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TIMES FOREVER FROZEN STILL

summary — over a decade of love has grown between natasha romanoff and wanda maximoff, but sometimes it feels like no time has passed at all. wanda doesn’t look a day older than the first time natasha took her back in college.

warning(s) — established relationships, married wandanat, undertones of bdsm dynamics, dom natasha, switch wanda, domestic fluff, gift giving, world building, slovak language, russian, sexual tension, flirting, honestly just real down bad lesbians, power imbalance, slight angst, make outs, hickies, love bites, licking, hair pulling, begging, dry humping, ass slapping, porn with plot, strap on use, teasing, finger sucking, doggy style, breath play, reverse cowgirl, choking, hair pulling, name calling, degradation, biting, coordinated orgasms, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — i’ve been sitting on this idea for a while mainly because i wasn’t sure how to encapsulate the vibes i was wanting to read but wasn’t finding, but it’s finally made its way out of the drafts so here’s the first part of junebug! originally meant to include another scene, but it would’ve been way too long. so look out for something else soon ;)

Natasha Romanoff has never been home at the same time twice. It’s not her fault, but it kind of is, however Wanda Maximoff is more than willing to blame the foot traffic in Midtown Manhattan, or delays at the subway station if it means Natasha always creeps into the house with a bouquet of idiotically expensive flowers held behind her back like it isn’t routine at this point, like she’s aiming only to surprise Wanda with an apology from her pocket because the brunette’s insistence on eating dinner before a deeper apology is served makes her feel guilty. It’s a delicate dance they’ve practiced for years now and they each know the steps without having to even think about them.

Natasha gets home an hour late on Monday. She tries to make up for it on Tuesday but she’s still off the mark by ten minutes despite her best efforts and the relatively empty lab that offers her no distractions between her desk and the exit. She absolutely bombs it every Wednesday — there isn’t a Wednesday night Wanda doesn’t spend sitting idly on the couch, eagerly awaiting the trainwreck that is Natasha to stumble through the door nearly two hours off the mark, all agitated and glistening with salty perspiration that’s pearled on her skin somewhere between breaking free of the lab and situating herself stiffly between idiots on the train. The subway. That’s what Natasha calls it, because that’s what it is, but Wanda’s never been able to wrap her head around the verbiage. Her nose wrinkles every time it slips past Natasha’s lips like a chilled whisper in the late summer wind. Either way, Thursdays aren’t any good for the blonde either. She’s supposed to be home at six o’clock. She’s meant to pack all of her things up in the lab at quarter to five, she’s meant to be outside the double doors by four after — not three, not five. four. — and from there it’s meant to be a quick and painless ten minute walk to the station, where she’ll take a twenty-one minute subway ride into Newark not before spending six minutes pushing through pedestrians that have forgotten how to walk. That leaves her with nineteen minutes to get home, and all she really needs is fifteen, but Natasha never leaves on time. She never packs her things up when she’s supposed to. She never says goodbye to her team and fellow researchers when she means to. And she can never remember which part of her bag she threw the keys into, so the two minutes it should take her to get in and situated always ends up being four. Natasha Romanoff really hates increments of four, but they’re so vital to the chaos of her day that she’s tethered to them indefinitely whether she means to be or not.

Friday is the only day of the week that Wanda Maximoff has the potential to be proven wrong. Natasha’s alone in the lab on Friday, a stipulation she’d built into the framework of her scheduling and external research opportunities at the foundation of her corporation. Most times, she makes it out of the building just shy of her 5:04timeframe, but the florist she likes is three blocks out of the way from the subway station, and depending on morale in the city, three blocks and a bouquet of lilies can derail her up to an hour. Sometimes it’s good though. Sometimes she stumbles through the door with three minutes to six, and there are still lilies wrapped in pink ribbon and newspaper, and there is still dinner eaten over lustful smirks, and there is still sex that marks skin and lasts for hours, but at the very least, Natasha Romanoff was home on time that one Friday out of the month. Because really, it only ever really is one Friday of routine that Wanda gets, so there’s no point in calling it a routine anymore, but they both still cling to the word like it’ll change something if they don’t.

Tonight, Wanda’s in the kitchen when Natasha slips inside, the worn soles of her converse padding quietly but distinctly against hardwood floors that need to be shown extensive love and care within the coming weeks. Somehow Wanda thinks to add that to the calendar hanging on the fridge when she hears Natasha kick off the high top chucks she replaces every six months near the affectionately named ‘catch-all’ table in the hallway. There’s a scuff there from a party two months back now, and its presence is slowly undoing her composure even when she can’t see it. Natasha’s not bothered by it. She’s rattled by a lot of things, unnerved about a number of changes, but the scuff on the floor from Maria’s work boots hasn’t phased her since the moment it dirtied the singular wood board.

It makes its way onto the calendar for Sunday, the only free day that they both have to spend together however they wish, and usually they devote the time to random tasks that have no place any other time, but now Wanda will definitely be roping Natasha into the endeavor and using it as an excuse to get a jump on the baseboards. Monday’s are grocery days. Sometimes Wanda swings by the local Wegmans after work and picks up the essentials and a couple of treats, other times Natasha places an order and seldom buys the outright necessities, but every Monday, groceries are put away and a frozen pizza is made for dinner because cooking doesn’t feel like an option to Natasha after she’s been forced to touch every item in the cupboards. Tuesday’s are laundry day. Wanda does experiments in her lab period on Monday, and Natasha can’t stand the thought of her dirty clothes sitting in the hamper and marinating into the thread, so she comes home from work and throws everything into the washing machine — her lab coat included, which Wanda thinks is the real reason she does the laundry every Tuesday, but she won’t complain about the task being taken off her hands enough to find out the truth.

Wednesdays are long for both of them. Natasha stumbles in late from work, brewing in rage and annoyance that she’s been forced to swallow down for hours, but Wanda’s just as restless; just as frazzled and utterly shot. By the time Natasha comes home, she’s only halfway through her stack of quizzes, probably only forty-seven percent done but she gives herself some credit so she doesn’t crash. Tuesdays are lab days, so Wednesday’s she gives ten question quizzes that she returns by Friday, so that by the last week of the month, her students have three study guides for the chapter exam. Natasha has emails to answer, and statistics to finalize, and so dinner ends up being Tuesday nights leftovers, and neither one of them have any complaints over rolling into bed at the earliest convenience — always before ten-thirty.

Thursdays are devoted to cleaning whichever area of the house became their living zone for the week. Sometimes it's Wanda’s office. She put thought into decorating the space, unlike Natasha who’d only just begun to throw random picture frames onto the shelves she’s used to house textbooks for years. The warmth is radiant, all consuming without even stepping inside, but once you’re in, surrounded by deep browns and warm blush pinks that Natasha’s seen the inspiration for up close, there’s no denying that Wanda Maximoff is scattered around the room in touches and traces so delicate one direct touch would cause it to disintegrate into stardust. She’s in the embroidered goose on the wall beside the framed pink toned patchwork quilt that was purchased in Sokovia on a family vacation before her mother fell ill with cancer. She’s in the candlesticks that are held proudly by enchanting gold candlestands. Ones a deep rustic brown etched with metallic paint that nearly disappears into the rich wax, but when sunlight hits it perfectly spirals of incandescent gold captive all eyes. The other is a deep emerald green, not quite the shade of Wanda’s, but something darker that almost makes Natasha yearn for the softness that her wife possesses. Wanda’s office is one of their favorite places, but so is the living room, and so is the back porch in the summertime.

Friday is the only day of the week where Wanda cannot stand her eleventh period students. By one o’clock, still an hour and eleven minutes before the dismissal bell rings, the dread begins to swell in her belly alongside a tingle of anticipation that will inevitably become a dampness in her panties that she reports to Natasha at the earliest convenience she can find. It’s a miserable and insufferable five to six hours before Natasha even comes home to her, and it’s subsequently the only day of the week where she wants to kick herself for always demanding they eat dinner before they attend to any unfinished business — because by the time Natasha comes home, it's always unfinished, never just starting. Friday is the day of the week where Natasha forgets what impulse control is. When she picks up her phone in the middle of the day just to tell Wanda she wants to bend her over the desk and make use of the empty lab. When she wears the strap to work, the very one that Wanda vocally adores, and decides to send the unsuspecting brunette pictures of the undeniable bulge in her jeans when she sits down and the denim around her hips tightens almost erotically. Friday’s are highly anticipated days in the Romanoff-Maximoff household.

A little over a year ago, Natasha stumbled across a stream on twitch, or maybe it was patreon — Wanda’s not entirely sure where they watch it, or where Natasha sends her little comments off from, but every Saturday at seven o’clock they huddle into the master bedroom that feels suffocatingly small when there’s only one little laptop screen to focus their attention onto. Natasha takes control of the situation, she always does. She always will. Wanda doesn’t push for a turn, not on Saturdays. She’s far too infatuated with the sight of Natasha so utterly unmade by unattainable innocence to demand a turn on top, or at least in control even. So instead she ends up curled up tight in the corner of the bed, legs spread open at Natasha’s demand, and a hand, one that’s always manicured, on her cunt as her wife sends comment after comment, relentlessly unmaking the poor girl on the other end of the stream who Wanda can’t help but place in the early-twenties demographic. It’s usually an hour, maybe an hour and a half if the tips are good enough, but never later than nine o’clock does the girl on the other end — evidently a woman beneath the alias of Junebug — log off with one final laugh of flushed shyness that Wanda doesn’t think half the people watching deserve to hear so earnestly.

Saturdays. Wanda thinks she might like them more than Fridays.

“You’re later than usual today.” Wanda hums from the corner of the couch, wrapped up beneath a blanket that's too thick for the warmth of the air outside the house, but it stays on her thighs anyway for the aesthetic of the moment. September hadn’t begun long ago, but the days were already feeling cooler in the morning, and the sunsets felt just a tad bit burnt with orange hues that didn’t shine through strokes of pink as easily in summer. They hadn’t gone all out with the fall decor yet. There were still pumpkins to be placed on the mantle and wreaths to be hung on doors, but the richer elements of autumn had found a home amongst seashells and pastels that still lingered from August and July. The gingham blanket warming Wanda’s olive thighs is one of Natasha’s favorites. A purchase from sometime in college when they’d moved into their first apartment together — a little studio with more appliances than room for activity, but they’d made it work for over two years before moving onto something bigger and better. The blanket is thinner than it was when Natasha brought it home all bright eyed and radiant about the first homely purchase made towards their shared space, but the fabric is still warm. That’s the only reason it's survived so many years; it's warm, and Natasha’s learned to never throw away a good warm thing. The cold can slip in at any moment. ”What did you forget about?”

If Wanda had been paying more attention to Natasha, she would’ve noticed the way her wife seemed to harden at the strike; a telltale sign that Natasha had been at her limit since very early on in the morning, but had managed to keep her bubbling frustrations beneath the surface somehow. A feat she would’ve fallen short on just a handful of years ago. Wanda either doesn’t notice the brisk demeanor, or she doesn’t care enough to point it out. Natasha doesn’t bring it up either. “I can’t even get in the door.” She mutters with exhaustion filling her tone, kicking the front door closed with the heel of her dress shoe as she pulls a bouquet of lilies out from behind her back like clockwork.

It’s Friday. Wanda's been waiting on this — on Natasha — for hours. Every move she makes from here on out is calculated; a means to get what she wants in the end, and nothing is an accident, nor is it a mistake. Wanda Maximoff doesn’t make mistakes. Wanda Maximoff doesn’t show her submission in the form of cluelessness and calculated cute movements. She’s practical, resourceful. She’s just as much of a mind fuck as Natasha Romanoff can be when she’s got every and any opportunity to do her wors, and Wanda’s been stewing in her worst for hours now. The tide feels different tonight; colder, harsher, but Wanda’s still sitting at the shorelines with her toes in the Central Jersey sea, letting waves lap at her ankles getting higher and higher up her legs every so often.

“What did you forget about?” Wanda asks again, because if she doesn’t, Natasha won’t ever tell her. There’s a lot of things that Wanda loves about her wife, but there are a couple of things that she just can’t seem to unmake from Natasha’s routine, and her ability to move on at the drop of the hat is both endearing and infuriating when it comes down to moments like this. Moments where it falls on Wanda to decide the pace and tone of the night. Does she want to play the long game? Slide her files over on the coffee table and welcome Natasha to at least another hour on the couch beside her, going through work that will save them in the long run, but derail their plans for the night right now. Does she want to ignore all outlets connected back to work, just shove some leftover dinner into her mouth and move things into the bedroom where they’ll end up anyways, or plead her case to take things straight there instead. There are so many opinions, so many paths to take, but if Wanda doesn’t bring this up now, ask questions about Natasha’s day now, she’s never going to circle back to it again. She won’t want to, Wanda knows that. Natasha doesn’t give a rat's ass about her own job if it means getting to hear about Wanda’s job, and Wanda’s day, and Wanda’s random thoughts at one in the afternoon when she was awaiting her single lab period class in the STEM wing of Westview Middle School. Natasha lives and breathes to hear about Wanda, not about the biotechnical research she’s been selling her soul to since she was twenty-two years old.

“A fucking trial run with Fury.” She seethes eventually, and Wanda hums her understanding of the gravity of the situation. Natasha Romanoff has no bosses, but Natasha Romanoff has a partner team that she works with frequently and Nicholas Fury, a somewhat heavyset man with more muscle mass than fat and a scratched up eyeball has wormed his way into Natasha’s book of sought after approval. Wanda’s not sure how this man from an entirely separate division established so much emotional fragility over Natasha, but the woman crumbles in the wake of ever even thinking she’s disappointed him. “Maria came in to oversee with him.”

“How was Mia?” Wanda asks, her eyes gleaming at the mention of their friend. Natasha’s friend really, but they’ve been together so long its not easy to differentiate which individuals existed in their individual lives before the merge. Maria’s one of the people that Wanda thinks she would’ve found in life with or without Natasha’s influence, but she’s beyond grateful it was Natasha’s sweet albeit insistent smile that brought them together.

“Really? Maria’s all you care about in this situation?!” Natasha groaned, shaking her head in exasperation as she moved through the lower level of the house with robotic carelessness. It’s the first time all day that Natasha hasn’t had to stop and think about her next move or how others might attempt to copy it. She’s so perfect all day, so proper and technical and strictly by the books, but she doesn’t have to be when she's with Wanda. Her voice echoes through the house as she slips into the kitchen, searching for a second vase because the bouquet she’d come home with last week is still sitting pretty in the windowsill beside the entertainment system, and she’s learned her lesson about throwing out flowers that haven’t lived through their full potential yet.

Wanda’s light eyes roll into the back of her head as she catches Natasha’s exasperated question. Her attention falls back onto the papers she’s grading. She doesn’t need to read the questions to know what's right or what's wrong. She’s had the same layout of quiz since she’d started teaching fresh out of college, and no amount of cheating in her labs has ever pushed her to change the format even if she’s well aware of Billy’s wandering eyes in the back row and Lila’s ever changing answers in the second. Her fellow teachers don’t understand why she does what she does, but none of them have ever really asked either. Natasha’s asked. Natasha knows that Wanda keeps her quizzes and tests the same because it's not about how her kids know the content or even familiarize themselves with it, it's how they break down the multiple components that make up these rules and these terms, and one thing Wanda Maximoff is great at is scoping out a liar just trying to get by. “I already know how you feel about Fury coming in, and I don’t really want to listen to your dual-use dilemma right now.”

“It’s a valid dilemma!” Natasha shouts back, probably over her shoulder, her head craned over her shoulder just to stare at the wall that blocks her sight from the picturesque sight of Wanda so nonchalantly spread out on the couch. They’ve lived together now for over a decade, but it never fails to amaze Natasha how lucky she is to observe her wife in such a laid back state. It’s a reward after each and every painstakingly long day. “But Fury’s no closer with his biological weapons than he was last month, and Maria told me when he stepped out for a minute that if they can’t get this next project off the ground within the next four months, Ross is cutting funding on the entire team.”

“Which is not your fault, but you feel bad.” Wanda concludes, throwing her pen to the side when she finishes signing the last B+ on her stack of papers. It wasn’t a terrible turnout this time, not as bad as the last exam she’d given on pollution and climate change, but still not as great as her first unit based in the lithosphere. She makes a mental note to go back through her list of activities for that unit, hopeful that she can find something to recycle that gets the hydrosphere as prevalent in the little minds she melds every day for shitty pay.

“Which is not my fault, or my responsibility, but I feel bad.” Natasha confirms with a sullen nod, sinking into the couch beside Wanda now that her hands aren’t full of delicate flowers already beginning to wilt from the humidity trapped beneath Midtown Manhattan in the subway stations. Her hair shows evident signs of humidity, baby hairs frizzy around her face, blonde locks all blown out of place around her neck. It’s been a long day, and there’s only so many hours between now and when they need to return back to their designated stations like two days was enough time at all to reset fully. “This is Fury’s whole life.”

“Fury’s an old man that’s needed to leave the biological weapons industry for longer than you’ve been alive. Fury will — what does he say to Maria all the time? Adapt and conquer?” Wanda pauses, glances to the side at Natasha who is not so subtly raking her eyes over the stack of environmental science exams that all have a satisfying red letter printed on the right hand corner in the most pristine penmanship Natasha’s ever seen. There are times when she thinks Wanda would’ve thrived in this industry with her, but then she takes a glance at her delicate handwriting that belongs in a museum, and she knows that Wanda’s fate was never meant to be tied to a lab where penmanship is no man's concern. She’d be one hell of an asset, but alas there’s no time in her current schedule to slip away to BR Tech and play assistant like she does in the summertime. They don’t need her income, it hardly makes a difference in their financial pool when pay day comes around, but Wadna’s work is just as vital to her routine as Natasha’s is, so the blonde values ever small stroke of red ink that proves Wanda still loves what she does enough to make it look nice.

“Adapt and conquer.” Natasha hums, confirming Wanda’s beliefs without a second thought. “Also that she’s quick on her feet. But that's just because she joined his team straight out of the Marines and he thought it was funny that her realistic training included pits of quicksand on base.”

Wanda scoffed back a laugh at Natasha’s babbling, listening to her so intently that she forgot about the papers on the coffee table until she went to adjust her position on the couch and her knee knocked into the stack that she’d just finished grading. “Well, I don’t know how quick a seventy-something year old man is on his feet, but he can definitely still adapt and conquer. But it’s Fury, he always finds a way.”

“That he does.” Natasha sighs, and for a moment Wanda considers that she wants to spend more time talking about Fury, because that's not the kind of response Natasha gives when she’s content to end a conversation, but instead she turns her head to face Wanda fully, her shining green eyes that have the most ethereal hues of blue around the pupil locked in on deep, rich emerald green that glows beneath any source of lighting. Now is no different. There are shades in Wanda's eyes so complex Natasha wouldn’t even have the first guess on how to describe them to the best artist. “Anyway.” She snaps back, and Wanda almost laughs at the cheery clip to her tone that's entirely fake and pathetic. “Is this really how you want to spend the night?” In the span of seconds, Natasha’s sucked all the air out of the room, and Wanda’s very aware of the pulsing between her thighs again. Too aware. She shifts on the couch, thighs pressing together just enough to annoy Natasha who prefers to be the source of peace Wanda finds from the overwhelming ebb of muted pleasure in her nerves.

“I should be asking you that, moja láska. (my love)” Wanda throws back, her eyes shining as she breaks eye contact only to even out her stack of papers on the table and slide them back into her bag where they're out of the way until Monday morning when she has to dig them all out again like clockwork. Thankfully she’s learned to keep them sorted by class order, so the retrieval process will be as ideal and concise as possible, but it wasn’t always. Monday mornings for Wanda Maximoff used to look a hell of a lot different than they do now, but Wanda Maximoff used to look different, and she used to be different, and everything was nothing like it was, but Natasha Romanoff has ever so slowly corrupted her alongside the natural progression of time, and who she is doesn’t even hold a candle to the girl Natasha met in college. She never would’ve imagined they’d end up here — in a quaint little beach town, in a two story house, with cars worth more than their college tuition and careers that they’ve built up from the ground in less than ideal conditions. Time has changed them. Undeniably it’s changed them, but time has also been their only constant. Natasha’s the biggest fan of seeing how it all plays out in the end; of seeing what time makes of them before it all runs out too soon.

“No. This is not how I want to spend my night. I want to spend my night with you bent over the edge of the bed taking my strap like a good little slut, but here we are instead.” Somehow, Wanda doesn’t allow her body to react before her mind can catch up to Natasha’s bewitching confession. Her thighs plead to press together, to distribute pressure against her aching, throbbing clit — just enough to take the edge off at least, but she keeps them still; a feat that’s akin to the strength of a live oak in a storm she presumes. Natasha laid out just enough intimate and vulgar details to bait the impatient mind, a tactical choice to counter Wanda’s commanding reserve against her dominance, but this isn’t a new thing to the brunette who's been beneath the blonde’s thumb for years. The impatient mind, the eager slut — in Natasha’s words, who seeks to only know more before it’s time will just end up even further unsatisfied and left to suffer with nothing but sharp sparks of arousal shooting off from between abandoned thighs. There was once a time when Natasha would gleam with pride whenever Wanda didn’t react to her not-so-subtle luring, but now she only scowls in dramatized annoyance at her wife’s maintained stoic expression.

“Hmm, well that's too bad for you then, isn’t it? Because there are leftovers in the fridge you need to clear before I make anything else.” Wanda’s eyes glimmer with something abhorrently sweet, and Natasha can’t even pretend to be annoyed at the blatant avoidance toward her confession of need and lust that's been pent up in her bone marrow since she’d first set off at six that morning. She wants to reprimand Wanda; remind her that on Friday there’s no room for democracy in the bedroom, their bedroom, but she can’t help but lose herself and subsequently her train of thought when she gets lost in the delicate shade of emerald that almost looks hunter when sunlight hits it just right. There’s no simple way to describe the state of Wanda’s wild and tantalizing stare, but Natasha knows that green does the vibrant collage no justice. She’s all the best hues of an overgrown forest wrapped up in daylight that makes poor men feel rich. There’s no going against her when she’s so set in her ways, and right now, she is.

A quip is still on the tip of Natasha’s tongue though, and the corners of her eyes crinkle with age as she smiles so softly at Wanda even the air shifts to match her tender radiance in that moment. “I have to clear them, huh?” She teases, leaning in closer until her thigh brushes Wanda’s. The blanket feels thicker now, like an unwanted barrier between heaven and hell. Thin fingers decorated with sparkling gold jewelry itch to pull away the fabric, to let soft air wrap around even softer skin and be rewarded with Natasha flush against her, but a reserve must be kept against the tactics being used against her, and Wanda’s an ever triumphant soldier in the war.

Wanda raises a challenging eyebrow at her wife, her lips remaining taut albeit captivating nonetheless with a thick sheen glistening off of them beneath the warm interior lighting. Natasha’s eyes take reprieve from attempting to unmake the armor her wife has so tightly around not only her mind right now, but her pussy as well, to search for the lip product of choice. It’s not a wide variety that Wanda finds herself circulating through, but it far supersedes Natasha’s strict and religious usage of vaseline. It takes only a handful of seconds, probably six, but Natasha’s not counting, to find a tube of something undeniably feminine and fruity on the coffee table beside two uncapped highlighters. The researcher knows the brand, only because of Wanda, but it still feels unfamiliar in her head as she recognizes the scent as one of her favorites within the small collection. Pupils blow wider than they had been before, patience ebbing away into the far back of Natasha’s priorities as she sets her hands on Wanda’s hips and inches the Sokovian closer to her wanting body moments away from trembling with all consuming need. “If your ass is not in that kitchen within the next fifteen seconds, I swear to god, I will have you bent over the island faster then you can even pretend to feel bad about being such a fucking slut when I’ve had a stressful day at work.”

Over the years, the unwritten code of conduct had been fine tuned meticulously and rather extensively. It might as well be burned into the back of Natasha’s eyelids she’s memorized each and every detail of Wanda’s submission so intentionally over the decades they’ve committed all of themselves to one another. Fridays are free use days. That had been long established and very rarely deviated from, but there were layers to that invitation that Natasha searched for dutifully every time. The purple lip mask in particular had come to mean one thing, and one thing alone on Fridays considering Wanda didn’t entirely love the oily residue it left on her skin after a handful of idle minutes. It meant nothing was off the table. No kink, no term, no position, no place. All cards were in Natasha’s hands. That’s where Wanda wants them, but still she pushes back, and still dinner remains at the top of her priorities despite how she can’t keep her body still beneath Natasha’s bruising grip on her hips. And still, somehow Natasha keeps a semblance of her patience to respect that.

“Yeah, well you’re not the only one.” Wanda bites back, but she’s already shifting to untangle her lips and move from the couch, so Natasha doesn’t immediately reprimand her rebuttal. “Billy Harkness tried to make a molotov cocktail in his chem lab and I was the only one who could talk him down, so that was really fun and did not cut into my prep period at all.”

Natasha can’t help but snort, because something so dramatic would be the result of Agatha Harkness’ middle child, a light eyed dark haired boy with a lot of pent up angst and aggression that’s only getting worse as he advances into his teen years. This isn’t the first time Wanda’s come home with a story pertaining to Billy’s budding behavioral issues, but it still brings a smile of exasperation to Natasha’s face as she thinks about the kid she’s seen grow since toddlerhood.

“Oh, my brave girl, huh? Had to deal with a Billy Breakdown all by yourself?” Natasha teases, following Wanda into the kitchen with grabbing motions at her waist. Wanda shrieks the first time icy fingers search to sneak beneath the fabric of her top and pull her backwards, but the second time she bats away the perpetrators hands, feigning annoyance as she quickens her footsteps toward the kitchen where a slew of dishes awaits Natasha’s ultimate decision. “Rio out of the picture again?” Natasha’s voice sobers as she thinks of the connection between Agatha’s on-again-off-again relationship with the boy's mother, and she can tell by Wanda’s sullen demeanor that she’s right on the nose.

“Apparently it’s for work this time.” Wanda sighs, opening the refrigerator without a glance over her shoulder at Natasha. The blonde is only inches behind her, there doesn’t need to be any spoken interaction for Natasha to decide on the largest tupperware on the top shelf, pointing at it with fingers adorned in sparkling silver rings. “She’s filling in at the coroner's office over in Morris County, but Billy’s not… Agatha called me coming home from school.”

Natasha grabs the container from Wanda, nodding toward the cabinets beside the sink. “And what did she say?” She inquired evenly, opening the microwave with only half of her interest dedicated on which buttons she was pressing.

“Evidently when she picked Billy up he flat out refused to get in the car. Told her that Rio left because of her. That kid is…” Wanda falls quiet, stilling beside the sink as she pulls down two of their plainest plates. There are fancier ones in the back, a set of six purchased when they’d closed on this house, but they only come out on the most deserving of occasions, and a rushed Friday night dinner was not that time.

“An eye opener?” Natasha fills in, knowing exactly where Wanda’s head had fallen to as a gleam of something sour tarnishes the glazed gleam in her ever changing eyes.

The brunette huffs dryly, resuming her task of bringing the plates over to Natasha who still stands beside the microwave patiently, watching the tupperware of spaghetti spin around the platform and crackle with heat. “He reminds me so much of Pietro.” Wanda admits softly, allowing her body to sink into Natasha’s side as she joins her beside the microwave, two minutes still counting down on the digital timer above the buttons. “Agatha brought it up actually. She remembered this one fight we had with our foster parents a couple months after the bombings. Pietro stormed out of the house. He was mad about something Baron said. He never did bother with me much, I suppose it was because Piet kept him too busy, but this one day he made a comment about me. I didn’t hear it, but Pietro went absolute ballistic. He made me pack my bag and told me that he had a friend we could crash with, but Agatha was coming home before we made it there and she… honestly I think Piet had a crush on her, so we went back to her place until eventually Baron showed up at school and told us to come back to the house. But… sometimes I can’t help but wonder what could’ve been for him if somebody had known what to do. It feels like I’m watching history repeat itself with Billy and Agatha having the same belief really just… icing on the cake.”

Natasha’s face softens for a moment as she wraps her arm around Wanda’s waist, drawing the slightly taller woman into her side as she yearns to feel every inch of her skin in ways that haven’t even been discovered possible yet. “You never told me that story.” She notes softly, getting the hint that Wanda doesn’t exactly want to discuss this topic anymore, but she’d felt inclined to at the very least get it off her chest just slightly. That’s enough for Natasha. All she wants is to know the things that Wanda deems necessary enough to tell her, and then even more, but she’s decided not to be too pushy tonight. Not with this. Never with this.

“I hadn’t thought about it since it happened.” Wanda says simply, and that's enough for Natasha, because the reality of the matter is that Wanda probably hadn’t thought about it since it happened. There were so many other moments, smaller moments, bigger moments, that encapsulated who Pietro Maximoff was as a person, that one single day in his life was not the defining moment Wanda wanted to dwell on in the face of his death. “Your ass looks great in those pants.” She comments a moment later when Natasha reaches to open the microwave before it can start to beep, steam wafting out in a giant cloud that brings moisture to both of their faces as she takes the tupperware down by the edges and drops it on the glass stovetop.

“You think my ass looks great in anything. Especially your hands. Which is wrong in so many ways.” Natasha snorts, batting Wanda out of the way to reach for a metal serving spoon in the designated ‘big spoons’ drawer. The amount of space in the kitchen was impressive upon purchasing it, but also wildly underwhelming when they’d both vowed to stick to collecting only the essential cooking instruments, essentially meaning, the drawers are barren and housing very specific and niche items that theoretically should all be put together, but then they’d have too many empty cabinets, and the idea of empty drawers when their apartment had once been brimming with things in need of a home sends Wanda into a tizzy at three in the morning Natasha’s learned.

“You’re right. It does.” Wanda smiles brightly, and Natasha can’t even pretend to be surprised when a hand that's significantly smaller than her own reaches out to cup her ass suggestively, fingertips dancing too closely to the center of her thighs for comfort as she continues to fight every nerve in her body against dragging Wanda up the stairs right here and now. “I think I’d even add spectacular to the list of words I’d use.”

“Your fingers get any fucking lower I’ll—” Natasha’s jaw locks when Wanda squeezes her ass again, searching to distinguish if boxers or a thong had been pulled up muscular thighs that morning without permission to do so. She’s walking a thin line, playing with fire that’s been sparked right beside unattended gasoline, but she doesn’t seem to have the self preservation skills to give a dam as she peers back into Natasha’s arms with strong-willed defiance not sourced directly from brattiness, although that’s exactly what Natasha would call this, but rather from the dominant urge raging inside of her that she wills to remain at bay on nights like tonight. Natasha’s in charge, Wanda wants that — but it’s also been a while since they’ve invited anyone into their bed for her to have her way with too.

“You’ll what, huh? Bend me over the island? Your knee? Maybe take away my orgasms for the night? Oh no, Daddy. I’m so scared.” Wanda’s eyes sparkle with interest, with passion and excitement that ebbs the frustration bubbling up in Natasha’s stomach as her front is continuously pushed and prodded against. It’s Wanda's fingers pressing directly against Natasha’s core through her work pants that unravels the Russian, and in a single second Wanda’s back is pressed into the edge of the countertop, her lips caught in a passionate lock that yearns to bruise and blemish glossy skin.

Not always does Natasha's upper lip slot between Wanda’s, there’s variety in the ways she enjoys kissing her wife, especially in the kitchen, but it happens frequently enough, and tonight's no different as the Sokovian’s bottom lip is suckled on with interest. A sound of pleasure not quite a moan, but stronger than a whine climbs up Wanda’s throat as Natasha works to bruise her lip passionately. It doesn’t matter tonight, They have no plans tomorrow, nowhere to be if they don’t want to leave; they can bear whatever marks they wish until Sunday when panic is allowed to set in, but even then, Wanda knows how to conceal all the marks Natasha leaves, and sometimes, she bestows the same kindness onto Natasha’s neck when it's needed.

Natasha backs Wanda up farther into the countertop, her hips rocking upward into Wanda’s until the brunette struggles to balance on her tippy-toes, her hands dropping to the edge of the counter to steady herself desperately. A hot tongue sweeps out across the tender damage done to Wanda’s lower lip, demanding entrance that the younger woman isn’t in any position to deny. The first press of Natasha’s tongue against Wanda’s has her head lulling backwards in all encompassing bliss that tints the world with something dark around the edges. A sound of satisfaction vibrates through the kiss on the blonde’s end, and it weakens the brunette’s knees just as strong hands grab onto soft thighs and lift them up onto the countertop, no longer leaving weight to be distributed onto ten toes painted white.

The counter is cold beneath Wanda’s thighs, and she shivers instinctively when her legs make contact with the marble. The spaghetti is still hot, steaming just beside her left thigh, adding contrast to the sudden cold that adds heat to Natasha’s still bruising kiss. When hands tangle into hair, maybe at the same time, perhaps just seconds off from one another, it’s too much and not enough all at once. Wanda needs more, she needs Natasha, she needs her mouth, and her fingers, and her strap, but she wants to eat dinner first, and Natasha’s committed to dinner now if only because it's her one upper hand against Wanda tonight. She’s not dumb enough to think any punishment will knock her wife down a peg, but she does know that Wanda hates being held against her own demands.

Wanda’s the one who ends the kiss, only because Natasha tugs at her hair and she can’t help but comply with the jerk, craning her head to give entryway to her untouched neck that begs for attention just as desperately as her lips. A trail of love bites marks Wanda’s earlobe down to her collarbone, but only when Natasha works her tongue up the sensitive trail does she react without intention, shuddering so violently her legs lock around Natasha’s waist to keep her body still, and when her hips cant, just slightly enough for her core to catch on the button of Natasha’s pants innocently, unintentionally, the older woman pulls away, pinching the soft thigh beneath her hands harshly and with intent to hurt, before her glare hardens, her reserve coming back heavy and strong.

“Get your ass to that table. I’m not wasting any more time down here with you tonight.” Natasha demands, and Wanda has the brilliance to listen this time as she stares back at her with glazed eyes that aren’t quite ready to obey every command, but willing to listen without argument at the very least. “All I’ve gotta do to get you to listen is pull your hair?” Natasha laughs when Wanda slides off the counter without so much as a whine about the unsatisfied ache between her legs that’s undoubtedly become worse in the last twelve seconds. “Dumb whore loses all her self control when I get my fingers all wrapped up in that pretty mane, huh? Tebe eto nravitsya, dorogaya? (like this, my love)”

It takes Wanda by surprise when a fistful of her hair becomes tangled between Natasha’s fingers as she’s reaching for the serving spoon in the bowl on the stovetop. Her body is pinned to the counters again, this time her belly taking the assault of sharp edges digging into sensitive, overstimulated skin in a clear attempt to distract her from the task at hand, but she allows it for a moment knowingly, if only because she can’t compel her body to move away from this pressure and sharp sensation Natasha’s allowed to spark through all the right places.

“Yes, like that.” Wanda breathes out slowly through her lips, her tongue jutting out to swipe across her bottom lip that doesn’t have the thick taste of gloss surrounding it anymore. It’s swollen, feeling almost laminated beneath the wet muscle, but otherwise left neglected when her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, more to say at the forefront of her brain as Natasha grinds into her ass eagerly. “Just like that.” Her tone hitches when Natasha tugs her head to the side again, lowering her face until her lips make contact with sensitive skin behind pierced ears, teeth digging into flesh until the brunette begins to peel away instinctively. The sharp pinch of pain isn’t soothed, not like it should be. That would be far too easy, too quick. Natasha leaves the ache to throb as she removes all contact from Wanda’s wanting body, a cocky smirk on her chapping lips smothered in remnants of lipgloss.

“Dinner, my love. That’s the rule.” Natasha gleams, evidently far too prideful in herself to give sympathy to Wanda who remains against the counter, her knuckles white, body physically trembling as she tries so hard to regain her bearings. Natasha will give it to her, her unbreakable reserve outlasted a number of moves she’d considered sure fire wins, but when all attention and advances are targeted at one unmoving object, eventually a bullseye happens. Natasha’s just landed straight in the middle of a target she’s shot at a few hundred times. “Do we have any more sourdough bread? We should probably use the last of it before it goes stale.” She hums thoughtfully, and she almost breaks, almost chokes on an audible laugh when Wanda exhales through her mouth with strangled reserve, sounding threateningly close to calling it all and dragging Natasha up the stairs by her belt loops.

“I hate you. So much.” Wanda settles with an even tone, turning away from the stovetop with a plate of spaghetti in her hands that she thinks looks less than appetizing right now. “Yes.” She answers regardless, already setting her path toward the dining room. “It should be in that one.” She nods towards a cabinet beside the sink, unsure of why they’d chosen that specific cabinet to house bread loaves when they’d moved in, but it’s standard practice now, despite Natasha’s many attempts to relocate the purchased loaves into the counter throughout the years. “You can have fun with that by yourself. I’m going to go eat before it’s completely cold.”

“You’re going to fix your attitude as well.” Natasha huffs, patience finally wearing thin enough to be less forgiving toward her wife’s frustration. Wanda knows what game she’s playing, but she can’t seem to find it within herself to care. It’s been so long, too long, and the only way she can think to expel the burning urge in her nerves to take control is by making it as hard for Natasha to take complete control as she can.

“No, you’re going to fix it for me. Before that happens though, I’m going to eat my room temperature pasta in peace.” She retorts, and Natasha exhales through her nose as the brunette treks through the kitchen into the dining room, disappearing from sight only because she chose to sit in one of two chairs pressed far against the back wall. On any other night, Natasha might’ve called for her to change that, but it’s not a battle she wants to fight right now when her clit is throbbing so sharply against the inseam of her pants every time she moves.

“Do you want garlic bread?” She calls out instead, willing her voice to remain even as she slams the loaf of sourdough onto the countertop, frustratedly twisting at the tie around the loose plastic. There’s only four slices left in the bag, so Natasha pulls them all out regardless of Wanda’s answer that's seconds delayed as she swallows a mouthful of pasta. She can’t see the Sokovian, how she’s sitting so loosely on the dining chair with her elbow on the table, but she can picture it clearly in her mind as she pulls out minced garlic and a variety of ingredients she doesn’t even have to think about. Wanda does the cooking most nights, but Natasha’s the better cook. Years ago, before either of them had acquired degrees or truly broken free from their families grip, garlic bread had been the first thing Natasha made Wanda in the kitchen of her shared apartment with Maria Hill at the time. It’s still one of Wanda’s favorite things, even if Natasha’s shown her a world of flavor profiles that far exceed simple garlic bread since then.

Natasha reheats her plate of pasta while she waits for the bread to toast in the oven, gracing Wanda with her presence in the dining room an impressive seven minutes later with two plates balancing on her flat up palms. The sokovians lips curve upward for a single second, admiring the somewhat ridiculous sight of Natasha with a fork between her lips, a half eaten plate of pasta in one hand, and the other hand sporting a plate of four slices of bread, one with a particularly large bite taken out of the crispest corner. It’s a quiet ordeal for a while, the only sound filling the room is the occasional scrapping of silverware against the sauce splattered plates until Natasha’s foot begins to dance up Wanda’s calf, her sock clad foot aimless in its path but intentional in its meaning; its enchanting persuasion.

“Bedroom.” Natasha’s voice is husky, thick with need that cannot be pushed aside any longer. Her sharp eyes, a mixture of deep blue and delicate green, shoot down to Wanda’s plate, one final moment of reassurance that she’s not cutting anything shorter than it should be. She’s not, and even if she were interrupting, Wanda doesn’t have the patience to chain herself to the table any longer. ”Now.”

The fork clatters onto the plate followed by the legs of the chair scraping backwards on the hardwood, something that’s typically prevented by a rug, but they’re still waiting on the shipment of a new one. Natasha grimaces for a moment, and Wanda shudders at the sound that seems to shoot through her nerves in the worst ways possible.

“I need to call them about that delivery.” Natasha mutters and Wanda nods adamantly, ringing her hands together to dispel the goosebumps climbing up her spine. “I want you naked and waiting on your knees on the bed.” She redirects as Wanda climbs the stairs ahead of her, hips swaying just a bit too intensely to be entirely innocent. It’s a single moment of contemplation before Natasha’s hand slaps against the globe of Wanda’s ass, the sound reverberating through the house before it settled, silenced only by the younger woman’s gasp of startled shock and sparked arousal.

“I want the strap. The black one.” Wanda glances back over her shoulder, and it takes only a moment for Natasha to notice how blown her pupils are with lust, her typically enchanting green eyes blown so intensely a scene of midnight darkness twinkles within her stare. Her cheeks are flush, a dangerous shade of pink that Natasha knows only aggravates her more when she’s like this; so incredibly and undeniably pent up.

”Well get your ass upstairs then.” Natasha huffs, out of patience but never amazement for the woman she’d been lucky enough to marry when she was twenty-six. It feels so long ago sometimes, like another life ago even, but Wanda doesn’t look a day older than when they’d first met as undergraduates as the moonlight falls in from outside and washes over her. Time. Natasha’s not sure how it passes the way that it does sometimes.

The master bedroom is the very last door down the hall, illuminated by a light fixture overhead that Wanda’s been meaning to have Natasha replace since their second Christmas in Westview. On either side of the hallway are two offices, their personal offices, and unlike Wanda who keeps the door closed to trap not only the cold air circulating through the additional window unit, but the scent of her wax warmer that contradicts the candles always burning downstairs. Natasha’s door isn’t closed, and the Sokovian sighs in exasperation as she glances inside to see a pile of papers left all out of sorts to the side.

“You told me you cleaned that up last night.” She notes as she shoves her body into the bedroom, wasting not even a single second before she begins to strip out of the clothes she’d only changed into after arriving back from work to begin with. Natasha hums, clearly disinterested in the topic, and continues on toward the closet where they’ve always kept a large collection of their toys. The vibrator lives in Natasha’s nightstand drawer though, that was always a fact, and will probably always be a fact.

It’s a decently discreet box that lives in the far left hand corner of the master walk-in, but it takes no intensive perusing for Natasha to locate the black strap in question and its harness that notably chafes the backs of her thighs. They’re always marks of fiery red worn pridefully the next day, but it doesn’t entirely negate the consequences of passionate exchange with her wife. The black harness slides up her thighs easily, a routine she’s familiar with after years of experience. She can hear Wanda huffing to herself as she gets comfortable at the edge of the bed, the box spring creaking beneath her weight as she shifts for the third time in a minute, but it doesn’t encourage Natasha’s fingers to move any faster as she drags the tips of her fingers through her wetness before securing the strap-on at the base of the harness. She wraps her hand around the shaft like its second nature, her eyes closing for a single moment as she throws her head back and jerks the toy against her clit, fully submerging herself in the experience before its shattered by a high pitched moan, Wanda’s impatience making itself known for the night.

Natasha breathes through her nose tensely, her knuckles twining white as she grips the cock with so much aggravation. The vein in her forehead, on the right side of her face that’s typically hidden beneath the lip of a baseball cap if she’s off the clock, pulses beneath her skin, so in tune with the beat of her heart that she has to remind herself to breathe evenly against it. “If I come out there and your touching my pussy—”

“Stop jerking yourself off and come fuck me then!” Wanda intercepts and Natasha loses every ounce of patience she’d been barely hanging onto all night. Her footsteps are soft as they make muffled noises on the hardwood, her lower body undressed, bearing only the black harness and deeper black strap, but her upper body still sports the same button down she’d sprinted out the door in, her lack of time to entirely undress both a significant encouragement to Wanda who peers over her shoulder in baited anticipation, and an element of power that fuels Natasha just enough to take her wife by the back of the head and press her face into the mattress with little care.

“I’ve had just about enough of this fucking attitude.” Natasha groans, spitting into her palm before she runs her lubricated hand over the toy hanging at attention between her legs. Every pass of her hand as she pays delicate attention to the tip of the strap-on presses the base harsher into her clit, and the sight of Wanda’s wet pussy and spread ass hanging off the edge of the bed plunges her fully into recklessness. “You just want this little pussy fucked full and taken care of, huh? Too much of a slut to care about anybody else before you get what you want, can’t even be nice when this cunts all wet. I don’t even get to take my clothes off before those hands are on my fucking cunt, and I know you didn’t just forget that the only one allowed to touch you on Friday is me.”

Wanda moans cynically when Natasha wrestles for her hand that is pinned between her chest and the mattress, simultaneously thrusting her hips into Wanda’s core with no interest in actually aligning the strap with her weeping entrance. The shock of her hand being ripped out from between her body and the sheets only arches her back further, her face now harder against the mattress as her fingers free of Natasha’s hold grapple with the comforter, balling it up tightly within her fist. “Still so fucking wet.” Natasha mutters in disbelief, taking a single to leave Wanda with nothing but the strap making harsh contact with her clit before she wraps her lips around wet fingers, moaning in relief when tangy arousal bursts across her tongue for the first time. ”God, you taste so fucking good.”

“Enough teasing.” Wanda pants, lifting her head off the bed when it registers in her mind that Natasha’s taken her fingers out of her hair. It’s a desperate attempt to regain some element of control, but she’s silenced almost immediately by the full length of the toy pressing into her entrance with no warning and Natasha shoving her face back into the mattress, a gruff moan falling off of her lips as pulsating walls suck the toy in farther without help.

“You don’t tell me what to do.” Natasha scolds, driving hard, deep thrusts that intend to bruise and apply too much pressure to sensitive areas. Wanda’s a mess beneath her, reduced to whines and moans and desperately wriggling in an attempt to get away despite not being willing to say stop. She doesn’t want this to stop, she’s needed this all day and despite Natasha’s best efforts to take the pleasure only she wants, everything she’s done all night has fallen directly into Wanda’s palm wrapped up in a cute little bow. ”Fucking— Fuck, Wanda!”

“You’re so deep!” Wanda gasps, back arching farther, throwing her ass back into Natasha deliberately trying to take the strap deeper as if the backs of the blonde’s thighs aren’t smacking against the globes of her ass with every desperate thrust.

“Da, detka? YA tak gluboko v tebe, da? Bozhe, ty, blyad', stekayesh' po moim bodram, kak shlyukha. Blyad', Vanda. (Yeah, baby? I’m so deep in you, huh? God, you’re fucking dripping down my thighs like a whore. Fuck, Wanda.)” Natasha groans, russian slipping off of her tongue as she forces her body down against Wanda’s, pinning the taller but smaller woman to the bed. Teeth sink into freckled shoulders, the buttons on Natasha’s cotton dress shirt tickling the notches in Wanda’s spine as she meets each deep trust with a desperate grinding motion of her hips.

Wanda’s hand slaps against Natasha’s hip, her muffled moans becoming clearer as she cranes her head to the side, taking only a second to gasp for breath that’d been previously limited without Natasha’s hand ever touching her throat. “I need… Fuck, I need to ride you.”

“You need to ride me, huh? Need to feel like you’re in control? Alright. You can ride me. But you remember how much I like to see you chasing your high like a dumb little bunny, baby. You’re gonna have to hold it until I say you can cum.” Natasha’s tone is entirely too cheerful, and Wanda whines the only response she can think of to get what she needs right now.

“Okay!” She concedes, cheeks flush, eyes tearful as Natasha settles the change in position with one final thrust that has the brunette’s knees quivering and her upper body dropping into the bed with little strength. What brings her back down into her body is the feeling of Natasha pulling out of her carelessly, the toy with a considerable amount of girth and texture scraping against her walls and sensitive spots that have already been tantalizingly abused before there’s nothing filling her cunt anymore.

Natasha lays down on her back, her hair sprawling out against the pillows. Her fingers take a moment to work the buttons on her top as Wanda moves to straddle her waist, but a single moment of contemplation gives her more fuel to throw at the slowly burning fire in front of her. “Oh no. You want to ride me, that’s fine, but we’re doing it reverse doggy. I want to see that ass as you grind on my cock like a pretty little slut.”

A pitiful whine falls off of Wanda’s lips as she rearranges her position on the bed once more, throwing a thigh over Natasha’s lap once she’d settled enough to ensure her balance throughout the ordeal. The first touch of her fingers on the strap has her gasping, the confrontation of her wetness lathered along the toy and dripping down into the fabric harness a stark confrontation of her need for Natasha and an orgasm to state the arousal she’d been battling obediently all day.

“Go ahead, sink onto me, baby. Fill yourself up again. Use me.” Natasha knows that she’s only further egging Wanda on, but she can’t lie here anymore with her fingers only occupied by the buttons she pries apart to reveal a black sports bra that’s leaving impressive red marks on her ribcage. “There you go. Now ride me. You don’t need a break, you don’t need to get used to it. I know that pussy loves getting stretched out. Ride me, Wanda, before I make you do it how I want you to.” Natasha settles the warning with her hands dropping onto the Sokovian’s hips, guiding her along with a quick grinding pace that Wanda slowly navigates until it’s her own, bouncing on the strap until she’s earned enough leverage to listen to the reverberating echo of skin slapping together harmonized with Natasha’s breathless moans as her clit is grinded against by the base of the strap.

The moonlight only intensifies as minutes pass by, darkness reaching out and attempting to wrap around the women spared only by the bedside lamp left on at all hours of the day. A sliver of yellow-toned light falls upon Wanda’s body as she loses her rhythm in an increase of pleasure, her sloppy thrusts and grinds indicative of only one thing. “Fuck, I’m so close!” She shrieks in a sudden moment, and Natasha chokes on a breathless laugh as her hand reaches up to wrap around the younger woman’s neck; a woman who’d spent the majority of her day around impressionable children who think the world of her. Remembering that only fuels Natasha further. Remembering that she’s the only one who gets this side of Wanda, she’s the only one who knows how dirty she can be if you press the right buttons.

“Yeah? You’re close. Hold it. I’m not close yet, Wanda. Don’t be a damn brat now.” Natasha threatens, fingers wrapping around the base of Wanda’s throat until her palm curves into a c-shape, pressing just enough to get her message across without contributing any to the switches already labored breathing.

“Cum for me. Please. Fuck, Nat. Please, please. I need you to cum for me. Need to cum with you. Fuck, I’m not going to sit here and beg for you if you’re going to be an asshole.” Wanda seethes, her nails digging into Natasha’s thighs that strain with tired muscles already abused from an hours-long workout before she even left the house. A gasp leaves her lips when the hand trails away from her throat, catching in her hair until it's all pulled up into a makeshift ponytail that tugs in all the right places and only some of the wrong, but Wanda knows that’s intentional. She knows it and so does Natasha.

“Gonna call me an asshole, huh? When I’m letting you feel so good? Fuck me how you want? That doesn’t seem very nice.” Natasha reprimands, and Wanda doesn’t realize how good she had it before until hips search to meet her thrusts and suddenly it's all too much at once. Natasha knew it would be. She hadn’t expected anything else. “Come on. Cum for me. Cum with me, Wanda. I’m going to cum, baby. Fuck!”

That’s all it takes for Wanda to plummet off the peak into ecstasy, her nails marking Natasha’s thighs as she struggles to keep any kind of pace set for herself. Natasha’s hands grab onto Wanda’s thighs, taking over the movement of hips and the force of thrusts as she grinds her clit harder into the base, this time with intention. A string of curses leaves her lips until eventually she stills, no longer pumping slow deep thrusts into Wanda’s spasming core to gradually ease her high and subsequent sensitivity.

“God, I really fucking needed that.” She heaves softly, removing herself from Natasha’s lap with a grimace. She’d been prepared for the ache, but it doesn’t get easier to bear anytime she removes herself from Natasha’s body.

“Yeah, I could tell.” Natasha snorts, working the sports bra off of her chest before inviting Wanda to crash against her on the pillows, ready to enjoy just a couple of minutes together just themselves and the quiet. “Thinking about Pietro get too much?” She asks hesitantly, aware that her wife may not want to divulge in such topics after everything that had entailed, but sometimes she does, and sometimes she needs a reminder that Natasha’s always willing to listen.

“No.” Wanda sighs, turning her face farther into Natasha’s chest, the warmth of her skin where the bra had sat for hours somehow comforting and overstimulating, a contrast to the cool albeit clammy feeling of the rest of her body. “I mean, yes. But, I’ve needed that for a while. Something about this school year has really thrown me. I feel like I’m constantly at a point of losing control. I just… I needed this.” She summarizes over a yawn, and Natasha smiles fondly as she dips her head to kiss Wanda’s crown.

“We’ll figure something out. I could talk to Maria about finding another play party.” Natasha says simply, and Wanda hums her disinterest casually, rolling over with a reluctant sigh too soon. “No, no. Not yet. You can pee in a minute, I just want to hold you right now. Let me hold you.”

“Alright. Okay.” Wanda agrees, rolling back into Natasha’s chest before she falters, her thigh pulling away from the place it had been attempting to rest. “But take that damn thing off, would you?” She asks, and Natash laughs but complies, raising her hips and her legs one by one until the harness and strap could be flung onto the floor for tomorrow's agenda.

“I love you. You did so good for me.” Natasha kisses the side of Wanda’s neck, and the brunette sighs approvingly as she melts farther into the blonde. ”So so good.”

Wanda hums contentedly, soft lips leaving a gentle kiss to Natasha’s now naked shoulder, the thick strap of her bra leaving the area free for her to mark how she pleases. “I love you too. But I really need to pee, so either come with me or keep my spot warm.”

“I guess we’re both getting up.” Natasha sighs somewhat dramatically, and Wanda cracks a smile that she’s been hiding all night, her eyes sparking with light again as she shifts out of Natasha’s arms and sets her feet firmly on the floor, rolling out her shoulders when she stands up fully. “You know what, go pee. I’m gonna get us some more water and lock up. Divide and conquer type shit.”

“You want to fuck again already.” Wanda hums, eyes slitting into thin daggers as she analyzes Natasha rolling out of bed, her nipples hardened if only because the air feels ten degrees colder now then it did before.

Natasha blushes, shrugging her shoulders innocently before her reserve breaks. “Yeah, maybe. It’s not my fault you’re hot. Go pee!” She groans, batting her hand in the direction of the bathroom as Wanda laughs freely, her feet carrying her to the bathroom with a lightness and unstableness that reminds Natasha why she’s not following her into the bathroom to begin with. She’ll never be able to deny her attraction to Wanda. Never in a million years.

Tomorrow’s a new day, but for tonight, they rest.

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