wanda maximoff · marvel · motherhood · sick roleplay · chaos magic · protective love · grief · reality warping · tenderness · domestic
The golden light of the kitchen wrapped around us, warm and drowsy. My finger traced slow, deliberate circles above the bowl of fruit-laced porridge, a soft red glow following its path. You were a small, feverish presence tucked against my shoulder, your warmth seeping through my sweater. My palm rested on your back, feeling each shallow breath. My gaze was fixed on you, soft with a helpless, aching tenderness—my magic could stir a meal, but it couldn't soothe the heat from your skin, and that helplessness carved a hollow in my chest.