#p: sparky | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Note

farmer!price & sweet little girl next door!reader (yes i’m thinking about this pairing in the most perverted way possible)

a/n: here it is. the long-awaited neighbor!price fic <3 Hopefully, you all enjoy these Price crumbs. anon is onto something ;) & thx for the dog name ideas! ⊹。°˖➴ ao3 ver. // word count: 6.9k

// warning(s); nsfw (18+), implied age gap [r is mid-twenties, price is early/mid-forties], dadbod!price agenda, oral (r.), p/v unsafe sex, fem!reader

Price is living out his recluse dreams. Retired and secluded, finally! It was more than he’d wished for, honestly. He always desired a patch of land far from town, leaving out scraps for the critters, finding the simple pleasures.

But here he was, with a small, self-sufficient farm, growing enough to feed himself. It was a quiet, rewarding lifestyle. Entirely the opposite of his years in the service. Right now, he found himself conquering his lost list of mundane tasks. Watering his herbs, then sorting the junk that accumulated in his storage shed.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

After a grueling afternoon of unpacking, you needed to unwind. Right now, you found yourself lounging on your deck, head tilted back as you shielded your eyes from the summer sun. As if moving and assembling furniture wasn't exhausting enough — now you had the sweltering star beating down on you.

Abruptly, you feel something soft brush against your legs. Before you can open your eyes, there's a hefty weight plunged atop your lap. Your eyes snap open, greeted with the hot breath of a smiling golden retriever.

You caress the blonde fur, receiving several licks along your hand. "Zeus! down, boy!" A husky voice shouts, followed by the face to match it. The eager, not-so-small ball of fluff hops off your lap, prancing toward the man walking around the side of your house.

A charcoal gray t-shirt hugging his buff but girthy body. A man who's been in shape for years — arms bulging and tanned from hours of working outside, all whilst his older years have caught up to him a bit on his stomach, which stuck out with just a bit of fat cushion.

"My apologies, he knows better." He rubbed his head and flashed an apologetic look, exposing the faint abs you'd already imagined on him at first glance. Price's eyes wandered you from top to bottom, nearly forgetting to unfurrow his brow.

What a sight for sore eyes, you were.

You peer down at your lap, now stained with dirt in the shape of paws — on your thighs and the shorts you're wearing. "Oh, not a big deal! he gave me quite a scare, but it was a pleasant surprise." You look over at Zeus, his tail thwacking against his owner's leg.

For a few moments, all he did was leer, before he snapped himself out of it. "John," he steps forward as if going to shake hands but retracts hastily.

"—'m all covered in dirt, wouldn't want to get you dirtier than Zeus already has, hm?" He chuckles when he finishes his rhetorical, smearing the dirt onto his denim pants.

You shake your head and chuckle gently, “no room for pleasantries in the countryside, is there?” You case his appearance again, eyes skimming his muscles.

John flashes a polite smile, muttering a reply before hooking a finger around the Golden’s red collar. “Be seeing you.” He effectively leads the sparky dog out of your yard, preventing both any more surprise attacks and more ogling on his part.

Not only was getting a new neighbor a surprise, but her being so damn tempting — an entirely different genre of awe.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Yesterday wasn’t your smoothest first impression. looking rugged and sweaty from unpacking, ending up covered in dirt and in awkward conversation. You wanted a second chance. He was going to be your neighbor after all — and it wasn’t like there were many others. John was the only one within reasonable walking distance, it seemed.

Now, wearing a sundress as opposed to sweat-caked shorts and a tee — you were more confident in your odds of at least being civil with your neighbor. At the very least, a man who would roll up your trash bins before a storm. Perhaps even supply a spare cup of sugar if you were being optimistic.

You trudge down the dirt road, careful not to roll your ankle on the unpredictable mounds of earth. For a few moments, you’re convinced you’ve gone the wrong way. It’s either dense forest, patches of crop, or more road ahead of you.

Lord knows you were exhausted yesterday, maybe the handsome neighbor was just a figment in your fried mind. A foolish thought — but one that worsened the longer you walked.

The tray in your hands; a few oatmeal dog biscuits and some cookies made from the recipe on the chocolate chip bag. It was better than coming empty-handed, wasn’t it? That would just be distasteful judgment.

With eyes glued ahead, you nearly let the handles of the platter slip when you finally spotted the lights in the distance. Golden-tinted and countless, illuminating the updated cabin. In the yard, lay a few scattered chewed ropes and muddy tennis balls. You could safely assume you made it to the suave man’s residence.

You knock on the oak door, seeing the hues of a television flickering through some of the bent blinds. After a few seconds of mumbling, the door swung open.

Price answered with a beer in one of his fists, instantly straightening his posture when he laid eyes on you. The sundress; cherry red with splotches of tiny florals. Dusk sunbeams highlighted your bone structure seamlessly — casting an ethereal glow on your captivating flesh.

Today, instead of gray, his shirt is army green and just as snug of a fit. You can't help but prolong your stare when he leans against the doorway, his bicep bulging even when he stands with nonchalance. He's even more of a knockout when not covered in dirt; though you suppose the same could be applied to you.

"This is a surprise." He glances at the tray in your hands, then at the polite smile on your face as you flash it in his direction.

With a beam, you extend the platter out and wait for him to take it. "I wasn't sure when to come. I hope I'm not intruding." You speak softly, catching a glimpse of his tidy living space.

“No such thing as intrusion around here, eh? ‘m practically searching for chores these days. A little conversation won’t bother me any.” Price chuckles a bit, flicking his head as an invitation for you to join him.

You step inside behind him, engulfed by the scent of tobacco and cedarwood. The cabin's interior walls have been stained with a warm tint, stretching throughout what bits of the space you can spot. Immediately through the front door is his kitchen, likely the most modernized of the rooms.

Distressed, truffle-colored counters in an L shape; altogether enough space for a man living alone. Yet, the countertops are anything but cluttered — nearly spotless, in fact. He slides the tray across the counter, finally unveiling the homemade treats for both human and man's best friend.

"Figured chocolate chip would be simple enough, right?" You speak up, watching him examine one of them. For a few moments, he's lost in thought again, not taking a bite.

You furrow your brows, "please don't tell me I baked the one dessert you don't like."

Instantaneously, a grin smears on his face, then a rumbly snicker. "Nothing like that," he bites the cookie in half and savors its sweetness, "—just not used to having neighbors this deep in the woods, you're my first. And she can bake too, huh? Aren't I lucky?" He teases a bit at the end, rinsing off some chocolate residue from his scarred fingertips.

Well, it was only the recipe on the back of a bag, so you surely hope it would taste decent. You decide it best to leave that out, merely twirling your thumbs as he shuffles around the space.

Finally, he walks back around the counter and holds out the same beer he sipped when he answered the door. Your reluctant fist wrapped around the brown bottle's glass neck, following him as he led you to the porch.

“Weren’t you watching something?” You question, sitting yourself beside him on the cement steps. Zeus’ collar jingle sounded once the back door closed, the sound a signal for him to join his owner out back.

John shook his head, taking another sip of the brew as his achy muscles relaxed again. “You’re doing me a favor; I could cut back on my screen time.” He reached out his free hand and gently patted the dog’s head, giving his fur a few strokes.

“Cut back? By the looks of your land, you’re outside all day.” You retort with a playful scoff, feeling the nuzzle of a wet nose along your leg. Without shame, you glance at his hands, observing their size and condition. “The callouses don’t lie.”

You piqued his interest at the mention of his hands, and he'd noticed just how long you were staring at them. "Suppose you're right, love." On purpose, he caressed the neck of the bottle with his thumb. He takes another hefty sip, which prompts you to take your first.

You didn't have the heart to tell him before how much you disliked the taste. The tangy beer coated your mouth and throat, seemingly sliding down at an agonizing pace just to prolong the torment. Still, the scrunch of your face spilled enough of the fib.

"Faces don't lie, either." Price mocked, taking the barely touched bottle from your grip. His words held double meaning — one harmless and one sinful — though that truth was unbeknownst to both of you.

In a matter of seconds, you'd been caught in a petty lie. You wipe away the bit that dripped between your lips. "Guess you caught me," you chortle, "I don't like beer much."

"Much? Don't be so modest." He screws the top back on and sets it on the wooden deck beside him. "You hate it, don't you?"

The way he spoke had you in some sort of trance. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps it was his obvious past of influence. It was... like being interrogated. Not in the pathetic way an inexperienced civilian would mock his way through, either. The agitation of being put on the spot — feeling as though you'd done something illegal the second you approach airport security.

That is what this felt like; only the words came tender and sportive.

“Alright, I hate it.” You affirm, unable to wipe the simper off your face. “We’ve officially made it through our first lie. That’s a milestone, right? Saves us the sting later.” Unintentionally, you haven’t broken your stare — even when he did to gaze at the sunset in front of him.

Later? Would this company become a routine? How wrong was it for him to hope it would?

Eventually, he nods and turns to face you again, shamelessly taking you in like it was the first time. “Ah, you’re like me. Ten steps ahead, got everything planned out already.” He questions, squinting slightly from the bright dusk, which was actively being snuffed by storm clouds. "Besides, I could tell your lie from miles away. The way you fumbled that bottle."

You waved a flustered hand of dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. Point taken. I'll remember that next time."

John cocked a brow, "next time, eh? With no more fibbing?" He asked you jovially, once again putting you under his spotlight.

But this time you knew how to handle it. Besides, you had learned his ways of meaningless banter — despite only spending several minutes with the man. "Next time I'll make sure it's not so obvious, and you'll be none the wiser."

"It was more than how I held the bottle," you added accusingly. "You don't just afford a place like this with retirement savings. Not without sacrifices."

He was more than someone who once had a mundane, meaningless job. You could tell it from 'miles away' he was a man who had stories to tell. More than his scarred body already did, that was. A fierce career, a position of power — something cutthroat, literally.

Of course, you had no intention of prying. Screwing this relationship up prematurely would be a grave mistake.

Fortunately, he remained untouched by your suspicions; they intrigued him. And John, he knew you weren't wrong about him, either. He was one of the few souls who could confidently declare he'd seen it all — or the closest thing to it.

"Sacrifices... is a way to put it," his lips curled into a polite smile. Finally, he stopped staring holes into you and caught a whiff of musky petrichor in the air. "C'mon, we're due for rain. Get you inside before the mosquitos feast on us."

The same lips pursed, letting out a sharp whistle to recall Zeus. He transformed from a blond dot in the distance into a prancing canine at the speed of light, slowing to a prance when he laid eyes on his owner.

With one hand, he held both bottlenecks between his thick fingers, then opened the back door with the other. Zeus nudged your legs and walked through them, determined to get inside first. The sight made you snicker as you walked inside, hearing the soft creak of the door behind you.

His work boots thudded against the wooden floor as he took them off, setting them neatly beside the door. Yet another unusual trait for men his age living alone, at least in your experience. No clutter in sight, and no grime residue from his tireless yard work.

Now, his steps are a glide instead of thuds when he walks around the breakfast bar. You turned to face him, watching as he ignited a burner for the kettle. "Do you fancy drinking something you'll actually enjoy? Tea?"

You lean against the island, unintentionally allowing a bit of the dress neckline to droop.

“Tea will work.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

In front of you were the only signs of his old self. Metals and ribbons encased behind a glass frame, hung up in the hall as a quaint display of his achievements. Below them, on the hall table, decorative mason jars; most with faux leaves and vines. You made your way up and down, admiring how the rustic, shipshape decor was placed with such intention.

As your gaze panned left to right, you made it to the end of the display. Interest arose when you examined the last jar; a small mason with a bullet inside, littered with indents and some bits chipped away. Your mind swirled with scenarios as you put together the story told in front of you. A career so intense, so all-important; it was difficult to imagine the man in the kitchen enmeshed in one.

In the distance, the kettle whistles, effectively ripping you from your peering. Before he can shout for you, you’ve walked around the corner, ready to claim a drink your mouth will savor.

“Here you are.” Across the marble countertop, Price slid forward the mug.

A green tea of sorts, with a bit of cream on top and a dust of cinnamon. The presentation is nowhere near seamless, with its lopsided spoonful of foam and granules that ended up sprinkled unevenly through his fingers. Still, there was nothing wrong with a drink that looked homemade.

“Matcha?” You ask, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the mug, then using your supporting hand to hold the small plate it’s resting on.

Price glances at the tea box through the frosted glass cabinets then nods. When he presses his own mug to his lips, the tea is ebony and swirling like a cyclone from the sugar he mixed in.

From the corner of your eye, you skim past him and gaze out the window overlooking the deep copper sink. Through its rectangular pane, you see the string of herbs and leaves grown — well-tended and used often in his cooking, surely.

You point a free finger towards the fresh greens outside, “do you grow it?”

He lets out a rumbly chuckle and shakes his head, “if I could. Matcha plants are loads of work.” You now spot the pasty green box poking through the cabinet, which you hadn’t noticed when too occupied with the herb planters.

You mutter a ‘hm’ in response and raise the porcelain rim to your lips, feeling the steam scald the tip of your nose and Cupid's bow. The vegetal fragrance of the green tea soothes your senses — just before the spice of cinnamon gives them a right hook.

To keep your eyes from tearing, you close them and take your first sip. It’s thicker than you anticipated, coating your mouth and throat as you swallow, yet the taste is pleasant and earthy.

Whatever John had done to prepare it, he did it correctly. That much you could tell.

Before your throat can sizzle with aftertaste, the cold foam dollop calms it. From grassy, fresh matcha to a striking sweet cream.

“You have a bit…” Price motions to his mouth, an index pointed toward the left corner of his mouth. The cream is too airy for you to notice any accidental residue. You’ve missed the swear twice before he sighs and raises a crumpled napkin to your lips.

You meet gazes while he dabs at your bottom lip, feeling any confidence seep from you in an instant.

The sweet aroma fleeted instantly with the proximity, now with your nostrils flooded with his fragrance. Smokey and masculine; something rum-adjacent, mixed sinfully with cedarwood and the earthy smell of crisp soil. And then, lastly, there are the pungent remnants of his minty mouthwash, which is slightly diluted by the black tea he swallowed.

This close, you can trace every wrinkle and line with your eyes. While you’re engulfed in his presence, he’s observing. Smothered and suffocating with the weight of diminishing continence. The vermillion sundress, the tray of goodies in the corner of his vision, the twitch of your lips as he dabs and drags with the linen.

Price has yet to notice his other hand, grabbing the tip of your chin with a feather-like hold.

But you have, blinking rapidly a few times while the chalky foam is rid of your mouth, which might as well have been thrown in the trash along with the napkin — because you’ve turned reticent.

“There.” He whispers, mouth curling into a polite glow.

Ultimately, your haze falters. Your senses unfreeze when you’re no longer swarmed by his aroma, or his tender touch when he walks back around the breakfast bar. Warmth coaxes your fingers, still emanating from the tea snug in your grip — even after the milky olive-tinted liquid has gone tepid.

With a perpetually widened gaze, you raised your mug to finish off the rest of your tea. This neighborly visit had played out differently than you expected. You savored about half of the lukewarm brew, letting it mellow the pining that arose when he got close. Sweaty fingers fumbled around the handle when you tipped the cup again, sending a gush of tea down the front of your outfit. The fabric stained instantaneously as the warmth soaked in, whilst the sugary cream made the dress cling in an unsavory, sticky fashion.

You cursed audibly and darted your gaze towards him apologetically, setting the mug down with a clammer. “I’m sorry,” you gasped, feeling an ocean’s wave of dishonor pummel through you at once.

John, who was mid-cleanup, jerked his head to the side when he heard the commotion. When greeted with the frazzled expression, he made an effort to soothe it. It wasn’t your fault; it was only some overpriced, boxed infusion that had collected dust in the back of his cabinet.

Besides, you were in front of him, now in soaked clothing and apologizing profusely.

“Don’t apologize. Happens to the best of us.” That damn smile again. The wrinkles around his eyes, the almost all-knowing look of understanding in them.

He fisted your discarded mug, turning on the sink.

“The washroom is down the hall, in my room. It has a better mirror than the half.” Price wavers through his instructions, overcome with his own helping of uncertainty. Nothing had gone explicitly wrong, per se, but it didn’t mean they went right. But they never do, do they? There’s a reason he decided on a life of recluse, even more, a reason for him to befriend seclusion so closely.

Your footsteps retreated down the hall, passing the picture frames and decor you had been admiring moments ago. John scrubbed both mugs until they were full of suds and then rinsed, placing them on the dish rack afterward. He made it a habit to never leave used dishes to sit in the sink.

Quickly, he walked through the open door of his bedroom. Golden beams peeked out from the gap under the door, where you were frantically blotting the stains. He pulled the string on his bedside lamp, illuminating a majority of the moody, rustic bedroom. His fingers hooked around the handle, gently sliding open the pocket doors of his closet.

His t-shirts hung neatly on the left wall, whilst his fewer button-ups remained on the opposite. With a quick hum, he took hold of his baggiest navy blue tee, draping it over his forearm. From inside his dresser, he grabbed a pair of sweats that were tight on him — enough to prevent them from slipping down your legs.

Inside the bathroom, you alternated between being hunched over the counter in embarrassment, to rubbing your dress profusely. The damp washcloth was doing little to the fabric, which was a few shades darker from the liquid, compressing tighter against you. It wasn’t a flattering look, nor was it a comfortable fit anymore. Akin to the feeling of maple syrup residue on your hands after breakfast, only it was covering the front of your body.

Would it have been better to spill on his authentic wood floors? Was it completely selfish to prefer it, to spare the discomfort of a soaked garment?

Two subdued knocks on the door halted your useless wiping. “I have some clothes.” The gruff voice spoke through the door, yet remained as placid as it was in the kitchen.

“Oh, no need,” you replied dismissively through the door. “I can change at home.” You tossed the wet towel into the small hamper. When you opened the door, Price remained standing there, fresh clothing in hand.

The thought was there, and now were the actions to go along. You didn’t want to change at home or be walking down that dirt avenue at all. At this hour, home would be lonesome and still, regardless of whether your new neighbor was fanciable or not.

But he was; that made him all the harder to decline.

Void of any attempt on John’s part, his gaze scanned the mess that covered you. This time, more obvious than he would’ve liked. It felt wrong; downright distasteful and discouraging, to do so.

Howbeit, he did — and you sensed it this time. The unavoidable gawking at your snug gown, devouring his dwindling abstinence. No unease, imminence, or desire to dismiss yourself ever came. Not like it did with men on the street, who resembled that of depraved, hungry hounds.

John wasn’t corrupted; behind the lust, there was something more, something too complex to daydream.

“Nonsense.” He persisted, the clothes remaining outstretched. “It’s raining. And you’ve got to walk quite a way, don’t you?”

You leaned your head against the thick wood of the door, unable to spit out another worthy excuse. “Thank you. Really.” With a nod, you took the folded clothing, setting the pieces on the countertop beside you. As he accepted your answer and turned on his heels, you mustered the gut to speak again.

“And, John?” You stepped through the threshold of the door, “if I go home in these clothes, you probably won’t get them back.”

“I’ll keep the dish, then.” This time, he didn’t back away after stepping closer. “Do we have a deal?” His breathing picked up subtly but was noticeable against your face. When faced with his proximity before, you fumbled a mug. But now, you were certain of every ache and desire troubling you.

Whoever leaned in first became a fleeting afterthought. It didn’t matter, not while your mouths and noses clashed together. He was the first to give way, to tilt his head to relieve the pressure on your nose, which allowed him more mobility.

Your knees nearly buckled when his hands cupped your cheeks — how the calloused prints of his fingers felt against the opposing texture of your face. It felt natural; a relief to every urge you’ve stifled from the moment he answered his door.

Before you broke away for air, he removed his lips while still maintaining his tender hold on your face.

“Are you sure about this…?” Price posed, pressing his forehead against yours. You exchanged each other's exhales, cloaking your racing thoughts with a suffocating, dizzy effect.

Still, regardless of your thundering heartbeat and draining lungs — you uttered the quickest yes of your lifetime. This time, you turned your head when lips and teeth clashed, back colliding with the door. Your lips parted as you panted, letting his tongue swipe along your lips, leaving them saturated. His beard audibly scraped against your jaw and down your neck, producing goosebumps as you shivered.

Though his movements weren’t theatrical or jaw-dropping, they left you unable to lose focus. His hands wrapped around the sleeves of the ruined gown, rolling the fabric down while he dropped into a kneel before you.

A need to provide, to satisfy, to satiate. No teases, no dramatics; just utter experience. The only terms you would associate with him currently.

The clingy fabric peeled off like a sticky bandage, peeling to expose the damn stain from cleavage to your pelvis. John’s briefly raised to suckle between your breasts, cleaning off every drop of the tea that had soaked through the discarded dress. Down; sternum to belly button, savoring the small remnants of the sweet cream.

“So beautiful,” he muttered, lips pressed to your lower stomach. His hands moved and kneaded your hips in worship. Despite his face hovering in front of your panties, and how he was actively trailing kisses along your thighs — his voice never changed. Not cloaked with blind lust or hesitation.

Admiration, purely; for you, maybe only your body. But you didn’t care about that — or couldn’t — right now. John was utterly too much, From light conversation to huddling in the restroom, then to being backed against the door. One hand rested on your lower stomach, as a means of keeping your back against the door. The other rolled your undergarments down at a sluggish pace, beard and lips following the falling undies.

Your neck craned down, seeing them fall to your ankles, shortly before the cold breeze hit your exposed core — emanating from the bathroom window left slightly ajar. The muscles in your thighs tense when Price’s tongue finally makes brief contact with it, blown pupils still staring up at you.

His tongue lay flat against your clit for a few moments until saliva rolled down his tongue, allowing him to delve deeper. Further on, he would kiss and suckle on the bundle of nerves, and you were sure your grip on the knob couldn’t have been firmer. Experience truly was the right word to describe him, earlier and now more than ever.

Along your slit, he plunged inside, growly breaths vibrating against your sensitivity. Your taste coated his mouth, and your natural scent drove him mad; like no other partner he’d had before.

“Wanna feel you—” Price slurped again, then pulled away to finish, “—clench around my fingers. You want that, sweetheart?” His tongue glistened under the spotty lighting, his buff chest still heavy. He was goddamn distracting in this state, more than he was before.

After a flash of muteness, you nodded your head. As if you could pass up that offer; if it was an offer at all.

True to his word and the desires racing through his head, John slipped his middle finger inside your entrance. Instantly, the appendage glided against the soaked, puffy walls of your cunt, causing him to chuckle with satisfaction.

Even the smallest pump forced a whine from your lips, though you were unsure what you should be pleading for. Tonight, this feeling was already unsurpassed.

“Another, huh? Can’t fuckin’ say no to you, can I?” Next entered his ring finger, the thick digits stretching you out delectably, in ways you could only dream of executing with your own two fingers.

His name slipped out when he curled them against your sweet spot, daring your knees to buckle and send both of you tumbling. His eerily observant nature had him anticipating the sudden weakness, and his other hand holding you in place never once faltered. Finding his shaggy hair, your fingers intertwined with the locks, purely to be holding onto anything of his when you inevitably come undone.

Back to slobbering, his tongue ran laps against your swollen clit, the tip of his nose knocking against it with every pass. Each flick, each thrust making your back arch wildly against the door. And once again, as he anticipated, you ended up clenching around his fingers like he wanted.

So tense, it was any wonder Price was able to keep moving his fingers. His erection pressed against his thigh, the tight denim making him resist the urge to squirm. Oh, how you sounded, how you felt. His years of stamina and strength training will surely be tested once it’s his cock filling you up instead.

The nub throbbed and visibly pulsed when he combined a well-timed lick and curl all at once, plunging you off that cliff of release. Around his head, your thighs clamped tighter than the fingers digging into his scalp. It was clear you’d be reeling this feeling for days to come, probably a climax to forever be unbeaten during your life.

Your heart hammered against your rib cage, your lungs exhausted and working overtime as you sucked in desperate breaths. “Fuck— that was…” You breathed, unable to articulate any one of the feelings assaulting your system.

The leer tugging at the corners of his soaked mouth wasn’t smug, it was pleased; pleasantly. Slowly, he raised himself, holding each side of your face. Price slurred, “You sound lovely when you cum, y’know that?” Before you could lift a finger to answer again, his dangerous tongue swirled around yours, spreading the taste of yourself against your taste buds.

Your sticky inner thighs glided when he blindly led you out of the threshold, collapsing atop you. The frame creaked under the weight of both of you, the mattress now with a crater in the center of it.

“Want you to fuck me, John. Please.” You pleaded between kisses, unconsciously wrapping a leg around his waist for any friction on the mess he caused. The sensitive tip of his cock ached, despite only being rocked against through the thick denim.

As if your sounds of pleasure weren’t divine enough, that fucking word was. Please. So desperate, so distraught. If he had the restraint or the patience, Price might coax a few more begs out of you — but those were the two things he didn’t have currently.

Briefly, his touches ceased when he leaned back. Swiftly unbuckling his belt, he slid out of his jeans and tossed them aside; discarded, now the only clutter in the bedroom. Soaked through his grey briefs, a stain of pre-cum, merely proving how badly he needed you. The same as his jeans, he rid himself of them, erection upright and freed.

Girthy and curved upward a hair, capable of reaching deeper than his fingers. Down his happy trail, which you got a peak of during the first encounter, were his trimmed pubes. The same shade of brown as the hair littering his chest. You examined further, spotting a few prominent veins bound to drive you mad.

Any longer without it, and you were willing to start pawing at him. The stars must’ve been aligned, because pleading wasn’t necessary anymore.

“Spread your legs f’me.” You did, as swiftly as he uttered the command. As wide as comfortable, you exposed the mess of your pussy to him, reflecting off the cool moonlight peaking through his blinds. Glistening and twitching from the first climax, remnants still left around your inner thighs. “Gonna fill you up, fuck you proper, hm? Have you clenching around me?”

As if his fingers weren’t euphoric enough. Gnawing on your bottom lip until it ached, you nodded your head eagerly, hooking an arm around your leg to keep the shaky limb steady.

Price gripped the base of his cock, guiding it toward your entrance. The tip slipped in as smooth as honey, coated in slick and strings of his saliva leftover. With a drenched glide, the rest of him dipped inside, until his pelvis was against yours.

Entirely crammed inside, your head lolled back against the comforter, reeling in the painless stretch of his girth. And how, before the movements began, the natural curve of his cock had him snug against your cervix, kissing all the right places within you. Your fingers trailed downward, beginning to rub circles around your responsive clit, the wet clicks combining with the squelch of his thrusts.

Whatever noises came from you were all-natural and uncontrollable, from a sensual place within you never trespassed. John grunted with every tighten around his length, pumping deeply and with more force. His thoughts earlier rang true, how little restraint you left him with. Already, he could’ve finished inside of you — just from the view of your body alone.

Breasts bouncing, hips jiggling, the sounds of your soaked core, the expression on your face as he got rougher. “Such a good girl, takin’ every inch of me,” his words came out grunts, matching the pace of his jabs.

“You’ll cum for me again, and let me hear those bloody sounds, won’t you? Fuckin’ touching yourself, all needy.” For him, the words acted as a distraction until you came undone for a second time. For you, it enhances your stimulation tenfold — his voice was like nectar, yet it rumbled through the room like thunder.

It mixed with the real thunder outside, which you caught bits of between everything. The rain he said the area was due for, faintly coming down in the distance, and surely headed this way by the time your legs shook.

With a soft nudge, he shimmied closer between your thighs, chest inches from yours, and allowed him to slam against your cervix. Your fingers had gone erratic, desperately teasing the bundle of nerves the closer you got to release.

And John, sure of this, allowed himself to focus on a fraction of his pleasure. You twitched around his length, swallowing every last inch of him. Arousal dribbled from you to the bed, soaking into the navy blue duvet.

When the coil of pleasure began bursting at the seams, his name slipped out again, in between your gasps for oxygen. How his thrusts had turned as sloppy as your fingers, every jerk of his pelvis knocking the wind out of you. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, feet hooking under his backside to keep him locked in — as if the thought of stopping had ever crossed his mind.

Thighs quivering like your fingers were, you dug your fingernails into his shoulders, leaving crescent indents in his flesh. Yet another string of moans poured out of you, which tipped John over the edge same edge you’d tumbled off twice. His balls contracted while they drained, strings of pearly cum painting you on the inside.

Warmth filled you, from your tummy to your core, his length swimming in his own sloppy release. Your constricted ab muscles slowly eased up as the aftermath of orgasm faded, leaving you breathless and spent. His agape mouth dipped down as he withdrew his softening cock from you slowly, careful to not leave you any more sensitive than you already were.

The kiss distracted you and served as a reminder of what this hookup meant. Not regretful, not meaningless. Something lingered in the air, beyond the smell of sweat and sex.

Though his body begged to collapse atop you and fall fast asleep, you deserved to be taken care of. Price planted a parting kiss on your jaw, making the short trip to the bathroom to grab one of his fresh washcloths.

Silently, you observed his tenderness take over — even though it never left him. With a few featherlike swipes, he wiped away the messy aftermath of arousal, saliva, and cum, disposing of the used towel somewhere in the darkness.

You fought to stay awake, feeling his weight sink beside you once more after some squirming around. Eventually, John successfully got you and himself under the thick comforter, weighted and radiating as much warmth as your bodies. An arm snaked under your head, your back against his chest. The other arm around your waist, keeping you right up against his soft body.

He waited until he saw the rise and fall of your frame, the faint breaths of deep sleep before he decided that was permission enough to do the same.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Insects chirped loudly, enough to stir you awake.

Fresh morning light peaked through the blinds, which had been opened. Through your twitching lids, the intensity made your face scrunch. One hand reached up and rubbed them, while the other palmed beside you.

No sign of your neighbor, if he can have that title after last night.

His side had gone cold, and anything that was askew had been picked up or set back in place. Sitting yourself up, you groaned from hunger and the soreness in your legs. Beside the dresser, were the sweatpants and t-shirt he was going to lend you yesterday. Still neatly folded, placed with care on one of his leather armchairs.

You peeled the comforter off your sticky skin, coated with a layer of sweat from the sunlight on you. Usually overheating would’ve had you lying awake and sizzling, but it was clear that Price had thoroughly tired you out.

In addition to the shirt and pants, he provided a clean pair of boxers — since the ones you came over wearing had been long soiled. And nowhere to be found in the bathroom, where you made your best effort to fix up your appearance.

Aside from the sounds of nature, there was the hum of an appliance when you opened the bedroom door. Down the hall, you passed the dryer; the root of the tumbling sound. Through the small window, was your cherry sundress and underwear, half dry and spinning in circles.

Your bare feet adjusted to the cold wood, taking small, sleepy strides down the hall.

Into the living room, you laid eyes on the shelves around his television. Since you spent most of the visit on the porch, in the kitchen, and obviously the bedroom, you hadn’t had time to inspect this area closely.

Custom-built shelves frame the television. Rustic, meticulous decor placed on them. Some were store-bought, others looked to be souvenirs and memories. Stepping closer, you spotted a few framed photos; four soldiers, with Sharpie written on the corner: 1-4-1.

On the bright side, there is one mystery solved about his past. Military, or SAS, which you spot on their patches. Shuffling along, your gaze sets on the next section. More medals and ribbons, each most likely with their own significance.

Most notably, a plaque displaying his full name and title: Capt. Jonathan Price.

Another mystery solved. Why he had been so observant, so skilled at asking his questions. It all began to make sense, especially the closer you examined the relics. With a slight hm, you decided it best to stop snooping on the man’s possessions and continue your search for him.

No sign of Zeus in the house either, which isn’t shocking since he’s practically sewn to John’s hip.

Through the kitchen you go, finally picking up on the faint voice outside. Through the window overlooking the copper sink, you see Price tending to the herbs you pointed out the previous day, seemingly making conversation with his canine.

You continue on, opening the creaky patio door and shutting it behind you. You walk along the stained wood deck, rounding the corner. He’s in the middle of kneeling down, meticulously planting another herb or seasoning for his mini-garden.

“Looking good, Captain.” You startle him slightly, leaning a shoulder against the paneling of the cabin.

Price’s head perks up, snapping to the side at the sudden sound. And Zeus predictably treks over for your undivided attention, and you’re unable to refuse. The golden walks beside you when you approach further, and John gets to his feet with a small grunt.

“Snooping again, are we?” His lips curl into a harmless smile, dirt-covered fingers playing with the backs of your hands.

You shrug your shoulders, unable to conceal the feelings of fluster. Being put on the spot was something you’d have to get used to, that’s for sure. “Maybe I was. Just a little bit.”

“Careful now, sweetheart.” His voice molds into that of a superior, which you hadn’t heard from him yet. Was it twisted how much it excites you? Price continued, “or I might have you calling me Captain from here on.”

With a light scoff, you muster the last bits of confidence left in you.

“Is that a promise?”

♡‧₊˚✧˖° divider cred. - cafekitsune

#mw2 #call of duty #task force 141 #price mw2 #captain john price #john price #captain price #price #john price headcanons #price headcanons #captain price headcanons #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price x y/n

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rockpaperscissuhs · 8 months ago

Text

Band of Brothers Birthdays

January

1 John S. Zielinski Jr. (b. 1925)

21 Richard D. “Dick” Winters (b. 1918)

26 Herbert M. Sobel (b. 1912)

30 Clifford Carwood "Lip" Lipton (b. 1920)

31 Warren H. “Skip” Muck (b. 1922) & Robert B. Brewer (b. 1924)

February

8 Clarence R. Hester (b. 1916)

18 Thomas A. Peacock (b. 1920)

23 Lester A. “Les” Hashey (b. 1925)

March

1 Charles E. “Chuck” Grant (b. 1922)

2 Colonel Robert L. “Bob” Strayer (b. 1910)

4 Wayne “Skinny” Sisk (b. 1922)

10 Frank J. Perconte (b. 1917)

13 Darrell C. “Shifty” Powers (b. 1923)

14 Joseph J. “Joe” Toye (b. 1919)

24 John D. “Cowboy” Halls (b. 1922)

26 George Lavenson (b. 1917) & George H. Smith Jr. (1922)

27 Gerald J. Loraine (b. 1913)

April

3 Colonel Robert F. “Bob” Sink (b. 1905) & Patrick S. “Patty” O’Keefe (b. 1926)

5 John T. “Johnny” Julian (b. 1924)

10 Renée B. E. Lemaire (b. 1914)

11 James W. Miller (b. 1924)

15 Walter S. “Smokey” Gordon Jr. (b. 1920)

20 Ronald C. “Sparky” Speirs (b. 1920)

23 Alton M. More (b. 1920)

27 Earl E. “One Lung” McClung (b. 1923) & Henry S. “Hank” Jones Jr. (b. 1924)

28 William J. “Wild Bill” Guarnere (b. 1923)

May

12 John W. “Johnny” Martin (b. 1922)

16 Edward J. “Babe” Heffron (b. 1923)

17 Joseph D. “Joe” Liebgott (b. 1915)

19 Norman S. Dike Jr. (b. 1918) & Cleveland O. Petty (b. 1924)

25 Albert L. "Al" Mampre (b. 1922)

June

2 David K. "Web" Webster (b. 1922)

6 Augusta M. Chiwy ("Anna") (b. 1921)

13 Edward D. Shames (b. 1922)

17 George Luz (b. 1921)

18 Roy W. Cobb (b. 1914)

23 Frederick T. “Moose” Heyliger (b. 1916)

25 Albert Blithe (b. 1923)

28 Donald B. "Hoob" Hoobler (b. 1922)

July

2 Gen. Anthony C. "Nuts" McAuliffe (b. 1898)

7 Francis J. “Frank” Mellet (b. 1920)

8 Thomas Meehan III (b. 1921)

9 John A. Janovec (b. 1925)

10 Robert E. “Popeye” Wynn (b. 1921)

16 William S. Evans (b. 1910)

20 James H. “Moe” Alley Jr. (b. 1922)

23 Burton P. “Pat” Christenson (b. 1922)

29 Eugene E. Jackson (b. 1922)

31 Donald G. "Don" Malarkey (b. 1921)

August

3 Edward J. “Ed” Tipper (b. 1921)

10 Allen E. Vest (b. 1924)

15 Kenneth J. Webb (b. 1920)

18 Jack E. Foley (b. 1922)

26 Floyd M. “Tab” Talbert (b. 1923) & General Maxwell D. Taylor (b. 1901)

29 Joseph A. Lesniewski (b. 1920)

31 Alex M. Penkala Jr. (b. 1924)

September

3 William H. Dukeman Jr. (b. 1921)

11 Harold D. Webb (b. 1925)

12 Major Oliver M. Horton (b. 1912)

27 Harry F. Welsh (b. 1918)

30 Lewis “Nix” Nixon III (b. 1918)

October

5 Joseph “Joe” Ramirez (b. 1921) & Ralph F. “Doc” Spina (b. 1919) & Terrence C. "Salty" Harris (b. 1920)

6 Leo D. Boyle (b. 1913)

10 William F. “Bill” Kiehn (b. 1921)

15 Antonio C. “Tony” Garcia (b. 1924)

17 Eugene G. "Doc" Roe (b. 1922)

21 Lt. Cl. David T. Dobie (b. 1912)

28 Herbert J. Suerth Jr. (b. 1924)

31 Robert "Bob" van Klinken (b. 1919)

November

11 Myron N. “Mike” Ranney (b. 1922)

20 Denver “Bull” Randleman (b. 1920)

December

12 John “Jack” McGrath (b. 1919)

31 Lynn D. “Buck” Compton (b. 1921)

Unknown Date

Joseph P. Domingus

Richard J. Hughes (b. 1925)

Maj. Louis Kent

Father John Mahoney

George C. Rice

SOURCES

Military History Fandom Wiki

Band of Brothers Fandom Wiki

Traces of War

Find a Grave

#this is going off who was on on the show #i double checked the dates and such but if you notice any mistakes please let me know :)#band of brothers #easy company #hbo war #not gonna tag everyone lol #mine: misc #yep it's actually Halls and not Hall #i've seen Terrence Harris's name spelled with as Terence but wenand t with two Rs s #since that's how it's spelled on photos of memorials and on his gravestone #I’ll do the pacific next! should be significantly shorter since there’s far fewer characters 😅

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loves-n-kisses · 1 month ago

Note

loved your last post sm :)

can you do denki x online gf reader who lives on the other side of Japan but is also known on social media for her “day in the life of a student in hero course” vlogs.

denki dms her and they start becoming really well friends despite him feeling like she’s wayy too out of his league.

but when they start dating, she’s all he talks about and his friends think he’s lying bc why is this beyond gorgeous girl with a huge following into denki of all ppl.

it isn’t until reader crashes one of denki’s mall hangouts with the bakusquad as a surprise (first time meeting irl) that his friends believe him.

Love this idea! sorry it took so long-:P

Sparks in the Phone Line - Denki x OnlineGf!Reader

A story where denki gets a girlfriend--and his friends don't believe him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Denki Kaminari slouched on his dorm room bed, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok with a goofy grin. His screen glowed with the latest "Day in the Life of a Hero Course Student" vlog from you—a student in the hero course at a prestigious hero academy on the other side of Japan. Your videos were a hit: polished, funny, and packed with glimpses of training, dorm life, and your radiant personality. With thousands of followers, you were practically a celebrity in the hero student community.

Denki had stumbled across your account a few months ago, hooked by your charm and the way you made even grueling training sessions look fun. She’s so cool, he thought, watching you nail a mock rescue drill while cracking jokes.

Way out of my league. Still, after hyping himself up for days (and maybe practicing in front of a mirror), he slid into your DMs with a nervous, “Yo, your vlogs are awesome! I’m in UA’s Class 1-A—how’s life at your school? 😅”

To his shock, you replied within hours: “Haha, thanks! It’s wild over here—endless drills and quirky teachers. 😎 What’s it like at UA? Spill the tea!” That simple message sparked a conversation that never stopped. Texts turned into late-night voice calls, memes flew back and forth, and Denki found himself counting down the hours until your next reply.

You were easy to talk to—funny, kind, and genuinely interested in him. He told you about his quirks (literal and figurative), his friends, and his insecurities about not measuring up as a hero. You shared stories of your own training struggles at your academy and the pressure of balancing vlogging with hero work. Despite the distance—hundreds of miles across Japan—you felt closer to him than anyone.

One night, after weeks of flirting and Denki’s heart doing backflips every time you called him “Sparky,” he blurted out, “So, uh, would you maybe wanna… be my girlfriend?” His voice cracked, and he nearly short-circuited from nerves. Your laugh came through the phone, warm and teasing. “Took you long enough to ask, Denki. Yeah, I’d love that.”

From that moment, Denki was a goner. He couldn’t shut up about you. At lunch with the Bakusquad, he’d ramble: “Guys, she’s so gorgeous, like, unreal. And she’s funny! And smart! She sent me this hilarious edit of her dodging her teacher’s quirk in training—oh, and her latest vlog got 10k likes!”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “You’re full of crap, Dunce Face. No way some famous vlogger chick is into you.”

“Yeah, man,” Kirishima added, scratching his head. “She sounds awesome, but… you sure she’s not catfishing you?”

Mina leaned in, smirking. “Lemme see her account. If she’s got thousands of followers, she’s gotta be real, right?” Denki proudly showed them your page, complete with verified checkmark and a feed full of polished videos and candid selfies. Sero whistled. “Okay, she’s legit. But still—you? How’d you pull that?”

Denki pouted. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m charming!”

“Sure, Pikachu,” Bakugou snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

Their teasing stung, but Denki couldn’t blame them. You were a star—confident, talented, and drop-dead gorgeous. He still pinched himself every time you texted. Why me? he wondered, but your daily calls and sweet messages drowned out the doubt.

Meanwhile, you were planning something big. You’d been saving up for a trip to Musutafu, wanting to surprise Denki in person. The distance had been hard, but every call made you fall harder for his dorky humor and genuine heart. After weeks of secret planning, you booked a train ticket and told Denki you’d be “busy with training” for a few days to throw him off.

That Saturday, Denki was at the mall with the Bakusquad, sulking a bit because you hadn’t texted much. “She’s probably filming a new vlog,” he mumbled, poking at his smoothie. Mina dragged them into a clothing store, while Bakugou grumbled about “wasting time.”

You slipped into the mall, heart racing with excitement. Spotting Denki’s spiky blond hair by a rack of graphic tees, you crept closer, careful to stay out of his sight. The Bakusquad noticed you first—Mina’s eyes widened, Kirishima froze mid-sentence, and Sero’s jaw dropped. You quickly pressed a finger to your lips, grinning mischievously, and they clamped down their surprise, though Mina was practically vibrating.

You tiptoed behind Denki, barely containing your giggles as you prepared to cover his eyes and whisper, “Guess who?” But then, the image of his shocked face in your head was too much—you let out a loud snort, followed by a stifled laugh. Crap! You stomped your foot, groaning playfully while still smiling, frustrated at ruining the surprise.

Denki whipped around at the sound, eyes wide. “Y-Y/N?!” His voice cracked as he took you in—standing there in your hero academy’s jacket, cheeks flushed with a shy blush as you composed yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Surprise?” you said, your smile sheepish but warm. Denki’s shock melted into a grin, and he tackled you into a hug, nearly knocking you over. “You’re here!” he yelped, tiny electric sparks dancing around his ears. You laughed, hugging him back, your heart soaring.

The Bakusquad gaped. Mina whispered, “She’s real!” Kirishima nodded, stunned. “And she’s�� into him?” Bakugou just stared, arms crossed, while Sero muttered, “Okay, I believe him now.”

You pulled back, still blushing. “Sorry I botched the surprise, Sparky. Got too excited.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best day ever!” Denki beamed, not letting go of your hand. He turned to his friends. “Told you she was real!”

Mina recovered, rushing over. “Oh my gosh, you’re her! The vlogger! You’re even prettier in person!” Kirishima grinned. “And you’re really dating this guy?”

“Yup,” you said, squeezing Denki’s hand. “He’s my favorite idiot.” Denki groaned, but his smile was unstoppable.

Bakugou finally spoke, scoffing. “Tch. Guess you’re not completely useless, Dunce Face.”

You spent the day with them, laughing as Mina begged for vlogging tips and Sero tried (and failed) to impress you with his tape tricks. Denki never let go of your hand, his heart soaring every time you smiled at him. His friends’ disbelief faded, replaced by grudging respect—and maybe a little jealousy.

As the sun set, you and Denki lagged behind the group, sharing a soft moment. “Worth the train ride?” he asked, nervous.

You kissed his cheek, sparking a tiny jolt. “Worth crossing the world for, Sparky.”

-made with loves n' kisses!

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doctorbitchcrxft · 11 months ago

Text

Heart | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (Eventual ? ;) )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, SMUT 18+ MDNI, elements of dom/sub, oral (m and f receiving), orgasm denial (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be stupid. wrap it up.), face riding (f receiving), begging, cockwarming

Word Count: 6046

A/N: Giving the people what they want. AGAIN. MINORS! GO AWAY!!! SHOO! TAKE A JUICE BOX AND A STICKER ON THE WAY OUT!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

“Here he is, Detective,” the young mortician said to Sam as she pulled the body of a man out of a cold locker. The man had stitches running along his chest, stomach, shoulders, and throat; some reminiscent of deep bite marks.

“That’s a pretty nasty bite,” Sam commented. “You know what bit him?”

The young woman averted her eyes. “I haven’t quite determined that just yet.”

“C’mon, Doc,” you pleaded. “Off the record.” You left Dean back in the motel room once he promised you he’d stay put.

“Okay,” the mortician began, “way, way off the record—”

��Sure,” Sam nodded.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say the guy was attacked by a wolf. But unless I know that the zoo is missing one of their lobos, I’m going with pit bull.” She eyed Sam cautiously. “I like my job.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Sam chuckled.

“One more thing. This guy, was his heart missing?” you asked.

She seemed surprised. “Yeah, how did you know that? I haven’t even finished my report.”

“Lucky guess,” you shrugged.

You and Sam left the morgue and began the drive back to Dean.

“How’ve your nightmares been?” you asked Sam while he drove out of the morgue’s parking lot.

He turned to you quizzically.

“What? I hear you up at three in the morning,” you smirked.

“I get up early anyway. How do you know I still have ‘em?”

“You don’t have a great poker face, Sammy. When something’s bothering you, I can literally see the wheels in your head turning,” you replied.

He sighed. “I’ll get over it.”

You shot him a look.

“It’s just— It’s not just Jessica anymore,” he explained. “It’s my dad, it’s what Meg did while she took me for a joy ride—”

“That sounds dirty, man,” you cut in.

He gave you a playful glare. “It’s like I told you. I’m scared as hell.”

You stayed silent for a moment. “Hey, you’re still you. And that’s all that matters.” You turned to face him in your seat, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t gone all ‘sith lord’ on us yet. And I honestly don’t think you will. You just… you don’t have that in you.”

His lips curled into a sad smile once more. “Thanks, (Y/N/N).”

“Any time.”

“Any update on you and Dean?”

“Oh, would you look at that, we’re here,” you smirked as Sam pulled into the motel parking lot.

He glared at you. “(Y/N)—”

“I know, I know, we’ll talk later,” you giggled. You headed into the brothers’ motel room. Dean was cleaning his guns on his bed, and you explained what you’d seen and found out from the mortician to him. The lawyer you’d examined wasn’t the first heart-free corpse, but he was the first man. Over the last year, several women had gone missing; their bodies washed up on shore, but were too deteriorated to make out anything besides the fact that their hearts were missing. The lunar cycle was exactly right for a werewolf killing as well.

“Awesome,” Dean grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, could you be a bigger geek about this?”

“I’m sorry, man, but what about ‘a human by day, a freak animal killing machine by moonlight’ don’t you understand? I mean, werewolves are badass. We haven’t seen one since we were kids,” the older brother protested.

“Okay, Sparky. And you know what? After we kill it, we can go to Disneyland,” Sam snarked, making you giggle.

“You know what the best part about it is? We already know how to bring these suckers down.” He held up a silver bullet. “One of these bad boys right to the heart. So, what’s our next move?”

“Talk to the girl who found the body,” replied Sam.

***

The girl who found the body had sharp, angular features and beautiful dark hair. You could tell Sam was slightly enamored by her from the second she let you into her apartment. The woman introduced herself as Madison. She showed an older man who’d come to check on her out of the apartment and motioned for you to take a seat at her kitchen table.

“You must be pretty shaken up,” started Sam. “You were Nate Mulligan’s assistant, right?”

“For two years, yeah,” she nodded.

“So, you knew all about him?” Dean questioned.

“Probably knew more about him than he did. Nate was…” she trailed off, smiling uncomfortably, “he was nice.”

“But?”

“Nothing, really. I— He had a few scotches in him, and he'd started hitting on anyone in a five-mile radius. You know the type.”

You looked over at Dean, given that was the one thing about him you disliked. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

Dean noticed your look, and he shrank a little at your apparent disappointment. “Did, uh, did he have any enemies?”

“What do you mean? It sure looked like an animal attack,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.

“No, yeah, we’re just covering all the bases. Anyone that might have had a beef with him – a former client, an ex?”

You noticed her discomfort and pressed further. “What is it?”

“Well, this is embarrassing, but my ex-boyfriend, Kurt—”

“Kurt have a last name?” Dean cut her off.

“Mueller,” she answered. After we broke up, he went kind of nuts. He’s… well, he’s kind of been stalking me. He got it in his head that something was going on between Nate and I. He showed up at my office.”

“What happened?” you asked.

“Kurt got into it with Nate; threw a punch before security grabbed him. I was lucky to keep my job,” she explained.

“When was the last time you saw Kurt?” Dean asked.

“A few nights ago. Actually, the night Nate died. We were all grabbing drinks at this bar, and Kurt showed up,” Madison replied.

“And?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. It was like he was watching me. Then he was gone. To tell you the truth, he scares me.”

“I can understand that,” you told her.

She gave you a smile.

Madison led you out of her apartment, and Sam wrote his number down for her to call you if she needed anything.

***

As night fell, Dean suggested you head to the ex-boyfriend’s house to investigate if he lived in a creature’s lair. Upon arrival, you discovered Kurt wasn’t home. However, you felt uneasy. You chalked it up to the fact that you were breaking and entering, but you’d never felt anxiety in a situation such as this previously. It almost felt like something was watching you.

“(Y/N/N), you okay?” Sam asked you upon noticing your discomfort.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s just… hurry this up. I got a bad feeling about this.”

“Okay, Skywalker,” Dean quipped.

“Anything?” you asked, ignoring his comment.

“No, nothing but leftovers and a six-pack. No human hearts behind the Haagen-Dazs either,” he replied. You suddenly heard a door open and close followed by a crashing sound coming from outside. You shared a brief look with Sam before running out to the balcony. Down the wall of the building, there were claw marks in the concrete wall, sliding all the way down to the ground.

You cringed at the sight. “That’s just great.”

Seconds later, you heard a gunshot. You ran down the fire escape and out of the apartment, heading toward where you thought you’d heard the gun fire off. When you arrived at a dark alley, you saw the boot of a person sticking out from the shadows. Cautiously, you approached, only to find the body of an incredibly mauled policeman.

“I’ll call 911,” Sam told you and his brother.

Dean bent down to the corpse. “I’d say Kurt’s looking more and more like our Cujo.”

“I don’t know, man, his apartment didn’t scream ‘creature’s lair’ to me. Aside from the fact that it’s a standard bachelor pad,” you remarked.

Dean eyed you unamusedly. “I’m gonna ignore the implication there that all men are animals.”

You grinned. “I’m glad you caught my drift.”

“Guys, if he’s out here, we better check on Madison,” Sam said, interrupting you.

***

When you arrived at her apartment early in the morning, the older man you’d first seen in Madison’s apartment when you initially visited him peeked his head out of his door. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Police business, Glen,” Dean responded.

Madison opened the door, her face drooping slightly when she saw you. “What is it?”

You shot a look over at Glen.

“Well, maybe we should talk privately,” Sam suggested.

She nodded, still confused, and led you into her apartment. “Coffee?” she asked.

Sam accepted happily, as did Dean. You still felt uneasy, and thought you might vomit if you had something to drink.

“Has Kurt been here?” Sam asked her as she poured a cup for each of the brothers.

“Not exactly,” she replied.

“What’s that mean?” you asked.

“Well, he was outside last night. Just… looking. Just looking at me. Has he done something?”

“We’re not really sure,” Sam answered honestly.

“It’s probably nothing, but… we just don’t wanna take any chances. In fact, one of us should probably stay here with you?” Dean suggested. “Just in case he stops by. Where does he work?”

“He owns a body shop,” she replied.

“You mind grabbing that address for us?”

She nodded and started out of the room.

“Thanks,” Dean called after her.

“Alright, you go. I’ll stay,” said Sam once she was out of ear shot.

“C’mon, (Y/N),’ Dean said.

“What?” Sam questioned. “No pushback? You always wanna hangout with the hot girl.”

“Yeah, well…” the older Winchester trailed off, “Not this time, I guess.”

“You guess?” Sam scoffed. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

Dean just rolled his eyes, and a smile tugged at your lips. You thought you may have something to do with Dean’s change of heart.

“Bundle up out there, alright?” Sam said to you and Dean, shooting y0u a knowing look when his brother had turned away. You grinned back at him and followed Dean out of the apartment when Madison returned with the body shop’s address.

Dean started the drive to Kurt’s place of work, and you eyed him thoughtfully.

“What?” he asked without even turning to look at you.

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with your change of heart about staying with the cute girls, huh?” you asked, already knowing the answer. However, a large part of you just wanted him to say it out loud.

He flickered his eyes over to yours, never turning his head from the road. “No, ‘course not,” he replied.

You deflated slightly, although you knew vulnerability was difficult for him. You really and truly just wanted to hear how much you meant to him.

“Alright, fine,” he grumbled after a moment of silence. “It’s got everything to do with you.”

A smile spread across your face, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Good. I’m glad.”

*** Later that day, you discovered Kurt hadn’t been to work in a week. But because Dean was “really good,” if he did say so himself, he found out he was probably frequenting his favorite strip club.

You didn’t mind going; you enjoyed hyping the girls up. If you were a stripper, you’d much rather a girl stuffing ones in your bra than a creepy fifty-year-old man. Although, you were slightly concerned about the way Dean’s eyes were glued to the ass of the woman dancing in front of you. You couldn’t lie, though, she was hot. As long as he looked and didn’t touch, you were content.

The pretty girl in front of you bent down to take a ten dollar bill from your hand, wiggling her hips seductively as she did so. You held her gaze as she stuffed the bill in her bra with a few other ones she already earned.

Dean suddenly seemed slightly possessive. He threw an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

“Jealous much?” you asked.

He used the arm around your shoulders to push your face towards his, kissing you wantonly. You hummed against him just before he pulled away. You nudged his nose with yours, sighing happily. You turned back to the girl dancing only to see the man you knew to be Kurt taking a seat at the opposite side of the stage from you and Dean. You gave Dean a look, and he immediately took out his phone to call Sam.

“I found him,” Dean said, eyes on the girl dancing in front of the two of you. “Oh, yeah, my eyes are glued. Look, Sammy, I gotta let you go. I, uh, I don’t wanna... don't wanna miss anything.” He handed a dollar bill to the stripper and smiled widely when he hung up the phone.

After about an hour of generously tipping the strippers and having a few drinks, Kurt got up from the chair across from you and Dean. When he’d gotten a significant distance away, you and Dean wordlessly got up from your chairs to follow him. However, not before you turned and said, “Bye, girls!” to the dancers. The one that had been predominantly dancing in front of you and Dean waved and blew you a kiss. You blew one back, grinning.

You followed Kurt back to his apartment and sat outside, waiting for him to make a wrong move. You readied your gun, jerking to attention when you heard glass shattering. You looked back up to see the lights in Kurt’s apartment were off.

Dean breathed out, “What the—?” and you motioned for him to follow you up the fire escape. You hurried into Kurt’s apartment through the shattered window only to find Madison over the top of Kurt’s mauled body. She turned her electric blue eyes toward you and growled, bearing sharp, bloody fangs. She lunged at you, throwing you to the ground. Dean shot at her and missed, and you used her distraction to get a knick in at her arm just above her elbow with a knife you had stored in your sleeve. She howled in pain and ran out the open window.

“Motherfucker,” you cursed, uncocking your gun. “Dean, start wipin’ down your prints, we gotta get outta here,” you told him. He tossed you a handkerchief and you took care of the floor where you’d been knocked down by Madison, the fridge from when you’d first gone to investigate Kurt’s house, the countertops; everything. When you were done, Dean helped you climb out of the window without touching the sill or knicking your legs on a piece of broken glass.

As the morning sun rose, you called Sam.

Sam’s immediate response to your call was, “You guys okay?”

“Yeah. It’s Madison, Sam,” you said, cutting straight to the chase.

“What?” he asked.

“Yeah. How’d she get out without you noticing?” you questioned.

“(Y/N), I’ve been here the whole time. She’s in bed, asleep.”

“Well, she wasn’t an hour ago. Check her right arm below her elbow. I nicked her with a silver knife,” you told him.

Sam hung up the phone immediately after. You instructed Dean to go to Madison’s apartment, and he did so. You knocked on the door of her apartment, and the door opened to reveal an upset Sam and Madison tied to a chair by her wrists.

“How you doin’?” Dean smirked bitterly, strolling into the apartment.

“We’ve gotta talk,” Sam told the both of you firmly. You eyed him questioningly as he led you and his brother into another room. “She says she has no idea what I’m talking about.”

“She’s lying,” Dean responded simply.

“Or maybe she really doesn’t know she’s changing, you know? Maybe— maybe when the creature takes over, she blacks out,” Sam argued.

Dean deadpanned, “Like a really hot Incredible Hulk. Come on, dude, she ganked her boss and her ex-boyfriend. That doesn’t sound rash and unconscious.”

“Yeah, but what if it was, Dean? I mean, what if some animal part of her brain saw both those guys as threats? Hell, the cop, too.”

The older brother scoffed. “What are you, the Dog Whisperer now?”

“Look, man, I just… I don’t know, there, there, there was something in her eyes.”

“Sam, don’t let your attraction to her cloud your judgment,” you stated.

He scoffed. “You know I don’t do that.”

“Do you? This isn’t seeming like a completely rational argument, dude,” you argued calmly.

“(Y/N), I just think it may be something she has no control over. You can believe me or not—”

Dean cut Sam off. “Even if she’s telling the truth, it’s not gonna change anything. She can’t control it. That’s bad news.”

“I’m not putting a bullet through some girl’s chest who has no idea what’s happening,” Sam argued, voice rising slightly.

“Sam, she’s a monster, and you’re feeling sorry for her?” questioned Dean.

“Maybe I understand her.” Sam paused, and his voice quieted down. “Look, there might be another way we can get the job done without having to waste her.”

“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Dean asked.

Sam seemed to understand and took his dad’s journal out of his jacket. “Dad’s theory – ‘lycanthropy might have a cure if you kill the werewolf who bit you, severing the bloodline’.”

“Might have a cure,” Dean emphasized. “Meaning ‘who the hell knows’?”

“I’m not sure about this one, guys—” you sighed, scratching your neck.

Sam shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

“We don’t even know where to start looking, all right? I mean, the puppy that bit her could be anyone, anywhere. It could’ve been years ago,” Dean replied.

Sam seemed to realize something. “No. I don’t think so.” He led you back into the room where Madison was still tied up. “Madison, when were you mugged?”

She seemed not to want to answer. Either she really had no clue what was going on, or she was a damn good actress.

“Please. It’s important, all right? Just answer the question,” Sam begged.

Reluctantly, she said, “About a month ago.”

“Did you see the guy?” the younger brother pressed further.

“No. He grabbed me from behind.”

“Did he bite you?”

Madison seemed taken aback. “How did you know that?”

“Where?” Sam continued, ignoring her question.

She still looked scared, but was honest anyway. “On- on the back of my neck.”

Sam showed her he was setting his gun down and slowly moved behind her. He gently brushed her hair away and exposed a scarred lump on the back of her neck.

“Oh, that’s just a love bite,” Dean snarked. “Believe me, that could have been a lot worse. Where were you at the time?”

“Walking home from a friend’s loft,” she said.

“Let me guess. Not too far from Hunter’s Point?” Sam questioned.

Madison nodded, eyes bleary in confusion. You could tell some of this was beginning to make sense to her, and agreed to sit with her while the boys went into another room to talk.

“So… you really have no idea, do you?” you asked, sitting in a chair across from her.

She didn’t answer you.

Your tone immediately shifted. “Look, lovebug, I don’t think you get what’s going on here. I’m gonna need you to answer my questions, okay?”

She scoffed. “What, about the fact that you guys think I’m a fucking werewolf? You realize you sound insane, right?”

“You’re a pretty good actress, I’ll give you that,” you said. “And… if you are telling the truth, I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t ask for this.”

She was silent for another moment.

“But you have to understand how this all looks, okay?” you continued. “People that are connected to you— Kurt, the lawyer that was creepin’ on you— they wind up dead. Then, you attack me after you kill Kurt, and things are just supposed to be all hunky-dory now? Just because you say you can’t remember?”

You seemed to have grabbed her attention. “Kurt’s dead? Oh, my god.” She began to cry softly.

You were conflicted. She seemed to be genuinely reacting to what you were saying, and you wanted to believe her. However, every instinct within screamed at you to put a silver bullet through her chest. “Madison… can you at least understand how this looks to me? Whether you think I’m crazy or not, do you at least see where I’m coming from?”

She laughed humorlessly through her tears. “You mean, if I was a deluded psycho who pretends to be a cop hunting for monsters? Yeah, I’d understand where you’re coming from.”

The boys emerged from the room. “Alright, (Y/N), you’re with me,” Dean asserted.

*** You and Dean went to Hunter’s Point, the werewolf that had “mugged” Madison’s assumed hunting grounds, and searched for the monster. You heard a woman scream, and the two of you ran in the sound’s direction. The woman, presumably a hooker, was being dragged across the pavement by her ankles toward the werewolf.

“Hey!” Dean called.

When the creature looked up, you and Dean shot at it multiple times; each hit landing in the center of the creature’s chest. The hooker immediately scrambled away, not even sparing a glance to you and Dean.

“Hey, don’t mention it!” Dean called after her.

“Take it easy,” you scolded. “She’s scared.”

The two of you turned back to the dying creature on the ground, and you discovered it was Glen, Madison’s neighbor.

“It happened... again,” Glen coughed.

You knelt beside him.

“Where am I?” He asked you. “H–help me. Oh, god. Oh my god.” He choked again, coughing up blood.

“Alright, easy, Glen. Just take it easy,” Dean told the man.

You and Dean watched as the older man’s eyes glazed over and his shuddering subsided. Your heart almost broke for him; he truly seemed to not understand what was happening to him.

***

The morning after laying Glen to rest, you and the brothers sat outside Madison’s apartment in the Impala. You planned to wait out there till the next morning to see if Madison transformed, or if you really had cured her.

Dean was explaining Glen’s death to Sam. “It was sort of sad, actually. Glen had no clue what was going on. Hey, why do you think he turned Madison instead of just killing her in the first place?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he kind of seemed to have a thing for her,” Sam suggested.

“Maybe his primal instinct did, too. Maybe he was looking for a little, uh, hot breeding action.” Dean wiggled his eyebrows.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“So?” you questioned, leaning over the back of the seat.

Sam eyed you quizzically. “So what?”

“Madison…?” you urged.

“Oh, whatever.”

You lightly shoved his shoulder. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me, kid, you liked her.”

“(Y/N/N), she thought I was a stark-raving lunatic,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah, a stark-raving lunatic that saved her life,” you challenged.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.”

Madison suddenly appeared at Sam’s rolled-down window. “You know, for a stake-out, your car’s a bit conspicuous. What are you still doing here?”

“Honestly? Uh, we’re pretty sure you’re not gonna turn tonight, but we’ve gotta be a hundred percent, so… you know, we’re… lurking,” explained Dean.

“I know this sounds crazy—” Sam began.

Madison cut him off. “Sure does. Well, if we’re gonna wait it out… we might as well do it together.”

She led you and the brothers back up to her apartment. Madison seemed to hesitate before she spoke once inside. “You were telling the truth, weren’t you? About everything. What you did— it was to help me.”

Sam nodded.

“I did all of those horrible things,” she said remorsefully, “when I turned.”

“You didn’t know,” coaxed Sam.

“So, when will we know for sure? Moonrise?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” the brunet answered. “You turned middle of the night last night. I think we’ve gotta hang in until sun-up.”

You watched Sam carefully, and Dean gave a tiny nod. “Well,” the older brother began, “it looks like we’ve got ourselves a few hours to kill. Poker, anyone?”

“Always,” you said.

***

Several games later, the sun sank, and the moon rose. Dean laid his gun on the table, and Madison and Sam watched him with unease.

“Oh, no, you guys talk,” Dean chuckled awkwardly.

***

Hours later, the sun came up.

“Does— Does this mean it worked?” Madison asked hopefully.

Sam sighed in relief. “Yeah. I think so.”

Madison threw her arms around Sam. “Oh, God, thank you. Thank you so much.”

Dean cleared his throat, and you jabbed him with your elbow at his interruption of their moment.

Madison laughed. “You, too, Dean. Thank you. Same to you, (Y/N).”

You nodded. “Well, Dean and I have some, uh… stuff to go do.” You pulled on the older brother’s jacket, lugging him out of the room. “Bye, Sam, bye, Madison.”

“Smooth,” Dean commented once you were out of the door.

“Look, I didn’t wanna be in there any longer than necessary. Room stunk of sexual tension,” you chided.

“Between me and you, or Sam and Madison?” he smirked.

You scoffed, “Smooth,” mocking his earlier statement.

***

As soon as the door to the motel room was shut, Dean’s lips were on yours. You shoved his back against the door, pushing his jacket down his shoulders. You bit his bottom lip eagerly, and he moaned into your mouth.

“(Y/N), what are you doing to me,” he groaned.

“Shut up,” you ordered, tugging his hair harshly. You shoved him down onto the bed and teasingly ghosted your lips over his clothed chest all the way up his neck and stopped just before his lips. He tried to lean up to kiss you, but you wouldn’t let him.

“Stop teasing,” he growled, almost sounding pitiful.

You tsked. “You didn’t ask very nicely.” You rolled your hips over the hardening bulge in his jeans, and he groaned again.

“(Y/N), please,” he whined.

“There’s my boy,” you grinned, leaning forward to kiss him. His hands were all over you in an instant, and you kissed down his neck. You got his shirt off before taking his pants off and palmed him through his boxers.

“(Y/N), stop it,” he begged.

“Stop what?” You took your hand off, worried you’d done something wrong.

“Teasing,” he whined. “Just touch me, please.”

You’d never seen him so spaced out before. The shit-eating grin returned to your face, and you went back to dragging your fingers along the underside of his shaft through his underwear. “I am touching you,” you playfully said.

He thrusted up into your hand. “Oh, god, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually,” you cooed.

“(Y/N), please suck my dick. Please, sweetheart. I need you,” he begged.

“Atta boy,” you said, happily taking his boxers down his hips. You began teasing the tip of his penis with your tongue before taking the whole thing into your mouth. You sucked on him earnestly, and his hips stuttered, trying to thrust up into you. You held his hips down firmly, but couldn’t keep his hand from winding in your hair. You felt he was close to ejaculation and quickly took your mouth off him.

“What the fuck?” he questioned, chest heaving.

You gripped the base of his cock harshly. “Watch your mouth,” you said lowly.

“Oh, god, sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

You grinned at the thought of having such a tough and strong man turning to absolute putty in your hands.

“I-I wanna touch you. Please,” Dean heaved, clawing at your shoulders.

You slinked up his body, sitting gently on his stomach. Dean pushed your shirt up, running his hands underneath it to get to your breasts. He groaned as he squeezed one in each hand, and you threw your head back at the feeling of him tweaking your nipples.

“Sweetheart,” he started, “Ride my face. Please.”

Heat flooded between your thighs at the thought. “Okay,” you said, suddenly feeling nervous. You pushed your jeans off and hovered over his face. You were afraid to settle onto him completely, but that trepidation was quickly subdued by Dean grabbing your hips and pulling you down onto his lips, his large hands firmly keeping you there. You moaned instantly when his tongue immediately found your clit, sucking harshly.

You eagerly rolled your hips against him, half trying to escape the immense pleasure and half trying to move toward it. Your orgasm approached quickly, and you screamed his name as you came.

When he finally released you, you moved off him to reveal a shit-eating grin spread across his glistening face. You gathered up the slick that had collected on his mouth with two of your fingers and shoved them into his mouth, and he sucked them harshly. You got back on top of him, settling right over his hardened dick.

“You ready for me, baby?” you asked.

He responded by thrusting against you, catching you off-guard. You gasped and lined up with his cock before slamming down onto him. You rolled your hips in time with his, and he pulled you down to his lips to kiss you. Dean’s erratic thrusts were making you dizzy, and he soon rolled over on top of you to finish getting the both of you off. You dug your nails into his shoulders, and he buried his face in your neck as the two of you came together.

Gasps and moans filled the room around you as you both rode out your highs. Dean stayed fully inside you, even after he came, and adjusted the two of you to where you were lying on his chest with his dick still inside you. Completely content, you fell asleep on top of Dean.

*** The next morning, you woke up before Dean as usual. His cock had softened, but was still nestled firmly inside you. You gingerly slid off him and moved to go get showered and dressed, only to have him grab your hand as you tried to step away to get a fresh set of clothes.

He hummed, “Morning,” and pulled you back down to him.

You giggled and yelped as you came crashing down back to the bed next to him and pecked his lips. “Hi, handsome.”

He kissed you again. “Y’know,” Dean started, kissing you once more. “I’ve never—” kiss, “—let anyone—” kiss, “—besides you—” kiss, “—do that to me.”

“Well, good. I’m happy to be the one and only,” you smiled against his lips, standing once more.

Just as you and Dean had finished getting dressed and were going to head for some breakfast, there was a pounding on the door. You opened it to reveal a completely breathless Sam.

“ She— she turned,” he said.

“What?” you asked, shocked.

“I couldn’t grab her in time,” he continued sadly.

Dean came up behind you and put a hand on your waist to let you know he was there. “We’ll find her, Sammy.”

Sam continued to panic as you headed down to the Impala. He told you Bobby knew severing the bloodline wouldn’t work, and any other hunter he’d called said there was no way to cure a werewolf.

“How come she didn’t turn when we were with her?” Dean asked.

“Dean—” Sam began.

Dean cut him off. “So, what, you put her to bed and then she wolfed out? Maybe she’s gotta be asleep to turn.”

“What the hell does it matter, Dean? Look, we’ve gotta find some way to help her, some legend we missed or something.”

“Sam, I don’t think so, man,” you chimed in. “Somebody would’ve known about it.”

“Well, then we have to look harder! Until we find something,” he protested, welling up with tears.

“Sammy, I don’t think we’ve got a choice here anymore,” Dean sighed. “I hate to say it. She’s a sweet girl, but part of her is—”

Sam cut him off. “Evil? Yeah, that’s what they say about me, Dean! So me you won’t kill, but her, you’re just gonna blow away?”

Before Dean could argue, Sam’s phone rang. “Madison, where are you?”

Upon hearing that, you and the brothers quickly got to and into the car without needing to say a word to each other. “Alright, hold on, Maddie. We’re coming to get you, just stay where you are,” Sam told her before hanging up the phone.

*** Back in Madison’s apartment, she sat clad in a shirt Sam had been wearing the day before at her kitchen table. Dean’s favorite gun sat before her, and she eyed it, emotionless. “I don’t remember anything. I probably killed someone last night. Didn’t I?” she asked hesitantly.

“We don’t know that yet,” you reminded her.

The brunette looked up to Sam. “Is there something else we can try to make it go away?”

“We’ll find something. I mean, there’s gotta be some answer, somewhere,” Sam tried.

Dean’s voice rumbled through the air. “That’s not entirely true. Madison, you deserve to know. We’ve scoured every source. There’s just no cure.”

Madison turned back to Sam and then looked over to you. “Is— Is he right?”

The younger Winchester stood and turned away, choked up.

“We thought about tying you up, but one day, you’re gonna bust out,” you told her. “And then… someone else dies.” You paused thoughtfully. “I’m sorry. I am.”

“Me too,” Dean added.

Shakily exhaling through her tears, Madison resigned herself. “So, I guess that’s all there is to it, then.”

Sam turned back to her. “Stop it. Don’t talk like that.”

Your heart broke at the sight of Madison picking up the gun and walking it over to Sam. “Sam, I don’t wanna hurt anyone else. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Put that down,” he begged.

“I can’t do it myself. I need you to help me.”

A tear slipped down Sam’s cheek. “Madison, no.”

“Sam… I’m a monster.”

“You don’t have to be. We could find a way, alright? I can. I’m gonna save you,” he said, although you know he didn’t believe what he was saying.

“You tried,” she sighed, crying harder. “I know you tried. But this is all there is left. Help me, Sam. I want you to do it. I want it to be you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“I don’t wanna die. I don’t,” she continued. “But I can’t live like this. This is the way you can save me. Please. I’m asking you to save me.”

Sam shook his head again, and Madison watched him intently. Cautiously, Dean walked up behind Madison and gently took the gun from her. Sam immediately stormed off to another room.

You exchanged a look with Dean before following his younger brother.

“Sam,” Dean said, holding up the gun. “ I’m sorry.”

The brunet shook his head, still crying. “No, you’re right. She’s right.”

“Sammy, I got this one. I’ll do it,” Dean replied bravely.

“She asked me to.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. Please.” He held out his hand for the gun, tears flowing steadily now. Dean couldn’t seem to manage handing it to him, and you carefully took it from his hand. Sliding a hand up Dean’s back to comfort him, you held the gun out to Sam.

Standing with Dean, rubbing circles over the middle of his back with your thumb and tucked into his side, you watched Sam walk out of the room.

“Just wait here,” he told you. His whole body tremored, and his face shone with tears. He hesitated a moment before moving toward the other room.

Now that it was just the two of you, Dean clutched your hip harder and allowed a tear to roll down his cheek. You stood by him silently, allowing him to allow himself to feel for a brief moment. And then, you flinched at the horrible sound of a single gunshot coming from the next room.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite #spn #spn series rewrite

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ginnsbaker · 2 years ago

Text

In Silent Screams (3/3)

Chapter word count: 11.8k+ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision (past) Warnings in this part: Smut (F/F), Angst, Gaslighting, Blackmail, Mild attempted sexual assault

A/N: This is probably the most uncomfortable fic I've written after In Flames (for good reason lol), so I'm nothing short of amazed if you were able to go through every line in this three-parter. P.S. For some reason, third part was the hardest to write for me, I guess it's because a lot of the scenes now are the same ones from In Flames after R found out and switching perspectives was a lot harder than I anticipated :P

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

It all feels like a dream, starting from the moment she opens her eyes and a few rays of light have filtered through the slats of the blinds. For a few moments Wanda pretends she’s back to that day—to that first morning she woke up next to you as your wife. She can still vividly recall the setting: your old bedroom in Montauk. Less than a year out of college, both you and Wanda were being frugal about the whole marriage thing, opting out of checking into a hotel after the festivities the night before.

Wanda smiles to herself at the fond memory. She glances to the side, and the alarm clock reads 5:30. It's too early to be waking you up, or anyone in this sleepy town. Nevertheless, she has to talk herself into extricating herself from your arms if she wants to pull off a very special breakfast-in-bed. A hesitant decision, a quiet sigh, and Wanda's slowly pulling herself from the warmth of the bed. The wood floor feels cool against her bare feet, prompting her to reach for one of your used polo shirts hanging over the back of the desk chair.

She enters the kitchen, her hands immediately getting to work. The spinach and mushroom are her first go-to, swiftly layered with day-old bread, and custard mix, forming the base for her strata. Next come the eggs, which she sets to poach, anticipating the smooth burst of yolk that'll cascade over the muffin once all is said and done. And then finally, bacon—your favorite.

Sparky trots into the kitchen, inevitably drawn by the wafting aroma, his tail wagging in tandem with his eagerness. He settles by her feet, watching with those pleading puppy eyes, occasionally letting out a quiet whine that speaks of his impatience and hope. Wanda chuckles, bending down to ruffle his fur. “You think this will get you a piece, huh?” she teases. But, she already knows that she'll give in, sneaking him a piece or two. He's your and Wanda's baby after all.

After she’s finished plating the meal, she sets them on a tray and carefully carries it back to the bedroom. The morning sun presents itself more boldly, almost spotlighting you in bed. Your face is tucked beneath a pillow, the sheets haphazardly pooled around your waist, revealing the bare expanse of your back, without a care in the world. Warmth floods Wanda's chest. She places the tray on a nearby desk.

Breakfast can wait.

Slipping into bed behind you, she becomes a shadow to your form. Her fingers gently trace the curve of your shoulder, lightly skimming over your skin. A shiver runs through her, and she lowers her lips to your nape. The temptation is too great, and soon, her tongue joins the fray, drawing a wet path down your spine. And then, unable to stop herself, she begins to rub herself against you, a soft moan escaping her lips. The sheer fabric of the polo shirt she's wearing, infused with your scent, rubs tantalizingly against her sensitized skin, heightening her need.

She can't stop thinking about last night, and the times before. She can't stop thinking about you—having you, being had by you. However, as your muscles start to tense, indicating the micro movements of your awakening body, a soft “fuck” slips from Wanda's lips, distracting her rhythm. She waits, a small smile tugging at her lips, silently asking if you're ready to greet the day—together.

You lazily roll onto your back, causing Wanda to reposition herself, now straddling your abdomen. With a drowsy smirk, your eyes half-lidded, you murmur, “Good morning,” squinting at the enthusiastic goddess—my wife, you think possessively to yourself— hovering above you.

Her face lights up, her morning energy nearly palpable. “Morning,” she chirps back, leaning down to capture your lips in a short but sweet kiss. Breaking away only slightly, she gives you a playful eskimo kiss, her nose rubbing affectionately against yours. A giggle escapes you, and she continues until you feel her nose scrunch up from how hard she’s smiling, all the while relishing the sound of her laughter.

When she's done teasing you, she buries her face in your neck. Drawn to the soft, milky expanse of her thighs, your hands begin to wander. As your fingers brush the curve where her thigh meets her hip, the subtle absence of fabric gives you pause. She's without a stitch beneath your polo. Your thumb ventures further south, discovering the dampness tangled in her soft curls. Heat surges to your cheeks, and you bite your lip, stifling a moan.

Wanda notices the slight change in your expression and a devilish smirk forms on her lips. “Seems like you found a little surprise,” she teases.

“Did I?” you smirk, tracing the V-line leading to her hidden treasure, teasing her a little. Wanda's breath catches, her pupils blown. But just as she readies herself for whatever comes next, you suddenly shift upwards, unbalancing her slightly. Reflexively, her legs wrap around your waist, anchoring herself to you. Her hands fly to your shoulders, gripping them for support. With a swift move, you part the front of the polo she’s wearing, exposing the smooth curve of her breast to the cool morning air.

The sudden exposure makes her gasp, but before she can utter a word, you close the distance, taking a hardened nipple into your mouth. Her face contorts in unabashed pleasure, her world spinning as you draw her deeper and deeper into your mouth. It's messy and primal, yet at the same time, it's reverent and sacred—something she has only ever experienced with you. She can't help but squirm, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer, urging you on.

Keeping an arm firmly around her waist to ensure she stays secure, your free hand travels down her belly, fingers tracing a sultry path to her soaked center. You leisurely trace her slick folds, gathering her arousal, playing with it.

“Please, baby,” she arches and bucks, grinding her hips, “more...I need more.”

Your lips twist into a devious smirk, reveling in her desperation. Drawing back slightly, you gaze at the flushed, vulnerable state of her, taking a moment to commit the image to memory. “I love it when you’re this needy…” you rasp, the tease evident in your tone.

Oh, but she is. She needs you to claim her, time and time again. She never wants to be anything else other than yours once more.

You lean back in, trailing a path of searing kisses from her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts. Without warning, you nip at her tender flesh, causing her to let out a surprised gasp. Marking her further, you suck and bite gently, leaving a trail of reddened spots, declaring your claim on her. With every purple bruise you leave, Wanda's moans grow more desperate, more wanton.

When you finally lift your head, her chest is littered with bites, then with a wicked grin, you dip your finger into her wetness once more, circling her entrance but never dipping inside.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I... I want you,” she admits breathlessly, biting her lower lip, eyes pleading. “Please, I need you inside.”

Not wanting to make her wait any longer, you slide two fingers into her, curling them expertly. Wanda's body arches off the bed, her inner walls instantly tightening around your digits, pulling them deeper. Every sound that spills from her lips, the way her body arches, trying to get closer, to feel more of you, tells you just how good you’re making her feel.

Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, while your fingers continue to piston in and out of her. The room is filled with the sound of Wanda's ragged breaths and the wet, slick noises of your fingers moving within her. As you feel her body tense further, you take a chance and slide a third finger into her, stretching her, filling her completely. The sensation of being so full sends Wanda over the edge.

“Oh, God!” she gasps, her back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Her hands grip your shoulders tightly, knuckles white from the intensity of her climax. Her inner walls spasm around your fingers, coating them with her release, her entire body trembling in the throes of ecstasy.

You keep up the pace, not wanting to stop until she's wrung out from pleasure. Each stroke of your fingers sends aftershocks rippling through her. When it finally becomes too much, Wanda grabs your wrist.

“Enough,” she breathes out, a sated smile curling her lips.

You can't resist the allure of the taste she's left on your fingers. You raise them to your lips, deliberately and slowly, letting her watch as you savor her taste. The move earns a flustered gasp from her.

“You taste so good,” you murmur, your voice low and husky.

Wanda's cheeks redden, but her eyes darken once more, filled with a burning intensity. “Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for you.

Thirty minutes before she can call it a day, the sound of a knock on her office door sends a ripple of tension through Wanda.

She knows that knock all too well.

Taking a deep breath, she calls out, “Yes?” even as she mentally braces herself for who might be on the other side.

The person almost immediately steps in, and—unfortunately, she's correct about who she thinks it might be. Before she can utter a word, he says, “You know, I can't just come in without an appointment, right?”

“Exactly, Vision. You shouldn't be here without—” she starts to say, but he interrupts her by triumphantly holding up an appointment slip.

His cheeky grin widens. “Got one right here.”

Wanda eyes the slip, pursing her lips as she thinks of a retort, keeping her guard up. The game has changed, but Vision's audacity, it seems, remains the same.

“Alright, what do you want? And I wouldn’t entertain anything that doesn’t have to do with the course.”

“Just some clarification about our last lecture,” he says as he closes the door behind him, audibly locking it. Wanda maintains her composure, not letting it show that the small act alarms her in the slightest.

“Go on,” Wanda prompts, leaning back slightly against her desk, arms crossed defensively.

But Vision, without missing a beat, launches into something entirely different. “I miss you,” he starts, and Wanda's posture stiffens, her fingernails reactively digging into her arms rather painfully. “I realize I messed up, Wanda. I do. But I can change.”

“Vis—” she warns, trying to interrupt him, but he barrels on, his voice filled with desperation.

“And if, by any chance, you're pregnant, I'll step up. I promise. I'll be responsible,” he continues, his voice quivering slightly. “You have no idea how happy I’ll be if you are.”

“I'm not pregnant,” Wanda whispers, struggling to keep her emotions in check. It's one thing for him to disregard her boundaries and be reckless with his words, but to assume that she would continue a pregnancy, knowing he's the father? Even the thought of it is sickening.

“And I would still choose not to be even if you were successful in your plans,” she adds, just to spite him.

Vision looks as if he might be sick, his complexion turning pallid, and a faint sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Wanda has never seen him struck by her words this hard, and she realizes she doesn't have any idea what he might do next.

“I just... I thought…” he stammers, eyes glistening, “I just wanted to matter to you, b-by—”

“By what, Vision?” She cuts him off, her tone icy. “Hoping you'd lock me down by trying to knock me up?”

Vision’s face crumples further, tears spilling over. For all his stature—tall, lanky yet broad-shouldered—in this moment, he's stripped of that facade. His body shake as he tries to hold back sobs. “I didn't... I didn't think it through,” he manages to say between choked breaths.

Wanda almost pities him, but she shakes her head. “If you’re not here for school, you need to leave.” Her voice is cold, but inside, she's fighting a storm of guilt for the hurt she sees in him.

Just then, the shrill ring of Wanda's phone startles them both simultaneously. Vision's eyes dart to the screen as her caller ID lights up, displaying your name. In a split second, desperation and panic take hold of him. He lunges for the phone, but Wanda is quicker. She swiftly grabs it from her desk, tucking it safely into her purse.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, her back pressing against the desk.

Vision's eyes burn with an intensity that chills her. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he looms over her, his presence imposing in the small confines of her office. “That’s her, isn’t it?” he demands with barely suppressed jealousy. “She's coming to get you now?”

Wanda backs away slightly, her breathing erratic. “Vision, you need to think—”

“I am thinking.” His voice drops to a low, menacing growl. He tilts his head, eyes never leaving hers. “And maybe I'm thinking of doing something you won't like.”

“No!” Wanda pleads. “Look, Vision—okay, okay, let’s talk. Just not here. We can go to your place.”

His gaze narrows, considering her offer. “When?”

“Soon.”

Vision shakes his head. Not good enough.

“Tomorrow,” he states without room for argument, his eyes drilling into hers. “Same time. Like we used to.” The allusion to their previous meetings isn't lost on her.

Wanda's throat constricts, “Fine,” she whispers, barely audible, a clear note of dread in her voice. She hates the familiarity of this situation. Most of all, she hates that she's put herself in this position to begin with.

Suddenly, Vision reaches out, his fingers nearly brushing the side of her face. Wanda instinctively shrinks back, but the space between the desk and Vision offers her little room to escape. Her back is to the wall, both literally and figuratively. She can feel the cold press of the desk behind her, contrasting with the heat emanating from Vision's body. It’s obvious what he's thinking, what he's restraining himself from doing.

Horrified and trapped, Wanda closes her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But instead of the touch she anticipates, she hears Vision's harsh intake of breath. The realization that she's retreated from him seems to strike a nerve.

Without another word, Vision pulls away sharply, as if burnt. He turns on his heel, storming out of her office. As soon as he’s gone, her legs give out from under her and she slides down to the cold floor, clutching her chest as she struggles for air. The walls of her office seem to close in on her, trapping her in her own spiraling thoughts.

As the room begins to blur, the sharp buzz of her phone breaks through her spiraling thoughts. Instinctively, she reaches into her purse, pulling out the phone. Your name illuminates the screen, and with it comes a flood of emotions—relief, safety, love.

The mere thought of you—so close, just beyond these walls—stops a panic attack from consuming her.

“Would you like to go bowling?” Wanda asks you as soon as she fastens her seat belt.

The randomness of the suggestion takes you aback, and a hearty laugh escapes your lips. But as you glance over to see Wanda's reaction, expecting to see her sharing in the moment's levity, you're met with a pained expression.

Your smile fades immediately, replaced by concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

Wanda mentally curses herself, realizing just how easily you can read her, see past her defenses. Needing to come up with something plausible, she quickly blurts out, “I had something super spicy when you called earlier. Didn't handle it too well, it seems.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up in a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, hoping you'd buy the lie, or at least not press further.

You don’t. “Hmm… how about we take Sparky out for a stroll today?” you suggest.

“A walk sounds great,” Wanda replies, her voice softening.

“Good,” you say, starting the car. “Let's head to the park. A bit of nature might do us both some good.”

The engine rumbles softly as you shift the gears, transitioning smoothly from one to the next. And then, almost instinctively, you reach out to take Wanda's hand, your fingers lacing with hers in a gentle yet firm grip. You hold her hand throughout the entire ride home, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze whenever you feel them tremble between yours.

That night, while you sleep soundly beside her, she finds herself unable to sleep. She spends the empty hours simply studying your peaceful face. There's a childlike innocence in the way your lips part slightly, a soft snore escaping occasionally. It's endearing, and it makes Wanda smile, even through her turmoil. She imagines traces of age on your face—the lines that will mark years of laughter, the silver that will streak through your hair. She tries to picture herself beside you, her own face carrying the weight of the years, both of you holding on to each other until the last breath. Her smile is teary as she hopes and hopes that this is where she's headed—to this future.

Because tomorrow, she will have to see Vision, and if everything goes well, she'll never have to see him again. Then she will finally express how she needs you to take her back to Manhattan or anywhere far from here, so she'll never have to relive this nightmare she’s created.

The next day comes like any regular day of the week. She kisses you goodbye as you head off to work, and she feeds Sparky to his heart's content before getting into a pinstripe blue blazer set. She fails to notice just how good she looks in this well-fitted ensemble, the fabric hugging her waist perfectly. Her focus is solely on feeling powerful, as she knows she'll need all the strength to finally put an end to things with Vision.

Wanda takes a deep breath, then another, and then two more, before she finally gathers enough courage to knock on the door. Vision answers almost immediately, as though he had been anticipating her knock down to the very second.

The man before her now looks wholly different from the one she had encountered just yesterday. His blue eyes are bright and clear, his face clean shaven. The scent of a cologne she doesn't recognize wafts to her. New, she thinks. It's heady and distinctly masculine, unsettling her slightly.

“Wanda,” he greets with a charming smile, one that reaches his eyes, but doesn’t quite touch the soul behind them. For a moment, she's transported to the countless afternoons she spent here, entangled with him with nothing—not even air—separating their sweating, writhing bodies. His lips quirk into a sly, familiar smile, as if he too remembers those days and expects this visit to be a similar occasion.

“Vision.” Gripping her shoulder bag tighter, almost using it as a shield, she quickly sidesteps him. “May I?” she asks, though it sounds more like a statement as she makes her way into his apartment.

He chuckles softly behind her, the sound dripping with memories she would rather forget. “Of course. After all, you've always felt at home here.”

Wanda's stride falters for a fraction of a second at his words, the implication threatening to pull her under. But she needed to keep her wits about her. If she wants this conversation to go her way.

“Let’s just get to the point, Vision,” she says curtly.

“I intend to,” he replies, closing the door behind them with an intentional finality. Wanda allows herself to glance around, seeking even a brief distraction from what's about to unfold. His apartment is in disarray, a stark contrast to his appearance. Her eyes are drawn to one particular piece amongst the chaos—the finished nude painting he had made of her. The realization catches in her throat. It appears he’s finished it.

Wanda shoots him an expectant look, urging him to speak first.

Vision clears his throat, attempting to sound casual but failing. “Wine? Or should we skip the formalities?”

Her eyes narrow, her patience waning. “We skip.”

“Alright.”

He sighs and drops onto the couch. “Look, I've said sorry over and over, but I’ll say it again. I'm sorry, Wanda. I'm sorry for being careless that night.” His voice lowers, “But I don't regret it.”

Wanda's eyes flash with disbelief. “You don't regret it?”

“No,” he murmurs. “What I regret is that it didn't result in... well, you know.”

The implication is clear, and Wanda feels bile rise in her throat. How could he say something so audacious?

She opens her mouth to retort but he continues, raising a hand as if to hold off her words, “I want to keep seeing you. I can’t stop. Because, believe it or not, I'm in love with you.”

Wanda feels as though the ground has been pulled from under her feet. Every instinct tells her to run, but she knows that this won’t have an ending if she does. Wanda swallows dryly and closes her eyes, trying to piece together a strategy, a way to get through him, a way to get out of this unscathed, a way to ensure he won’t tell anyone about this when she leaves.

“I-I believe you,” she starts. “I think I’ve always known, no—felt, that you l-love me.” Vision nods to her words, his lips curling into a hopeful smile.

“But I have to be honest with you, too,” she continues, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I took advantage of those feelings, Vision. I knew, deep down, that you felt this way and I still... I still let it happen. And for that, I'm deeply sorry.”

He stiffens at her words, a frown forming on his brow. “Wanda—”

She raises her hand, signaling for him to let her finish. “I don’t love you. It's Y/N. It's always been her. From the very start. What happened between us, it was a mistake, one that I haven't forgiven myself for. Especially because of what it means for Y/N.”

She takes a shaky breath, looking into his eyes earnestly, “You deserve someone who can return your feelings, who can love you wholeheartedly. You're a handsome, intelligent, passionate young man. There are many out there who would consider themselves lucky to be with you—”

But Vision vehemently shakes his head, unwilling to accept it, refusing to acknowledge their end. “I want to keep seeing you.”

“You can't,” Wanda insists, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “It's over.”

Vision's eyes flash dangerously, the calm veneer shattering in an instant. He takes a step forward, trapping Wanda with a threatening look.

“You think you can just fuck me and then discard me like nothing?!” he hisses.

Wanda backs up, startled. She feels her control starting to slip away. “Of course not. I… you were my friend. I cared—I care about you. But I shouldn't have let it get this far.”

He scoffs, not a word of hers reaching his ears. “So, it's all a game to you? You get to decide when to play and when to stop?”

“No, it's not a game,” she replies, desperate for him to understand. “But I can't keep lying to myself or to you. I can't keep hurting Y/N or you.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, and there's a glint of something dark and foreboding in his eyes. “Maybe you should've considered the consequences of your actions, Wanda.”

She swallows hard, sensing the danger in his voice. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe Y/N should know the truth,” he surmises, his voice dripping with malice. “Maybe she should know exactly who she's been sharing her bed with.”

Wanda feels like she might faint anytime. Panic rises, threatening to choke her. “Vision, please,” she pleads, “you can't do that.”

His eyes remain steely. “Why not? She deserves to know, doesn't she?”

Wanda takes a shaky breath, grappling for words, trying to appeal to his sense of reason. “Yes, she does. But not like this. Not from you. If anyone should tell her, it's me.”

“But you'll never tell her,” Vision says, his voice laced with accusation. “I see it in your eyes, Wanda. You don't have the balls to be honest with her. Because you're afraid. You're afraid she'll walk away.”

Both are poised in this high-stakes game, each waiting, anticipating, guessing what card the other will play next. For a heartbeat, Wanda feels disarmed, Vision's threat too sharp and too real. But as the seconds tick by, something shifts in her. She straightens up, pulling herself to her full height, and when she speaks, there’s no fear or hesitation in her voice.

“You’re not going to tell her,” she declares.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you know I'll hate you,” she says. “And if there's even the slightest chance that I'll change my mind, then doing that wouldn't be it.”

Vision lets out a humorless laugh, but the look in his eyes betrays his indifference. “You think there's a chance you'll change your mind?”

“No,” Wanda says firmly. “It's over.”

The defiant look that had been painted across Vision's face begins to crack. He looks smaller somehow, like he's shrinking back into himself. His shoulders slump, and the facade of control and confidence he'd donned earlier dissolves. The boy from yesterday, the one who seemed so heartbroken, returns in full force.

“Wanda,” his voice trembles, almost as if he's on the verge of tears. “Please, I’m all alone. I told you my life, I told you about my parents, nobody in this world cares about me! And I know I said I’m fine and I can survive without them, but why should I when I have you, Wanda—”

She can't help but pity him, his brokenness tugging at her heartstrings. But she knows that relenting now would mean drowning in the same cycle all over again.

“Vis, you will find someone. Someone who isn't me, someone better for you. Trust that.”

“How can I want someone else when I had you,” he insists with unwavering stubbornness, his eyes growing more frenzied, and Wanda shivers at the unsettling sight before her.

“Maybe you had me,” she says tearfully as she decides to finally drive a stake into his heart. “But not in every way like Y/N has me.”

Before she can register what's happening, Vision's hands are suddenly around her waist, pulling her forcefully against him. The initial shock and his assertiveness make her freeze for a split second. As he starts rubbing himself against her, she feels the unmistakable hardness growing between them.

“Vision, stop!” she protests, trying to wriggle free.

“Can you feel that?” he whispers hoarsely, clearly misinterpreting her struggle, mistaking it for their first time together and all the other times she eventually gave in to his advances. “That's how much I want you. Need you.”

Tears of frustration and fear spill from her eyes. “This isn't right, Vision. Let go,” she pleads, placing her hands against his chest and pushing with all her might.

“Wanda, just—maybe if we—you’ll see. You’ll see that you love me, just let me—”

Her fist connects with his cheek, causing him to stumble a few steps away. For a while, they both freeze in horror, the gravity of the situation sinking in. In his moment of delirium, Vision comprehends what he was about to do to the woman he claims to love, and guilt claws at his guts, wrenching his insides.

On the other end, Wanda's chest heaves with shock and distress. She stands there momentarily paralyzed, the aftershocks of the ordeal still rippling through her. Tears blur her vision, but she refuses to let them fall, not now, not when she needs all her strength. Her gaze meets Vision's only briefly before she pulls herself together. She wraps her arms around herself, and then rushes to the front door.

He yells, “No, Wanda! I…please let’s just—”

But his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Wanda goes straight home after the whole fiasco with Vision. She locks herself in the bedroom, crying for hours, paying no attention to Sparky's worried barks from outside the door. She tells herself that it could be worse, trying to talk herself out of going to the police. If she goes to the authorities, she'll have to give a statement. This would inevitably lead to an investigation into their past, revealing things she doesn't want you to know.

Drained from crying, Wanda's eyelids grow heavy. As sleep overtakes her, vivid dreams flood her mind, each presenting an alternate reality. In one dream she’s back in Vision’s apartment, his arms wrapped around her like a chain, and every time she tries to pull away, the chains grow tighter, pulling her back into his prison. A cold dread settles in her heart, as she struggles and fights, desperate to wrench herself free from his grasp.

The next scenario places her in a world without Vision. It's a life untouched by his influence, where she walks unfamiliar streets and meets faces that do not recognize her. Then, in a sudden shift, she's back at her office on that fateful evening, but the events unfurl differently. The temptation of Vision never materializes. She leaves, unburdened by the weight of a choice she didn't make.

But the relief is short-lived. These dreams meld into a harrowing nightmare, saturated in hues of red and black, where you discover her secret. She tries to call out, to explain, to mend, but her voice is swallowed by the deafening silence of the dreamscape.

In her seemingly endless silent screams, Wanda wakes up. The remnants of her haunting dreams still clutching at her, making her jolt upright. The fabric of the sheets sticks to her body, drenched in a cold sweat. Each breath comes in ragged gasps, as if she's been submerged underwater and has just broken the surface.

The bedside clock reads half past six and panic sets anew. You could be home in an hour, given that you haven't been extending your hours at the office lately. The realization pushes her into a frenzied urgency. Throwing off the sheets, Wanda rushes to the ensuite bathroom. The cold stream from the shower brings a semblance of clarity, washing away the residues of her nightmares.

Wrapped in a towel, with droplets still cascading down her skin, she dashes to the kitchen. She pulls out ingredients, her hands working methodically, albeit with a haste that speaks of her need to keep busy, to keep the demons of her subconscious at bay. She manages to prepare a simple but appetizing meal, but the mere thought of taking a bite threatens to turn her stomach inside out.

The dining table is set, and she seats herself, her gaze distant once again. And she stays there, lost in her own head.

It’s how you find her when you get home at 9:15 in the evening.

You’re quiet tonight. Alarmingly so.

She asks you how your day was, and you respond tersely with a simple, “Good.” She attempts to get you to elaborate, maybe share an anecdote like you usually do, but you dismiss her efforts, attributing your lack of interest in conversation to fatigue.

But Wanda can’t stand the silence. When it’s quiet, the voices in her head are even louder.

So she decides to tell you about her day instead. She swears to herself this is the last day she’ll ever lie to you with a straight face. She talks about the final projects her students have begun submitting. As she describes her favorites, your interest particularly sharpens when she mentions the portrait projects. You pepper her with questions, mostly about who made which, and Wanda offers names that probably wouldn't mean much to you.

After you finish eating, you thank her with a small smile. It's only then that Wanda feels she can breathe again. She leans in, pressing her lips to yours, her longing evident. However, just as she tries to deepen the kiss, you pull away, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Showered without me?” you tease, but it lacks the usual lilt in your voice. She simply nods in response. You playfully tap her nose, whispering, “Naughty girl.” Then, without another word, you're on your feet and heading up the stairs to the bedroom.

She proceeds to clear the table and wash the dishes, all while the sound of the shower fills her ears. She allows herself a small smile, chiding herself for being overly affected by her dream.

By the time she makes her way up to join you, she discovers you've already drifted off, turned away from the vacant space beside you that's meant for her.

She’s positively shaking as she takes the short walk from the parking lot to the classroom, the dread building up inside her like a swelling storm. The thought of facing her class, and especially Vision, sends shivers down her spine. The recent events—the horrifically inappropriate advances and Vision's glaring sense of entitlement—play over and over in her mind.

Her feet eventually take her to her destination, but she remains outside for a full minute. The thought of facing Vision again is almost enough to turn her around. But another, stronger, voice reminds her of her duty, her commitment to her other students, and her own integrity. Moreover, she doesn't want to be alone today, here the haunting events with Vision could replay in her mind without any distractions.

She pushes open the door. It appears to be a typical day, with her students clustered in small groups, engrossed in conversation and seemingly oblivious to her arrival. She swiftly surveys the room and, to her relief, doesn't spot the familiar blue eyes that usually fixate on her by this time.

When she starts her lecture on the final topic of the semester, it flows seamlessly. Still, the end of the course can't come soon enough; continuing here is untenable. She can’t keep teaching here, when these hallways keep reminding her of the mistake that almost cost her everything.

You've been leaving the side of your bed cold for almost two weeks now. Sometimes, your careful movements stir her awake, and she watches you, bleary-eyed, as you go through the motions of prepping for a run, a habit you've picked up quite recently. At first, Wanda would always ask where you’re headed and if she can accompany you. But you'd consistently dismiss her offer, always seeming in a rush to hit the pavement.

She thinks it’s good for you—the exercise. The only aspect of your new hobby that she dislikes is that you typically go before sunrise, where everywhere is still too dark and eerily quiet, and her imagination runs wild of all the worst things that could happen to you while you’re out on your run.

And Wanda wouldn’t admit it, but she can't help but internalize the consistent rejection of her offers to join you. She wonders if there's a deeper reason behind it. When you're out and she's left alone with her thoughts, Wanda can't help but let the guilt seep in. Has she become too transparent? Has something given her secret away? Did you find out about her affair? How would she even begin to explain?

But then you return after your run, with a sense of tranquility, as though the exercise had been a cathartic release of some pent-up tension. However, something still feels amiss. Perhaps it's because she hasn't slept with you since the night she discovered she wasn't pregnant with Vision's child, and all that has passed between you are brief, perfunctory kisses here and there. She wants to discuss it with you, but she doesn't want to appear too eager or guilty. Instead, she remains committed to being a good wife. And even though being a good wife was never about housework, Wanda ensures that every corner of the house sparkles and shines.

Meanwhile, you go about fulfilling your own household responsibilities seamlessly. From tending to minor repairs to ensuring that bills are paid on time, you continue with the routines that have always defined the dynamic of your relationship. There's no sign of resentment or dissatisfaction in your actions. It's almost as if everything is back to normal. This confounds Wanda even more. She starts to question her own memory, wondering if perhaps this distance, this new version of you, has always been present and she just never realized it. It's possible that you've become this way while she was preoccupied with her affair, and she didn't notice how you slowly adjusted to her unavailability.

Of course, she only has herself to blame. She's determined, however, to rectify it and make it up to you.

Which is when the idea strikes her. The dream vacation to Hawaii that both of you often fantasized about but never took due to financial constraints and a tight schedule. With the money from her teaching job, she now has the means to turn that dream into a reality. A surprise trip might be the perfect remedy to rekindle the connection that has worn out due to your busy lives and... her unfaithfulness.

She knows it doesn't atone for her sins, but it's a step in the right direction.

It should have been the perfect day for her surprises. She has two of them—the surprise trip and the news of her resignation from the university. She had just handed you the box with all the Hawaii trip details, and you were about to dive in, when there was a knock at the door.

Two men in dark suits have arrived at the house, looking for her. Detectives—Rogers and Barnes. Wanda uncovers the real reason behind Vision's absence from school, and it wasn't due to personal family matters or a decision to pursue education elsewhere.

He's been in an accident, and they suspect foul play.

Their questions start off simple, touching on the basics. But soon, they feel like piercing arrows as they delve into the phone calls between them, how close they were, and if she ever set foot in his apartment. Throughout the interrogation, Wanda manages to keep a straight face, though deep down she knows she probably can't fool detectives of their caliber. Yet, she silently prays that you don't see past her mask.

“That’s enough,” you interject firmly. “My wife has answered your questions. Unless there’s anything else directly related to your investigation, I believe we’ve covered everything.”

Your intervention when their questions grow more intrusive suggests she's managed to keep you in the dark. The realization that you're still on her side floods her with immense relief.

“Very well. Thank you both for your time,” Rogers says.

But Wanda isn’t done. She has her own questions. She needs to know if Vision's involvement with her is the reason they're here, probing. She wonders if he might have informed the authorities about their inappropriate relationship, and if that somehow relates to his current situation.

“Wait!” Wanda exclaims, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She contemplates asking her burning questions, but with you observing from the side, she suppresses her urge to do so. Instead, she conveys her worry—she is, after all, his teacher.

“Is he… is he okay?”

Wanda's complexion turns ashen upon catching the look on Barnes' face, instantly realizing he's fully aware of her and Vision's relationship. She can barely hear Roger's response, her blood rushing in her ears.

“…that he’s stable. However, he remains in a coma. It’s uncertain when or if he’ll wake up, but let's hold onto hope.”

Oh.

Her secret's safe—for now. But she... she has to be certain. She needs to tie up any loose ends, if there are any.

It's reckless to visit Vision's apartment in daylight, especially right after a visit from the police.

Exiting her car, Wanda's sandals softly scrape against the ground. She pauses to scan her surroundings, her gaze flitting from one building to another. The neighboring houses and apartment complexes stand silent, their stillness almost eerie, as if they've been forsaken. She knows that not many reside in this part of the town, a fact that had made Vision's apartment an ideal hideaway for their secret meetings.

She cautiously approaches Vision's unit, her hand shaking slightly as it reaches for the door knob: locked. A memory surges—Vision handing her a spare key during one of their early encounters. Retrieving it from her bag, she hesitantly fits it into the lock, preparing herself for what she might find beyond the door.

It opens with a muted creak, and a blanket of darkness envelops her. Hesitating at the threshold, she fumbles for a light switch, her fingers brushing against the cool wall before finding it. She'd half-expected Vision's belongings to be packed up, perhaps by a landlord who wanted to move on from the situation. But everything appears untouched, as if frozen in time; dust hasn't settled, and the items scattered about give no indication that the place has been vacant for weeks. It occurs to her that the ongoing investigation might be the reason the apartment remains untouched.

Wanda moves quickly, knowing she shouldn’t linger. Heading straight to the bathroom, she swiftly gathers her toothbrush and a few other personal items she had left behind. As she emerges, her gaze is drawn to the corner where Vision's easel stands. It used to hold a portrait of her, a work he'd wanted to submit for his final project, capturing her in a light she had never seen herself. But now, it’s empty.

A cold rush of panic seizes her. She clutches the edge of a table, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Had Vision decided to move the painting for some reason? Or worse, had the detectives seen it and taken it as evidence? The painting wasn’t just art; it was tangible evidence of their affair.

But then, in the midst of her mounting fear, a memory jolts her—there was another painting, the one Vision had purchased from the gallery where she used to work. With a newfound urgency, she hurries to his bedroom. The scene is disarrayed, with sheets and pillows strewn about. Ignoring the mess, Wanda goes directly to the cabinet where she remembered he last stored it. She yanks open the doors, and her eyes dart around, searching, but the painting is nowhere to be found.

Desperation grips her. If the detectives come across either painting, they'd have more reasons to scrutinize her further than she's comfortable with. Such involvement would be near-impossible to hide from you. Wanda proceeds with caution, scanning the apartment for any lingering items that could connect her to Vision. Unexpectedly, she finds a piece of her lingerie nestled within his sock drawer. Swiftly, she snatches it up. Before departing, she meticulously wipes away any fingerprints from the surfaces she's touched, then dashes to her car.

Once inside, she pauses to draw several deep, steadying breaths. It's overwhelming to think that this is now her reality, teetering on the brink of exposure.

She eventually finds herself falling off the edge when she discovers Natasha’s email on your laptop, mere moments after the crushing realization that you hadn’t bothered to open her gift.

Her instinct is to craft a lie. She searches her mind rapidly, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for the intimate handhold. Maybe she could say it was an old friend from the past, or perhaps a distressed student she was comforting. But one glance at the photo and she knows, deep down, that any excuse would fall flat. The way Vision looks at her, with such unmistakable affection and wonder, betrays any innocence she might claim. Trying to explain this to you or anyone else would be an exercise in futility.

Wanda had played out various scenarios in her mind about how you might discover the truth, but she never imagined it would be through seeking the expertise of your best friend. It was perhaps naive, but she had hoped you wouldn’t notice anything or, if you did, that you'd confront her about it.

But why would you come to her? She's been pushing you away for months, and the only time she truly showed you how much you mean to her was when she was so relieved that she wouldn't be carrying the consequences of her indiscretions in her womb.

In case you need them, the subject of the email says. Need them for what? Wanda wonders. From the way Natasha worded the message accompanying the photos, it doesn't appear you're just discovering the truth now.

No, it seems that you’ve known for a while. Which means—

The pieces fall into place, a chilling realization creeping over her. Wanda's breath catches as she pushes the laptop away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. The way you had carried yourself, especially around the police—it was far too serene, too measured. When they mentioned Vision's name, you didn't so much as flinch or even show a flicker of surprise.

Her heart beats painfully against her ribs. The calm demeanor, the calculated way you’d been moving about—it wasn't out of ignorance. You knew. And for how long? The thought terrifies her. How many days or weeks has she been living this lie while you watched, silently knowing everything?

Your silence, amplifying her betrayal, eats away at her conscience. The quiet before the storm, she thinks. And she's right in the middle of it.

“Wanda?”

She’s hiding in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, practicing a smile and a thousand more expressions even though she's barely holding it together.

“Wanda.”

She couldn't shake the thought of you knowing. Did you have any involvement in Vision's accident? You've never intentionally hurt even the smallest creature, let alone another human being, right?

“Wanda!”

She nearly leaps out of her skin as the bathroom door slams open, and you stare back at her, looking just as startled and taken aback.

“Hey,” she says, forcing a smile.

You narrow your eyes at her, and she shivers under your intense scrutiny.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in here for almost an hour.”

Wanda nods quickly. “I'm fine.”

You continue to watch her for a moment, before saying, “Alright.”

Just as you're about to step away, Wanda remembers the plans for later. “About the dinner tonight,” she starts hesitantly, “with your colleagues from the bank... should we cancel?”

She's desperately hoping you'd say yes. She can't bear not knowing what's going on in your mind. The way you act as if everything's normal is suffocating her. Does she even still know the real you? Every moment you're not cursing her out or confronting her betrayal feels like an eternity.

But you shake your head. “No, let's do it. We already promised them.”

Wanda's heart sinks a little, but she nods in understanding.

“I'll go grab some wine real quick,” you say before leaving the bathroom, leaving Wanda alone once again with her thoughts.

Later, as the last of the guests leave, she's certain you've picked up on her distress, noticing how you kept glancing at your watch and drifting out of conversations. She senses your gaze on her as she escorts Scott and his wife to the car, acutely aware you're observing her every move from the bedroom window.

Though they're older than both you and Wanda, they've only been hitched for two years. Wanda can't help but wonder if maybe things are smoother for them because they waited to get married. But then a familiar warmth washes over her. The memory of how deeply in love she was with you surfaces. Even if you had waited six years to propose, she’s sure that had you suggested it within the first few months of dating, she would've said yes in a heartbeat.

Truth be told, she doesn't regret it now, the timing of it, and everything in between.

All she's uncertain of is how tonight will unfold.

The house lies shrouded in an inky stillness, almost like it’s holding its breath. She carefully climbs the stairs to the bedroom you both share, one uncertain step at a time. The door is slightly open, and you're standing by the window, your silhouette thin and brittle.

“What happened, Y/N?” she asks as she stops a few feet from you. Your eyes are closed, and your body trembles. Though she should be consumed by fear, her only desire is for you to open your eyes, hoping to find the person she fell in love with over a decade ago still there.

“What did you do? Did you cause his ‘accident’?” she continues. But you remain silent, unmoving. “Y/N?”

Still, nothing. Wanda is slowly but surely losing her sanity.

“Did you hurt him? You did, didn’t you? Jesus, Y/N. Talk to me,” Wanda pleads, and then out of desperation she screams, “Tell me what you did!”

“No!” You roar with a primal intensity, reminiscent of a wounded animal in the wild, and the sheer force of it makes Wanda recoil. But she doesn't move away from you. Not at this crucial moment, when she senses how close she is to losing you. “You tell me what you did!”

You stalk towards her menacingly, until you're mere breaths away, and Wanda wants to reach out and touch you, but she knows she'll be burned.

“How you fucked him over and over and over! How you lied to me… over and over and over,” you tell her brokenly.

“Y/N, please–”

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk to me now,” you say, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t think I’d know? I wouldn’t feel it? I knew from the very first night. Because I know you, Wanda. Every thought. Every look. Every fiber of your being. I know you and I fucking hate you! I didn’t want to hurt him, I wanted to hurt you!”

The confirmation she's been dreading, along with the murderous glint in your eyes, saps the color from Wanda’s face. “Oh my god,” she chokes out, hand clamping over her mouth in horror. “Y/N…”

You try to walk away, but your legs give out, and you crumple to the ground, knees first, like a puppet with its strings cut. The tears flow freely now, unburdened by pride or anger. A raw, guttural sob escapes your lips, echoing the pain in your chest. Wanda, too, collapses, a mirror reflection of your despair, her body shaking as sobs rack her frame.

How could she have ever been afraid of you, especially knowing what you've been through? Beneath it all, she sees the woman she deeply loves, now appearing so fragile and torn apart, all because of her own mistakes. “I'm so sorry...” she whispers, her apology a mere drop in the ocean of hurt between you.

“Was there anyone else aside from him?” you ask suddenly, looking at the carpeted floor before you.

“No,” Wanda answers earnestly.

You offer a wry smile. “He must be really special then.”

She frantically shakes her head. He's not. No one is. It's always been—

“Do you love him?”

“No,” Wanda responds hastily, almost too hastily for your taste. And by the look on your face, she's crushed by the realization that no matter what she says next, your trust in her words may be irrevocably broken. “I thought I did, but no,” she admits. She can't bear the thought of deceiving you further and aims to leave no question unanswered.

“Did you…” you start, staring intently at the ceiling, and Wanda knows exactly what you’re asking even before it comes out of your mouth. The fact that you have to ask leaves her utterly heartbroken.

“...ever love me?”

This was her doing. The very second she acted on impulse and succumbed to temptation was when she truly lost you.

“I love you,” Wanda murmurs, her tear-filled eyes meeting yours, stubborn for her words to reach you. “I know how fucked up that sounds to you right now. But I do, I love you, Y/N.”

“You love me?” your voice falters, making you wince. “You have a truly unique way of showing it.”

How does she prove it? How can she make you believe? Wanda scrambles for tactics, for miracles, for a do-over.

“After all this,” you continue, “you might as well have killed me. Being dead might be painless compared to this.”

“Baby, please don't say that,” Wanda's voice breaks, choked by tears she can't hold back. She feels the urge to reach out, her fingers itching to touch you.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Even hearing you say my name makes me sick.” Your voice is steady, each word dripping with cold resentment.

“You can stay,” you say after a while. Wanda senses a fragile hint of hope blossoming within her. But it's quickly crushed when you add, “Stay in this house, for as long as you need. But I'm leaving.”

And it’s here where the panic sets in. The realization that she's on the brink of losing you entirely, not just emotionally but physically as well, hits Wanda like a freight train. The walls of the room seem to close in on her, and the weight of her decisions and mistakes press heavily on her shoulders, making her feel as if she's sinking.

“No,” she whispers. “Please, don't go.”

You start to slide your wedding ring off, and that’s when Wanda loses it. She launches herself at you, capturing your lips into a heated kiss. In the split-second it takes for the golden loop to slip off your finger, a flood of memories rushes over Wanda—the scent of rain as it patters on the roof of the reception, the song playing in the background as you and Wanda sway to your first dance as a married couple, the warmth of your hand intertwined with hers. Those fragments play in a demented, rapid slideshow, and time stretches and contracts, maddeningly so.

For Wanda, it feels like someone's drilled a hole in the base of her skull, letting all the sorrow rush in like a merciless flood. Everything else is white noise. For that brief instant when her lips slot against yours, you don’t push her away. Wanda pours everything she has into this kiss, hoping you'll feel her truth in it. But then, before she even has the chance to deepen it, you’re pulling away and it’s—

It’s over.

Stubborn as always, Wanda tries to hide in your neck, and you feel her tears sliding down your throat. She clings to you with all her might, holding on for as long as she can. But when she feels you gently place your wedding ring into her palm, her face crumples with a pain so profound, she knows she may never recover from it. And then you begin to rise, lifting yourself from the floor. As she instinctively clings to your leg, you take another step, causing Wanda to stumble forward from the sudden loss of support.

“This can't be the end. It just can't,” Wanda murmurs to herself like a mantra, as if repeating it will change the course of reality. She's almost certain you hear her, but it doesn't change your stride; you just keep walking away.

The ring burns in her palm, a searing reminder that her promise of loving and cherishing you always means nothing to you now.

Wanda can't quite figure out how, but you've chosen to remain in the guest bedroom for the evening. She'd heard the engine of your car roar to life, but then it fell silent after just a few moments. Peering out, she’d seen you stepping out of the car, phone pressed to your ear.

Who had you been talking to? An intense curiosity had consumed Wanda, making her wonder who had been on the other end of that call. In the short window they'd been estranged—no, just temporarily separated, because Wanda refused to believe that you'd entirely lost your affection for her—could there have been someone else? Someone waiting in line for their turn?

Now, she stands hesitantly in front of the guest bedroom door, hands clenched in her sides, torn between giving you space and continuing to fight for her marriage. She's torn, but not clueless. It's not just about barging in or holding back; it's about the aftermath. She stands there, frozen, trying to figure out which move won't blow everything to smithereens. Because the time she has with you is running out and there might not be a tomorrow.

Or a you and her. Ever again.

Wanda finally sinks to the floor, her back flush against the cold, indifferent wood of the door. Sparky, pads over, his little claws making almost no sound against the floor. He nestles himself on her lap, making his bed there for the night. She wraps her fingers around his soft fur, his warmth seeping into her, but his presence is a double-edged sword. As much as she adores him, he's going to be the only thing of you she gets to keep, and it's going to be a painful reminder from here on out.

In an act of despair, she presses an ear flat against the door, searching for the tiniest murmur, the faintest shuffle. Anything to tell her what's happening on the other side of this barrier. A barrier that was never there before. She's on the outside, and the thought that you're moving on, building a life sans her, is terrifying.

It's a cruel irony, she realizes. Here she is, just a few inches from you, yet completely and utterly in the dark. And so, she sits, hoping against hope, that at some point during the night, she'd hear the door creak open, and you’d scoop her in your arms and take her back.

She waits, because that's what love does—it waits, even in the darkest of times.

The next morning, Wanda wakes up, surprised to find herself in a bed instead of on the hard, cold floor. She doesn't recall making the trip, but the idea that you cared enough to ensure she slept on something warm and comfortable almost makes her heart leap out of her chest.

However, her happiness is short-lived as she opens the closet and discovers that some of your things are missing. To a stranger, the differences wouldn't be obvious, but she knows which shirt and trousers you chose, and she understands the implication. It means you won't be returning tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow either. When she goes to the bathroom, she finds only one toothbrush, and that's enough to make tears well up in her swollen eyes once more.

“Thanks for picking up,” Wanda says, her fingers gripping the phone tight, holding onto it like she’s drowning and it’s her only lifeline.

“Well, you've called enough times. Figured I'd give you a break,” Natasha's voice, though distant, is biting, as frigid as the coldness that Wanda has been feeling in her bones these past days.

“I need to know where she is. Please.”

A sigh on the other end, followed by a chilling silence. “You think after everything, you still have the right to know her whereabouts?”

“She's still my wife,” Wanda counters, but it’s weak.

“She was your wife,” Natasha fires back, unrelenting. “The last I checked, people who love their partners don't sleep with college kids.”

The words hit Wanda harder than any physical blow could. She's taken aback, gasping for air as if she's been sucker-punched.

“I—”

“She loved you,” Natasha continues ruthlessly, “more than you ever deserved. And you threw it away, for what? Some fleeting thrill?”

Loved? Past tense? Had Natasha just assumed—

Or was that word coming directly from you?

Pushing down the slightest twinge of sympathy that threatens to surface, Natasha picks up on Wanda's faint, broken breaths on the other end. She can tell Wanda's on the verge, and it's familiar, too familiar. It's almost exactly the sound she caught when she was on the phone with you the other night.

“I never meant for this to happen,” Wanda barely manages to say.

“Well, it did,” Natasha snaps, her voice cold. “Intentions don’t change actions. And actions have consequences.”

Wanda’s voice comes off a little strong this time, thick with conviction. “Maybe I deserve this, Natasha. Maybe it’s my time to pay for all the wrongs I’ve done.”

“You think?” Natasha scoffs.

“But you... you’ll never get it. You’ll never understand why I can’t just let go, why I can’t give up on her,” Wanda says.

“And why’s that?”

Wanda's voice trembles with the knowledge that what she's about to say is a cheap blow. “Because you've never been married. You've never committed yourself to someone in the way I have with her.”

That stings, and Natasha can feel her own anger rising.

“Don’t think for a second that just because I’m not married, I don’t understand commitment, pain, or betrayal,” she says, voice low and measured.

Wanda swallows hard. “I didn't mean to—”

“Of course you didn't. But here we are, yet again,” Natasha cuts her off. She sighs, leaning back in her chair, “I’m not telling you where she is. She needs time, Wanda. Time away from you. If she wants to talk, she’ll find you.”

That's the last thing Wanda wants. She worries that distance will solidify your resolve, turning her from an immediate regret to a distant afterthought.

“I need to see her, Natasha,” Wanda pleads, “Just tell me where she is.”

“Why? So you can make things even worse?”

After a tense pause, Wanda plays her last card, “Remember that night after we all went out? The night you and Bruce...” she trails off, not needing to complete the sentence.

Natasha stiffens, instantly knowing where this is headed. “Don’t you dare, Wanda.”

Wanda forges on, “I never told anyone, never used it against you. I kept your secret. You owe me, Natasha.”

The feeling of Bruce's hand against her cheek, the humiliation, the denial—all of it comes rushing back. She never thought Wanda would throw that night back in her face.

“You're really going there?” Natasha laughs hollowly.

“I’m desperate, Natasha. I love her. I can’t lose her,” Wanda’s voice breaks.

The line goes quiet, stretching seconds into what seems like hours. Finally, Natasha exhales heavily, the weight of the decision clear in her tone. “I'll give you an address. Show up, try to talk to her, but if she asks you to leave, you respect her wishes. Understand?”

Wanda swallows dryly. She knows Natasha can enforce her terms if she wants, which means she has no other choice but to comply. “Understood.”

Natasha's parting words would later linger in her mind for hours.

“This doesn't mean I've forgiven you or that she ever will. But you get your shot. Make it count.”

Wanda’s been standing outside the diner for what feels like a long time. She hopes her outfit—a parka over a crisp white v-neck and high-waisted jeans—makes a good impression. A glance in the reflection of the diner’s window confirms her red hair looks glossy and radiant, cascading in waves down her back.

Time and time again, Wanda had turned over every conceivable strategy to win you back. But in the end, they all hinged on the one thing she feared most: agreeing to a divorce. The very thought threatened to break her from the inside, but her desperation to make things right, to show you that she's changed, made this painful decision a necessary one. Wanda had taken so much from you, taken everything you had to offer and discarded it carelessly. Now, it was her turn to give something back, even if it meant letting you go, legally.

She tells herself, repeatedly, that their love story isn't defined by a marriage certificate. They won't end just because their marriage does. She had to believe this; it was the only way she could find the strength to move forward.

Steeling herself, Wanda takes one step forward. Another. Until finally, she’s there.

“Hey,” Wanda greets, doing her best to sound casual as she slides into the booth opposite you.

You give a nonchalant nod, mouth full of your Reuben sandwich. “Hi, Wanda.”

The scent of your cologne is the first thing that hits her, and it’s... different. This one's sharper, crisper, with a hint of citrus, perhaps. It's as if you're purposely shedding parts of yourself that she's grown accustomed to, distancing yourself in the most elemental ways. There's a new watch on your wrist, sleeker than the one she gifted you on your last anniversary. Even the way you hold yourself seems altered, shoulders squared and posture more rigid. Every detail screams of a transformation, a conscious effort to morph into someone she wouldn't recognize.

But why? To hurt her? To move on? To forget? All of the above? It's been just a week, yet the differences are already evident. Wanda dreads to think how much more will change if she goes months without seeing you.

This isn’t going to be easy, and that’s putting it mildly. “Sorry for cornering you like this. You rarely return my calls and it’s been almost impossible to match our schedules,” Wanda admits.

You concentrate on chewing your food, trying to appear perfectly disinterested in what she’s saying. As you take another bite of your sandwich, Wanda studies her intently, looking for any fleeting sign of emotion, but there’s nothing there but a chilling detachment.

“Natasha told me you’re already talking to divorce lawyers,” she continues. She's woken up next to you for more than a decade; she’s not easily deterred by the display of indifference. “If you’re decided that it’s what you really want, then I’ll give it to you. I’ll cooperate.”

“Okay.”

Wanda notices the fleeting moment your eyes dart to her left ring finger before you quickly look away.

“I, uh, got something for you,” she says.

“No, thanks.”

Wanda’s heart sinks as you dismiss her before even knowing what it is. Determined, she pulls out the small ring box and places it on the table, feeling a pang in her chest. “But it belongs to you,” she murmurs.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your wedding ring,” she says, pointing out what you already know. Your expression darkens, frustrated that she misses the underlying meaning of your question—not about the ring itself, but rather its significance right now.

For a split second, Wanda harbored a fragile hope that seeing the ring might stir something within you.

But then you're shaking your head, beginning to say, “I don’t want—”

“I understand,” she says, her shoulders sagging as she leans back into the booth. “But I'm returning it to you, and I’m keeping mine. What you decide to do with it is up to you. However, holding onto it on your behalf isn't something I can do.”

The ring she slipped onto your finger five years ago held all her promises, all her devotion to you. So it hurt that you no longer accepted that, no longer recognized it as yours. And she didn't want to be the guardian of that pain anymore.

“Fine,” you say, reaching for the tiny box and Wanda releases a heavy sigh of relief.

“So, you've got your ring back, and I'll sign the divorce papers once they're drawn up,” she says, mustering all her courage for what she's going to say next. “And then, I'll come for you.”

She watches in surprise as you nearly spit out your coffee, a few droplets escaping past your lips. As you hurriedly reach for a napkin, Wanda can't help but offer a gentle smile, always finding your occasional clumsiness endearing even in the middle of breaking her heart.

Your wide-eyed stare meets hers, speechless.

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a melancholic self-awareness. “I didn’t want to believe you when you told me that night that you hated me. But I guess that’s better than indifference.”

“I don't hate you, Wanda,” you say. She can tell you're telling the truth, and she smiles a little at that.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she laments. “Thank you.”

She takes a deep breath, knowing she needs to be clear, to lay everything on the table. “I’m not going to give up on you, Y/N. On us. What we have, and I’ve thought a lot about it, is something I’ll never find in another.”

“I’m not telling you this to get a reaction out of you,” she continues, “I know you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of me pursuing you, but,” she falters, the first sign of her vulnerability. “This time, I want you to know everything. I don’t want you to be blindsided by my intentions, so I’m giving you a heads-up.”

“Wands,” you say, the nickname slipping effortlessly from your lips, and she has to fight the instinctual urge to reach for your hand across the table. “You can’t torture yourself like this.”

“I’m not,” she assures you. “I just refuse to give up on my dream.” She senses the skepticism in your eyes, and she can't blame you, not after everything that happened in the recent weeks. You’re my dream, Wanda had confidently and lovingly written in her vows. The memory of that day, with the weight of those words, is as vivid in your mind as it is in hers.

She's always been the type to hold onto what she loves, never letting go without a fight. But seeing the dark circles under your eyes, the sunken weight of your cheeks, she knows the very sight of her is taking a toll on you. And so, she’s leaving, for your sake.

“I'll see you soon,” Wanda says, getting up to leave. She hesitates for a moment, considering whether to go for your cheek, if you'll allow her. However, the lack of response from you pushes her to take small, shaky steps toward the door and out of the restaurant.

It isn’t over. Wanda’s made up her mind: she won't give up on you. Maybe she's the villain in this story; and hell, there's probably someone out there, all primed and polished, perfectly poised to love you without the scars and rough edges. Except, she doesn’t care, even if she knows she’ll be diving headfirst into the storm.

She swears that someday she'll be on her knees, asking you to marry her again.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x vision #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #my writing #category: angst #iss #my fic #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #natasha romanoff #vision

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