Chapter 61: Wine Stain Strategy (3) [18+]
New
3 days ago
"Take me, Aryan," she whispered, her voice a sultry blend of command and vulnerability, her hands guiding mine to the swell of her breasts.
I cupped them gently at first, feeling their weight, my thumbs circling her nipples until she moaned, her body writhing beneath me in a dance of pure instinct.
The air in the room grew thick with the scent of our arousal, a heady mix of her musky sweetness and my own earthy desire, as I shifted to position myself between her legs.
Her pussy was slick and welcoming, the folds parting slightly as I pressed the tip of my cock against her entrance, the heat of her enveloping me in a wave that made my vision blur.
Emotion surged through me as I pushed forward, inch by inch, her inner walls gripping me tightly, a perfect fusion of bodies that mirrored the depth of our unspoken promises.
With each thrust, the bed creaked softly beneath us, a rhythmic counterpoint to our shared breaths and the intimate sounds of our joining.
Wanda's legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, her hips rising to meet mine in a primal rhythm that spoke of years of pent up longing.
I leaned down, capturing her lips again, tasting the salt of her skin and the essence of our connection, while inside, a storm of feelings raged… my protective instincts clashing with the raw vulnerability of giving myself fully to her.
Her moans vibrated against my lips as I thrust deeper, the rhythm of our bodies syncing into a fervent tempo that blurred the line between pleasure and surrender.
The barriers I'd erected for so long crumbled further with each stroke, her inner walls clenching around my cock in waves that sent jolts of electric heat radiating through my core, making my muscles tense and my breath hitch.
Wanda's hands roamed my back, her nails scoring light paths down my spine, urging me on as her hips rose to meet mine, our skin slick with a sheen of sweat that amplified every touch.
The room was alive with the symphony of our passion… the creak of the bed, the wet glide of my shaft plunging into her welcoming pussy, the sharp inhalations and exhaled whispers that carried the weight of our shared desires.
Emotionally, I felt exposed as if she were peeling back layers of my soul with the same intensity she gripped my body, her piercing eyes holding mine in a gaze that spoke of trust and longing, reminding me that this wasn't just physical union but a merging of hearts.
As I drove into her, the head of my cock brushed against that sensitive spot deep inside, drawing a guttural cry from her lips that fueled my own mounting release.
Her breasts heaved with each breath, nipples rubbing against my chest in a tantalizing friction that heightened the sensory overload, while the scent of our arousal hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating blend that made my head spin.
Wanda's legs tightened around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer, her voice breaking through the haze in a husky whisper laced with urgency.
"Aryan, don't hold back," she breathed, her eyes locking onto mine with a vulnerability that mirrored my own, "I want all of you… cum inside me, fill me up."
Her words ignited a firestorm within me, the raw honesty of her request unraveling the last of my reservations, pushing me toward the edge where ecstasy and emotion collided.
The pace quickened, our bodies slapping together in a primal dance, her pussy gripping me tighter with every thrust, milking the pleasure from me as waves of bliss built to an unstoppable crescendo.
I could feel the tension coiling in my balls, the inevitable surge rising, and in that moment, as our gazes held, I surrendered completely, letting the barriers shatter as I plunged us both into the depths of climax.
Her body arched beneath me, a shuddering release rippling through her as she cried out, her inner muscles contracting around my cock in rhythmic pulses that sent me tumbling over the edge, spilling into her with hot jets that marked the peak of our shared vulnerability.
"Aryan," she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"I'm here," I gasped. "I'm right here."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The room was quiet.
Wanda lay nestled against Aryan's chest, her body still humming with the echoes of their shared release, a languid warmth spreading through her limbs like molten honey that left her utterly spent and content.
She listened to his heart.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
It was slowing down, returning to its comforting rhythm.
She ran her hand the damp sheen of sweat on his skin, savoring the intimate texture of his muscles beneath her touch.
"Aryan?" she whispered.
"Hmm?" he hummed, his voice deep and rough. He tightened his arm around her, pulling the duvet up to cover her shoulder.
"You did not have a headache," she stated.
I felt his chest rumble with a silent laugh.
"I am cured," he said. "It was a miracle."
She smiled. "You are a liar."
"I am an opportunist," he corrected. "And you... you are a menace with a wine glass."
"It slipped," she maintained.
"Uh huh."
He kissed the top of her head.
She smiled into his skin, the scent of their mingled arousal still lingering in the air, wrapping them in a private haze.
"Tell me you meant it," she pressed, propping herself up on one elbow to meet his gaze, her eyes searching his with a playful yet earnest intensity. "All those promises in your eyes, the way you held me... it wasn't just the moment, was it?"
Aryan chuckled slowly, his hand cupping her cheek with a tenderness that made her heart flutter.
"No lies this time," he replied, his thumb tracing the curve of her lip in a way that reignited the spark between them.
She laughed softly, leaning in to capture his lips in a deep kiss, her breasts pressing lightly against his chest as she savored the raw honesty in his words, feeling the barriers between them dissolve even further in the quiet intimacy they had forged.
When the kiss finally broke, she wrapped her arms around him tightly, holding him as if she were afraid he might disappear.
He hugged her back just as firmly. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
She closed her eyes.
"Goodnight, my love," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Wanda," he breathed.
Chapter 62: Consolidation of Closets (1) [18+]
New
3 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I floated up from the depths of sleep because the universe decided I had slept enough and needed to start experiencing the reality of my life again.
My left arm was pinned. My chest was heavy. My legs were tangled in a knot that defied basic anatomy.
And I was warm. Incredibly warm.
I cracked one eyelid open.
Wanda was draped over me like a very beautiful weighted blanket. Her head was resting on my shoulder, her face turned inward toward my neck. Her arm was thrown across my chest, her hand holding mine tightly, as if she were afraid to let go.
I exhaled, feeling the way her thighs shifted slightly, as if even in sleep, her body sought more of me.
I shifted my head slightly, just enough to see her face.
Her breathing was a rhythmic puff of air against my collarbone. Her eyelashes were dark crescents against her pale skin.
She looked absolutely beautiful.
A surge of affection so strong it actually hurt my chest welled up inside me.
I moved my free hand (the right one) slowly.
I brought my hand up to her face. I hovered my index finger over the tip of her nose.
I tapped it. Once. Lightly.
She didn't stir.
I smiled.
I traced the bridge of her nose, running my finger up to her forehead. I smoothed out a tiny frown line between her eyebrows.
"Relax," I whispered, the sound barely vibrating in my throat.
She sighed in her sleep, the frown line disappearing.
I moved my hand down. I traced the curve of her cheekbone. I ran my thumb over her lower lip. It was soft.
I couldn't help myself.
I leaned in. I pressed a kiss to her temple.
Then I moved down. I kissed her eyelid.
I kissed the tip of her nose.
I kissed her cheek, right near the ear.
Wanda stirred. A contented hum vibrated in her throat. The corners of her mouth twitched upward.
She's awake, I realized. She's faking it.
I leaned back just an inch, watching her. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, but the smile was growing.
"You're terrible at playing possum," I whispered.
"I am sleeping," she murmured, her voice thick and raspy. "Go away."
"You are smiling," I pointed out. "Sleeping people don't smile unless they're dreaming about cheese."
"Maybe I am dreaming about cheese," she mumbled, burying her face deeper into my neck.
"Is it Gouda?" I asked, running my hand down her back. "Or Brie?"
She laughed, a muffled vibration against my skin.
I shifted, rolling slightly so I was hovering over her. I braced my weight on my elbow.
"Good morning, Lemon Queen," I said softly.
She finally opened her eyes. They were filled with a warmth that rivaled the sun.
"Good morning, Baker," she whispered.
I looked at her lips. They were pink and inviting.
I started to lean down. I closed my eyes, anticipating the contact.
Suddenly, a finger pressed against my lips.
I stopped. I opened my eyes.
Wanda was looking at me with a mixture of amusement and panic. Her index finger was firmly planted on my mouth.
"No," she said.
"No?" I asked against her finger.
"I have not brushed my teeth," she said seriously. "It is... morning."
I blinked. "So?"
"So," she insisted. "It is not... fresh. It is not romantic."
I looked at her. She was worried about morning breath. After everything we did last night? After sleeping tangled together like pretzels?
I reached up and gently wrapped my hand around her wrist. I pulled her hand away from my mouth.
"Wanda," I said, locking eyes with her. "I don't care."
"But… "
"I don't care about mint," I said. "And I don't care about fresh. I just want you."
I lowered my head and captured her lips.
She hesitated for a split second, surprised by my persistence and then she melted. Her arms came up, locking around my neck, pulling me down.
It tasted like sleep, warmth and her.
I deepened the kiss, shifting my weight so I was pressing her into the mattress.
My hand slid down her side, fingers tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, before cupping the heavy weight of her ass.
God, she was perfect. Soft where I was hard, curves made to fit against me like we'd been carved from the same damn stone.
"Mmm…" Her voice was thick with sleep, her thighs parting just a little as I settled between them, my cock nestling against the damp heat of her.
I could feel how wet she already was, her arousal slick against my shaft, and my hips rolled on their own, seeking friction.
"You're insatiable," she accused, but there was no real heat in it, not when her hips lifted, grinding against me, her pussy dragging against my cock in a slow glide.
"Only for you," I admitted, and it was the truth.
I dipped my head, capturing her mouth again in a deep kiss, my tongue sliding against hers with lazy confidence. She moaned into me, her fingers tightening in my hair, her body arching up to meet mine.
I groaned, my cock throbbing as she finally gave in, her mouth opening beneath mine, her tongue tangling with mine in a wet dance.
"You're impossible," she gasped against my lips, but her hands were already sliding down my back, her nails digging in as she pulled me closer, her thighs spreading wider.
"I'm yours," I corrected, and the way her pussy pulsed against my cock, told me she liked that far too much.
Our breaths mingled as I rocked my hips, my cock sliding through her folds, coating myself in her arousal.
She was so fucking wet, so ready for me, and I couldn't wait anymore. I reached between us, gripping my shaft, lining myself up with her entrance.
"Aryan… " My name was a plea on her lips, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her nails biting into my skin.
I surged forward in one smooth thrust, burying myself to the hilt in one stroke.
We both groaned, her walls clenching around me so tight it was almost painful. I stayed there for a moment, letting her adjust, my forehead pressed to hers, our breaths ragged.
Chapter 63: Consolidation of Closets (2) [18+]
3 days ago
"Fuck, you feel good," I growled, pulling back just to slam into her again, harder this time.
"More," she demanded, her legs wrapping around my waist, her heels digging into my back. "Harder, please… "
The bed creaked beneath us as I fucked her, my hips snapping forward with every thrust, my cock pistoning in and out of her tight cunt.
She was so wet, so fucking perfect, her walls milking me with every stroke, her moans filling the room, mixing with the obscene sounds of our bodies slapping together.
"You're mine," I grunted, my lips crashing down on hers again, my tongue fucking her mouth in the same rhythm as my cock fucked her pussy. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasped, her back arching, her tits bouncing with every thrust. "Only yours, Aryan… "
Her words sent me over the edge. I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, circling it in tight strokes.
Her body locked up, her walls clamping down around me like a vise, and then she was coming, her scream muffled against my shoulder as her pussy pulsed around my cock, dragging my own orgasm from me.
I buried my face in her neck, my hips stuttering as I came deep inside her, my cum filling her in hot spurts.
She whimpered, her nails raking down my back as she rode out the last waves of her climax, her body trembling beneath mine.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. I stayed buried inside her, my cock still twitching, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Her fingers traced lazy patterns up and down my spine, her lips pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, my collarbone, the side of my neck.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The bed was warm, but the air in the room had a slight chill to it.
Wanda watched Aryan sit up. He stretched, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin.
He turned to look at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Okay," he said. "Phase One complete. Phase Two: The Transit."
"Transit?" she asked, pulling the duvet up to her chin.
"To the bathroom," he said. "The floor is cold. You are warm. I cannot allow you to touch the cold floor."
Before she could protest, he swept the duvet aside. He scooped her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly.
"Aryan!" she squeaked, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I can walk!"
"Walking is for peasants," he declared, marching toward the en suite. "You are royalty."
He carried her into the bathroom and set her down gently on the bath mat. The tiles were indeed cold, but the mat was plush.
He reached for the cabinet. He pulled out the toothbrushes… his blue one, her pink one.
He put toothpaste on his. Then he put toothpaste on hers.
He handed her the pink brush.
She reached for it.
"Wait," he said, pulling it back.
"What?"
"I have an idea," he said. He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I want to try something."
"What?" she asked suspiciously.
"Let me do it," he said.
"Do what?"
"Brush your teeth."
Wanda stared at him. "You want to... brush my teeth?"
"Yes," he nodded. "It's a service. Full service spa."
"I am not an invalid, Aryan," she laughed. "I have functional arms."
"I know," he said, stepping closer. "But have you ever had someone else do it? It's a luxury experience."
He looked at her with those puppy dog eyes that he knew she couldn't resist.
"Fine," she sighed, opening her mouth slightly. "But if you poke my gums, I will bite you."
"Understood," he said solemnly.
He stepped into her personal space. He placed one hand gently on her jaw, tilting her head up.
"Open," he whispered.
She opened her mouth.
He was gentle. Incredibly gentle. He moved the brush in circular motions. He focused on the task with the intensity of a surgeon.
She watched his eyes. He wasn't looking at her teeth. He was looking at her face. He was smiling.
It was... strangely intimate.
He brushed the front. The back. The tongue (which tickled).
"Rinse," he instructed, handing her a cup of water.
She rinsed and spit.
She wiped her mouth, looking at him.
"Well?" he asked. "Review? Five stars?"
"Four stars," she teased. "You were a little slow on the molars."
"I'll strive to do better," he grinned.
He raised his own brush.
"Wait," Wanda said.
She reached out and took the blue brush from his hand.
"My turn," she said.
Aryan blinked. "Your turn?"
"You wanted the experience," she said, stepping closer to him. "Now I want the experience."
"I... uh..." he stammered. "Okay. Fair is fair."
He opened his mouth.
Wanda placed her hand on his cheek. His stubble scratched her palm.
She began to brush.
She took her time. She watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed. She watched his eyes, which were locked on hers, full of trust and adoration.
She brushed carefully, making sure to get every tooth.
It felt like caring for him. It felt like owning him.
"Rinse," she whispered.
He rinsed and spit.
He looked at her in the mirror. They were both grinning.
"Five stars," he declared. "Best brushing of my life."
He turned to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
"So," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Since we are already here... and since I distinctly remember promising a back rub yesterday..."
Wanda smiled. She ran her hands up his chest to his shoulders.
"You did promise," she murmured.
"And I am a man of my word."
He reached behind him and turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the room.
"Let's see how experienced you are," she whispered.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The shower was large. A rainfall head. plenty of room for two.
The water was hot. Steam curled around us, creating a foggy world.
Wanda stood in front of me, her back to my chest. The water cascaded over her shoulders, sluicing down her spine.
I poured body wash onto a sponge… something that smelled like lavender and chamomile.
"Ready?" I asked near her ear.
"Yes," she breathed.
I started at her shoulders. I moved the sponge in slow circles. I worked out the knots in her traps.
"You carry so much tension here," I murmured.
"It is... the weight of the world," she joked weakly, leaning back into my touch.
"Not today," I said. "Today, you only carry the weight of the water."
I moved down her back. I traced her spine with the sponge. I washed her sides, my hands slipping over the soap slicked skin.
I dropped the sponge. I used my hands.
I washed her arms. I washed her neck.
She turned around in my arms.
Her hair was plastered to her head. Water dripped from her eyelashes. She looked beautiful.
Chapter 64: Consolidation of Closets (3) [18+]
New
3 days ago
"My turn," she whispered.
She took the sponge.
She washed my chest. She washed my shoulders. She paid special attention to my arms.
"Your turn to relax," she commanded softly.
We stood there under the water, washing each other, holding each other.
"You are beautiful," I whispered, pushing wet hair out of her eyes.
"You are biased," she smiled.
"I am correct," I insisted.
We finished washing. I turned off the water.
"Stay here," I said. "Don't move. It's cold out there."
I stepped out quickly, grabbing the large bath sheets from the warmer.
"Okay," I said, opening the door. "Come out."
She stepped out onto the mat.
I wrapped the towel around her instantly, cocooning her.
"Dry?" I asked.
"Getting there," she shivered.
I grabbed another towel.
"Sit," I said, pointing to the closed toilet lid.
She sat.
I stood behind her. I draped the towel over her wet head.
I began to dry her hair.
I rubbed gently. I squeezed the water out of the ends. I massaged her scalp through the terry cloth.
She closed her eyes, leaning back against my legs.
"That feels... nice," she murmured.
"I told you," I said. "Full service."
I dried her hair until it was just damp. I combed it out with my fingers.
She stood up. She took the towel from my hand.
"Sit," she commanded.
I sat.
She dried my hair. She was rougher than I was, more playful. She ruffled it up until I probably looked like a static shock victim.
"There," she said, pulling the towel away. "Handsome."
I looked in the mirror. My hair was sticking up in every direction.
"I look like a mad scientist," I noted.
"A handsome mad scientist," she corrected.
We stood there, wrapped in towels, skin damp and warm.
"Okay," I said. "Now comes the hard part."
"The hard part?"
"Getting dressed. It means covering all this up."
She laughed, poking my chest. "We cannot walk around naked, Aryan. Mrs. Higgins might look through the window."
"Mrs. Higgins needs a hobby," I grumbled.
We walked out of the bathroom and into my bedroom.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The bedroom was bright with mid morning light.
Wanda clutched her towel tighter.
"I need to go to my room," she said. "To get clothes."
Aryan was standing by his dresser, pulling out boxers.
He paused. He turned to look at her.
"Wanda," he said.
"Yes?"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why go to your room?"
He walked over to her. He took her hands.
"Look," he said. "We slept here two nights in a row. You have a toothbrush here. You have... me here."
He took a deep breath. He looked nervous.
"Why don't you just... move in?" he asked. "Officially. Into this room."
"Move in?" she repeated.
"Yeah. I mean, think about the logistics," he started, his voice picking up speed as he went into explanation mode. "It saves heating. We don't have to heat two rooms. It saves laundry… one hamper. It saves time walking across the hallway. It's... efficient."
She watched him ramble. He was making excuses. Silly excuses to cover up the fact that he just wanted her there.
She loved him for it.
"And," he added, looking down at his feet. "I sleep better when you're here."
Wanda squeezed his hands.
"I sleep better too," she whispered.
"So?" he looked up, hopeful. "Is that a yes? To the consolidation of assets?"
"Yes," she smiled. "It is a yes."
He grinned. It was a happy grin.
"Okay! Great. Awesome." He clapped his hands. "So, today's mission: The Great Migration. We move your clothes. We merge the closets."
"My clothes will take up a lot of space," she warned.
"I'll purge," he promised. "I'll throw away my old socks. I'll make room."
"Good," she said.
"But first," he said. "You need something to wear now."
"I will go get… "
"No," he stopped her. "I'll get it."
"You?"
"I'll be your personal shopper. You stay here. I'll bring the options."
He scooped her up again.
"Aryan!" she laughed. "I can walk!"
"Not today!" he declared. "Today is Princess Protocol."
He carried her to the bed and deposited her on the mattress.
"Stay," he commanded. "I will return with bounty."
He marched out of the room, towel wrapped around his waist, looking ridiculous and wonderful.
Wanda sat on the bed, hugging her knees. She looked around the room.
My room, she thought. Our room.
A few minutes later, Aryan returned. He was carrying a stack of clothes that was taller than his head.
"I wasn't sure what the vibe was," he panted, dumping the pile on the foot of the bed. "So I brought... everything."
Wanda laughed. "Everything?"
"Jeans. Leggings. That dress. And..." he pulled something from the bottom. "A few sweaters..."
She sorted through the pile.
"This," she decided, pulling out a pair of soft grey joggers and a fitted white t-shirt. "And... a cardigan."
"Comfort chic," he nodded approval. "Excellent choice."
She stood up. She dropped her towel.
She pulled on the joggers. She pulled on the t-shirt.
"Well?" she asked, doing a little spin. "Does it look good?"
"You look..." he whispered. "You look like the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
"It is just sweatpants, Aryan," she teased softly.
"It's you," he said. "It's you in my room. Wearing my favorite color."
"White is your favorite color?"
"It is now."
She looked up at him. The love in his eyes was overwhelming.
She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Is that so?" she whispered.
"That is so."
He leaned down.
He kissed her.
It was a passionate kiss that tasted of mint and promise.
She melted into him. She felt his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. She felt the beat of his heart against hers.
They stood there for a long time, lost in each other.
Finally, they broke apart, breathless.
"Lunch," Aryan gasped. "We need lunch. Before we faint."
"Yes," Wanda agreed, smoothing her hair. "Lunch."
"I'll help you," he said. "With the... buttons."
He reached for her cardigan. He helped her put it on. He buttoned it up, his fingers lingering on each button.
"There," he said. "Dressed."
"Now you," she said.
She went to his dresser. She pulled out a fresh t-shirt and boxers.
"Here," she said.
He took them. He dropped his towel.
Wanda watched him dress.
He pulled on the boxers. He pulled on the shirt.
"Enjoying the view?" he teased, catching her staring.
"Very much," she admitted shamelessly.
He laughed, grabbing her hand.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go feed the machine."
Chapter 65: Carbonara Compromise (1)
New
3 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The kitchen was bathed in the warm light of the early afternoon. It was the kind of light that made dust motes look like suspended gold and made the marble countertops gleam with an invitation to mess them up.
"Okay," I said, leaning back against the island and crossing my arms. "We have a crisis. A caloric crisis. Breakfast was hours ago and my metabolism is currently filing a formal complaint. What are we eating?"
Wanda was standing in front of the open fridge, staring into it as if the answers to the universe were written on the milk carton. She was wearing my blue hoodie again, the sleeves pulled down over her hands, looking like a very cozy and very indecisive monk.
"There are... options," she mused, not turning around.
"Options are the enemy of hunger," I countered. "We need a decision. Pasta? Or do we go rogue and make breakfast for lunch?"
She turned slowly, shutting the fridge door with her hip. She drifted toward me, her socks sliding silently on the hardwood.
"Pasta," she decided, coming to a stop right in front of me. "Something... rich. Creamy."
"Carbonara," I said instantly. "The King of Pasta. Eggs, cheese, pancetta, pepper. No cream, because that is a culinary sin and I will not have it in my house."
She smiled, a slow curving of her lips. "You are very passionate about dairy products."
"I am passionate about tradition," I corrected. "And bacon."
I pushed off the island, ready to start the prep. "Alright. I need a big pot. You grab the parmesan. We need to grate like our lives depend on it."
I moved toward the stove. Or, I tried to.
I felt a weight settle against my back. Arms wrapped around my waist, locking in front of my stomach. A chin rested on my shoulder.
I froze.
"Wanda?"
"Mmm?" she hummed, her vibration traveling through my spine.
"You are... attached."
"I am supervising," she murmured into my neck.
"You're a backpack," I teased, trying to reach for the pot while carrying an extra hundred ish pounds of superhero. "This is a workplace hazard. How am I supposed to sauté?"
"You are a doctor," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck. "You have steady hands. Figure it out."
I laughed, the sound bubbling up effortlessly.
"Okay," I said, resigning myself to my fate. "Backpack it is. But if you get splattered with pasta water, don't sue me."
"I will not sue," she promised, tightening her hug. "I will just heal."
Cooking Carbonara is usually a frantic dance of timing. The pasta has to be hot enough to cook the eggs but not so hot it scrambles them.
I moved around the kitchen with Wanda clinging to me like a koala. I'd take a step to the sink; she'd shuffle with me. I'd turn to the stove; she'd pivot.
"Pancetta," I announced, grabbing the package. "Dice it. Cubes."
I chopped. She watched over my shoulder, occasionally reaching out to steal a raw cube of cured pork.
"Hey!" I swatted her hand away gently. "Thief. That's for the sauce."
"Quality control," she mumbled, chewing happily.
"You're useless today," I laughed, dropping the meat into the cold pan and turning on the heat.
"I am resting," she corrected. "I had a busy morning. Physically."
"Fair point," I conceded. "Physical labor is tax deductible."
The kitchen filled with the smell of rendering fat and black pepper. I boiled the water. I grated the cheese (with some difficulty, given the restrictions on my range of motion).
"Okay," I said, lifting the pasta tongs. "This is the critical moment. Release me, woman. I need range."
She sighed, a dramatic sound and slowly untangled her arms.
"Fine," she pouted, leaning back against the counter.
I quickly tossed the pasta in the egg mixture, creating the golden sauce. I plated it. I cracked extra pepper on top.
"Done," I declared. "Masterpiece."
I looked at her. She was eyeing the bowls with hunger, but she hadn't moved to the table.
"Are you going to walk?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She looked at her feet. Then she looked at me. She extended her arms.
"I am... very tired," she claimed, her eyes twinkling.
I shook my head, fighting a grin. "You are spoiled. I have created a monster."
I walked over. I slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. I lifted her.
"Up we go," I said.
She laughed, looping her arms around my neck. "Thank you, peasant."
"That's 'Chef Peasant' to you," I corrected, carrying her into the dining room.
I deposited her gently onto her chair. I went back, grabbed the bowls and the forks and returned.
I sat down next to her.
I pushed her bowl in front of her.
She picked up her fork. She swirled the pasta. She looked at me.
"What?" I asked, mouth full of spaghetti.
"My hand," she said, holding up her right hand and flexing her fingers. "It feels... heavy."
I stared at her. "Your hand is heavy."
"Yes. Lifting the fork is... a struggle."
I put my fork down. I swallowed.
"You want me to feed you," I stated.
She smiled innocently. "I am just saying... assistance would be appreciated."
"Unbelievable," I muttered, but I was already reaching for her fork.
I twirled a perfect nest of pasta. I blew on it gently to cool it down.
I held it up to her lips.
"Say 'Ah'," I commanded softly.
"I am not a child, Aryan," she teased, but her eyes were locked on mine, affectionate.
"You're acting like one," I retorted. "A very demanding, very cute toddler. Open."
She opened her mouth. I slid the fork in.
She chewed, closing her eyes. "Mmm. It is... salty and creamy."
"It's perfect," I said.
I took a bite from her fork.
"Hey," she protested. "That is mine."
"Tax," I said. "Chef's tax."
I loaded it again. I fed her.
We ate from the same bowl, sharing the same utensil. It was undeniably romantic. Every time I brought the fork to her lips, I watched her mouth. Every time she chewed, she watched my eyes.
"You have pepper," she whispered, reaching out to wipe the corner of my mouth with her thumb.
I caught her finger. I kissed the tip.
"Thank you," I said.
By the time the bowl was empty, I felt fuller than the food could account for.
Chapter 66: Carbonara Compromise (2)
New
3 days ago
We moved to the couch.
I sat down. Wanda climbed into my lap.
She sat sideways, her legs draped over the armrest, her head tucked into my neck.
I wrapped my arms around her automatically.
"You are a cat," I whispered into her hair. "A demanding cat."
"Purr," she deadpanned.
I laughed, rubbing her back in soothing strokes. "Okay, kitty. Go to sleep."
She sighed, relaxing completely against me. "You are comfortable, Aryan. You make a good chair."
"I aim to please," I said, resting my chin on her head. "But don't scratch the upholstery."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She could have stayed there forever. In his lap. In the sun.
But she had a mission.
She sat up, poking Aryan in the chest.
"Up," she commanded.
Aryan blinked, looking like he was about to fall asleep himself. "What? Why? The chair is occupied."
"The closet," she reminded him. "The Great Migration. We have clothes to move."
He groaned, letting his head fall back against the cushion. "Can't you just... manifest them there? Teleport them?"
"No," she said, grabbing his hands and pulling. "We do it the human way. It builds character."
"I have enough character," he grumbled, but he let her pull him up.
They went upstairs to her room… the Wanda Wing.
It looked... temporary now. Her suitcase was open on the floor. Her clothes were half hung.
"Okay," Aryan said, surveying the room. "Strategy. Grab everything. Run across the hall. Dump it."
"No," Wanda said. "We organize."
She walked to the closet. She pulled out a stack of hangers holding her sweaters.
"Here," she said, handing them to him. "Carry these."
He took them. "Heavy wool. Nice."
He walked them to his room. She followed with a stack of jeans.
They went back and forth.
"Wait," Wanda said, stopping by the bed. She picked up the pillow. The pillow.
She hugged it to her chest.
"This one comes," she said.
"Obviously," Aryan said, carrying a box of her books. "It's practically attached to your head."
She picked up the blanket too… the soft grey throw she liked.
They entered his room.
Aryan opened the closet doors wide. He had cleared one side, pushing his clothes to the left.
"This is your territory," he said, gesturing to the empty rail. "Prime real estate."
Wanda walked up to the closet. She hung her sweaters next to his flannels.
The fabrics touched. Her cream knit brushed against his forest green plaid.
She ran her hand over them.
"They look good together," she whispered.
Aryan came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"They do," he agreed.
She turned in his arms. They were standing in the closet, surrounded by the smell of their combined lives.
"Thank you," she said. "For making space."
"There was always space," he said softly. "I was just waiting for you to fill it."
She kissed him. A sweet kiss that tasted of carbonara and gratitude.
"Now," she said, pulling back. "The shoes."
"Oh god," he groaned. "Not the shoes."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
By 3:00 PM, the migration was complete. My room now looked lived in. Her perfume bottles were on the dresser. Her books were on the nightstand. Her clothes filled half the closet.
I looked at Wanda. She was sitting on the floor, folding the last of her socks. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were drooping.
"Okay," I said. "Time out."
I walked over and scooped her up.
"Again?" she laughed weakly. "I have legs, Aryan."
"They're tired legs," I said. "I can feel the fatigue radiating off you."
I carried her to the bed (our bed) and laid her down. I pulled the duvet up over her.
"Nap time," I declared. "Doctor's orders."
"But it is afternoon," she protested, trying to sit up. "I am energetic. I can..."
"You can sleep," I pushed her gently back down. "Close your eyes. Five minutes. If you're not asleep in five minutes, you can get up and reorganize the spice rack again."
"I am not tired," she mumbled, her eyes already fluttering shut.
"Liar," I whispered, kissing her forehead.
"What about you?" she asked, grabbing my hand. "Are you staying?"
"I have to go out," I said.
Her eyes snapped open. "Out?"
"Shopping," I said. "Round three. We ate all the meat. And we need more coffee. And... I saw a bakery that might have croissants."
"I will come," she said, trying to throw off the covers.
"No," I stopped her. "You are resting. I will be gone for... forty minutes. Max. I'm just hitting the market."
"Forty minutes?" she asked suspiciously.
"In and out," I promised. "Ninja shopping."
"A minute or an hour?" she asked, referencing our joke.
"Just minutes," I smiled. "You close your eyes, count sheep and I'll be back with pastries before you reach a hundred."
She looked at me. She squeezed my hand.
"Okay," she relented. "But bring the chocolate ones."
"Obviously."
I kissed her her lips. A deep kiss to keep her grounded.
"Sleep," I ordered.
"Go," she murmured.
I walked out of the room, closing the door softly until it clicked.
I stood in the hallway for a second. The smile dropped from my face.
I got into my car. I backed out of the garage.
I drove toward the town center, keeping up the appearance of a grocery run.
But my mind was expanding.
I felt it. An itch in the back of my skull. A disturbance in the energy field that I had carefully curated around this timeline.
S.W.O.R.D.
Tyler Hayward and his little band of militarized scientists. They had Vision's body. The original body.
And right now, about five hundred miles away in a hidden facility, they were doing something stupid.
I parked the car in the supermarket lot. I sat there, gripping the steering wheel.
I closed my eyes. I extended my senses. Past Westview. Past New Jersey.
I found them.
A sterile lab. White walls. Too many screens.
And in the center, on a table... Him.
Chapter 67: Carbonara Compromise (3)
3 days ago
White Vision.
They had reassembled him.
They were programming him now.
I looked at the dashboard clock. 3:15 PM.
"I have time," I muttered.
I got out of the car. I walked into the grocery store.
I walked down the aisle. The fluorescent lights hummed. The air smelled of floor wax and cardboard.
I picked up a bag of coffee. I smelled it.
"And oranges," I added. "Vitamin C."
I moved to the produce section. I selected five perfect oranges.
While my hands were squeezing fruit, my mind was five hundred miles away.
Analysis: The facility is underground.
Scan: Tyler Hayward is at a briefing in D.C.
Scan: The scientists are in the control room. The White Vision is in the containment chamber.
They were about to wake him up.
"Excuse me," a lady said, reaching past me for a lemon.
"Go ahead," I said politely, stepping aside.
I am not a violent man. I am a doctor. I took an oath to do no harm.
I put the oranges in my basket.
But I am also a Reality Bender. And my oath to Wanda supersedes my oath to Hipocrates.
I walked to the bakery section. I found the chocolate croissants.
If I let them wake him up, he might come here. He traumatizes her. She relives the grief again. She might break.
"No," I whispered.
I stood in the checkout line. The cashier beeped at my items.
Beep.
Beep.
I reached out with my mind. I grabbed the concept of the White Vision's power core. It was an unstable matrix of ARC energy.
I can feel your confusion. You're wondering where the Chaos Magic went? Think for a second. No Hex means no residue for Hayward to scavenge. Without that spark, the idiots at SWORD had to settle for a Stark knock off reactor to jumpstart their doll. It's an outdated substitute and much easier to turn into a firework.
Beep.
"That will be $24.50," the cashier said.
I tapped my card.
Action: Destabilize core.
Action: Remove safety protocols.
Action: Expand energy output to infinity.
"Receipt?" the cashier asked.
"No thanks," I smiled.
I walked out of the store.
[Perspective: Lead Scientist Dr. Miller, SWORD Facility]
"Energy levels at 90%," Dr. Miller announced, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "Neural pathways are integrating. Weapon systems online."
The lab was buzzing with excitement. They had turned the most sophisticated synthezoid ever created into a sentient weapon.
On the table, the White Vision's eyes flickered. A pale blue light.
"He's waking up," a technician whispered.
"Initiate control sequence," Miller ordered.
Suddenly, a warning siren blared.
Whoop.
Whoop.
Whoop.
Miller looked at the main screen. A red bar was spiking.
"What is that?" he snapped.
"Energy surge!" the technician yelled. "Core stability is dropping! He's... he's overloading!"
"Cut the power!" Miller screamed. "Shut it down!"
"I can't! The manual overrides are locked out! It's like... it's like something is holding them open!"
On the table, the White Vision began to glow. The vibranium was emitting a high pitched hum that cracked the glass of the observation deck.
"It's going critical!"
Miller stared at the screen.
"Evacuate!" he screamed. "Run!"
They turned to the doors.
The doors slammed shut. The locking mechanism engaged with a heavy thud.
Miller pounded on the glass. "Open the doors! Override!"
"Computer is unresponsive!"
He turned back to the room. The White Vision was now a blinding star of pure white energy. The light was so intense it was erasing the shadows.
Miller covered his eyes.
"What is happening?" the technician wailed.
The hum reached a frequency that shattered teeth.
And then, the light consumed everything.
BOOM.
The facility was atomized. The blast wave expanded outward, vaporizing concrete, steel and flesh in a microsecond.
A mushroom cloud of dust and energy rose into the empty desert sky. A silent monument to the arrogance of men who thought they could control gods.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I put the grocery bags in the passenger seat.
I sat in the driver's seat. I closed my eyes for a second.
I felt the ripple. A distant thud in the fabric of reality.
"Rest in pieces," I whispered.
I opened my eyes. I looked at the audience.
"I know what you're thinking," I said, my voice calm. " 'Aryan, you just killed people.' Yes. I did. Scientists who were building a murder bot to kill innocent people for their agenda. Scientists who were dissecting the corpse of a hero."
I started the engine.
"I don't do 'villain of the week'. I don't do 'recurring threats'. I am the editor of this story. And I just cut a subplot that I didn't like."
I backed out of the spot.
"Hayward will be pissed," I mused. "Good. Let him wonder what kind of force could wipe out his secret base without leaving a trace."
I drove home.
The sun was shining. The radio was playing soft rock.
I pulled into the driveway.
"Honey, I'm home," I whispered to the steering wheel.
I grabbed the bags and walked to the front door. I unlocked it quietly.
I walked up the stairs.
I pushed the bedroom door open.
Wanda was still asleep. She looked like an angel.
I set the bag down on the dresser. I took out a chocolate croissant.
I walked over to the bed.
I sat down. I brushed a hair from her face.
"Wanda," I whispered.
She stirred. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Aryan?" she mumbled.
"I'm back," I said. "And I brought chocolate."
She smiled sleepily. "You were fast."
"I told you," I said, leaning down to kiss her nose. "Just minutes."
"Did you get everything?" she asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"Everything," I said.
I broke the croissant in half. I handed her a piece.
"Eat," I said. "It's still warm."
She took a bite, her green eyes heavy with the remnants of her nap. "Mmm. Chocolate."
She moved the croissant toward my mouth, her gaze expectant.
I leaned in and took a big bite.
Wanda smiled, taking the next bite for herself, and we shared the rest in a quiet rhythm until only the buttery crumbs were left on the duvet.
Chapter 68: S&M Suite (1)
New
2 days ago
[Location: S.A.B.E.R. Space Station, High Orbit]
[Perspective: Nick Fury]
Space was silent. It was the only thing Nick Fury liked about it. Down on Earth, noise was the currency… politicians screaming, tires screeching and things exploding. Up here, you could watch the world burn in high definition without hearing the screams.
But right now, the silence was pissing him off.
Fury stood on the observation deck, his single eye fixed on the massive monitor that dominated the wall. It was showing a satellite feed of the Mojave Desert.
Or rather, what used to be a classified sector of the Mojave Desert.
"Report," Fury barked, not turning around.
Maria Hill (or the Skrull currently wearing her face) stepped up beside him. Her tablet was glowing with data streams that were mostly red.
"It's gone, sir," she said. Her voice was professional but Fury could hear the tension. "Thermal imaging shows a heat signature consistent with a localized solar event. But the radiation levels are... negligible. It's clean."
"Clean," Fury repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You don't get a crater that size from a gas leak, Hill. That was an instantaneous massive energy discharge."
He turned to face her.
"My assets?"
Hill looked down at the tablet, then back at him.
"Agent Miller. Agent Chen. Agent Rodriguez," she listed. "All bio signs flatlined at 15:14 EST. The moment of detonation. They were inside the perimeter."
"Of course they were inside," he said softly. "Because I sent them there. To find out what the hell Tyler Hayward was doing with billions of dollars of off book funding."
"It appears he was playing with fire," Hill said. "And he got burned."
"He wasn't just playing with fire," Fury growled, walking over to the holographic table in the center of the room. He swiped his hand, bringing up a schematic. "He was playing with Stark tech. We intercepted the supply manifests three months ago. ARC reactor cores. Vibranium synthesizers. And a cryogenic transport unit large enough to hold a humanoid."
He stared at the schematic.
"He was trying to bring Vision back online," Fury muttered. "The idiot thought he could hotwire a Mind Stone powered synthezoid with a glorified car battery."
"And it overloaded," Hill concluded. "The ARC matrix couldn't handle the vibranium resonance. It went critical."
"It vaporized my agents," Fury slammed his hand on the table. "It vaporized the evidence. And now, Hayward is down there, standing in the ashes, probably already drafting a press release to blame it on a meteor."
He looked back at the screen, at the smoking hole in the ground.
"Get a team on the ground," Fury ordered. "I want physical samples. I want to know exactly how badly Hayward screwed up."
"Sir," Hill warned. "Hayward will interpret that as an act of aggression. SWORD and SABER are already... tense."
"Let him interpret," Fury said, his eye cold. "He just killed three of my people with his science fair project. If he wants a war, I'll drop this station on his head."
[Location: SWORD Blast Site, Mojave Desert]
[Perspective: Director Tyler Hayward]
Tyler Hayward stood at the edge of the crater. His suit jacket was flapping in the hot desert wind.
"Director."
Hayward didn't look away from the crater.
"Director, the secure line is set up," the aide stammered. "The White House is on hold."
"Tell them I'm in a decontamination shower," Hayward lied, his voice hollow. "Tell them... tell them anything. Just buy me ten minutes."
"Yes, sir."
The aide scurried away.
Hayward stared at the nothingness.
It's gone, he thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his back despite the desert heat. Project Cataract. The billions in black budget. Gone.
He had been in D.C. when the alert came in.
He had survived. But his career was currently vaporizing faster than the facility had.
"They'll hang me," he whispered to the wind. "The Accords violation alone... I'll be in the Raft by dinnertime."
He needed a way out. He couldn't say, 'I reanimated a multi billion dollar sentient weapon in direct violation of the Accords and it blew up because I used cheap wiring.'
"Director!"
Another agent ran up to him. This one was holding a tablet encased in a rugged shell.
"We recovered a perimeter drone," the agent panted. "It was shielded by the bunker wall. The footage is corrupted, but... we found something."
Hayward snatched the tablet. "Show me."
The agent tapped the screen. A distorted video played.
It showed the perimeter fence, minutes before the blast.
The camera zoomed in.
Three figures. They were wearing tactical gear. They were moving with professional precision, bypassing the locks.
"Who are they?" Hayward demanded.
"Facial recognition got a partial hit on one," the agent said. "Agent Rodriguez. Formerly SHIELD. Currently listed as 'Inactive'."
"Inactive," he spat. "That's code for Fury."
He watched the footage again. The agents breached the facility. Five minutes later... White out. The video cut to static.
A realization dawned on Hayward. Or rather, a convenient lie that felt like salvation.
"It wasn't an accident," Hayward whispered, his eyes widening.
"Sir?"
"My scientists... they were the best," Hayward said, his voice gaining strength. "They wouldn't make a mistake like this. The containment field was stable. The ARC core was stable."
He looked at the agent.
"Fury," Hayward hissed. "He sent them in."
"Sir, Agent Rodriguez is..."
"He's a spy!" Hayward shouted. "Fury knew about Cataract. He wanted the tech for himself. Or he wanted to shut us down because we were getting too powerful. He sent his goons in to tamper with the core. They didn't know what they were doing and they blew the whole thing to hell."
"Sir, that's a... that's a heavy accusation," the agent warned. "Accusing SABER of domestic terrorism..."
"Look at the crater!" Hayward pointed a shaking finger at the hole. "You think that was a glitch? Fury took out my asset. He took out my people."
Hayward straightened his jacket. He smoothed his hair.
"Get me the President," he ordered, his voice cold. "Forget the shower excuse. Tell him we were attacked. Tell him... tell him we have evidence of a SABER incursion."
Chapter 69: S&M Suite (2)
New
2 days ago
[Location: The Spencer Residence, Westview]
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
Crumbs.
"You are getting pastry everywhere," I noted, watching Wanda brush a flake of croissant off her chin.
"It is flaky," she defended, licking chocolate off her thumb. "It is the nature of the pastry."
We were sitting on the edge of the bed (our bed) surrounded by the ruins of the snacks I had brought up.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound came from downstairs.
We both froze.
It was a physical knock not the door bell.
"Another neighbor?" Wanda whispered, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Did we forget an appointment?"
"No," I said, frowning. "And neighbors ring the bell. Dottie rings it twice. Sarah rings it once. This is... manual."
I stood up.
"Stay here," I said, putting on my 'Protector' face. "I'll investigate."
Wanda stood up too. "I am coming with you."
"Wanda, it's probably a package."
"Or a threat," she countered, grabbing my hand.
I looked at her. She looked fierce and adorable.
"Fine," I said. "But if it's a package, I get to open it."
I scooped her up.
"Aryan!" she yelped, laughing as her feet left the floor. "I can walk!"
"Stealth mode," I whispered. "If we float, they can't hear our footsteps."
"You are not floating," she pointed out, wrapping her arms around my neck. "You are walking. Loudly."
"Details," I dismissed.
I carried her down the stairs.
"Are you sure you are not going to carry me to the door?" she teased near my ear.
"If you want," I grinned. "I can open it with my foot. It's a very impressive move."
"Please do not," she laughed. "Put me down."
I set her down in the hallway. We walked to the door together.
I looked through the peephole.
Nothing. Just the empty porch.
"Nobody," I said.
Knock. Knock.
It came again.
I looked at Wanda. She shrugged.
I unlocked the door and opened it slowly.
The porch was empty.
We looked down.
There, sitting on the welcome mat, was a cat.
It was a battle hardened veteran of the streets. It was black, with a white patch over one eye that made it look like a pirate. It was missing half an ear.
It looked up at us. It stared with judging eyes.
"Oh," Wanda said, her voice softening instantly. "We have a guest."
"We have an intruder," I corrected, eyeing the beast.
The cat stepped forward. It sniffed my shoe. It sneezed on my shoe.
"Rude," I said.
"It is hungry," Wanda decided, bending down. She reached out a hand.
"Careful," I warned. "That thing looks like it knows karate."
The cat sniffed Wanda's hand. Then, surprisingly, it butted its head against her palm.
"See?" Wanda smiled, stroking its scarred head. "He is friendly."
"He's manipulating you," I argued. "I know a con-artist when I see one."
"He has no collar," Wanda observed, checking the cat's neck. "No name."
"His name is probably 'Trouble'," I said. "Or 'Tax Fraud'."
"He needs food," Wanda stated, standing up. "I will get something."
She turned and headed for the kitchen.
I looked down at the cat. The cat looked up at me.
We locked eyes.
"Listen here, fuzzball," I whispered, leaning down. "I see your game. You think you can just waltz in here and charm the lady of the house? I'm the charm guy. That's my job."
The cat blinked slowly.
"Be nice," I warned, pointing a finger at it. "If you scratch the furniture, or her, I will erase you from the timeline. I will turn you into a hamster. Do you understand?"
The cat yawned, showing sharp teeth.
"I'll take that as a yes," I muttered.
"Aryan!" Wanda called from the kitchen. "Bring him to the garden! Do not let him in the house yet!"
"You heard the lady," I said to the cat.
I reached down and picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. It went limp in my hands like a sack of potatoes.
I walked it through the living room and out the sliding glass door to the patio.
I set it down on the grass.
Wanda appeared a moment later holding a saucer.
"I found some of the chicken," she said. "From the piccata. I washed the sauce off."
She placed the saucer on the grass.
The cat dove in, eating with a ferocity that suggested it hadn't seen a meal in days.
Wanda stood next to me, watching it eat. She leaned her head on my shoulder.
"He was starving," she said softly.
"Yeah," I admitted, putting my arm around her. "He was."
We watched the cat finish the chicken and then sit back, grooming its paw with a satisfied air.
"Can we keep him?" Wanda asked.
"Wanda," I sighed. "It's a stray. It probably has fleas. And an attitude problem."
"We can fix the fleas," she said. "And you have an attitude problem too and I still love you."
I choked on a laugh. "Wow. Okay. I love you too, you beautiful menace."
She looked up at me, grinning. "Please? He fits the house. He is... damaged. Like us."
"Fine," I relented. "But he sleeps in the garage until he gets a flea bath. And if he eats Sir Drinks a Lot, he's evicted."
"Deal," she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
"I'm too easy," I muttered.
I bent down and scooped Wanda up again.
"What are you doing?" she laughed.
"Transport," I said. "The cat is fed. Now the humans need to return to the sofa."
"You are getting used to lifting me," she noted, wrapping her arms around my neck.
"Isn't this what I'm supposed to do?" I asked, walking back into the house. "It's in the job description. 'Heavy lifting and emotional support'."
"You are good at your job," she whispered.
We settled back onto the sofa. Wanda was in my lap again, because apparently, that was the new seating arrangement.
She was tracing the line of my collarbone with her finger.
"Aryan?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think..." she paused, looking around the living room. "Do you think something is lacking?"
"Lacking?" I looked around. "We have furniture. We have books. We have a cat in the backyard. And we have enough pasta to feed an army. What's missing?"
"The walls," she said. "They are... bare."
I looked at the walls. She was right. There was art… abstract stuff that came with the staging but nothing personal.
Chapter 70: S&M Suite (3)
New
2 days ago
"We don't have photos," she said. "Of us."
I looked at her.
"Us," I repeated.
"Yes. A... formal picture. You know, to hang over the mantle. Or in the hallway. To show that... a family lives here."
A family.
My heart did that thing again where it tried to escape my chest.
"You want a portrait?" I asked.
"Yes," she said decisively. "Today. We will go to a professional photographer. And we will get pictures."
"Okay," I said. "We can do that. But we need to frame them. And hang them everywhere in the house. To assert our domestic dominance."
"Agreed," she said.
She sat up. "We need to dress for it."
"Again?" I groaned. "I just put on pants."
"Formal," she said. "Or... semi formal. A Matching one."
"Matching," I sighed. "Of course."
We went upstairs to my room.
"You know," I said, leaning against the doorframe as she walked toward the closet. "I just realized something."
Wanda stopped, turning to look at me, her hand resting on the smooth wood of the closet door. "What?"
"I used to call your old room the 'Wanda Wing.' But now... this is the main hub. And this room doesn't have a name yet."
She smiled, an intimate thing that made the air in the room feel warmer. "It is our room, Aryan."
"Right. But it needs a title," I insisted, walking over to her. I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Something official. Something... grand. How about... 'The Sanctuary'?"
"Too dramatic," she murmured, leaning back into me. "It sounds like a place for monks, not for us."
"Okay... 'The Nest'?" I suggested.
"Are we birds?" she teased, tilting her head back to look at me.
"No, but we do spend a lot of time here," I grinned, nuzzling my nose against her hair. "Alright, how about 'The Heart of the House'?"
"Too sentimental," she decided. "We are not a greeting card."
I thought for a moment, my hands tracing the line of her waist. "Okay, what about 'The Primary Habitation Chamber'?"
She laughed, a bright sound that echoed in the quiet room. "You are ridiculous."
"I am creative!" I defended myself. "Alright, last one. Let's keep it simple. Your name. My name. Spencer and Maximoff. The S&M Suite."
I felt her stiffen in my arms for a split second. Then, a slow heat bloomed on her cheeks as she processed the abbreviation. She turned in my arms to face me, a blush creeping up her neck.
"Aryan," she whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement. "That is... terrible."
"It's accurate," I said, my voice dropping lower as I looked down at her. "Our initials. Spencer... Maximoff..."
"I know what it means," she said, her voice a little breathless. She reached up, her fingers tracing my jaw. "You are impossible."
"Is that a no?" I asked softly.
She looked into my eyes, her own sparkling with a playful light. "No," she whispered. "It is... perfect."
"The S&M Suite it is," I declared, my heart doing a heavy thump in my chest.
"Agreed," she mumbled, pulling my head down for a lingering kiss.
After a moment, she pulled back, still smiling. "Now," she said, turning back to the closet as if nothing had happened. She pulled out the charcoal suit for me.
"This," she said. "With the white shirt. And the green tie."
"And for you?"
She pulled out a dress I hadn't seen before. It was an elegant deep emerald green satin.
"We are going to look like we own the town," I noted.
"We do," she said simply.
…
I stood in front of the full length mirror while Wanda moved around me like a master tailor, her eyes narrowed with a critical focus that was both terrifying and incredibly attractive.
I slipped into the crisp white shirt. The cotton was cool against my skin. I began to button it, but her hand stopped mine.
"You missed one," she murmured, her voice a low hum. She reached out, her fingers brushing against my chest as she corrected the button near my collar.
"Cufflinks," she commanded softly, picking the small silver knots from the dresser.
"I can do them," I said, fumbling with the stiff fabric of the cuff.
"You are clumsy when you are nervous, Aryan," she teased, gently swatting my hand away. "Let me."
She took my wrist. Her fingers were delicate as she expertly guided the silver through the buttonholes, the soft click of the metal locking into place sounding deafeningly loud in the room. She did the other one, her hair brushing against my forearm as she leaned in.
I looked down at the top of her head, at the intricate whorl of her auburn hair, and breathed in her scent.
She finished the cuffs and let go of my wrist, stepping back to survey her work. "Good. Now the tie."
She picked up the emerald green silk. She stood in front of me, so close I could see the gold flecks in her eyes. She flipped up my collar and draped the cool fabric around my neck.
Her movements were slow as she looped the silk, her knuckles grazing the skin of my throat. I watched her in the mirror, watching the way she bit her lip in concentration as she tightened the knot, sliding it perfectly into place.
"There," she said, folding my collar down with a possessive pat.
I turned my attention to her. She stepped into the emerald dress. It was a slip of satin that clung to her curves like a second skin.
"Turn," I whispered.
She turned, presenting her back to me. The dress was unzipped, revealing the pale expanse of her skin from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.
"I cannot reach," she said, her voice a little breathless.
I stepped forward. My hands were trembling slightly as I found the tiny metal pull of the zipper. I pulled the zipper up slowly, the sound a soft rasp as the satin came together, hiding her skin from my view.
She turned back to face me.
Chapter 71: S&M Suite (4)
2 days ago
When we were done, we stood in front of the full length mirror together.
We looked… formidable. We looked like a single entity, two halves of a perfectly matched set. The charcoal of my suit and the deep emerald of her dress complemented each other, creating a picture of elegant power.
I turned to her. I took her hand. It felt small and delicate in mine. I lifted it to my lips, my eyes never leaving hers.
"My Queen," I whispered against her knuckles.
Wanda laughed, a light sound that filled the room. She squeezed my hand. "My King."
She reached up, her hands cupping my face. She pulled me down, her gaze dropping to my lips. She kissed me. It was a loving kiss that tasted of certainty and forever.
She pulled back and a laugh escaped her.
"Oh, Aryan," she giggled, her eyes dancing.
"What?" I asked, my voice thick. "What's so funny?"
She reached up with her thumb. "You have evidence."
She gently smudged a small mark of her dark red lipstick from the corner of my mouth. The gesture was so tender, so intimate, it made my heart ache.
"There," she whispered, her thumb lingering on my skin. "Perfect again."
…
We drove to town in a comfortable silence. The photographer's studio was a small building tucked between a bookstore and a café, the window display filled with black and white portraits of smiling families.
The bell above the door chimed as we walked in. The photographer, an old man with a wild grey beard and kind eyes, looked up from his desk. A small brass nameplate resting on the wood simply read: Stanley Martin Lieber.
"Ironic, I know," I muttered to the empty air beside me. "It's a bit on the nose, isn't it? Stan the photographer."
"Wow," he said, adjusting his glasses. "Okay, You two are... striking. Are you models?"
"Just a couple," I said, putting my hand on the small of Wanda's back. "We need photos. For the mantle."
"A mantle," Stan nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "A noble purpose. Right this way. Background?"
"Something... classic," Wanda said, her voice soft in the quiet studio.
"Classic it is," Stan agreed, gesturing to a simple backdrop. "Stand here. Turn your shoulder. Look at the camera. And smile."
I felt rigid, a cardboard cutout of a man in a suit. I glanced at Wanda, she looked just as uncomfortable.
He sighed. He lowered his camera. "Okay, scrap that. Forget I'm here. Just... look at each other."
I turned. Wanda turned. Her green eyes met mine.
I reached out, my hand moving on its own. I tucked a single strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm. She leaned into my touch, her eyes closing for just a second.
Click.
"That's it," Stan whispered from the darkness behind the lens. "Beautiful. Don't move."
Click.
"Now, sit," Stan directed, his voice gaining confidence. "You, on the stool."
I sat on a round leather stool. It felt precarious.
"And you," Stan said. "Behind him. Lean in."
She moved behind me. I felt her warmth before she even touched me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, her hands resting on my chest. She leaned down, resting her cheek on the top of my head, her hair creating a soft curtain around my face.
Click.
"Perfect," Stan murmured. "Okay, now switch."
I stood up. Wanda sat on the stool, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She looked like a queen on a very uncomfortable throne.
"You, beside her," Stan instructed. "Hand in your pocket. The other one... on her shoulder."
I stood next to her. I put my left hand in my pocket, trying to look casual. I rested my right hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm through the satin of her dress.
She immediately reached up, her hand covering mine, her fingers lacing through mine.
Click.
"Gorgeous," Stan said. "Okay, one more. Just... do something. Freestyle."
I looked at Wanda. She looked up at me, a question in her eyes. I grinned. A mischievous grin that she recognized instantly.
I grabbed her waist.
"Aryan, what are you…"
I dipped her.
I bent my knees, supporting her weight as I leaned her back, her hair almost brushing the floor. Her eyes went wide with surprise, and then she let out a peal of laughter… a bright sound of pure joy that bounced off the studio walls. Her head was thrown back, her throat exposed and her face tilted up to the lights.
I looked down at her. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Click.
"Okay," Stan said, his voice a little shaky as he lowered the camera. "We're done. Those are... those are going to be incredible."
I pulled Wanda back up into my arms. She was still laughing, her hands braced against my chest.
"You are impossible," she said, breathless.
"I am photogenic," I corrected.
"How long?" I asked Stan, still holding Wanda.
"A week. For the prints. I can get the big mantle piece framed for you."
"Do it," I said. "The biggest frame you have."
He nodded, looking at the wad of cash I pulled from my pocket. It was far too much.
"Keep the change," I said, handing it to him.
"Sir, this is... this is too much," he stammered.
"For art?" I shook my head, my eyes never leaving Wanda's face. "Never."
We walked out of the studio and into the cool embrace of the evening. The sun had set, leaving the sky a bruised purple.
We got into the car.
I looked at Wanda. She was beaming, tracing the patterns on the window with her finger.
"We have photos," she said softly.
"We have proof," I corrected, reaching across the center console to take her hand. "Proof that we exist. Proof that we are happy."
She squeezed my hand, turning to look at me, her eyes shining in the dim light of the dashboard.
"Yes," she whispered. "Proof."
I started the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet car.
"Home?" I asked.
"Home," she said.