Killshot
Wanda gets wet watching Natasha kill a man with her thighs during a mission, and it becomes a problem. Natasha's known about Wanda's obsession for weeks and has been waiting for her to break first.
A/N: So if it helps you visualize, I had this set after Age of Ultron, before Civil War. In my mind, though I know it's not exactly canon in comics (MCU changed it), Wanda is over 18 (early twenties), and Natasha would be late 20's-ish. That's not exact, but it's what I imagined for this. Also, I actually have no clue what language to use for Sokovian (since that is not real). I went with sort of Russian? Don't get on my ass for it, enjoy the smut.
Inspired by Magdalena Bay's song "Killshot"
18+, NSFW oneshot | 7.6k words
ao3
All alone, staring at my phone.
3:47 AM, and Wanda couldn't sleep.
She'd given up an hour ago, lying in the dark of her assigned quarters at the compound with her phone clutched in one hand against her chest, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately not to think about Natasha Romanoff. Which was impossible. Functionally, completely impossible when the woman had somehow invaded every corner of her mind over the past few months and taken up permanent residence there, refusing to leave no matter how many times Wanda told herself this was dangerous and stupid and absolutely could not happen.
The problem was very simple: Natasha Romanoff was going to get her killed.
It wasn’t going to be directly. And it wasn’t because Natasha would hurt her intentionally. Wanda had seen enough by now to know that despite the reputation that preceded her like a shadow, despite the body count that stretched back decades through multiple governments and agencies, despite the cold efficiency with which she moved through the world like violence given form, Natasha was careful with the people she cared about. Protective, even. Wanda had watched her with Clint, with Bruce before he'd left, even with Steve and Tony during their constant bickering. There was gentleness there, buried deep beneath all the training and trauma, but present.
No, Natasha was going to get her killed because Wanda could not fucking focus when she was around, and distraction in their line of work meant death. It was simple, unavoidable math.
The previous day's training session proved it perfectly. Steve had been running them through close-quarters combat drills in the main gym, working on disarm techniques and defensive combinations. Wanda had been doing fine for the first hour, actually managing to execute most of the moves correctly, feeling like maybe she was finally getting the hang of this whole hand-to-hand combat thing that didn't rely solely on her powers.
Then Natasha had walked in.
She'd been late to the session, coming straight from a solo mission that had apparently run long. Still in her tactical gear, black from head to toe, her hair pulled back in a tight braid that was half falling out. There had been blood on her knuckles that she'd wiped away casually with a towel from the bench, not her own blood clearly, and she'd moved onto the mat with that fluid, predatory grace that made Wanda's stomach flip and heat pool between her legs every single time.
"Sorry I'm late," Natasha had said to Steve, not sounding even remotely sorry. "Had to clean up some loose ends."
Steve had just nodded, used to Natasha's vague explanations that everyone understood meant bodies, and integrated her into the drill rotation without comment.
Wanda's entire brain had short-circuited from that moment forward.
She'd watched Natasha run through the disarm sequence that Steve had just spent an hour painstakingly teaching them. Watched her drop into a fighting stance, all coiled power and controlled violence waiting to be unleashed. The way her body moved was hypnotic, almost serpentine in its grace. Economical. Every motion precise and deliberate, nothing wasted, pure efficiency honed over decades of brutal training. She'd taken down the training dummy in maybe three movements total—a leg sweep executed with perfect timing and leverage, controlling the dummy's fall with one hand while her other arm came up for what would have been a devastating elbow strike to the throat that would absolutely have crushed a real person's windpipe and killed them in seconds.
It was brutal. Efficient. Beautiful in the way a knife blade catching light is beautiful. Dangerous and sharp and utterly mesmerizing.
And then Natasha had straightened up, barely breathing hard, and turned those sharp green eyes directly on Wanda. "Your turn, Maximoff. Reading minds won’t do all the work for you.”
Wanda had completely blanked. Just absolutely, entirely forgotten everything Steve had taught them over the past hour. She'd moved forward on autopilot, attempted something that was supposed to be a strike combination but came out completely wrong, fumbled the leg sweep so badly she'd nearly twisted her own ankle, and ended up flat on her ass on the mat while everyone watched.
Natasha had stood there with one eyebrow raised and the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. That knowing smirk that said she understood exactly what the problem was and was enjoying watching Wanda struggle.
"Again," Natasha had said, extending a hand to help Wanda up.
When their skin made contact—Natasha's hand warm and calloused and strong wrapping around Wanda's—Wanda's magic had flickered involuntarily. Red energy crackled around her fingers in a way she couldn't control or suppress, responding to the sudden sharp spike of want that had shot through her system at the simple touch.
Natasha had noticed. Of course she'd noticed. Those eyes missed absolutely nothing. Her gaze had dropped to Wanda's hand where the red energy was dancing and crackling, then back up to Wanda's face, and something had shifted in her expression. Something considering. Calculating. Knowing.
Then she'd released Wanda's hand and stepped back. "You're distracted," she'd said, loud enough for Steve to hear across the gym. "That's dangerous. You need to find a way to focus or you're going to get hurt during a real fight." A deliberate pause, her eyes locked on Wanda's. "Or worse."
The "or worse" had hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning that Wanda was absolutely certain only she had caught.
Now, lying in bed hours later in the dark silence of her room, Wanda couldn't stop replaying that moment. The way Natasha had looked at her. The way her magic had responded without permission or conscious thought. The way everyone in the gym had definitely noticed something was off even if they couldn't pinpoint exactly what.
This was bad. Genuinely, seriously bad in ways that went beyond just embarrassing.
Because Wanda was supposed to be proving herself here. She was the newest Avenger, still living down her involvement in the whole Ultron disaster even though she'd switched sides and helped stop him in the end. Still learning to control her powers properly, still figuring out their full extent and limitations, still trying to earn her place among people who'd been doing this for years, some of them for decades.
She needed to be focused and professional and dedicated to becoming better. She needed to show them she belonged here, that she wasn't a liability, that she could be trusted in the field and wouldn't get someone killed because she was too distracted.
She did not need to be lying awake at night thinking about the way Natasha Romanoff moved when she killed people.
But that's exactly what she'd been doing for weeks now. Months, if she was being honest with herself. Obsessing over every interaction, cataloging every moment, building this thing in her mind that was becoming impossible to ignore or suppress.
Something chronic, bit demonic, I've been on the late shift.
The ache in her chest felt permanent now, this dark consuming thing that had taken root and refused to let go no matter how hard she tried to be rational about it.
She thought about Natasha constantly. The way she moved during training sessions, all controlled power and lethal grace. The way she fought on missions, efficient and brutal and absolutely terrifying in the best possible way. The casual way she discussed violence and death, like ending a life was just another item on a to-do list that needed checking off before lunch.
On that mission in Eastern Europe—too close to Sokovia, or….formerly Sokovia, for Wanda's comfort but she'd gone anyway because the team needed her—the intel had been bad, more guards than expected, and Wanda had found herself pinned down in a hallway with three hostiles advancing on her position. She'd been about to use her powers when Natasha had appeared out of nowhere like a ghost.
Wanda had watched her move through those guards like water flowing around obstacles. Like inevitability itself. Like death given form and purpose.
The first one she'd dropped with her batons, those extendable weapons appearing in her hands so fast Wanda had barely tracked the movement. Two hits executed with surgical precision—one to the knee that had buckled the guard's leg and brought him down to her level, one to the temple that had dropped him instantly, unconscious before his body finished hitting the ground.
The second guard had tried to grab her from behind, thinking size and strength would matter against someone Natasha's size. Natasha had dropped low, used his own momentum and weight against him with perfect leverage, and somehow ended up behind him with her arm wrapped around his throat in a textbook blood choke. Wanda had watched the precise application of pressure, had seen the way Natasha's bicep flexed as she cut off blood flow to his brain with controlled force. Seven seconds of steady pressure and he'd gone completely limp in her arms. She'd lowered him to the ground almost gently before moving on to the next threat.
The third guard had been the one that haunted Wanda's dreams and occupied her thoughts during sleepless nights.
He'd been significantly bigger than Natasha, taller by almost a foot, probably outweighed her by seventy or eighty pounds of muscle at least. He'd charged at her like that would matter, like physical size meant anything when you were facing the Black Widow.
Natasha had jumped without hesitation or fear. Just launched herself at him with absolute confidence, using his own forward momentum against him, and somehow ended up on his shoulders with her powerful thighs locked around his neck like a vice. Wanda had watched those legs flex, had seen all that controlled strength and devastating pressure concentrated in her thigh muscles, and then Natasha had twisted her entire body with brutal efficiency.
The crack of his vertebrae had been audible even over the blaring alarm klaxons and distant gunfire.
His body had dropped like a puppet with all its strings cut simultaneously, completely lifeless before it hit the floor, and Natasha had landed in a perfect crouch beside him, breathing barely elevated, like killing a man with her thighs was just another Tuesday afternoon for her. Which, Wanda supposed with a mixture of horror and arousal, it probably was.
Then Natasha had looked up, found Wanda frozen in the hallway just staring at her with wide eyes, and said calmly, "You good? We need to move, there'll be more coming."
Wanda had nodded mutely, completely unable to form words or coherent thoughts, because she'd just watched Natasha kill a man with her thighs and her immediate visceral physical response had been to get wet. Right there in the middle of an active firefight with alarms blaring and gunfire echoing through the facility and enemies potentially around every corner, arousal had spiked through Wanda's system so sharply and suddenly that she'd actually gasped out loud. Her magic had flared bright scarlet, visible even in the dim emergency lighting, and she'd had to actively suppress it with conscious effort before someone noticed the red glow and started asking questions she absolutely could not answer.
That should have disturbed her, Wanda thought now as she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. It should have made her question what was fundamentally wrong with her that watching someone commit brutal, efficient violence made her aroused instead of horrified.
Instead, she'd spent the rest of that mission completely unable to stop staring at Natasha's thighs. Ogling, it felt like, the way that black catsuit hugged the defined muscle and powerful curves. Memorizing the way she moved with all that controlled power that could break bones and end lives and apparently make Wanda's brain completely stop functioning like a rational human being.
When they'd finally gotten back to the quinjet after mission completion, Wanda had locked herself in the tiny bathroom and touched herself with trembling hands, biting down hard on her fist to stay quiet while she came thinking about Natasha's legs wrapped around her neck instead of that guard's, wondering what it would feel like to have all that strength and control directed at her in entirely different ways.
She'd felt guilty about it afterward. For maybe five minutes. Then she'd done it again the next night when the memory refused to fade. And the night after that. And basically every night since then because apparently the arousal she felt watching Natasha be lethal was something she couldn't shake.
Now, lying in bed approaching 4 AM with sleep impossible and her body wound tight with unfulfilled need, Wanda could feel that familiar ache building between her legs again. The one that had become constant over the past few weeks, only temporarily satisfied by her own hand before building right back up again within hours, sometimes less.
She needed to stop this. She needed to get over this completely inappropriate attraction to her teammate before it became an actual problem that affected her performance or got someone hurt. Before someone on the team noticed and started asking uncomfortable questions. Before she did something catastrophically stupid that she couldn't take back.
But her body had other ideas, and the insistent throb between her legs was becoming impossible to ignore.
She could get up. She could take a cold shower. Go for a run through the compound grounds, work off the restless energy that way and exhaust herself enough to finally sleep.
Instead, Wanda let her hand slide down her body, slipping under the waistband of her sleep shorts and past the elastic of her underwear. Her fingers found her clit already slick and swollen and sensitive, and she bit down hard on her lip to suppress the sound that wanted to escape as she started circling it with practiced, familiar pressure.
Her other hand stayed clutched around her phone against her chest, the screen dark but somehow still a tether to reality even as she let herself sink into the fantasy.
Images flooded her mind immediately, unwanted and absolutely impossible to stop or control.
Natasha during training a couple weeks back, demonstrating knife techniques to a group of visiting SHIELD agents. The way she'd moved with the blade like it was a natural extension of her own body—strike, parry, reverse grip with a fluid spin, slash across where the throat would be on a real opponent. The casual precision of every movement. The way she'd held the training knife up afterward, examining the dulled edge like she was checking for imperfections or damage, and said in that matter-of-fact tone, "Carotid artery here. Slice across deep enough and they bleed out in about thirty seconds, faster if you manage to hit the jugular at the same time."
The clinical, detached way she'd discussed ending human life. Like she'd done it countless times before, which she obviously had. The training knife might have been blunt but Wanda had no doubt Natasha carried real ones, had used them, knew exactly how much pressure it took to slice through skin and muscle and artery.
Wanda's breathing picked up as her fingers moved faster against her clit, her hips starting to roll up into her own touch seeking more friction and pressure. She spread her legs wider under the sheets, her free hand pressing her phone harder against her chest as she worked herself steadily toward release.
Another image rose unbidden in her mind—Natasha on the training mats, demonstrating submission holds and chokes to those same SHIELD trainees. The way she'd gotten one of them in a rear naked choke, her arm wrapped around his throat with textbook perfect form, her bicep flexing as she applied carefully calibrated pressure. "Three seconds of proper pressure and they start to panic," she'd explained calmly while the trainee had tapped frantically against her forearm with increasing desperation. "Seven seconds and they lose consciousness. Eleven seconds and you start causing permanent brain damage. Fifteen to twenty seconds of sustained pressure and you've killed them."
She'd released the trainee and he'd dropped to his knees on the mat gasping and coughing, trying to suck air back into his lungs, while Natasha had stood over him looking completely unaffected by what she'd just done. Like choking someone unconscious was nothing. Routine.
Wanda had been forced to sit down on the bench along the wall, her legs suddenly weak and unsteady, arousal and adrenaline making her genuinely dizzy and lightheaded.
Her fingers moved faster now, more insistent, two of them sliding lower to press inside herself while her thumb maintained pressure on her clit. She was so wet already, had been wet since lying down hours ago unable to sleep, and the obscene sound of her fingers moving in her own arousal should have embarrassed her but instead just made her hotter.
She added another finger, stretching herself, imagining it was Natasha's hand instead of her own. Natasha's strong, capable, deadly hands that knew exactly how to hurt people, how to kill them, now focused entirely on making Wanda feel good instead.
Natasha during that mission in Prague, moving through a room of four guards like she was performing a dance she'd rehearsed a thousand times. The crack of ribs breaking under precise baton strikes delivered with devastating force. The efficiency with which she'd stepped over the bodies she'd created, like they were just obstacles in her path and nothing more, already forgotten as she moved toward the next objective.
The way she'd looked after the fight was over—not even breathing hard despite the exertion, blood on her knuckles that wasn't hers, that cold and focused look in her eyes that meant the Black Widow was in full control and Natasha Romanoff had taken a temporary backseat to let the weapon do its work.
God, why was that so attractive? What was fundamentally wrong with Wanda that seeing Natasha covered in someone else's blood, that witnessing her be brutal and efficient and lethal, made her want to drop to her knees?
Sin and tonic, stupid promise, something like a death wish.
Wanda's hips were rolling steadily now, grinding against her own hand with increasing desperation, her fingers working inside herself while her thumb pressed hard circles against her clit. She was gasping softly into the darkness of her room, trying to stay quiet but losing the ability to care as much as she should about the noise she was making.
Her free hand abandoned her phone, sliding up under her tank top to palm her own breast roughly, pinching her nipple the way she imagined Natasha would.
She was so close now, her thighs starting to tremble, her back beginning to arch off the mattress. Just a little more, just a little bit more pressure—
And the image that finally pushed her over the edge was the one that always did, the one that had been burned into her brain since that mission—
Natasha's powerful thighs wrapped tight around that HYDRA operative's neck, the way those defined muscles had flexed with controlled strength and devastating pressure. The precise, efficient twist of her entire body, so casual and easy like she'd done it a hundred times before. The sickening crack of vertebrae. The immediate complete stillness of the body as it fell. The way Natasha had landed in that perfect crouch afterward, completely unaffected and unbothered, beautiful and terrifying and absolutely lethal.
Wanda came hard, her free hand flying up to press desperately over her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound that wanted to escape. Her magic exploded outward involuntarily in response to the intense pleasure, red energy crackling wildly through the air of her room and rattling everything on her nightstand with violent force. Her water glass tipped over and rolled off the edge, hitting the floor with a muted thud that sounded impossibly loud in the quiet. The lamp on her desk flickered erratically, the bulb buzzing and threatening to blow. The picture frame on the wall vibrated against the plaster hard enough that she could hear it clattering, the sound sharp in the silence.
Her whole body trembled and shook through the intense aftershocks, her thighs clenching tight around her own hand, her back arched completely off the mattress, her fingers still moving inside herself to draw out every last bit of pleasure. She had to bite down hard on her palm to keep from crying out Natasha's name into the darkness, from letting that desperate sound escape and potentially be heard through the walls.
When she could finally think again through the haze of satisfaction, she was gasping for air and trembling all over, covered in a thin sheen of sweat that made her sleep clothes stick uncomfortably to her skin. Her sleep shorts were damp with her release, her underwear completely soaked and probably unwearable at this point.
She felt temporarily satisfied and wrung out but somehow even more desperately wound up than before, because this wasn't enough. Touching herself while thinking about Natasha wasn't even close to enough, would never be enough, was just a pale shadow of what she actually wanted.
If I fall in every time, wicked love will leave me blind.
Her phone buzzed against the mattress where she'd dropped it.
Wanda jumped violently at the sudden vibration, her heart rate spiking from already elevated to genuinely concerning levels, and scrambled to find it in the tangled sheets with fingers that were still trembling slightly and slick from being inside herself.
One new message. From Natasha.
Wanda's entire body went cold and then hot and then cold again in rapid succession as she opened it with shaking hands, not even bothering to wipe her fingers clean first.
Natasha: I know you're awake.
Wanda stared at the message for several long seconds, her post-orgasm haze evaporating instantly, panic starting to claw up her throat and make breathing difficult. How did Natasha know she was awake at nearly 4 AM? Was she monitoring security feeds? Did she have motion sensors in the hallways? Some kind of enhanced hearing that—
Another message popped up before Wanda could spiral completely into paranoid speculation.
Natasha: I can hear you from down the hall. Walls are thinner than you think.
Oh god.
Wanda's face burned with mortification so intense it was almost painful, and she seriously considered just never leaving her room again for the rest of her natural life. Maybe she could fake her own death somehow and move to a different country where Natasha would never have to look at her again and she could die of embarrassment in private.
Her phone buzzed again in her trembling hands.
Natasha: Training room. Now.
Wanda stared at that message for a long time, trying desperately to decode what it meant through her panic. Was Natasha angry with her? Was this her way of addressing what she'd heard without directly confronting it? Was she going to kill Wanda quietly in the training room where no one would find the body until morning?
Another buzz, more insistent this time.
Natasha: That wasn't a suggestion. Move.
And that commanding tone, that absolute authority in just those few words, went straight between Wanda's legs even though she'd literally just orgasmed less than five minutes ago and her body should not be physically capable of responding again this quickly. And it was ridiculous, considering it was a text message and not actually Natasha’s voice.
This was a terrible idea. Being alone with Natasha right now when Wanda's self-control was already completely shredded and her body was still trembling from climax seemed like the kind of catastrophically bad decision that got people killed in horror movies.
Wanda was already getting out of bed anyway, her body moving on autopilot while her brain screamed protests. She pulled on somewhat clean workout clothes with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, not bothering to change her ruined underwear because what was even the point at this stage.
She found her phone tangled in the sheets, shoved it in her pocket, and headed for the door on legs that felt unsteady and weak.
Whatever was about to happen in that training room, there was no coming back from it. She could feel it in her bones, in the way her magic was flickering red around her fingers without conscious thought or permission. This was the cliff edge she'd been walking toward for weeks and months, and she was about to step right off it into empty air.
If I wanna stay alive, you should never cross my mind.
(-)
The training room was completely dark when Wanda arrived, just the dim emergency lighting strips near the floor casting everything in shadow and making the space feel larger and more ominous than it did during the day. She paused in the doorway, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, trying to locate Natasha somewhere in the gloom.
"Come in," Natasha's voice came from somewhere in the darkness near the center mats, low and controlled. "Close the door behind you."
Wanda obeyed on autopilot, her body responding to the command before her brain fully processed it. She stepped inside and let the heavy door click shut behind her, sealing them in together. The lock engaged automatically with a quiet snick that sounded impossibly loud in the thick silence.
"Lights," Natasha said.
The overhead fluorescents flickered on, bright and harsh after the darkness, making Wanda squint and blink against the sudden glare.
When her eyes finally adjusted, her breath caught audibly in her throat.
Natasha was standing in the exact center of the mat, dressed entirely in black—fitted workout pants that hugged every line and curve of her legs and a black tank top that showed her defined arms and shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun with several red strands escaping to frame her face. She looked like she'd just woken up, which somehow made her appear even more dangerous.
She looked like death. Controlled, beautiful, purposeful death.
"You look exhausted," Natasha observed, her sharp green eyes tracking slowly over Wanda in a way that made her want to squirm under the scrutiny. "How long have you been having trouble sleeping?"
"A while," Wanda managed to get out, staying near the door because moving closer to Natasha seemed genuinely dangerous to her continued survival.
"How long is a while exactly?"
"Few weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know, I haven't been keeping careful track."
"Nightmares?" Natasha asked, but something in her tone suggested she already knew the answer, was just testing to see if Wanda would lie to her.
"Something like that," Wanda hedged, unable to meet Natasha's eyes.
"Liar."
The single word hung heavy in the air between them, weighted with knowledge and accusation and something darker that Wanda couldn't quite identify.
Natasha moved then, crossing the mat toward her with that fluid, predatory grace that made Wanda's stomach flip and her pulse spike. She moved like a big cat stalking prey. Like something designed by nature to hunt and kill efficiently. And Wanda was suddenly hyperaware that she was alone in this room with someone who could end her life in seconds.
"You're not having nightmares," Natasha said, stopping just inside Wanda's personal space, close enough that Wanda could smell her shampoo and feel the heat radiating from her body. "You're having the opposite. Want to tell me about them?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"Yes you do." Natasha's head tilted slightly to one side, studying her with those eyes that saw and cataloged everything. "You've been having dreams about me. Very specific dreams. Very detailed ones based on what I just heard through the walls."
Wanda's magic flared involuntarily around her fingers, red energy crackling and dancing in response to her spiking emotions.
"There it is," Natasha said softly, her gaze dropping to watch the scarlet energy with clear interest. "Your control slips every single time I get close to you. Every time I'm in your space. I've been watching it happen for weeks." Her eyes came back up to lock with Wanda's. "You've been watching me too. Very closely. Very... intensely."
"I don't—I haven't—"
"Stop lying to me, Wanda." Natasha moved even closer, Wanda's back hitting the door behind her with a soft thud. She was trapped now, pinned between the solid door and Natasha's body with nowhere to go. "I see everything. That's what I was trained to do from the time I was a child. Notice details other people miss. Read micro-expressions and body language. Track behavioral patterns and changes." Another small step that brought her within touching distance. "And I've been tracking yours very carefully."
"What did you notice?" Wanda's voice came out rough and strained, barely more than a whisper.
"That you stare at me during training sessions when you think I'm not looking. That your breathing changes in a very specific way when I get close to you. That your pupils dilate when you watch me fight or demonstrate techniques." Natasha's hand came up, pressing flat against the door right beside Wanda's head, effectively boxing her in with her arm—that toned, strong arm. "That your magic responds to my presence in ways it doesn't respond to anyone else on the team. That you get wet watching me hurt people."
Wanda couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The air felt too thick and hot in her lungs.
"On that mission," Natasha continued, her voice dropping even lower and more intimate, "you watched me kill a man with my thighs. And immediately afterward, you locked yourself in the quinjet bathroom for fifteen minutes. Want to tell me what you were doing in there? Or should I just tell you what I know you were doing?"
Wanda's face burned with mortification and arousal in equal measure, heat flooding through her entire body. "How did you—"
"I told you. I notice everything." Natasha leaned in closer, her lips almost but not quite brushing against Wanda's ear. Wanda could feel every word against her skin. "I know you touched yourself thinking about me. And I know what you've been doing every single night since then when you're alone in your bed. I hear you. The walls in this compound are thinner than you think, and my hearing is better than most people's. I hear you touching yourself. Hear you trying to stay quiet and failing. Hear how wet you are, hear your fingers working inside that desperate little cunt, hear the way you gasp when you cum thinking about me."
Wanda made a choked sound somewhere between mortification and desperate want, unable to form actual words.
"You know what I think about?" Natasha asked, her voice dark honey, dangerous and hypnotic. "When I'm lying in my bed and I hear you through the walls getting yourself off?"
Wanda shook her head mutely, not trusting her voice to work properly.
"I think about what specific scenario you're imagining that makes you that desperate. What you're picturing me doing to you with these hands." Natasha's hand slid down from the door to Wanda's throat, wrapping around it loosely, not squeezing but just resting there in a clear reminder of what she was capable of doing. "I think about how you look at me after missions when there's blood on my hands. I think about how I can practically smell how wet you get when you see me be lethal."
"That's not—I don't—" Wanda tried to protest weakly but it came out entirely unconvincing even to her own ears.
"You do," Natasha stated with absolute certainty. "You're attracted to how dangerous I am.You see me kill and you get soaking wet from it like a good little slut who can't help herself."
Stolen nectar, misadventure, something like a death kiss.
Wanda's breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps now, her chest heaving with the effort of getting air into her lungs.
"It’s fucked up," Wanda managed to gasp out, needing to acknowledge it, to say it out loud and admit what she was.
"Yes," Natasha agreed easily, no judgment or condemnation in her tone. "It is. But that doesn't make it any less true. Doesn't make you any less wet right now thinking about all the ways I could hurt you." Her hand tightened slightly on Wanda's throat, applying just enough pressure to make breathing require conscious effort and thought. "Does it scare you? Being attracted to something that could kill you so easily?"
"Da," Wanda admitted breathlessly, her Sokovian accent thick and heavy now, slipping through her carefully practiced English without permission.
"Good. It should scare you." Natasha tightened her grip more, actually restricting Wanda's airflow now, and Wanda's vision started to blur slightly at the edges as oxygen became harder to pull in. "I could kill you right this second. Snap your neck before you could even think about raising a hand to use your magic against me. I know seventeen different ways to end your life with just my bare hands and nothing else." She held the pressure steady for several long seconds, letting Wanda truly feel it, letting her understand exactly how much control Natasha had in this moment and how little power Wanda actually possessed, before finally releasing enough to let air flow again. "Does knowing that scare you?"
Wanda nodded as much as she could manage with Natasha's hand still wrapped around her throat.
"Does it turn you on?"
Another nod, smaller this time, more ashamed and embarrassed by the admission.
"Good girl," Natasha said, and the praise sent a sharp spike of heat straight between Wanda's legs, made her magic flare brighter and more visible. "You're honest when you can't hide behind words and clever deflection." She released Wanda's throat completely and stepped back slightly, reaching for something. "On the mat. Right now."
Wanda's legs moved before her brain fully processed the command or decided whether to obey, carrying her across the space to the center of the training mat on unsteady feet.
Natasha followed slowly, and Wanda's eyes widened when she saw what Natasha had pulled from the holder strapped to her thigh—a combat knife, the blade dark and wickedly sharp, clearly real and not a training weapon.
"This," Natasha said, holding up the knife so the fluorescent lights caught the edge, "is what I was going to use on my mission earlier. Before I decided to just use my hands instead." She turned the blade slowly, letting Wanda see it from every angle. "Do you know what I could do with this?"
Wanda swallowed hard, unable to look away from the weapon. "Yes."
"Tell me." Natasha moved closer, circling her slowly like a predator. "Tell me what you think I could do with this knife."
"Kill me," Wanda breathed. "Cut my throat. Stab me. Make me bleed."
"Very good." Natasha stopped directly behind her, so close Wanda could feel her breath on the back of her neck. "But I'm not going to do any of those things. Do you know why?"
"Why?"
"Because you're mine now," Natasha said simply, bringing the flat of the blade up to rest against Wanda's throat. The metal was cold against her overheated skin. "And I don't destroy what belongs to me. But I do like watching you shake when you remember how dangerous I am."
Wanda was trembling, her whole body taut with tension and arousal and fear all mixed together until she couldn't tell them apart.
"Do you trust me?" Natasha asked, the blade still resting against Wanda's throat.
"I don't know," Wanda admitted with complete honesty.
"Smart answer." Natasha dragged the blade down slowly—cold metal sliding over skin—down her throat, over her collarbone, between her breasts. "You shouldn't trust me completely. I'm dangerous in ways you can't fully comprehend yet. But I'm not going to hurt you. Not unless you ask me to."
"What if I ask?" The words escaped before Wanda could stop them.
Something shifted in Natasha's expression.
"Then we'd have a very interesting time," Natasha said.
She moved faster than Wanda could track, using the knife to slice through Wanda's tank top in one clean motion, the fabric falling away in pieces. Then her sports bra, the blade cutting through the band with precision that spoke of decades of practice. The ruined clothes dropped to the mat.
Wanda gasped, suddenly topless, and Natasha tossed the knife aside carelessly before sweeping Wanda's legs out from under her.
Wanda hit the mat hard, air knocked from her lungs, and before she could recover Natasha was on top of her. Straddling her hips, hands pinning Wanda's wrists to the mat with iron grip, her full weight settling against Wanda's body.
"Fight back," Natasha commanded. "Use your magic. Show me you're not helpless."
Wanda didn't hesitate. Red energy flared bright and powerful, and she reversed their positions in one surge—Natasha on her back, Wanda straddling her hips, breathing hard.
For a moment they just stared at each other, both breathing hard, the air crackling with tension and magic and months of want.
Then Wanda made a decision.
She leaned down and kissed Natasha hard.
Desperate and hungry, months of restraint snapping. All teeth and tongue and barely controlled aggression. Natasha responded immediately, kissed back just as hard, her hands gripping Wanda's hips with bruising force, pulling her down harder, a low sound of approval rumbling in her chest.
The kiss was demanding and perfect. Wanda poured everything into it—all the want, all the frustration, all the need. Natasha took it all and gave it back just as intensely.
Natasha let it go on for maybe thirty seconds before she moved.
Flipped them with brutal efficiency. Suddenly Natasha was on top again, pinning Wanda with her full weight, one hand wrapped around both of Wanda's wrists holding them above her head.
"Nice try," Natasha said against her mouth, smiling. "But I'm in charge here."
"You knew," Wanda gasped. "You knew the whole time—"
"Of course I knew. You're not subtle, sweetheart." Natasha's free hand slid up Wanda's side. "The staring. How you react when I'm close. How your magic, or energy, or whatever the fuck it is responds to me." Her hand moved to Wanda's breast, palming it roughly, thumb finding her nipple. "I've been waiting to see how long you'd last before you broke."
"You could have said something—" Wanda arched into the touch.
"I wanted to see you break first. Wanted to watch you suffer." Natasha's teeth found her neck, biting down hard enough to mark. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're desperate."
Natasha's hand moved lower, and in one motion she yanked down Wanda's workout pants and underwear together, tossing them aside.
Completely naked while Natasha was fully dressed. The power dynamic sent fresh heat between Wanda's legs.
"Spread your legs," Natasha commanded. "Let me see you."
Wanda obeyed, face burning as she spread her thighs wide, completely exposing herself.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Natasha breathed. Her fingers slid through Wanda's arousal, and the obscene wet sound made Wanda want to die. "You're fucking soaked. Absolutely dripping. Look at this."
She brought her fingers up into the light, visibly glistening.
"This all from me?" Natasha asked, deliberately licking them clean while maintaining eye contact. "From me being rough with you? From thinking about all the ways I could hurt you?"
"Da," Wanda gasped. "Yes—all of it—"
"From watching me kill people," Natasha continued, her hand returning between Wanda's legs. "From being a desperate little slut who gets wet thinking about how dangerous I am. Say it."
"I'm a slut for you," Wanda's voice broke. "I get wet watching you kill—I want you—molim—"
"There's my good girl," Natasha said with dark satisfaction, and finally her fingers pressed inside. She started with two, filling Wanda suddenly.
Wanda cried out, back arching.
"So fucking tight," Natasha observed, starting to move with deliberate thrusts. "So wet and desperate and needy. You've been thinking about this for months, haven't you? About my fingers inside you. About me making you fall apart."
"Yes—god yes—please—"
Natasha worked her ruthlessly, building her up with focused attention that came from decades of reading people. Her thumb found Wanda's clit while her fingers maintained their rhythm.
Wanda was getting close fast, wound so tight from touching herself earlier and from months of want.
"Not yet," Natasha said, reading her perfectly. Her fingers slowed. "You don't cum until I say."
"Please—"
"There it is. I knew you'd beg." Natasha looked satisfied. "But no. Not yet. You're going to wait."
She worked Wanda with devastating precision, bringing her to the edge and backing off. Over and over, keeping her suspended in that desperate state. Until Wanda was sobbing with frustration.
"Molim te," Wanda gasped desperately, control over language gone. "Ne mogu više—I can't—please—"
"English," Natasha commanded. "Come on, Maximoff, we’ve been working on that."
"Please," Wanda forced out through tears. "Please, I need to cum, I can't take anymore, please let me—"
"I want to taste you first." Natasha pulled her fingers out, and Wanda made a desperate sound. "Want to know what you taste like when you fall apart for me."
She moved between Wanda's thighs with clear intent.
For a moment she just looked, breath hot against oversensitive skin.
"Fucking perfect," Natasha murmured. "So wet and swollen. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
Oh God, can you make my heart stop? Hit me with your kill shot, baby.
The flat of Natasha's tongue dragged through her folds, tasting thoroughly, and Wanda screamed.
"Stay still," Natasha commanded, but Wanda couldn't. Her hips moved on their own.
Natasha's hands gripped Wanda's thighs hard enough to bruise and pinned her down.
"I said stay still. Let me work."
Her tongue returned, moving with deadly precision. Finding every sensitive spot, cataloging what made Wanda gasp versus moan. She worked Wanda's clit with focused attention, circling and flicking and occasionally sucking in ways that made Wanda see stars.
"Fuck—Natasha—bože—" Wanda babbled incoherently, her hands in Natasha's hair, gripping desperately.
Natasha hummed against her, the vibration traveling through her. Then added fingers again, three this time, stretching her, filling her while her tongue maintained devastating attention.
"Please," Wanda begged. "Please, I can't—I'm going to—"
"Cum for me," Natasha finally said. "Right now. Let me taste it."
Wanda came so violently her magic exploded outward, shattering every overhead light. Glass rained down. Equipment flew across the room. The building shook.
Her body seized, back arching despite Natasha's hands holding her down. Her hands pulled at Natasha's hair. Her thighs clamped around Natasha's head, cutting off air, but Natasha kept working her through it until Wanda collapsed gasping.
When Natasha crawled back up, her face was wet and she looked satisfied.
"Fuck," Natasha said. "That was even better than I imagined. You taste incredible."
Wanda could only stare, incapable of words.
"That was one," Natasha continued. "But we're not done."
"I can't—" Wanda's voice was wrecked. "I can't feel my legs."
"You can. And you will." Natasha's hand slid between her legs again. "Because I'm not finished with you."
She worked Wanda gently this time, building her back up despite the oversensitivity. And impossibly, Wanda felt herself responding.
"That's it," Natasha encouraged. "Your body knows what it needs."
Her fingers pressed inside again, moving slowly while her thumb circled Wanda's clit.
"I'm going to make you cum again. And then a third time. I want to completely ruin you."
"Natasha—ne mogu—" But Wanda's hips were rolling up to meet her movements.
"You can. Stop thinking. Just feel."
Wanda's second orgasm rolled through her differently. It was less explosive but deeper, leaving her gasping. Her magic flared, cracking mirrors on the wall.
"That's two," Natasha said with satisfaction.
She pulled out and sat up, stripping off her own clothes finally. Tank top, sports bra, pants, underwear—all discarded until she was naked too.
Beautiful. All lean muscle and pale skin and scars.
"Sit up," Natasha commanded.
Wanda managed to push herself upright, and Natasha pulled her into her lap, positioning her straddling one powerful thigh.
"You're going to ride my thigh. Make a mess of me."
Natasha's hands gripped Wanda's hips, guiding her, pulling her down harder and starting a rhythm.
Wanda rolled her hips experimentally, gasping at her clit dragging against Natasha's skin. Perfect friction.
"That's it. Fuck yourself on my thigh like the desperate slut you are."
Wanda moved with more confidence, grinding down while Natasha controlled the pace. It was filthy and overwhelming and she couldn't look away from Natasha's face.
"You're so beautiful," Natasha said, hand sliding up to palm her breast roughly. "Falling apart on me. Completely mine."
"Yours," Wanda agreed. "Tvoja. Yours."
"Say it again."
"Yours—I'm yours—tvoja sam—" Wanda was gasping, movements frantic.
"Cum for me," Natasha commanded. "Right now."
Wanda came with a sob, less intense but deeper, and collapsed forward against Natasha's chest.
Natasha's arms came around her immediately, holding her close.
"I've got you. You did so well. So perfect."
They stayed like that for several minutes, Wanda trying to remember how to breathe while Natasha held her and murmured praise. Eventually, Natasha shifted them so they were lying down, Wanda tucked against her chest.
"How are you feeling?" Natasha asked, fingers moving gently through Wanda's hair.
"Like I died," Wanda managed. "Multiple times."
Natasha laughed softly. "Good."
"I don't think I can walk."
"I'll carry you." Natasha pressed a kiss to her head. "But we should clean up before someone investigates why half the equipment is embedded in walls."
"Your room?" Wanda looked up.
"You think I'm done with you?" Natasha's smile was wicked. "That was just the beginning. I have so many more things I want to do to you. And we have all night."
I mean it so serious.
A/N #2: This was originally 9k words, then I cut 7k of it, then I added 4k back, then the last bit. Basically, this one has always been a bit of a mess. It didn't turn out quite how I wanted it to. I feel like I still have the problem of my smut being really repetitive? I think it stems from the fact that I write plot, then smut, so the smut ends up repeating the plot, if that makes sense?
I've never really written anything like rough sex (with knives and hands on throats), and I'd usually do more research than I did, but the research I was getting was...not really stuff I wanted to see. I'm not here to kink-shame, I swear, it was more of I personally did not want to see a woman getting choked. I really wanted to capture that darker Natasha that the MCU didn't show us, though. Also, it's my understanding that at this point in her life, Wanda didn't know much about her magic, hence why I wrote it as "energy" or "powers". Canon? I don't know. Realistic? I also don't know. I'm just a smut writer, don't get too hung up on stuff like that.
Anyways! I do sincerely hope you enjoyed :)
