting buried alive and all—but Vision… he’s not like that. I don’t think he’d break up with you for—”

“We already broke up.”

You froze, staring at her. “What?” was all you managed to say.

Wanda sighed, setting the bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink. “We broke up. Before Clint came to get me from the compound.”

“Why?” you found yourself asking. You thought you'd feel happy, or at least relieved, but the truth left a bad taste in your mouth. Two people you cared about—yes, you’d finally admitted to yourself that you cared more than you wanted to—had ended their relationship, and somehow, that didn’t sit right with you. “I thought… I thought you two…”

“It wasn’t working,” Wanda explained. “We wanted it to, but things between us were always… complicated. And after the Accords, after everything that happened in Lagos…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It became clear that we were too different. He wanted peace. I wanted… freedom. And I guess we couldn’t find a way to have both.”

Wanting different things has a way of pulling two people off the same path. You wanted freedom too—but until you stopped chasing it, how could you want anything else? How could you want what Wanda wanted? But then, you’ve never aligned your interests with someone just to stay by their side, so why start now?

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, the words feeling small but all you had to give.

She gave you a small, tired smile. “Don’t be. It was mutual, even if it still hurts.”

You wanted to say something—to comfort her, to remind her she wasn’t alone—but it didn’t feel like the right time. Maybe this was a moment to sit with it, to let everything settle. So instead, you reached out, your hand finding hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. A quiet way of saying, I’m here.

It was the first time in weeks you’d touched her.

Wanda looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Your heart slowed, like it wanted to stretch this moment out, to hold onto the feeling of her hand beneath yours forever.

You gave her a small nod. “Always.”

[jlsammy25]

Oh God, it's going to get more angsty from here on, right?

And the way I just wanna strangle R, I mean, well, ourselves, like why am I pissing myself off?

All Of Your Pieces (17 - Idiot Hope)

Chapter Summary: She followed you slowly—cautiously—and you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. She’s so guarded around you, and you couldn’t even be angry about it. Once, this could have been different. Once, it would’ve been easy. And you couldn’t blame her. Not after everything you did.

After Lagos--Wanda wasn't yours to comfort, but that didn't mean you didn't want to try.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3.4k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: We're not yet there, but we'll be--soon enough ;) I wanted a chapter dedicated to the aftermath of what Wanda did in Lagos // More author's notes here. GIF credits to the owner. Let me know is this is yours!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“That wasn’t her fault.”

The meeting room was a powder keg.

“She made a call, Steve, and people died,” Tony said, as if Wanda wasn’t sitting just several feet away from where he stood, holding up the Sokovian Accords like it was some sort of holy relic. “It’s irrelevant whether she had a choice in the matter or none.”

You stayed silent in your swivel, watching the argument unfold like a spectator at a match you didn’t care enough to bet on. The Sokovian Accords—the debate over who got to control the Avengers—you could’ve cared less. You didn’t follow protocol anyway. You barely tolerated the existing ones. Another layer of red tape wasn’t going to change how you operated. It was just another rule to break, another system to work around.

But your disinterest didn’t mean you weren’t paying attention.

Wanda sat at the edge of the table, so rigid you couldn’t tell if she was still breathing. She hadn’t said a word since the meeting started even as Stark was essentially throwing her under the bus. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles pale. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table, but the furrow in her brow told you she wasn’t just tuning out the conversation. She was absorbing every word.

Everyone knew why the Accords were front and center today. Everyone knew who this conversation was really about.

“She made the best call she could under impossible circumstances,” Steve argued. He might be the most straight-laced person you’ve ever met, but you couldn’t help but admire the passion he brought to defending others time and time again. “You think she wanted this to happen?”

“No,” Tony raised his voice, something he rarely did. “But that doesn’t absolve her—or us. We’re walking weapons, Rogers. All of us. And if we don’t have oversight—if we don’t have accountability—this is going to keep happening.”

“And you think signing a piece of paper is going to change that?” Steve challenged.

Sam chose this moment to put his two cents. “Steve’s right. We’ve made tough calls before, and we’ll make them again. That’s the job. What happened in Lagos—yeah, it’s a tragedy, but you can’t legislate every choice we make in the field. It’s not realistic.”

Rhodey shook his head. “It’s not legislating every choice, Wilson. It’s setting boundaries. We have to answer to someone, or we’ll lose what little trust we’ve got left with the world.”

“Answer to who?” Sam retorted.“A bunch of bureaucrats who’ve never set foot on a battlefield? Who don’t know what it’s like to make life-and-death decisions in seconds? They’re not going to understand what we do out there.”

“They don’t have to understand it. They just have to believe we’re not a threat. And right now, we don’t look good,” Natasha replied.

For a fleeting moment, you wished Clint’s retirement had been delayed, just long enough to hear his take on all this. Everyone had something to say, but you were so busy watching Wanda from the corner of your eye that none of them reached your ears. You kept waiting for the moment she’d crack. You didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe because you knew what it felt like to carry the weight of everyone else’s mistakes. Maybe because you wanted to be there when she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Then Vision spoke.

“I must agree with Tony,” he began. You expected him to waver, to soften it somehow because Wanda was right there. But no. He wasn’t apologetic. He wasn’t unsure. He looked at everyone like the answer was obvious, like he couldn’t understand why they were still debating.

Across the room, Wanda went impossibly still. “I need some air,” she said suddenly, pushing her chair back with a scrape that made you squirm. She didn’t wait for anyone’s permission, didn’t look at anyone as she walked out. Not even Vision.

You told yourself to stay seated. You told yourself this wasn’t your problem—that you didn’t care. And yet, before you could stop yourself, you were already out of your chair, already moving.

—

You found her outside the meeting room, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. She didn’t look at you as you approached, but you stopped a few paces away, giving her space that said I don’t want to crowd you, but I’m here if you want to talk.

“That wasn’t your fault,” you said, the words barely leaving your mouth before you wanted to snatch them back. Steve had already told her. Hell, everyone in that room had tried to tell her. And now you were just the next in line, parroting the same hollow sentiment.

She snorted, a low, bitter sound that wasn’t quite laughter but wasn’t not laughter either.

“You did what you could,” you continued. “Nobody else would’ve—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t try to make me feel better about it. I don’t need that.”

You lowered your head, respecting her wishes, but you didn’t walk away. There were moments when words didn’t help when nothing you could say could ease the burden she carried. This was one of those times, and you knew it. So you stayed. If words weren’t the answer, then maybe action was. 

And then an idea came to you. Perhaps…there was something you could show her. Something that might remind her of the ripple effects of her choices, the lives she’d touched without even realizing it.

“Will you come with me? I want to show you something.”

She gave you a look that was equal parts skepticism and exhaustion, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I… I don’t have it in me right now,” she murmured, her voice cracking under the strain. “I’m so tired.”

“It’ll be worth it,” you said, offering her a small, hopeful smile. “I promise.”

You could feel your pulse drumming in your ears, blood rushing to your head, making you dizzy. If she came with you, it would be the first time in months the two of you were alone, just you and her. And if she didn’t? If she stayed here, stewing in her guilt over Lagos, letting it eat her alive—well, you couldn’t bear that either.

After a long pause, she pushed herself off the wall and straightened, albeit reluctantly. She didn’t say another word as she followed you out of the building, trailing behind like someone preparing for disappointment but going along anyway.

The ride to the Bronx was quiet. 

Wanda stared out the window, her reflection in the glass looking just as weary as the woman beside you. You kept your mouth shut, even though a thousand questions burned in your throat. Things like how her combat training was coming along, if she’d found it useful in her last mission. You wanted to tell her about this new Eastern restaurant you’d stumbled upon, one you were sure she’d love. 

You pathetically craved small talk with Wanda, but you bit it all back, reminding yourself this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t two friends on a road trip. This was business. A teammate encouraging another. Nothing more, you told yourself, even if it felt like a lie.

When you finally pulled up in front of the small, unassuming building, she frowned.

“What’s this?” she asked, her voice wary and low.

“You’ll see,” you replied, stepping out and holding the door open for her. 

She followed you slowly—cautiously—and you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. She’s so guarded around you, and you couldn’t even be angry about it. Once, this could have been different. Once, it would’ve been easy. And you couldn’t blame her. Not after everything you did.

Once inside the building, Wanda found herself in a narrow hallway. A small reception desk was tucked off to the side, and above it, the ceiling was adorned with simple decorations—little drawings that looked like they’d been done by children. The faint scent of crayons and cleaning solution teased your noses.

“Where are we?” Wanda whispered distractedly as her eyes wandered, taking in the surroundings.

Before you could answer, a woman behind the reception desk looked up and smiled warmly when she saw you. “It’s good to see you again, Y/N,” she said. “The kids will be so happy.”

“Kids?” Wanda echoed. 

You smiled at the woman and asked, “The playroom?”

She nodded, pointing down the hall. “Just straight ahead. You know the way.”

Wanda trailed after you, her arms crossed tightly over her chest again. “I don’t know what you think this is going to do,” she said.

“Just trust me,” you replied, confident that she could really trust you on this thing. “I think you’ll understand in a minute.”

When you opened the door to the playroom, the most joyful sounds greeted you. Children of all ages were scattered all over the room—some playing with toys, others chasing each other with giggles and squeals. A few heads turned at your arrival, their faces lighting up when they saw you.

“Miss Y/N!” one of the older boys called out, running up to you with an excited grin. You knelt to greet him, exchanging a few kind words before standing again and glancing back at Wanda. 

She lingered in the doorway, her posture uncertain, as though she wasn’t sure she belonged here. For a moment, despite the few years she had on you, she looked almost childlike—vulnerable, hesitant, and quietly yearning for the same thing these children sought.

“A lot of them came here after losing everything—some from Sokovia. They’re waiting for families now. Some of them already have new homes,” you told Wanda as you walked to a nearby bulletin board covered in photographs—smiling children with their adoptive families, snapshots of bright, hopeful futures. Gently, you unpinned a polaroid of a little girl with dark hair and a radiant smile, holding it carefully in your hand.

“She’s from Sokovia,” you said softly, handing the photo to Wanda. “Her family didn’t make it through the attack. But she did. Because of you.”

Wanda stared at the photo, her eyebrows drawn tight in concentration. You couldn’t quite tell what was going through her head. Her thumb skimmed the edges, but she didn’t say a word—her lips were pressed into a thin line, and you caught the slight hitch in her throat as she swallowed hard.

“She has a family now,” you continued, “she goes to school, plays soccer, and dreams about becoming a doctor someday. Her life�� everything she’s doing now… none of it would’ve been possible if not for what you and Pietro did. If you hadn’t warned us, if you hadn’t made the choice to defect from…”

You let the sentence trail off, leaving the rest unsaid. Wanda’s fingers curled slightly around the photo, her eyes still locked on the little girl.

Oh, Wanda, you thought to yourself. You’re a good person stuck with impossible choices.

“Her home was destroyed,” Wanda said after a long silence. You noticed the way she said her home, not our home. Sokovia was hers too, but it was like calling it that hurt too much, so she’d pushed herself out of the equation. “We couldn’t save it.”

“No, we couldn’t,” you agreed, not sugarcoating it. “But you gave her a chance for a new home. And that matters.”

She gave you back the photo. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” she whispered, so softly you almost didn’t catch it.

It was never going to be enough. That was the reality of this work. The Avengers could save millions by the time it was all over, rewrite the course of history with every battle fought—and still, it wouldn’t be enough. There would always be someone you failed to reach. Blood on your hands that no amount of victory could wash away.

Because the truth was, no matter how many you saved, the ones you lost would always outlive them in your memory.

But this wasn’t the right time to tell Wanda all that. You wanted to give her hope. You wanted to give her everything.

“Maybe not for you—not yet,” you accused. “But for her? For all of them?” You gestured to the room, where a group of children were now gathered around a train set that one of the volunteers just finished putting together. “It’s more than enough.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, she exhaled, her shoulders dropping a fraction as though some of the weight had finally started to ease. She looked up at you, her eyes glassy but clearer than they’d been when you found her outside the meeting room.

“Why are you showing me this?” Wanda asked.

“Because I wanted you to see what I see,” you said simply. “You’re not just the sum of your mistakes, Wanda. You’re the sum of everything you’ve done—the good and the bad. And I think you need to be reminded of the good.”

You weren’t entirely sure where those words came from. Maybe you’d been holding onto them for a while, turning them over in your mind every time you watched Wanda. But as they left your mouth, you realized how much you meant them. This wasn’t just something to make her feel better—it was what you truly believed.

You swore you caught the faintest hint of pink dusting her cheeks, and your heart soared at the sight of it.

Wanda’s fingers twitched, and that familiar red aura you’d come to know shimmered to life around her hands. The idle train set shuddered, then sprang into motion as if summoned by unseen magic—Wanda’s magic. The little engine emitted a soft hum as it began to circle the track, its wheels turning smoothly. 

“Look! It’s moving!” one of the kids shouted, pointing at the train as it chugged along the tracks. The children erupted in cheers and applause, their faces glowing with surprise and delight. 

You couldn’t help but smile, and when you glanced at Wanda, she was smiling too—so naturally, so effortlessly in a way you hadn’t seen in far too long. The second she caught you looking, her smile faltered, slipping away as her hands dropped to her sides, almost as if embarrassed to have been caught.

You smirked, mouthing a quiet ‘thank you’.

Wanda hesitated, then let her smile return, smaller this time but still very real.

—

The ride back to the compound was not as suffocating as it had been earlier. Wanda, still reserved, sat with her arms crossed loosely, her gaze focused out the window. Every so often, she’d comment on something as you drove by—the faded mural on the side of an old diner, the ridiculous neon sign for a pawn shop that flickered in broad daylight. Her voice was soft, almost unsure, but it was something. And after so much silence, even these small remarks were satisfying.

By the time you pulled up to the compound, dusk was setting in. You parked the car and Wanda stepped out first, stretching her legs after the long ride. You followed, grabbing your things from the backseat before stepping onto the gravel.

That’s when you saw him.

Vision stood at the entrance, hands folded neatly behind his back. A crease between his brows. His lips pressed a fraction too tight.

If he weren’t the most logical, even-keeled person in the compound—possibly in the entire world—you might’ve thought he looked jealous. Seeing his girlfriend with her former object of affection might’ve rattled him, after all.

“Wanda,” Vision said as you both approached. “May I speak with you?”

Wanda froze mid-step, her foot hovered as if she couldn’t decide whether to keep moving or stay rooted in place. She turned halfway, glancing over her shoulder at you. Like she wanted you to give her a reason to walk away or a sign to stay.

You gave her a small, sad smile and quietly excused yourself. This wasn’t your place. Whatever this was, it wasn’t for you to meddle with. Determined to get inside without further fuss, you moved past them, eyes forward, when Vision spoke.

“Y/N,” Vision said, though his eyes never left Wanda.

You stopped for a second, muttering, “Vision,” under your breath before continuing without another glance.

In the kitchen, you dumped your bag on the counter and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it from the tap. The water was cold, sharp against the dryness in your throat. You leaned against the counter, staring into the empty glass like it might give you answers.

It didn’t. It never did.

—

Later that night, a knock dragged you out of your book—your third this week. You couldn’t even remember the last sentence you’d read.

Foolishly, you hoped it was Wanda. Some naïve part of you clung to the idea that after the moment you shared this afternoon, she’d come to you. Initiate something for once. You knew better, but hope’s an idiot, always has been.

That idiot hope was short-lived though when you answered and discovered who was on the other side of the door.

The last person you expected to show up.

“Y/N? May I have a word with you?” Vision asked, though it didn’t sound exactly like a request.

You leaned against the doorframe casually. “Sure.”

Vision stepped inside without waiting for your permission. He stopped in the middle of the room, looking around like he was checking for an audience. He seemed…nervous. Weird to think about Vision being nervous. He was usually so self-assured—and you envied that about him sometimes.

“I spoke with Wanda,” he started. Straight to business.

“Okay.” You didn’t bother inviting him to elaborate. You figured he would anyway.

“She mentioned you took her to an orphanage. In the Bronx.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

That made you laugh, a quick, dry sound. “Why not?”

“It seemed to have an impact on her,” Vision said.

“That was the point.”

He seemed to be in deep thought, and it was unusual seeing him this way— It wasn’t like him to take this long, to seem unsure, unable to source the answer from his extensive library.

“What were you hoping to achieve?” he finally asked.

You let out another laugh, softer this time. “Jesus, Vision. You think I had some big master plan? She needed to get out of her own head for a while. That’s it. I took her somewhere that might remind her she’s not just… everything she thinks she’s messed up.”

“She hasn’t been herself,” Vision said, as if you hadn’t noticed.

“No kidding.”

He clasped his hands tighter, the nerves bleeding into his posture now, stiffer than usual. “I want to help her,” he said. “But I don’t understand what she needs.”

“Maybe she doesn’t either,” you said, following it with a heavy sigh. You knew that one too well, the feeling of walking around like a locked door with no key.

Vision looked down, just for a second. “I fear time may not be enough.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what he wanted from you. He had Wanda. He had every right—every opportunity—to ask her how she was feeling, to figure out if she was okay, or if taking her to that Sokovian restaurant she loved might lift her spirits. Instead, he was here, asking you for advice—yet again.

“You don’t think I know that?” you said finally. “You’re not the only one who gives a damn about her.”

Vision didn’t seem at all bothered by you admitting you cared about Wanda. It took a few seconds before you realized what you’d just admitted. Out loud. To someone else. For the very first time.

You cared about Wanda.

“I know,” Vision said evenly. “And that’s why I came to you. You’ve always understood her in a way I haven’t been able to.”

That stopped you short. You looked away, jaw tightening. Understood her? He didn’t know what he was talking about. And yet… part of you wanted it to be true.

“She’s your girlfriend,” you said, feeling like you had to wrestle the words out of your mouth. “You know her better than anyone.”

That seemed to snap Vision out of whatever fantasy he’d built of you holding all the answers to his Wanda-shaped puzzle. 

“Thank you for your time,” he said. “And for what you did for Wanda today.” And with that, Vision turned and left.

You shut the door slowly, leaning your forehead against the cool surface before drawing out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It didn’t matter if Vision was wrong. You’d still care. You’d still keep showing up, doing what you could.

Because this Idiot Hope? It wasn’t stamped out after all. It was still there, clawing its way to the surface every time she looked your way, even if it was just for a second—hoping she’d look a little longer.

[jlsammy25]

AAAAAAAA

All Of Your Pieces (16 - A Heart to Break)

Chapter Summary: This was cold, deliberate. Wanda wasn’t avoiding you, not exactly. She was around, always there at team meetings, in training sessions, and the common areas. But she never acknowledged you. When she did look at you—on those rare occasions—it wasn’t to meet your eyes. It was to look through you, as if you weren’t even there.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags: Angst

A/N: I'd like thank all of you again for following this series. Getting asks or feedback for this story is always the highlight of my week, especially how busy I am with school. Hope you like more angst :) P.S. @justagaynerdsblog it's not what you think. It's not THAT kind of triangle, it's just two idiots in love and being stupid // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wanda started dating Vision right away.

Much to your chagrin.

Not that you had any right to feel that way. You’d practically shoved her toward him, hadn’t you? Painting Vision as the perfect choice, the logical choice, the safe choice. You could almost laugh at how quickly they’d made it official. 

Well, almost.

Every time you saw them together, that laugh stuck somewhere in your throat. The compound wasn’t exactly big enough to avoid them. You saw them everywhere—Vision holding open a door for her, Wanda tilting her head back to laugh at something he said. It was all perfectly polite—just like you’d told her it would be. 

You told yourself it was fine. You had no right to feel jealous, no right to feel the knife that twisted in your chest every time Wanda smiled at him the way you wanted her to smile at you—how she used to smile at you.

Still, it grated.

You didn’t realize how much until the team dinner that Friday.

The dining room was rampageous, everyone laughing and talking over each other in a way that only happened when Tony was footing the bill and the drinks were flowing freely. Wanda sat next to Vision, their chairs too close, their hands brushing often enough to make your jaw clench every five minutes.

You’d taken a seat at the far end of the table, two spots down from Sam, who was loudly recounting some mission story that had Natasha rolling her eyes. You weren’t really listening. Your attention kept drifting to the other end of the table, where Wanda was leaning in to whisper something to Vision, her lips curving into a soft smile at his response.

You looked down at your plate, stabbing a piece of grilled chicken a little harder than necessary.

“Having fun there?”

You glanced up, startled, to find Sam smirking at you, his arms crossed like he’d been watching for a while.

“What?” you asked, your brain still catching up.

“You’re murdering your dinner,” he nodded toward your plate, “What’d that chicken ever do to you?”

You looked down and realized your fork was practically embedded in what used to be a respectable dinner. Now, it was just a mushy lump, draining what was left of your appetite. You loosened your grip and mumbled, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Sam said with a wink, his grin widening before he went back to the group discussion.

At the other end of the table, Vision said something that made Wanda laugh. It wasn’t one of those fake ones (you could honestly tell) she gave when she felt like she had to. Against your better judgment, you risked a glance. Wanda’s eyes were bright, her head tipped slightly toward him, looking positively smitten. Vision said something else, and she laughed again, this time quieter, her hand brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“God, this is pathetic,” you muttered to yourself, barely audible.

“What’s pathetic?”

Natasha this time. For someone trying to keep their head down, you were doing a terrible job. 

“Nothing,” you mumbled quickly, hoping she'd let it go. 

Of course, she didn’t. “You’re sulking like a teenager, and it’s making everyone uncomfortable. Come on,” she said.

Before you could make your defense she was already on her feet, nodding for you to follow. You hesitated for a fraction, then pushed your chair back, grateful for the excuse to leave. You could feel Wanda’s gaze on you as you stepped away from the table, Natasha leading the way out.

By the time you reached the balcony, you were ready to empty the meager contents of your stomach. You hadn’t been eating well lately, and it was starting to take a toll on your training regimen. You’ve been skipping workouts more often this week, and Natasha had been noticing that too.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asked, though there’s no pressure in her tone of voice.

“Nope,” you replied, short and to the point.

Natasha shrugged, unbothered. “Suit yourself.” 

She shifted to one side of the balcony, pulling a cigarette from her back pocket and lighting it with the kind of flair that made you wonder if she smoked to think or just to piss people off.  She inhaled deeply, held it, exhaled away from you in a long, steady stream. 

You leaned against the railing, your fingers curling around the cold metal, trying to focus on the night sky rather than the conversation you knew was coming. Natasha never forced anything, but she didn’t let things go either. Not when she thought there was something worth digging into.

“This… push and pull with Wanda. It’s exhausting to watch, honestly,” she started.

You scoffed, almost exaggerating it. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You were friends, real friends, and now you can’t even be in the same room without turning into this.”

“Into what?” you asked.

“Like a zombie, Y/N. And Wanda—or maybe Vision—is the brain you want to eat. You’re not yourself. What happened?”

“That’s ridiculous.” You bristled, looking away. “Nothing happened, okay?”

“Right. Because ‘nothing’ turns people into brooding messes who barely eat, barely train,” she countered.

You kept quiet. Natasha had no business knowing about this. If your face gave you away this evening, you were just going to have to fake it until you make it.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” Natasha said, not even bothering to disguise the accusation. “Between you two. Because this? This isn’t just awkward. It’s worse. My guess? You broke your own damn heart.”

“I don’t have—”

“A heart to break?” she cut in, rolling her eyes so hard you could practically hear them scrape against her skull. “Stop it. The more you deny it, the more it owns you. That’s how it works.”

You frowned, trying to parse where she was going with this.

“There’s a way to handle it,” she continued, exhaling smoke as if it carried some of her frustration with it. “You move on, Y/N. But, clearly, you’re doing it wrong.”

“You’re the expert now?”

“I’m saying I’ve been there,” Natasha said, taking another drag of her cigarette. “You’re stuck because you haven’t accepted the decision you made. And it’s eating you alive.”

“How do you know that I—”

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows Wanda’s been obsessed with you since she joined the team,” she said with a faint smirk. “And now she’s with Vision. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. You chose something—or someone—and now you’re second-guessing yourself.”

What she said settled over you like a suffocating blanket. Natasha was right. It was the ‘what if?’ that’s been haunting you since you denied your feelings for Wanda—rather impulsively if you were being truly honest. 

“Do you… Do you think I made the right choice?”

“As much as I’d love to hand you the answer on a silver platter, I don’t have it,” Natasha said, brushing ash from the tip of her cigarette. “Only time will tell, I guess. But I will say this: you made your choice for a reason. Trust yourself on that, at least.”

Natasha pushed off the wall, brushing her hands against her pants. “Better get back inside before she comes looking for you.”

“She won’t.”

Natasha let out a dry, skeptical hum before heading back inside. You’d thought she’d dragged you out here to convince you to get Wanda back. But this was harder to swallow.

Trust yourself. 

As if it were that simple.

—

The fallout with Wanda this time was different. Different from all the other times you tried to jumpstart some version of a friendship or a co-working relationship and failed. It wasn’t the wary distance you’d both kept when she first arrived at the compound, when trust was something neither of you could afford to give. This was worse.

This was cold, deliberate. Wanda wasn’t avoiding you, not exactly. She was around, always there at team meetings, in training sessions, and the common areas. But she never acknowledged you. When she did look at you—on those rare occasions—it wasn’t to meet your eyes. It was to look through you, as if you weren’t even there.

She was always with Vision now. Rarely did you see her without him by her side. The team had started referring to them as Wanda and Vision, like they were one entity. It wasn’t, “Ask Wanda,” or, “Ask Vision.” It was, “Ask Wanda and Vision.” As if they’d merged into one seamless, perfect unit. When Vision wasn’t around, the questions still fell to Wanda, as if she spoke for him. When Wanda wasn’t around, Vision became her proxy. The separation between them had dissolved in everyone’s minds, and you hated it. Not because they didn’t deserve to be happy—no, you’d told yourself you wanted that for her. You just hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to watch it unfold right in front of you.

You told yourself you’d get used to it, that it was just a phase, but it wasn’t. It was more like a drawn-out misery you couldn’t escape. You missed her. You missed the easy banter you’d started to build before everything fell apart. You missed the way her sharp wit challenged you, the way she’d smirk when she knew she’d gotten under your skin just enough to make you react. You found yourself wondering if she still trained, if she was keeping up with the progress she’d been so proud of.

And sometimes, when you were alone in your room, you wouldn’t even turn up the music. You’d sit there in the quiet, waiting, straining to hear anything from her side of the wall. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you’d hear her playing the guitar—something she’d started doing more often in recent weeks. Most nights, though, it wasn’t the guitar you heard. It was Vision. Wanda’s voice rarely reached you, but when it did, it was laughter. Laughter that you didn’t cause, that wasn’t yours to hear anymore.

The worst of it came when they started leaving together. Late at night, when the compound had quieted down and most of the team had gone to bed, you’d hear the faint sound of their footsteps, see them heading toward the exit. You told yourself they were just walking, just talking, but you weren’t naïve. You knew what couples did late at night.

And they were a couple now.

—

You considered going back to your apartment in the city. It wasn’t far—just a few miles—but the missions were rolling in again, and timing was everything. It was easier to stay at the compound, to be ready for whatever disaster came next. Besides, throwing yourself into work was better than sitting alone in an empty apartment with your thoughts circling Wanda and Vision like vultures.

Missions came and went, and luckily, you weren’t paired with Wanda or Vision. Someone else was always available, someone else always volunteered. It was a small mercy you clung to as you poured yourself into the work. You kept yourself busy. Busier than usual. You took on every assignment thrown your way, volunteering for extra shifts, running double-time during debriefs. 

But the work didn’t just distract you—it became a way to punish yourself. You didn’t take unnecessary risks; you took reckless ones. If the odds were stacked, you went in headfirst.  It wasn’t that you wanted to get hurt—at least, not consciously—but somehow, the pain on the outside felt like the only thing that could dull the pain within.

And the wounds came. Small ones at first—a sprained wrist, a shallow cut above your brow. Then larger ones. A nasty gash along your arm during an ambush. Against protocol, you never went to the in-house medical team. You handled it yourself—bandaging wounds in your room, stitching yourself up with clenched teeth, biting down on a scrap of fabric to muffle the sounds of pain.

It was only a matter of time before your luck ran out.

—

The bullet grazed your side during a narrow escape, tearing through your jacket and slicing into your skin with brutal efficiency. You barely had time to think about it in the heat of the moment, too focused on getting out alive. But by the time you returned to the compound, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving nothing but the sharp, unrelenting pain and the blood—hot and stick— seeping through your fingers as you clutched your side.

Turning a corner, you nearly collided with Wanda, who was coming back from the gym. She was still in her workout gear, a towel slung over her shoulder, her hair pulled back, a light sheen of sweat on her skin. Her eyes darted up to meet yours, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t look away immediately.

You managed a small nod and tacked on a weak smile for good measure. She returned the nod but the smile didn’t come. She moved to step past you, and you thought that would be the end of it.

But then you faltered—just a split-second wince as the pain surged, a grimace you couldn’t quite hide. Her steps slowed, her head turning slightly. Her eyes landed on your hand, pressed against your side, and then on the dark red stain spreading through your shirt.

“Wait,” she said sharply.  

“It’s fine,” you muttered, trudging along, trying to walk straight even though your side burned like hell.

Without a word, she turned back and then unwound the towel she had draped around her shoulders, stepping closer and pressing it firmly against your side. You jerked back at the pressure but didn’t stop her. Her hand stayed steady, though her expression betrayed none of what she might’ve been thinking. It wasn’t anger, or at least not just anger. 

“I’m calling the medic,” Wanda said.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just a graze. I don’t need the medics.”

Wanda merely glared at your wound, though you could see the tightness in her jaw, the way her lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re bleeding through a towel,” she said flatly.

“I just need the first-aid kit,” you mumbled, glancing toward the storage room. “That’s all.”

She didn’t look at you as she asked, “Where is it?”

“Why?” you asked cautiously.

“So we can patch you up.”

We.

Did she mean you and her? Or was this some prelude to Vision walking into the hallway and the couple patching you up together? You didn’t ask, though the thought burned in the back of your mind.

“It’s just right there,” you finally said, pointing weakly toward the door a few feet away.

She didn’t move right away. Her hands stayed where they were, pressing the towel firmly against your side, applying just enough pressure to slow the bleeding but not enough to stop your brain from wondering why the hell she was doing this. Wanda had made it pretty clear she wanted nothing to do with you. A wound like this wasn’t life-threatening at all. But she was treating it like you were on death’s doorstep, making it more difficult for you to ignore the flutter of feelings you’d been working so hard to bury.

After what felt like too long, Wanda stood, releasing her grip on the towel. “I’ll get it,” she said simply. You stayed where you were, slumped against the wall. The absence of her hands left you trembling slightly, and for the first time, you really felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at you, the weakness from blood loss settling in.

Fine. Maybe you’d lost more blood than you’d let on. Maybe being stubborn about not calling the medic wasn’t your brightest move. Still, you’d had worse. This didn’t even rank in your top five.

Wanda returned a moment later, but instead of handing you the first-aid kit, she surprised you by crouching beside you and looping your arm over her shoulder. Without a word, she guided you to the storage room, half-carrying you with surprising strength. Once inside, she maneuvered you to sit on a low bench against the wall, then turned away to open a cabinet. When she crouched back down in front of you, first-aid kit in hand, she didn’t so much as glance in your direction. She snapped the lid open and laid out the supplies.

“You don’t have to do this, Wanda,” you whispered, your voice scratchy and weak, which annoyed you more than the actual wound. You were starting to feel a little loopy, unsure if this was really happening or just a dream—if you were dead somewhere else or still lost in sleep in your bed. If it were the former, you thought, it was certainly a good way to go. It made you smile without realizing it, which only seemed to make Wanda more alarmed.

Now moving with a bit more urgency, she grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and a piece of gauze, pouring the liquid onto it before pressing it against your wound unceremoniously. You hissed, waking you up a little, your hand gripping the edge of the chair as the pain flared. She didn’t acknowledge the sound, her attention fixed on cleaning the blood away.

“Stay still,” she warned after you’ve shied away too far.

When she pulled out a needle and thread, your stomach sank like a stone in dark water. “Stitches?” you muttered, though it barely qualified as a question—more of a sigh, defeated before the fight even started.

“It’s deep enough,” she reasoned, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

The first stab of the needle lit up your nerves, a white-hot jolt that ripped through your side. You sucked in air through clenched teeth, fists balled tight at your sides.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath.

“Stop moving,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm.

You didn’t stop moving, not entirely, but you managed to keep your whimpers to a minimum as the needle went in again. And again. At some point, the pain dulled—not because it got easier, but because it started to blur, your skin either numbing or your brain deciding it had enough.

When she tied off the last one, she grabbed the bandages, wrapping them around your torso.  The bandage had to loop around your waist, and for that, she leaned in, her arms slipping behind you. She was so near that you could almost count the freckles scattered across her nose. The proximity made you hyper-aware of yourself—how you reeked of blood, smoke, and sweat, and how there was nowhere to hide from it.

And then it was over. She finished without ceremony, knotting the bandage with quick fingers before standing and turning away. For a moment, she hovered by the cabinet, her back to you, her shoulders stiff.

“Don’t make me do this again,” she murmured so quietly that you couldn’t quite decipher the emotion behind it.

Her words should’ve felt like an admonition, but instead, they landed like a plea. You weren’t sure if she was talking about the stitches or something much more complicated. And as you watched the way her shoulders sagged slightly, the way her head dipped like the fight had drained out of her, it hit you—this wasn’t easy for her either. None of it was.

“Wanda…” Her name came out too soft, like you didn’t really want her to hear it. Like you weren’t sure what you were going to say next.

“Get some rest,” she murmured, the words almost tender—

But final.

[jlsammy25]

Come on. Oh come on.

Damn. Like, wow. Every chapter from now on is gonna rip my heart out and rip it to pieces, I guess.

All Of Your Pieces (15 - Vis)

Chapter Summary: Why walk willingly into something destined to leave a scar? You didn’t need another scar. You didn’t need a Wanda-shaped scar.

You were afraid of her—always had been—but now you’re more afraid of wanting something you couldn’t afford to lose.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4.2k+ | Chapter Tags: Angst

A/N: Finally was able to write a few thousand words for the new chapter I'm working on. Hope everyone's doing alright :) Angsty chapters ahead starting with this one :P // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

For the first time since becoming an Avenger, you weren't doing things alone as often.

Wanda had seamlessly integrated herself into your routine, or perhaps you had integrated into hers. Either way, the companionship was a welcome change. She rarely used her powers around you, and the missions had been sparse enough that she seldom needed to use them at full throttle. Instead, you found yourself teaching her hand-to-hand combat, focusing primarily on defensive techniques since her main form of attack was still those spectral red wisps rather than direct physical strikes. Wanda absorbed techniques like a sponge. She learned the moves easily, and by the second week of consistent training, she was dodging your attacks with a graceful ease.

Wanda began making a habit of tapping at your door before dinner. With rooms adjacent to each other, it made sense to walk down together, often ending up side by side at the table. Vision, on the other hand, took up his post on Wanda’s other flank, filling in whenever there was a pause in your newfound friendship. Despite his constant presence,  it was clear that you were the one she gravitated towards, the one she focused on during conversations, her laughter a little louder, her smiles more prolonged.

Not that this was a competition with Vision. Nothing like that.

You were simply just… observing a fact, is all.

One afternoon, you were in the kitchen, attempting to make a passable stir-fry. The rest of the team was out on an extraction mission, one you were thankfully spared from. Normally, you’d be the first to volunteer for a job, but lately, you were more keen on staying at the compound. You had taken to training Wanda, spending afternoons reading side by side, and endlessly teasing each other. She'd picked up on it too, throwing back her own retorts just as fast as you could dish them out.

Wanda walked in, her eyes lighting up when she saw you. “Cooking again? Should I be worried?” she teased.

You smirked. Wanda's confidence in ribbing you at every chance was growing. “Very funny. I'll have you know I'm improving.”

She peeked into the pan. “Smells good. Need any help?”

“Actually, yes,” you muttered, trying to avoid the occasional splash of oil. “Could you hand me the soy sauce?”

She moved closer, reaching into the cupboard beside you. “Here you go."

“Thanks,” you said, your fingers brushing hers as you took the bottle. A brief, pleasant tension hung between you before you both looked away.

As you poured the soy sauce into the pan, you felt her gaze on you. "What is it?" you asked, glancing over.

She tilted her head, gazing at you softly. “You've got something on your face,” she murmured.

You attempted to wipe it off, but your hands, full and coated in cooking residue, only managed to smear more across your cheek.

Wanda decided to take matters into her own hands. “Hold still,” she instructed.

She moved closer, raising her hand to your face. Her fingertips brushed lightly against your skin as she removed a smudge of sauce near your cheekbone. Your heart hammered in your chest, her proximity heightening your awareness of every detail—the faint scent of her perfume, the tenderness in her eyes.

“All clean,” she whispered, her eyes meeting yours.

“T-Thanks…”

She didn’t pull away right away. Her hand lingered, a beat too long. Long enough to mean something. And you couldn’t look anywhere but at her. 

You leaned in, not thinking, not breathing, just moving. It was instinct. Wanda didn’t move away. Her eyes—those damn green orbs—dipped—quick, almost imperceptible—to your mouth, then back up. A signal, maybe. Or an accident. Either way, you took it as permission to continue. The distance between you collapsed like a snapped thread.

And then footsteps—loud enough to snap you both out of the spell. Your pulse rocketed, and you jumped back just as Vision rounded the doorway.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted both of you, but mostly he was looking at Wanda who was still focused on you. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Vis,” Wanda said, her nickname for him finally drawing your attention back to her. “We were, uh, just... cooking.”

“So I see,” Vision said. “Wanda, I wanted to remind you that we planned to go into the city today. You agreed to assist me in selecting new attire.”

Wanda blinked, her face caught between surprise and realization. “Oh, right. I almost forgot.”

You kept your face turned toward the stove, stirring the pan with a little more force than necessary. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” you said, trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to bitter. “The stir-fry is just about done.”

Vision, for all his efforts to become more human, still couldn’t read the room. “Would you like to join us for an early dinner before we leave?” he asked.

You glanced back, just enough to see him, to see her, standing there side by side like the picture of domestic civility. “Thanks,” you said, shaking your head. “But I just remembered I’ve got some things to take care of.”

Wanda moved in front of Vision, blocking him from your view. “Are you sure?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said, plastering on a smile you didn’t feel. “You two go ahead. Enjoy your shopping trip.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned back to the stove, grabbed a clean plate, scooped out a portion of the stir-fry, and made your escape. Down the hall, up the stairs, into the bedroom. 

Your bedroom.

You sat on the floor, cross-legged, the plate resting in your lap. It was your comfort food, but there was no comfort in it at all. You’d lost your appetite somewhere between the stove and here.

Vis.

The name rattled in your head like a cruel mantra.

Vis.

A nickname. A pet name for her pet—of course. How fitting. How utterly ridiculous. How much it made your blood boil.

The food on your plate turned to ash as you shoved another bite into your mouth, chewing mechanically. 

Vis.

Vis.

Vis.

You hated how it sounded, hated how it felt. Too endearing. Too much like something Wanda had given him—a thing of hers that wasn’t yours. Too much like something you’d never have.

—

Wanda hadn’t been able to take her mind off you since that moment in the kitchen—where you almost kissed her. Or maybe it was the other way around. She wasn't sure anymore. What she did know was that she couldn’t stop replaying the scene: your pupils dilated, the hint of mint on your breath, your lips hovering so close to hers she could almost taste you.

Her interest in you wasn’t new. It had crept up on her not long after she and Pietro defected from Ultron and sought refuge with Tony—and through him, with you and the rest of the team. Among all the team members, it was clear that you harbored the most reservations about her. You were openly wary, never masking your distrust. You never feigned cordiality, and she respected that authenticity. It meant she could take everything you said or did at face value.

Over time, that respect began to shift in the days following her move to North America. At first, she told herself her fascination with you was just curiosity—a need to challenge the version of her you seemed to have already decided on, to prove she wasn’t the person you thought she was. 

The more Wanda watched you, the more she trailed you, the harder it became to ignore the small, telling details. Like the way your face always looked wound tight, your expression incessantly on the verge of a scowl, as if you carried pain or stress everywhere you went. It fascinated her—how your emotions were so easy to read, almost embarrassingly transparent. She could see when you were frustrated, irritated, or, on those rare occasions, genuinely happy. It became a quiet game for her, trying to predict the color of your mood each day. Most days, you were blue, just like the dull ache she carried inside since losing her parents and then her brother.

But unlike her, whose grief was laid bare for the world to see—grief that Vision appeared inexplicably drawn to—your sadness was a mystery. Those frowns you wore carried a story she didn’t know, a story that left her wanting to understand you more. But you made it nearly impossible. You kept everyone at arm’s length, even Natasha and Clint—the only two people in the compound you seemed to genuinely tolerate, maybe even like.

Wanda had planned to come to you right after fulfilling her promise to Vision to help him shop for clothes. But the outing dragged on, delayed by every fan who stopped Vision for an autograph or a photo. Wanda stood there, watching helplessly as he obliged every single request, until they finally made it back to the compound, long past midnight. She didn’t want to disturb you at that hour, and exhaustion had settled into her bones.

If she had known she’d feel this close to you in just a few short weeks, she would have thought twice about agreeing to Vision’s request. Maybe she’d have reserved all her time—every weekday, every weekend—just for you. 

And so, Wanda stayed up through the night, waiting. If she slept at all, it was barely more than a fleeting doze, her thoughts keeping her wide awake until the first light of dawn crept in. She played it out in her mind: a dozen different scenarios, but each of them ending with you returning her feelings. She’d been keeping track—comparing how much time you spent with her versus the others—and she was ahead by a wide margin. That couldn’t be for nothing, right? It had to mean something.

Finally, when the clock struck six in the morning, she rapped her knuckles against your door, the sound almost timid. She waited, holding her breath, for nearly a minute before knocking again, this time louder.

Still, no answer.

On impulse, she reached for the doorknob expecting it to be locked, but finding it unlocked instead. The door creaked open, revealing your room, neat and untouched. The bed was made, the desk tidy, and the faintest trace of your scent lingered in the air. But there was no sign of you. She nearly stepped further into the room, the thought of exploring your space crossing her mind, but she stopped, remembering your need for privacy. Despite her longing to know everything about you, and the self-control it took to resist reading your thoughts, she respected your wishes and refused to violate your boundaries without consent.

Since it was too early for you to be gone, her thoughts jumped to the only other place she knew you might be—your apartment. 

—

It felt strange coming here alone, without you to open the door and invite her in. The apartment seemed less welcoming and somewhat intimidating. For a brief moment, Wanda considered leaving. But she steeled herself and knocked.

For all she knew, you could be somewhere else entirely.

In the next second, she found out in the most awkward way that you weren’t. The door opened to reveal a tall blonde woman dressed casually in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, her hair tousled as if she'd just woken up. She held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand.

“Can I help you?”

Wanda froze, her mind stumbling over words that refused to come. Before she could find her voice, she heard your muffled question from inside.

“Is that the pizza?”

The blonde woman turned her head slightly. “Nope, but you've got company!” she called back.

You appeared behind her, pulling on a hoodie over your T-shirt. Your eyes widened when you saw Wanda standing there. “Wanda? What are you doing here?”

Wanda pulled herself together just in time. Whatever face she made at the sight of a gorgeous, half-naked blonde in your apartment, she wasn’t about to let you catch it.

“There's a mission briefing in ten minutes,” she told you coolly. “Thought you might not want to miss it.”

Without thinking, you blurted out, “You could've just called me,” making Wanda’s face slip into an almost wounded expression. 

“I don’t have your number,” she said, her irritation shining through.

Your hand moved to the back of your neck, rubbing at the tension that had already begun to settle there. “Right. You could’ve, uh, used the team comms.”

“Sure,” she replied flatly. For a second she simply stood there, eyes darting between you and your guest, a silent accusation or maybe just a question, burning in her gaze. Before you could answer—or even think of what to say—she turned on her heel and strode off.

“Wanda, wait—” you called, taking a step after her, but she didn’t slow down. The door swung shut behind her, leaving you reeling with the aftermath. 

“Friend of yours?” the woman—Chelsea—in your apartment asked.

You sighed. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Chelsea smirked. You looked visibly bothered for it to be anything less than what it looked like.

“Oh, I didn’t say it looked like anything. But if you’re feeling guilty, who am I to argue?”

“Thanks for making that worse,” you said dryly, heading toward the kitchen. “By the way, you’re welcome for letting you stay here last minute.”

She followed you to pour herself another cup. “Seriously, though—thank you. Josh’s business trip came out of nowhere, and with the contractors at our place, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, grabbing a mug for yourself. “Just keep the place clean, alright? And no drugs.”

She raised an eyebrow at you, mock affronted. “What do you take me for?”

“If you must,” you added, pouring your coffee, “stick to weed. And air it out after.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Noted.”

You hadn’t planned on going back to the compound so soon, not after driving yourself insane all night, obsessing over Wanda and Vision. But maybe you should’ve spiraled there instead of hiding out in your apartment—where Wanda just happened to stumble upon you with another girl.

Not that it should’ve mattered to her. But the way she looked at you, like you’d done something unforgivable, made your skin crawl. You hated how she had that power over you, how her disappointment felt like a knife. And really, what right did she have? You didn’t get to feel jealous over Vision, just like she didn’t get to feel jealous over whoever you were with.

Still, no amount of rationalizing could shake the image of her face, the way she stared between you and Chelsea. You weren’t even thinking about the meeting—you missed those more often than not. But now you felt compelled to show up, even if it didn’t make sense.

“Anyway,” you said, setting down your empty mug, “I’ve got to head back to the compound.”

“Go, hero,” she teased, waving you off. “Don’t let me keep you from saving the world or whatever it is you do.”

—

You arrived at the conference room, fully expecting to find Tony, probably already mid-sentence in some snarky comment about how generous it was of you to grace them with your presence. Instead, the room was dark. The chairs sat untouched, lined up neatly around the table.

No empty coffee cups scattered around. No notebooks left open with half-scribbled notes. Not a single trace that a meeting had happened at all.  

Wanda had lied—and you were a gullible idiot. 

Your feet carried you on autopilot, down the corridor toward Wanda’s quarters. The burn in your gut grew, a slow churn of anger and something uglier underneath. Her door came into view, closed tight, light seeping out from the edges. You could hear a  faint murmur of voices. One of them hers, the other...someone else.

You took a deep, steadying breath before knocking three times on Wanda’s door.

“Wanda? Open up.”

It didn’t take long for it to open, as if she’d been waiting for you all this time.

“What are you doing here?” she asked tersely. 

Behind her, Vision was lounging on her bed, looking up from a book opened on his lap. He offered a polite nod in your direction before going back to his reading. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on you. Just earlier, Wanda had found you with Chelsea, and now here you were, finding her with Vision. You almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“There was no briefing,” you stated flatly.

Wanda smiled, soft and unrepentant. “I guess you figured that out.”

“Why did you lie to me?” you demanded.

“Why do you think?”

You bit down on your lip to not say what you were thinking.  “I don't appreciate being played with, Wanda.”

She let out a dry scoff. “Funny, I could say the same to you.”

“What the hell is—” you started, but your attention landed on Vision, who was still in the room and wasn’t even pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Vision,” you said sharply, “can you give us some privacy?”

He didn’t even blink. Instead, he closed his book with excruciating calm and turned to Wanda. “I will leave if she asks me to.”

Your jaw clenched as your nostrils flared. Of course, it had to be this kind of game. “Wanda,” you said, your patience fraying. “Can you ask him to leave?”

Her arms crossed, and she stared you down, her eyes daring you to make this any more difficult. You didn’t back down, meeting her gaze head-on. When it became clear she had no intention of relenting, you grabbed her arm—not roughly, but with enough force to make your point—and pulled her toward your room. Vision stood, clearly intending to follow, but Wanda finally intervened. “Stay here, Vis,” she said.

You smirked, the corner of your mouth curling in satisfaction. “That’s right, ‘Vis.’ Be a good boy and stay.”

It was petty, but it felt damn good.

You closed the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment as you tried to steady your breathing. She didn’t give you much of a chance.

“What the hell is your problem?” she snapped, yanking her arm free of your grip.

You met her glare with one of your own. “My problem? What's your problem, Wanda? You bang on my door at dawn, feed me some line about a briefing that doesn’t exist, and now you’re acting like I did something wrong.”

Wanda didn’t seem remotely interested in answering any of your questions. 

“Who's the woman in your apartment?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

Alright then. You’d tell her—not because you owed her an explanation, but because you wanted her to see how absurd her assumptions were.

“Her name's Chelsea,” you began, “she's a friend—and married, by the way. They needed a place to crash. You missed her husband heading out for a convention by, oh, maybe five minutes.”

Wanda's expression faltered for a moment before hardening again. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Why do you care so much about who I have at my apartment?”

“Because you brought me to yours!” she yelled suddenly. “We’d been hanging out, spending all that time together, and I... Did I read this whole thing wrong?”

“What thing?” you asked quietly, even though you knew exactly what she was referring to. She hadn’t read it wrong. But just because there were feelings didn’t mean you had to act on them, right?

“This thing between us, Y/N!” she exclaimed. Her chest heaved, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “The way we talk, the way you look at me. Or the way I thought you looked at me.”

It wasn’t a direct confession, but it didn’t need to be. The way Wanda stood there, trembling, said more than her words ever could. 

Being an Avenger meant living with one foot in the grave, a reality you’d made peace with. But caring about another Avenger—someone who lived on that same edge—was a different kind of risk. You’d seen it before. Natasha and Bruce’s quiet implosion. The way your mentor carried her heartbreak like shrapnel buried deep. Clint, splitting his life in two to keep his family safe. Tony, haunted by the faces of everyone he couldn’t save. Why walk willingly into something destined to leave a scar? 

You didn’t need another scar. You didn’t need a Wanda-shaped scar.

You were afraid of her—always had been—but now you’re more afraid of wanting something you couldn’t afford to lose.

You ignored the pleading look in her eyes, the way she was practically telling you that you were the one she wanted. Instead, you launched into what you thought would be your saving grace—a monologue of self-sabotage. If she could just see how unworthy you were, how ill-equipped for whatever this could become, she’d turn away before either of you ended up drowning.

“Vision’s in the next room. He’s waiting for you. He’s perfect, isn’t he? No mistakes, no baggage. Morally upright in every sense. Hell, he doesn’t even have a past to haunt him, no skeletons in his closet. He’s everything I’m not.”

She stared at you, her lips parting to respond, but you didn’t let her.

“I’m selfish, Wanda,” you went on. “I make bad calls. I screw up more than I get it right. I’m a terrible choice. And this?” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This isn’t going to end well. For either of us.”

She started to protest, but you kept going, unable to stop yourself now.

“You think you want me? You don’t. Trust me. Vision’s the standard. You deserve someone like him. Someone steady, someone who won’t let you down.”

And then you realized you weren’t going to convince her by selling her something else. 

You needed to reject her.

“I—I don’t like you,” you stammered, the lie spilling out, living a bitter taste in your mouth. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I’m sorry, Wanda.”

Wanda didn’t move at first. She stood there, her chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. You wished you knew what she was thinking.

And then it happened—that slight shift in her expression, subtle but unmistakable. Her brows furrowed, her eyes narrowing just enough to tell you exactly what she was considering.

“Don’t,” you warned.

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“You know what,” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended. “Don’t even think about it.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes, you were,” you interrupted, stepping closer, daring her to deny it. “You were thinking about looking inside my head. Don’t try to deny it, Maximoff.”

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, she looked away, guilt flashing across her face. “I just—” she started, but you didn’t let her finish.

“That’s one of the reasons I can’t—” You broke off, your frustration boiling over. “That’s one of the things I don’t like about you. You’ll always have that option. That ability to strip me bare, to take whatever you want, and I’ll never be able to stop you.”

Her face fell, and for a moment, you almost regretted the words. Almost.

“I would never—”

“But you could, Wanda!” you shot back, your voice rising. 

Wanda’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She took a step back, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as if trying to hold herself together.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” she said quietly, her voice trembling but firm. “I was tempted, yes. But I wasn’t going to.”

“Temptation is enough,” you said, shaking your head, your laugh bitter and humorless. “You shouldn’t even want to, Wanda. Not with me. Not with anyone.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, she looked impossibly small. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I just—when you lie to me like that, when you say you don’t like me, I don’t believe it. It doesn’t feel true.”

You switched up tactics before Wanda could convince you to change your mind about this. 

“Well, maybe I don’t like you as much as you think,” you retorted, your voice nearly breaking somewhere in the middle. “Maybe you’re just reading into things that aren’t there.”

“You don’t mean that,” she said, more for herself than for you.

“Believe whatever you want,” you said coldly. “But I’m not going to apologize for telling you the truth.”

Neither of you moved, locked in this terrible stillness that seemed to drag on forever.

It was Wanda who broke first.

Her hand rose, shaky, to her cheek. With the smallest of movements, she wiped away a single tear that had slipped free. The action was so subtle, so restrained, that it almost broke you. But you stayed where you were, frozen in place, watching as she straightened her posture and schooled her features into something calm. Something controlled.

She turned silently and headed for the door. There was no rush, no slamming, no dramatic display of anger or heartbreak. Just Wanda leaving.

At the door, she paused, her hand on the frame. Slowly, she turned to look at you one last time.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “I deserve more than a coward.”

The door shut behind her with a finality that settled like lead in your chest. You stayed where you were, staring at the empty space she’d left behind, trying to tell yourself this was the outcome you wanted.