More of Us. (W. M. x R.)
— One Shot. (2.677 words)
THIS IS A 18+ STORY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
BLOGS WITHOUT AGE IN BIO OR PIN POST WILL BE BLOCK.
⋆ Tags & Warnings — Dom!Wanda Maximoff x Sub!Wife!Reader.
Breeding kink, Domestic fluff, Edging (if you squint), Fingering (R recieving), Light impact play, Mention of pregnancy, Sexual tension, Sub/dom dynamic, Smut, Strap (R recieving), Teasing.
⋆ Author's note — this one-shot is extracted from a request i have been working on, but i thought it could be post as its own in the meanwhile. it is the first time i write this kind of fic', so i am a bit unsure about sharing it. hope you'll appreciate it. i also wanted to thank @madzthehatter who helped me a lot by accepting to proofread this!
⋆ GENERAL MASTERLIST ⋆
She was sitting at the same place as she was now, but the atmosphere was different back then. The sun was high in the sky already, but time did not mean much to you on days like these, when you had no obligations. Wanda could still remember the smile on your face as you were preparing breakfast, humming a tune she could not recognize.
“Earth to the moon,” you called out, pulling your wife out of her thoughts. The woman had not even realized that she had let her mind wander so far away. “I was asking how many eggs you wanted today?” you asked, a smile — one that looked awfully close to a smirk — playing on your lips. You had turned around, forgetting about the stoves for a moment, to look at her. Thus she could perfectly see the mischievous expression dancing in your face.
“Hm… two,” she answered, but you did not turn around immediately, feeling there were more words waiting on the tip of her tongue. “Why are you smiling like that?” she eventually spilled, but far from ripping the smirk out of your face, the question only deepened it.
“I don’t know, you tell me. What were you thinking about?” you asked back, and it was your turn to raise an eyebrow. For a moment, you forgot about the breakfast, your attention solely on the woman in front of you — she is so pretty, you thought.
She always was, you would not dare to state otherwise, but you had always found that it was even more true on the slow mornings because you rarely saw her as relaxed as then. Life had put the woman through many hardships, forcing her to age faster than most, but that was not what you saw in these moments — she never looked as young as then.
You took an instant to observe her, and you saw how the sun reflected in her eyes, making them seem lighter than they usually were, how there was a small crease between her eyebrows because the light was too bright but she refused to look away, because that would mean not looking at you anymore, how her hair were running wild, remnants of the night you had shared — you saw how perfect she was.
The seconds stretched without any of you talking, but it was not uncomfortable, because it was the kind of silence that filled your heart with peace. You pushed yourself away from the counter you were leaning against, walking until you stood behind Wanda. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace.
“Like what you see?” you teased, the words whispered directly in her ear, so close that she could feel your breath brushing against her skin. The action sent shivers through her whole body. When she did not answer with her words, the mischievous gleam in her eyes told you everything you needed to know.
“You wanna know what I was thinking about?” she asked back, her voice now lower than yours, and tinged with that tone of hers that always made you fold too easily.
Wanda felt everything. She felt how your breath hitched in anticipation, how your fingers stopped brushing against her shoulder almost immediately, and even though she could not see you, she would bet you were rubbing your thighs together already, trying to alleviate the ache that her words created — such an easy thing, she thought.
It was now her turn to smirk, because she knew your antics would get you nowhere, and so did you, yet it had never stopped you from trying to play. She moved before you could even register it, taking advantage of your moment of hesitation to reclaim control, and if a second before you were hovering over her, you were now pinned against the kitchen’s wall, her face barely a few centimeters away from yours.
“I was thinking about how pretty you would look bearing my babies,” she whispered in your ear, making you shiver — and not only because of the way her breath brushed against your skin. Unfortunately for you, she did not stop here. The way your cheeks flushed, far to deceive her, encouraged the brunette to continue, just to see how far she could push before you started begging for more — she would not give it more than a few minutes.
The woman got lost in her thoughts again for a moment, allowing herself to appreciate the image her imagination made up, and how your belly would eventually grow, but especially how you would look under her as she breeds you. Wanda could not help but bite her lower lips as she pulled away, not enough for you to wriggle free, but enough for her to see your face.
She saw your glistening eyes, a sign of an excitation you could not quite ignore anymore, not with the woman’s overwhelming presence. Yet, you were still trying to fight it, and she could tell by the way your lips were pressed in a thin line — how adorable. She would not admit it, but the woman loved it when you fought the obvious, and so, for a moment, she let you think you were in control, luring you into a false sense of confidence before she shatters your composure entirely with only a few touches.
“So, what do you think, hm? Should I try to pump you full of my babies?” she asked, but despite the sound of it, it was not a question, and before you could even think about answering, one of her hands found its way to your mouth, shushing you with that simple gesture. “Shh. You don’t have to say it, your body already tells me everything I need to know…”
Without a warning, the hand that was previously sealing your lips slides down, palm now pressed flat against your core without any barrier to prevent her from feeling how aroused you already were. That is when you lost the last bit of self-control you had, as you felt her palm pressing against your clit, fingers running through your folds to collect any wetness they could find. The gesture forced a whine past your lips, one that escaped you involuntarily, a not-so-silent plea for more.
“You are that easy, aren’t you?” she chuckled, and you could feel your knees buckling already under her condescending tone.
A moment later, you found yourself to be exactly where she wanted you to be: naked, and kneeling on the bedroom’s rug, the soft fabric tingling your skin. The minutes stretched as you waited, forcing your body to stay still until she came back, but the woman knew what she was doing, and her taking her time to get the toy was not a coincidence. It was rather the result of a careful strategy made to unravel you. When she emerged from the closet, she was no more covered than you were, except for the strap that was hanging between her legs, one that wore her favorite color but had your favorite shape.
“Wanda…,” you could not help the whine that felt past your lips at the view of the toy, one that you regretted almost immediately.
“I don’t think I’ve asked you to talk. Have I?” she asked, something darkening in her eyes. The way she slightly tilted her head to the side, as she always would when you did something she did not approve of, raised something in you. The feeling could be mistaken with fear, but it was something much more pleasant. It made your breath itches in the same way, your pulse fastening to the point you were convinced it would jump out of your chest, but in reality it was something else entirely; excitation, anticipation.
You shook your head, a silent answer to her question that seemed to please the woman as a soft hum left her lips. “That’s what I thought,” she muttered. Wanda stepped closer, until she was close enough to reach you. There was something in the way you immediately melted in her hand when she cupped your cheek that spread a sudden warmness in her chest, and for a moment she did not move.
A moment of stillness to observe you and admire how perfect you were. You might not see it, but right now, as her eyes ran along the curves of your body, as raw and exposed the day you were brought to this world, that was the only thing in her mind. When you started dating, a long time ago, she made it her mission to show you what you could not.
“How pretty… how perfect for me…,” she whispered, not letting you look away, instead guiding your head towards herds when you tried. “I can’t wait to ruin you…,” she confessed, but she was not waiting for an answer, and the moment your lips parted, her thumb slipped in, stealing your words.
You immediately started sucking it, your tongue working around her finger with an ease that came from habit. The brunette hummed softly, pleased with how obedient, pliant, you were for her; she did not have to ask anymore because you knew exactly what you were supposed to do. When she slid her thumb out, a whine fell past your lips, the soothing feeling gone at the same time. You forced the eyes you did not even realize you had close to re-open.
Yet, the woman was quick to shush your protests, the tip of her strap now resting at the entrance of your lips. With a tug on your hair, she invited you to open them, trusting forward the moment you did.
“So good for me,” she groaned, her voice faltering the moment the base of the toy pressed against her clit. She stayed still for a moment, taking the time to get used to the feeling before trusting forward. A painfully slow movement for the both of you that stopped only when she hit the back of your throat, making you gag around the toy until tears filled your eyes. That is when she would pull away, but not a second before.
A cycle that stopped only when the woman deemed the strap to be wet enough and her own pleasure achieved. By the time she pulled away completely, you were both ruined, you by desperation, and her by pleasure, legs shaking and arousal coating your thighs.
“Such a good girl for me, getting it all nice and ready,” she softly said, her voice so low that you could barely hear it. She tilted your head gently until your eyes met hers, showing the woman how desperate you were. A smile spread on her lips at the sight, one that was soft but still tinged with something darker. “What is it, hm? Does my perfect girl want a reward?” she asked, her smile deepening when you eagerly nodded. “Then go lie in bed,” she ordered in your ear. The effect of her words was immediate, and you moved without a second thought, her voice operating like an enchantment.
Soon enough, you were joined by the brunette. You did not see her, your eyes fixated on the ceiling, but you heard her steps getting closer until you felt the mattress dipping beneath her weight. A hand came to collect yours, pinning them above your head where she urged you to leave them — a task that truly felt impossible. The moment she let go of your wrists, your fingers move slightly, shared by the need to touch her and the desire to be good.
“Such a mess you’ve made there,” she teased. Her hands had pushed your legs apart, just enough for her to see how wet you were already. However, to see was not enough, and Wanda needed to touch. Soon, the hand resting on your thigh made its way between your legs, thumb finding your clit without hesitation. Her touch was light, she had barely brushed against it, but it was enough to ignite a fire within you.
“Wanda, please,” the plea slipped past your lips despite your attempts at staying silent.
“Please what, baby?” she asked, feigning ignorance. Yet, she knew exactly what you wanted, her fingers starting to draw painfully slow circles on your clit, not waiting for an answer. “So desperate already…” she cooed when your hips buckled against her hand, chasing a pleasure she was not completely giving you yet.
You started growing impatient, squirming beneath her, and she allowed it for a moment, loving to see how easy you unravel. Her touch was enough to build the pressure in your stomach, but not to give you any kind of relief.
“Now be good and stop moving so much,” she said, but if her voice was soft, her actions had not been as much, especially when you did not obey immediately, a light slap landing in the inside of your thigh. “I said, stay still,” she uttered through gritted teeth, only to whisper “good girl” the moment your body froze in place.
Her fingers eventually wandered further down, running through your folds, teasing your entrance, but refusing to go in yet. Her other hand was resting on your lower belly, pressing your hips into the mattress.
“Please…,” you tried again. The plea sounded more like a whine, one that pulled the brunette’s eyebrows together.
“And may I know what you want exactly?” she asked, but words were mixed in your head, pushed in that sweet headspace where nothing mattered but her — which was exactly where she wanted you right now. “Such a dumb slut, doesn’t even know what she wants, uh? But don’t worry, I know exactly what you need,” she answered herself when everything you gave her was another pitiful whine.
Your body was burning with a desire that would not be relieved as long as Wanda decided to let her fingers wander everywhere but in the place you needed them. Your now ignored clit was throbbing, and your walls clenching around nothing, waiting for the moment her fingers would stop teasing. When they eventually did, it was without a warning.
One of them slipped past your entrance, and it was soon joined by a second one. She worked you open, her fingers moving with the kind of precision that came from shared experience, hitting all the right spots, the ones that never failed to draw moans out of you. The pleasure was building in your stomach, your walls clenching around her fingers.
You recognized the signs of an upcoming orgasm, but sadly for you, so did she, and before you could reach it, she drew her fingers away, leaving you not only more desperate than before, but also empty, clenching around nothing. It took you a moment to realize, opening your eyes to meet hers when the cruelty of the situation eventually hit.
“Don’t be so fussy,” Wanda cooed when she read the frustration in your face. She stopped for a moment, and the hand resting on your hips moved to cup your cheek, a touch that immediately eased some of your tension. “We needed you to be prepared, right? All nice and ready for my babies,” she whispered, placing a soft kiss on your lips.
The brunette had not lied, and you had not had to wait much longer before she lined up the toy with your entrance. The first thrust had been slow, experimental, giving you the time to adjust the stretch. Yet, when the only thing that ripped through your lips was a moan, she lost the last bit of restraint she had, speeding up until her thrusts were driven only by a desperation that matched yours. Both of your bodies were shaking, breath etching as you were both chasing pleasure.
“You are gonna be so pretty once I’ve filled you with my babies,” she said, the picture clear in her mind. She could not help but run a hand over your belly, imagining how it would feel when it would be filled with a baby — your baby.
I wanna continue writing but I have an incoming examination next month that I need to prepare to, so I apologize for the long delay you guys…I will still be here and lurk and read but I won’t be able to post and write yet.
summary: you and Wanda spend Christmas Eve by the fireplace, making the same mistake you've been making for a long time again.
warnings (18+): intersex character (Wanda), smut, blowjob (Wanda receiving), vaginal sex (r receiving), cheating, mentions of pregnancy, angst. MINORS DNI.
pairings: Wanda x fem!reader, mentions of Wandanat and Pietro x fem!reader
word count: 4k
A/N: here's my slightly late, but not too late, Christmas/New Year special. it's sad but coming from me you already knew that.
masterlist|
A zephyr of gentle wind stirred the dancing of the curtains like dark specters, swirling into the living room in a winter breath that flickered the low fire in the nearby milky granite fireplace like a lantern flame, before the fingers of both your warm hands gripped and, in a disgruntled grunt under your breath, rolled down the windowpane – invading snowflakes gleaming like shavings of steel on the cream-colored ledge. The curtains quieted from their ghostly dance, settling back to rest like sleeping albino bats upside down. You didn't remember leaving the window open, but at the same time, you weren't in full control of your mental faculties at the end of the year either.
“Damn, it's snowing again,” you blurted out, your studious eyes peering at the world outside through the cloudy, stale glass about a hand's breadth away from the tip of your nose, “I... I don't think he'll manage to make it in time. It's too late anyway.”
A beam of pale luminescence penetrated the living room through cracks of ice that fogged up the glass, interspersed white streaks of streetlights that pierced the brief layer of spectral snow inserted inside thanks to the opening of the window above – a tight, dark light, rather vague, that posed in a grayish hue outside, offering the world (your car parked in front of the house enveloped in a sheet of ice, the low fence of the front yard turbid at that distance, the long-time plucked oak tree on the sidewalk and the distant cinder that was the house next door, just the yellow light from an window) the appearance of ghostly silhouettes, like the aftermath seen in a faded dream.
But inside you residence, everything was sheltered and protected by a thick layer of cozy heat coming from the fireplace flames (the orange light casted in tall shadows, shining in the depths of your eyes and in the ornaments hanging from the tall pine tree decorated with the theme nearby, fluttering on the ceiling; its warm reflections inside the living room windows), and you considered the possibility that, sooner or later, you might end up pulling your thick wool sweater over your head.
“Well,” Wanda's low, velvety voice drifted behind your shoulder, “He said he probably wouldn't make it in time for Christmas Eve, didn't he? And that he would stay in a motel in case the blizzard got worse. He'll be here tomorrow morning, honey, don't worry. He... he'll be fine. You don't have to worry about him, Y/n.”
And you understand, you understand what she means, what her tone of voice says contrary to her words. It's just that in so long, you've specialized in pretending, always pretending. Pretending you don't understand, pretending a lie is the truth. Your right fingers were still hooked on the vertical slit in the pale, soft satin curtain, your gaze lost in the stormy puffs of ice outside.
“I know, but… you know how uneasy Pietro can be sometimes, and he'd hate to miss even the tiniest Christmas celebration… I can't help but worry about him, Wanda. He's out there during this blizzard that doesn't look like it's going to pass any time soon, after all.”
The sudden high-pitched ping of a message dropping into a phone chat pierced the oxygen above the crackling hiss of the great dry wood fire burning in the fireplace, sounding just after you've finished your Christmas wails.
You then turned your chin over your right shoulder to regard her with your diligent gaze, and for a second of oxygen engulfed in your throat you just allowed yourself to admire her, Wanda, standing there in the middle of the room, being partially illuminated by the glow of the nearby fire, giving her silhouette the air of a scarlet creature from another world – the jadish eyes fixed on the phone set supplanted in the palm of her right hand, the thin long locks of brown hair that partially curtained a face holding her beautiful strong, fine features, her left fingers curled around the cylindrical body of a steaming porcelain teacup.
“It's him.”
A dizzying itch took hold of your right fingers, and you just took the time to sweep that long lock of hair behind her ear so deeply that every component cell in your body seemed to bristle and ache, as if there were grains of sand in your bloodstream and your bones were made of shards of glass. Your skin burned in the need of hers, a familiar touch, an outdated nostalgia. With your eyes hovering over Wanda's figure, there was no way your worries could sail towards Pietro anymore, not with all your attention focused on his twin sister as it was.
“What did he said?” your voice squirmed from the back of your throat, “Is he okay? He’s safe?”
And you wanted to care, but Wanda was just categorically stunning. Fifteen years ago you had already become familiar with the beauty of her oval-shaped face, but that doesn't mean that it wouldn't even have diminished with the lapidation of time – maturity dawned in a decade and a half, when her facial lines became more accentuated in a natural cut, just a new discovery for you. You still felt the whiffs of her adolescence somewhere, even if even she didn't feel them at all anymore.
It was as if, in so much time, you still hadn't discovered what it was that could actually be pointed out in the emerald shadow aligned with Wanda's gaze that instigated that thirsty burning inside you. You just wanted more of her, as much as you could have. As much as she would allow herself to be yours. In front of her, on her torso, Wanda was wearing the loose crimson and green thick wool sweater that your mother-in-law had given her last Christmas – Natasha had a pair of this piece knitted in green and red wool.
“See,” she muttered then, still with her eyes downcast, “He's fine. Here.”
Wanda's right forearm lifted her wrist to your eye level, turning the phone's pale screen into a synthetic glow toward you, her brother's contact shimmering across your retinas.
[Pietro]: Yo Wands tell Y/n I won't be able to make it in time anyway, this sucks man, a truck overturned on the road because of the snow and they won't fix it until tomorrow morning ☹ I miss her and the boys wtf!!!☹ ☹
The face of Wanda's thumb pressed the button on the side of the device after a couple of measly seconds of silence permeated by the ambience of the crackling of the incandescent firewood, and on the wide, newly darkened screen, the reflection of your deplorable facial expressions was outlined – your lower lip being sucked under your upper incisors, the streak of skin creased almost mournfully between both your brows. Wanda just lowered the device completely, moving it out of your field of vision.
“So… he won't be coming home today.”
“No,” she looked at you, her eyes flickering fire and dark green, “He won't come home today. And the boys are out like logs in their beds already,” and it was true, after all, she had read them a couple of bedtime stories herself. She always wanted to spend as much time as possible with the twins, after all.
Something sparked inside you, in heat and hunger, when the emerald color of Wanda's eyes stared at you from under her heavy lashes. It was like a non-syllabic question (can I?). You looked into her sharp cheekbones, engulfed partially by that orange reflection of the fire burning there so close to the two of you – you just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, call out her name in your needy grip on your chest. Yes, scorched will and hunger sharpened through your veins, yes Wanda, you can. Now you can.
Her phone and teacup were both placed carefully on top of the light wood coffee table in front of the sofa, placed in a spot parallel to the fireplace and comically next to the fully decorated Christmas tree, blinkers off, presents wrapped in colored paper. But her phone pinged again that night, a bitter reminder, a sick joke – a message from a different contact, Natasha, a red heart emoji next to it. Wanda looked at you when you looked at her.
“I'm a fucking horrible person,” she muttered under her breath, as close to your personal space as she could get.
“I know,” was your broken voice reply, “But that's okay, because so am I.”
And, in an act of regret, you just did what your need obligated you to do – you reached forward and took Wanda for yourself, flattening the commission of your lips against her mouth that tasted of compunction and tea, just an old comfort for the overflow of your feelings so dismayed, so much need that would soon overflow. After all, that wasn't the first time that you kissed Wanda, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time that you would look for the hold of her arms, so that she could cherish the desire bristling in the hollow of your inner groins. The desire to have her always supplanted the shame of your ego.
A sinuous dance of delicate, tangible lips that fit perfectly and neatly, like something it should be. The ardent and passionate kiss was transmuted, however, into a harmonious kiss, and the harmonious kiss metamorphosed into splashes of tiny tight-mouthed kisses that soon dismantled in a state of fear, scattered in a reality where uncertainties and worries were mere ignoble daydreams, as long as you were in each other's arms. The first kisses were always fearful, they always meant to be.
The palms of both of Wanda's warm hands felt gentle against your sides, risking to caress your hipbones with the pads of her thumbs. A wave of the urge to implode in tears swept over you – perhaps out of desire or fear, regret or the intrinsic will of flesh and bone. You just wanted her to burn you like the fire in that fireplace burned to ashes in the wood, the only witness to your act of adultery, the fire that in the end consumed everything completely, a natural destroyer of evidence.
With her melodious lips parted, her pulps pink and cracked, Wanda, in turn, began to give you infinitesimal, lingering kisses along the contour of your neck, along the area where it joined your left shoulder, along the line of her jaw located in the gap between your ear and neck, validating the traces of hickeys sitting there, like long brushstrokes of dark paint on a blank canvas.
"Wanda..." you purred like a sleepy cat, the heavy lids covering your eyes again, enjoying the feel of the warm lips splashing over the bristling epidermis.
Unguarded, perhaps even a little needy in your deprived core, you snuggled against your beloved's warm body, a guilty, lazy little dread embodied by the commission of your own wet lips. You felt a warm forehead press against your pale skin band above your brows, and you and Wanda opened your lids at the same time – an immensity of burning green, brown strands of hair strumming against the skin of your chin.
“I need you now, baby,” she sighed against the kiss of your lips, “I-I – I need you, Y/n. It hurts. I need you now.”
And you knew what she needed – that's why you gave it to her, sitting her down on the couch, Wanda's sweater pants pooling around her knees in a matter of seconds. There was never room for ceremony when what you did was just the result of a mutual repression that always led to a needy outburst.
From the hollow of your pearly lips, the tip of your velvety tongue made itself present, and that tongue, sweet and musky, soaked the entire length of her penis in a layer of shimmering saliva, the veins throbbing as the outline of the curled mouth cupped the pulsating tip, without the resistance of teeth in your way.
“Fuck, baby,” was a muffled moan against the palm she pressed to her own lips, urging you to do what you intended to do, “Just like that… Y/n, shit…”
You sucked Wanda's precum once, wringing a musical wail from both of your throats—the shivering moment, the bittersweet sap and the cinnamon heat, all etched into the center of your tongue, an already familiar taste in your stomach. Maybe that was why she chose you – the way you were the first person outside her family circle who accepted her for who she was, for what she felt she should be.
You were fifteen when you met the Maximoff twins, a boy and a girl, children of immigrants, in junior year of high school. And you were sixteen when you found out why Wanda didn’t used the locker room after PE with the other girls in your class.
“My parents thought I was a boy when I was a kid,” she once told you, under the bleachers after a literature class, “But then we found out that I was born different from Pietro, from most other people even... the doctors said the name is intersex. It's not very common, but it can happen sometimes.”
A girl with long dark hair that flowed in waves down her shoulders and wearing a second-hand fabric jacket, also dark as her hair. She was dark and stunning.
“Got it,” you hissed because you were sixteen and didn't know what to say, and Wanda was your best friend, “Your brother asked me out.”
“Oh,” it was like the sound of a piece of glass breaking, “Got it,” you always saw the way she looked at you, but it was Pietro who had the initiative. And he was always a good boy, and your parents taught you that there's no denying a good boy.
It didn't take long for Wanda's body sensitivity to acclimatize to your mouth, after just a handful of minutes in which you passed between her legs, ennobling the length of her member with just the tip of your tongue (back-and-forth movements, little kisses, and, at the latest, daring nibbles). You, upon noticing your beloved's familiarity with your tongue movements, took it from the inside of your mouth, almost the entire length between the flesh of your cheeks, reaching the summit of your throat, moist and plump.
“Y/n,” Wanda groaned, her brow furrowed, “Fuck, baby–!” and you felt a touch on the top of your head, near the roots of your hair.
Your mouth went up and down once, twice, five times. Wanda's right fingers, intertwined with your bundle of hair, made sure that the movements progressed eventually to something continuous and hard – her hips moved vigorously, fucking her way with her heavy member to the back of your throat. A cavernous yelp escaped Wanda's throat as her brows twitched and her eyes squeezed into two lines on her panting face, a pleasurable simulation of pain, a ball of yarn being woven down her navel.
You, the one who knew her as well as she herself did, tried to accompany Wanda's orgasm formulation with the movements of your mouth, thick saliva mixed with precum dripping from the corner of your lips in thick threads that wet the band the skin of your chin; you compressed your lips around her cock as you slid down its length, only to return to the head and then intensify the avid sucking until you brought your lover to the culmination of her own pleasure, of everything you wanted her to feel.
“Shit, shit, shit— ah! Y/n, I'm going to cum in your mouth, baby! Fuck!”
Wanda leaned forward so that both of her hands were resting on your temples, keeping your head in place as it spilled over your tongue, hot cum rushing its way to your stomach like you always did – always glad to swallow all the bittersweet load deposited inside you by Wanda.
At her apex, Wanda collapsed back to the length of the back of the couch, a warm, sweat-soaked dark lock plastered to her forehead. Her chest rose heavy and slumped back into her ribcage beneath her crimson wool sweater. The fire crackled in the hearth and in you too, however, because you wanted more, more of her, all of her – time was scarce and limited, and as such, incapable of being wasted. So you rose up towards her face, crying out to her.
“Wanda,” you called, your chin touching hers, your knees pierced by hers, “Wanda, I need you inside me now. Please, I need... I need you. I need you.”
You spoke as if you weren't in your living room at home – as if your children weren't sleeping right above your head. And she held you like she wasn't your husband's sister.
“It's okay, my dear. I am here. I'm here for you now, Y/n, I'll give you what you need.”
And then you were on top of her again, your shorts discarded like a rag before the fireplace, your hand reaching for Wanda's to close it by the back of your own hand, her thumb sinking soon into the warm flesh of your hip, her fingertips opening the moist lips of your pussy. On both of your ring fingers rose bands of golden wedding rings, yours different from hers, which turned copper in front of the fireplace – rings placed there by other people.
With the touch came a mutual moan that was engulfed by the embers, crackled from deep within your throats. And you began to reach down, feeling her inside, thick and firm. You came down the full length of her, and Wanda's back instinctively arched.
“You're big,” your hands found her shoulders, the wool soft and red, “So big, Wanda… I want you for myself. I want you all to myself tonight, please.”
“You already have me, baby,” she lisped under her breath, “You always had me.”
With her member all tucked inside your cunt, inch by inch swallowed inside your throbbing walls, Wanda's mouth burned lustfully. The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur.
Without circumlocution, Wanda was quick to thrust herself against your throbbing cunt, hollow slapping sounds filling the living room as she thrusted her hip against your wet entrance – so needy, a growing urgency in her bones and in your flesh, yearning for the heat of the ethereal figure that unfolded to you with such care and mastery, the inhuman touch burning over your skin. Wanda's movements were fast and uneven, solemnly guided by her desire to have you, to be inside you.
Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, low pubic hair, and you took a deep breath, your chest rising heavy and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air in a ravenous moan against the shell of her ear – the warm skin of your face cinched against Wanda's neck, who found herself able to feel both of your swollen nipples pressed against hers through the material of your sweaters so muffled. Her arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you against her, the two of you as close together as you could be.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/n!”
“Wanda,” the words strangled in your throat in a strangled moan, “Wanda, I love you. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby,” she whimpered against your chest, “I love you too, I've always loved you…”
The steady movement of her hips brushed in eager friction against your swollen, nervous clit against the base of Wanda's cock, soaking her in your natural, smoldering lubricant juices. Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a moan that coiled in your throat, and you rolled your hips forward, begging for more, so debilitating when against something as simple as the feel of her close to you, a single ethereal touch.
“I love you, Wanda. I love you I love you..."
The notion of the fact that that woman beneath you, reeking of tea and sex, as supernal of the encompassing reaches of human cognition as she could possibly be, could come to leave you at any moment saddened you to your ecstatic core. You didn't want to leave her. You didn't want to lose her, a battle already lost. With a soft growl (which came dangerously close to a needy moan) you pressed your entire body against Wanda's to make her feel how in control like she was over your mundane will. And your sister-in-law didn't even try to stop you.
“I love you Wanda, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you.”
“I love you too, Y/n, I love you too, fuck, I will always love you, always, always... please, I’ll always love you–”
You rode her like that, being impaled, squeezing her tighter and tighter, until the two of you came together, her orgasm painting your walls in needy vastness, in an encapsulated moment where you were hers and she was yours, where your choices led you in the right direction, her inside you where she should always be, your arms around her like you always wanted her to – her inner thighs were strong and wet against your hips.
“I'm sorry,” you cried against her neck, Wanda's hands stroking the length of your back beneath the wool layer of your sweat-damp sweater, her flaccid cock still nestled within your walls as if it weren't already too late.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish I had chosen right. I'm sorry. I wanna do it again. I wanna choose you. Please. I wanna choose you.”
“It's okay, Y/n,” Wanda lisped against your hair, a tear pooling under her lashes, “It's okay, honey. You already have me. You’ll always have me.”
The end of the year festivities came and went like the blur of the blizzard outside that Christmas Eve by the milky granite fireplace, and in the first half of January you and Pietro entertained your families for longer than you'd like – his parents and yours, and Wanda and Natasha, her wife, inevitably came and went too. The world presented itself in a furious way to you at the beginning of the year, incongruous: people everywhere, Wanda, Natasha, Wanda, Natasha, cold January winds. Natasha wanted kids with Wanda because she was a great aunt to Billy and Tommy.
“Children, huh?” Pietro asked his sister one night when the two of them were sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, the fire crackling softly.
“I thought you and Nat were the type who didn't want kids… but hey, this is awesome news, Wands! You'll be a great mom, you're like the boys' favorite aunt, everyone sees that! You take great care of them, Wands, so I imagine you'll be even better with your own children!”
“Yeah,” she smiled wanly, a little bitterly, looking into the fire, “With… my own children.”
“And I bet it will be the same with the next one too,” the twin looked at her, his blue eyes flickering towards her. Wanda looked away from the fire to look at Pietro.
“The next one…?”
“Yeah,” he smiled with the grace and pride that only someone in that situation could carry with him, “Y/n is pregnant again, Wanda! Can you believe?! Another Maximoff in the world!”
And then, Wanda looked at her brother. And she wanted to cry – cry for him, for herself, for Y/n and Natasha and Billy and Tommy, and that new child to come into that fucked up world made of lies and more lies. For all the mistakes she and Y/n made that could very well tear that family apart. She almost cried in front of the fireplace. If Pietro knew the true reason for those tears, he would never forgive her.
“Yeah,” Wanda smiled, a tear trapped in her green gaze, the fire burning in the fireplace, “Another Maximoff in the world.”
Sunday Multifandom OneShot Poll Winner - Avengers - Wanda A/ Reader O - In The Hex - Accidental Pheromone Mating!
Your pheramones break through the grey monotone sitcom, causing the Scarlet Witch to take a quick commercial break.
WARNINGS: A/O NON CON/ Forced Mating / Forced Omega Breeding / Breeding Forced Kink / 50's Episode of WandaVision / Viz cheating / Agnes and Gertrude Alpha's / Exhibition Kink / Violence and Blood / Magic Use / Mind Bending / Body Control / hybristophilia / Yandere / Psycho Kink / Wanda wants Twins / Previous Nat Reader Mentioned / Hex AU / P to V / G!P Wanda / Alpha Wanda Mommy Kink / Nursing Kinkg / HItting Slapping and Spanking / Humiliation and Degregation / Cuckholding Agnes and Monica / Mind Breaking / Non CON pregnancy Kink / DDDE/ 3k/ 18+
You were supposed to do recon, that’s why you’d walked into the Hex. Now you were in some kinda fucked up sitcom with an avenger who needed the psyche ward or a bullet.
You at the moment were favoring the ladder as you gasped and felt a familiar tug in your womb.
Ironically, you were on an episode with background characters, a group of women talking over dry cookies and iced tea about gardening.
It shoul have been an environment where your ‘change’ would have been welcomed with someone handing you a suppressant pill and a pad to soak up the slick.
A sort of sisterhood of the bodies doing the wrong thing in public.
No different than needing a tampon in a bathroom, or having your best friend drive you to get a plan B. In this environment with this many women of course, there was sure to be some alphas. Perhaps more beta’s, simply - you assumed because everything smelled so….steril.
In Wanda’s universe, the colors are drained, black and greys fill your retna. There’s no smell of blooming spring flowers that were planted like little soldiers in every front yard.
No garlic coming off of the pot roasts just out of the oven.
These women together didn’t smell of perfumes or shampoo, the mens starched shirts were void of fabric softener.
It was like Wanda had forgotten that little concept of all of the senses.
So while you were playing your part with your legs modestly pressed together, and the first tug on your womb shook you from the conversation. You were sure you could excuse yourself out of this episode and move on.
Only for the smell of your sweet phermones to waft up like a cartoon apple pie.
The episode stopped, almost like a record scratching as you bent over in pain, clutching your lower stomach.
You heard Wanda’s neighbor first as she stood and came to your aid.
“Oh my,” Agnes tried to touch your back, not affectionately, but more sympathetic of your pain, or so you thought.
But as the smell of your scent glands hit her nose her eyes flickered like a candle between sane and something far different.
Her hand cupped her face, but not simply her mouth, her nose too.
You grabbed at the fake glass table and took a sharp breath, feeling moisture starting to seep into your underwear.
“What is it dear?” Dottie asked and You didn’t answer, your left ankle rolling to the side as you staggered on your short heels to get to the exit.
It was Agnes once more who touched you, throwing you for a loop, as she grasped your lower belly with her left hand, you moan as her nose presses into your neck, inhaling your scent.
“Shhh, you need a real alpha, don’t you, kitten?” Agnes dominance made your knees weak.
But before she could make her next move, break open your 50’s slacks and take you there, or simply bite down on your neck and own you for the rest of your days.
The grey episode lapsed, a hiccup, a fuzzy moment of television static.
Agnes was seated once more, but her face wasn’t that of the calm neighbor, no - she looked positively ready to rip the sweet ice tea lunch apart with her bare hands.
The rest of the background characters were all smiling, just a bit too wide, a bit too forced.
A single tear ran down Geraldines face, her fingers twitching as though she too was fighting the restraints.
Two alpha’s being muzzled in this artificial landscape, while your slick began to made a dark patch against your 50’s dress pants.
You gasped and tried to get yourself sorted, but the broken noise crackled in the radio, no more background laughs or gentle music.
The memory of being in a foxhold with Nat and Clint flashes through your mind, you hate yourself for it.
Realizing that Wanda listening, she’s always listening.
You grab for one of the iced cups of tea only to get another sticky sort of pain, as though your body ached for another solid form behind you.
Skin to skin, pheramones washing over you to soothe this insanity.
The only comfort to your anamlistic- be it archaicm brain would be the muscle of another bigger predator.
Stupid body, your mind was already slipping - forgetting all your training. Not such a tough agent now that you were without your suppresents.
You inhale through your nose when you smell it, you think you must be losing your mind.
Could that husky smell be correct?
The promise of a proper Alpha.
You twist around - through your murky thoughts you have forgotten the true mission.
Your target.
Where was Wanda Maximoff?
You don’t have to wait long, as the episode freezes, the background characters only allowed to watch with the small bit of their consciousness they could access - to what was about to happen.
Red magic contrasts bright and blinding against the grey tones as you feel Wanda - her magic curling like long tendrils, splintering the scene, then finding their way into your limbs.
You aren’t weightless from her magic, if anything you’re muscles are constricting, fingers losing feeling, pins and needles in your thighs and forearms.
You bite your lip hard as your mind is no longer your own thoughts.
Still, the witch speaks aloud. Still putting on a show for the rest of the helpless characters who are watching.
“Sweet girl, we’re at commercial. You don’t have to be quiet.” Wanda’s tone is eerily maternal, too kind for what was happening. You didn’t have a gun, you didn’t have a fight.
“Wanda please- you don’t - I can get you out of here.” You attempt but youre both sure that you’ve already lost.
“You know I always wanted to know who Natasha went on secret outings with. Now that I can really see you for who you are….I understand.”
As the sitcom queen understands, you are forgetting.
“Wanda, she wouldn’t want you like th-”
The witch’s hands found your stomach, replacing where you and Agnes had just grabbed.
“You know, I think she’d be happy you were taken care of.”
“VISION! What about Vision!” You shriek out, but as she riffles through your mind like an old filing cabinet. You notice how she’s moving your body.
Your limbs closer to being pinocio, a simple marionette on strings.
Not like her other dolls, as they watch powerless to blink and look away.
“You know he’s everything I wanted, just like before. But there’s a few things he just can’t do. Not for me, no matter how I re-create him.” Wanda’s grey toned hand thumbs the button of your slacks and you can’t move an inch.
Is like your bodies being weighed down with rocks.
“Wanda-don’t- Vision wouldn’t want th-” You work on manipulating this any way you can. But Maximoff has already seen the plan, how you were ordered to be the sleeper agent, to kill her.
Her body molds so perfectly behind your own, that you can feel her knot through the dresspants already.
The sound of your pants being pull down agonizingly slow has you terrified. As if the curtains were being pulled back.
You close your eyes and your panic only builds.
“Do you know, I tried with my magic - but I just can’t get it right. We want boys, I heard once that the deeper the seed pushes the higher chance for a boy? What do you think, you think it’s just one of those silly 50’s girl talks?” Wanda finishes her query with a long lick up your scent gland.
Pushing more pheramones out - causing the witch to moan.
“Synthetic man, fake neighbors, I was going mad - now here you are.” Wanda tells you like you’re some kind of present from the outside. A perfect gift with a bow on top for all the hard work she’d done in the Hex.
Or maybe a fleshlight for her to ejaculate into when the days become a little too 50’s.
How fucking long was a comersial break? Wanda moved your body like it was as easy as breathing.
Your pants dropping to your ankles she breaks the fabric easily kicking with her own modest heels, the inside of your ankles.
Pushing your legs wide as your back hunched over, folding you forward to see the background characters.
See two men in the background frozen doing yard work and cleaning the small pool.
Everyone else on pause, Dottie’s pack of HOA and thursday knitters - all stuck. Watching with fake smiles plastered on their faces. Unyielding at your loss of bodily function.
Wanda curled around your body like a snake - some sort of anaconda wrapping around every fiber of you.
“Wanda-You can’t-can’t keep this all up-”
The avenger’s hands traveled up your ribs to your breasts.
“You know the audience wouldn’t have to know- not really. I’ll have a little fake bump, meanwhile every night I can go to my basement,”
A tear comes out, dropping in between your hands spread, splayed out on the plastic 50’s bubbled table. You see a small piece of shiny sharp glass from where you had knocked over the ice teas. If only you could take it and-maybe…a weapon….what?
Your mind is working like molasses, any plan just out of reach. Every idea slipping like sand through asieve.
You hear Wanda appreciating your body, murmuring about how Vision was all wires, where you were soft and dripping - waiting and wanting. You tried to keep your focus, but Wanda’s touch was consuming you.
“Stop,” you gasp, but you don’t want her to stop…not really. Your clit was pulsing faster then your heart, your lips had a shine on them they were so soaked.
“Oh sweet little kitten, isn’t that what Agnes said? You needed a real alpha to take care of you. To mold you, to wreck your empty holes. What is it baby girl? You don’t want to be my kitten? You don’t want to play house with me sweetheart? We could be such good Mommy’s together.” Wanda’s hands roughly tore at your blouse, splitting your bra from the middle as your breasts fell to gravity.
Her palms rubbed and tugged at them too harsh, far crueler than a lover should.
“You just need a little push, isn’t right right kitten?” Wanda’s words sunk into your mind like ambien being injected into your soft tissue.
That’s when you smell Wanda Maximoff’s pheramones, as they washed over your body.
Alpha.
She smelled like warm oats, vanilla, maple and dying fire embers. Charcoal from a burn, you inhaled harder - harder. Your hips jerked violently back. You resembled some kind of bucking horse.
“You just needed to smell Mama, is that it?” Wanda speaks to your reproductive organs, not you.
Your mind unable to fight the sort of forced relaxation she was inducing.
Fight of flight leaving even the tips of your fingers.
Warm milk, oats soaked, vanilla, maple syrup, fire - fuck you smelled her again. The smells working like some kind of propaganda to your womb.
Your cunt cleneched around nothig, only the rough 50’s trouser cloth that was pushed against your slick. The promise of Wanda’s long shaft, without the skin contact.
Your slick was rolling down your legs, not in a cute way, in the same sensation of a crazed animal in heat.
“Your body knows kitten, you just need to relax and let Mama do it, right?” Wanda’s practically hypnotizing you, but as Wanda’s thumbs pinch at your nipple. Your body bends, hips thrusting back to get friction for the wetness. Your chin lifts to see Gertrude and Agnes, they seem to be unhinged.
The same rabid look that happens when you walk by a dof fighting ring.
Wanda’s crazed hands scrape down your ribs, your hips your back, she pushes your hair over your shoulder. Not like some scrambling virgin making lvoe, but like a repeat offender who only enjoys the pain.
“Wanda, let them go-they don’t need to be here for this-” You say, your training attempting to bubble up. Save them, save the innocent.
Though the shaft popping out of Agnes slacks told you that these smells, this view - had it’s own sort of entertainment.
You inhale again, like hitting cocaine, then rubbing it in your gums.
Your body is already folding, your reason to fight Wanda leaving - it wasn’t just a normal breeding desire. It was all consuming kinda akin to a dehydrated heat stroke, here you were unsure as to what you were ever fighting.
The smell of Wanda’s pheramones, that milky oat taste flooding your tongue you think of being swollen, you imagine being….pregnant.
A thing you had never wanted, never, not once, but now as the image is planted in your mind.
It’s all you can think of, like a sickness flowing into your veins, into ever corner of your conciouusness.
You huff and pushed your ass higher, just a little higher, proving you were ready.
A dog with it’s nose low and body up in the air - ready, you were ready.
Wanda’s hair is curled so perfectly, not a wrinkle or blemish, she’s television perfect. But as her hands round to your cunt you see a hungry vilianois smile.
Your tongue feels fat in your mouth, sweat trickling down your neck, you open your mouth and pant.
The part of you that would be humiliated, was long dead.
You let the spit fall out of your open mouth, hoping Wanda will let you lick her sex once she’s finished ejaculating inside of you to the point of bursting pain.
Wanda can’t take it anymore, she drops her pants and kicks the soiled fabric from your slick across the cement.
Gertrude and Agnes’s bodies both flinch forward, as though they were hungry for Maximoff’s leftovers. Would lick the arousal off, the lubrication your body made tasting so sweet to any alpha - a contact high was impossible not to succumb to.
Now as Wanda pressed into you, there were no barriers. You practically howl like something feral left out in the sun too long.
Wanda’s shaft is hard as stone, but as the long meaty stick presses flat against your sensitive, smoldering labia you as sure you have lost yourself.
You’re panting with your tongue out, whatever Maximoff had done to your limbs, your mind, you aren’t an agent anymore, aren’t in the 50’s, you belong to Wanda. Your womb is empty, and she’s the only one who can ever comfort the sickness inside of you.
“You wanna be a Mama, huh? You want your fat tits to leak, you need me. Say it, SAY IT.” Wanda’s voice is murderous, you can’t fathom how she was ever one of the good guys.
She reeks of crazy, and you resemble that of some sort of hybristophilia. A word you’d learned in the agency. The fangirls of serial killers, the ones who loved conjugal visit. The phenomoinon of Bonnie licking Clydes balls, that addictive sensation where a psychopath asks you to sit in their lap. An illness that infects these empathetic people, that turns them into monsters too.
Wanda’s hand slapped down across your left ass cheek harder than you’d ever been spanked. Your body responds like a rubber band being snapped.
If Wanda was Manson, then you’d happily crawl.
You were no longer sane, you were cracking under the promise of Maximoff’s seed.
“MAMA PLEASE!” You gasp patheticly, but Wanda doesn’t like it - she reaches to your brasta again and slaps them both hard and you cry out in pain.
“They’re such pretty things now, but when I’m done you’ll be bursting in pain - milk squirting out everytime I’m inside of you. You need that don’t you? You need me.” Wanda wasn’t putting on a show for the people watching.
Wanda was feeling free for the first time in her whole life - the villain finally adorning her crown.
“Mommy please, please please - I need it.” You vibrate even against Wanda’s magical lock on your form. Your eyes roll back as your cunt slides, your hips dropping and humping back up.
Your wetness soacking her thick cock, as though you were spreading your icing all over her shaft.
You’d soiled it, so it was yours now.
Your nails bite into the plastic, an uncomfortable squeaking noise, Wanda’s unblinking, but she’s no longer perfect. As the bottom of her pressed clean linen shirt is now soaked with your wetness.
You’re creating too much, too quickly, your needy cunt creating suction noises.
“Vision is going to be so happy.” Wanda tells you as her dominant hand moves between your kissing genitals to fist her cock. “We’re gonna be such a good family.”
Your nodding just a bit, eyes rolling back, as you see something purple, you don’t understand it - too far feral. You don’t notice Agnes losing her composure, or the blue in Gertrude’s eyes breaking through the hex haze. Their magic, the alpha’s desire too painful - a horrible mix.
Wanda’s other hand slams down hard on your spine, your face colluding hard with the plastic table, other glasses falling off and shattering around your feet.
You are going to hyperventalate, your too hyped up, too extitced, to care about your cheek bleeding from the rough edge of the plastic.
The witch pushed her tip in just an inch and you were jumping against your magic bindings to sink onto the thick meaty rod.
“Stay, stay whore.” Wanda spanked your right cheek so hard your tongue flattened and extended, drool falling from your lips.
Gertrude’s dress had a stain from precum, while Agnes was seconds away from ejaculating fully, her knot swelling with no release - having to be cuckholded - was making her itch with rage.
Wanda’s head fell back as she sighed in delight, her tip engulfed in pure wet omega heat. The alpha was in heaven, her toes curling in her heels. This was the life, her red magic was like lightning through your calves keeping you on the edge of pain - on the edge of complete madness.
Wanda Maximoff didn’t know how to love, that was clear.
But you were being mated- branted with her cock And you’d submitted like a good omega. You’d you’d lick her fingers clean, be her little house gimp. Her breeding cow, whatever she wanted. Your training was leaking out of your mind faster than Wanda was getting soaked with your slick.
“Vision will want to try, he’ll be unable to do what we can-but he’ll try.” Wanda was murmuring and you understood now as the hand not pinning your spine down to the glass, moved over your dark red ass cheeks.
Right to your asshole, her thumb pushing and then retreating to see your hole clench, then your cunt clench on her cock.
“Thank you S.H.I.E.L.D I have the prefrect breeding girl, so pretty.” Wanda spoke and you were no longer sure what shield was? Nor were you sure when you couldn’t smell Wanda’s yummy scent.
Your cheek had a puddle of blood pressing between your skin and the plastic, your jaw creaking from the weight of Wanda’s left arm you down into a good animal breeding position.
Making you submit, like a pet who soils the floor get’s their snout pressed into it. You were being taught how you should submit for your owner.
Wanda let out a breath through her nose and then she sunk her cock further into your womb.
You screamed as though she was ripping your hair out by the scalp.
But in reality, Wanda’s cock was splitting your walls, tearing them open, you’d never felt something so big, and her knot worked like a cork at your opening.
Wanda didn’t pull out, she wanted you crazed, wanted you to forget your own name.
“MOMMY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! I NEED YOUR SEMEN GOD DAMN IT PLESE!” You cried out in misery, using words that no 50’s sitcom would ever approve of.
Wanda was now clawing at your hips with too much force, making you bleed, as she attempted to force her knot inside.
But alas, not this episode.
Wanda was thrown off her game - her nosey neighbor Agnes purple magic finally broke as she stood up, her magic spiralling out of her to hit Wanda square in the chest. The alpha no longer able to stand back and watch - just as you were about to get the knot the size of a softball into you.
You fall flat onto the broken glass and cement, unaware of who you are or where you are, your slick pooling underneath you, mixed with gobs of Wanda’s precum.
Magic blasting all around you - a fight of alphas gone heat crazed at your scent.
But you were not here, you were at a commercial break.
The TV static was all you could hear.
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summary — there are a few things natasha has to see to before you and her can make the great escape to norway
warning(s) — established relationship, black widow film semi-canon, emotional exhaustion, brief angsty vibes, the accords, dom/sub dynamics, soft?hard?daddy? (all of the above?) dom!natasha, domestic banter, essentially negotiation ensues, humiliation kink, size kink, makeout session, fingers in hair, hair pulling, lip biting, spit play, thumb sucking, previous knife play, admittedly just freak behavior, undressing, neck kisses, shaving, every kind of teasing, gentle reassurance, manhandling, threat of spanking, clit slapping, nipple stimulation, clit licking, cum play?, cum tasting, bathtub sex, slow fingering, begging, moaning, soft orgasm, aftercare, cuddling, kissing, showering, talks of hair braiding, morning after vibes, hand holding, packing, public play, free use kink at large, biting, exhibitionism, clothed grinding + groping, strap-on usage, dirty talk, elements of cnc, thigh fucking, clit stimulation (nat!receiving), just the tip, delayed orgasm, choking, mutual orgasm, praise kink, pet names, men/minors dni
authors note — so… i’ve never written anything like this and i cannot even be sure how i thought of this so... enjoy? would love to hear your thoughts and comments!
It’s not the best place you’ve stayed, but you’re leaving tomorrow morning before the sun even breaks across the sky regardless, so you try not to focus too much on the cobwebs toward the far corner of the room tapered across the ceiling like nonchalantly acknowledged decorations, or the draft that blows in from beneath the door and fights the heating system that you’ve had cranked up to seventy-nine degrees since the very moment Natasha had turned the deadbolt behind her that morning. It’s not the best place you’ve stayed. Not by a long shot. There have been cleaner apartments, warmer trailers, more thoughtfully decorated shacks that you’d slept in across the larger United States up until this point, but you’re choosing to see this situation as an opportunity for reflection rather than what it actually is; a devious and emotionally devastating rerooting of your lives by force from the elected government officials who see your girlfriend as a weapon and yourself as a necessary casualty in their crusade — though it feels more like a manhunt.
It’s not the nicest place you’ve stayed during the last two months of constant moving and continuous planning for something larger, but if you think about the cobwebs instead of the fact that Natsaha’s out securing the very last of the fabricated documents you need to maintain a low profile life outside of the states and everything you’ve ever known, it at least keeps you comfortable in bed beneath thin blankets, not pacing the creaky floors sick with nauseating worry and unease. For the first time, cobwebs are a nicer alternative than facing your reality.
You’ve been trying not to glance at the analog clock that’s propped up on the nightstand by a waterlogged bible, but your eyes shift toward it regardless of your intentions. She’s late. Natasha Romanoff, a woman who had once been allergic to tardiness, now drowns in her own timelines and overlapping escape routes. The last two months have been draining for you, exhausting in a way you hadn’t previously had a fundamental understanding of, but this is the adrenaline that she’d been carved from with razor blades, and the comfortability she exudes even still rattles you as you sit alone in the bed. It’s a cute little bungalow, but she’d promised to be home before nine. The cover of darkness adds a layer of protection to her already masked identity, but the last parade around town that she’d let herself get lost in had led to three different whispers of a Black Widow sighting, and a fourth just won’t do before you can slip away into the advantage of international waters.
Across the room your bags are packed. Two backpacks that couldn’t have appeared more different when you’d first come into possession of them now dulled by the elements and violence you’d been barely escaping since the accords had dismantled everything you’d finally found peace in. The deadbolt giggles, and then the latch turns. Two quick knocks tap the center of the door before panic can swell in your already tight throat, Natasha’s fingers always faster than your mind can anticipate in every setting. She breaks into the room with a strictness in her stare that sets alarm bells off in your head too quickly. She’s four minutes late. It makes no sense to you. Nothing insignificant would’ve deterred her from the objective at hand, but something imminent would’ve postponed her arrival much later. The darkness in her pupils unnerves you more as silence emphasizes your empty hands. You have no cards to play right now, no insight, no clue what could’ve happened or what will happen.
“You’re late.” You find yourself saying instead, because you have to say something, but there’s nothing left to say when the last four months have consisted of nothing but talking. So much talking. You’re tired of it now, something you once never thought could happen with Natasha. Your voice is brittle. Even in your dryness toward her, your voice can’t hide the nervousness you feel that she can’t comprehend. She knows you have valid reasons to be nervous, but it had been a long time since she’d been allowed to feel with every aspect of her being, and this is a life she’d never wanted to tangle you into so intricately, so she struggles to meet you at a level that’s not dismissive or overly suffocating.
“I want control.” She says instead of answering the unspoken question in your statement. Your brain stops for a moment as it considers the depth of her statement. It’s been weeks since you’d last released any kind of tension; outside of the nights you find Natasha out of bed and outside hitting a tree with wrapped knuckles, but at least she’d stopped emptying her barrel into tin targets as an immediate response to the nightmares. Avoiding sex hadn’t been either of your objectives, you either didn’t have the time, the space, or the desire since you’d left the east side of the country and came west, but it still feels like something you hadn’t even considered as it turns in your brain. The last last time she’d touched you, really touched you for more than just ten minutes at a time, there’d been nothing but exhaustion in your muffled moans and panting. It was, in all blatant terms, a quickie that might’ve left you more unsatisfied than satisfied, but you’re reserved to agree. Something could happen. It feels like that’s what you should be waiting for instead of a night of intimacy the government doesn’t think you deserve.
“We leave early tomorrow.” Your eyebrows furrow and Natasha takes two steps closer, her own expression beginning to mirror yours as she drags her eyes over the visible portion of your body. Your hands sit in your lap patiently, but your thumb rubs your knuckle raw as it works perfect tiny circles into your skin. Your cheeks are pale, lacking their usual color as the curtains remain drawn.
“So you need to sleep good.” She reasons, walking nearer until her thighs hit the end of the bed, her hands encouraging you closer as they wait in front of her toned frame calloused palms up. You comply with a huff that feels heavy in your chest, twisting your body until the blankets slip off of your thighs down to your ankles, out of the way enough to get your body upright and situated on your knees that are littered with scars from chain link fences and rocks — a visual reminder of the last two months you didn’t ask for. Her thumbs are cold as they brace your cheeks first, her palms slowly easing down onto the flush apples of your cheeks until they’re squished between her touch not too much, but enough to draw her focus down to your cupid's bow.
“I don’t think its practical to be fucked-out in the middle of our international escape.” Her hands have an addicting hold on your brain function, but they’re too cold to pull you beneath her fully how she wants, and an amused fire burns in her eyes as her nose squints and she twitches just slightly with a repressed laugh.
Her tongue clicks against her teeth before she speaks, a whimsical essence to her stare that hasn’t existed in weeks now as she lets herself forget about visas and falsified birth certificates and the likelihood of dying before you can even find peace again. “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to be thinking about the logistics of anything at all.” She teases, knowing how much you resent her throwing your words back at you near verbatim even if it is in jest.
“Natasha, I’m serious!” You pull away with a laugh, batting at her chest with hands that always appear so tiny when they’re up against her. She’s thinned out since you fled New York, bulked up and toned thoroughly sure, but her face is slimmer now. Hollow around her cheeks and bony in her nose. Still, she manages to make you feel tiny just by the confidence she exudes. “Tell me what took you so long first.” You throw out your only card to play with a resigned sigh.
“I bought razors.” She answers you simply, nodding toward the bag on the floor by the door that you hadn’t even seen her drop as she came inside. It takes a minute for your brain to come up with a reason for why she could’ve even possibly needed to go out of her way to purchase razors before it dawns on you and your body melts into the bed, all resistance evaporating into the air to be replaced by a pitiful state of submission Natasha hadn’t seen in many moons.
“No.” Your voice is whiny, high pitched and soft in a way that tells her she’s won this fight your brain just hasn’t caught up to your body yet. “Why does it even matter if I shave?!”
“Because you’re supposed to get your period in the next three days and we have more pads left than tampons and you get grumpy when the ad—“
“Why do you pay so much attention to the most random things about me!” Your face flushes, eyes wide with mortification that turns your bones hot and fuzzy. You know that she knows this about you, you know this about yourself, but nobody had ever felt it necessary to speak it aloud, and you’d never previously considered how much you appreciated that before.
She doesn’t so much as flinch at your outburst, only raising an unimpressed eyebrow at your interruption as it happens before she continues the moment your mouth closes. “—hesive gets caught in your hair. And. I want control.”
“Can I at least do it?” You plead, eyes squinted, glassy with arousal that pools in your panties and slowly rises to a boil in your belly, but there’s time before it bubbles over, not yet unbearable beneath your skin as your mind sinks into the subconscious state of submitting. When there’s expectations instead of options, things are just easier, but your hands have not been forced yet. The door to independence and resistance hasn’t been fully closed on you yet. Harsh white lighting still shines brightly through the crack in the door that Natasha watches through with a sick smile. You still don’t even realize that you beg for it every time. Maybe not with your words directly, but with your body, with your willful resistance that really just begs for harshness and direction. You know the answer is no, but she hasn’t said it and you want to hear it. You want it laid down upon your skin like a burning hot rod ready to brand you.
“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes questioning as her head tilts. “It’s my body, isn’t it? My pussy between those legs?” She doesn’t need to touch you for you to feel the implication of those words. Your thighs twitch as pleasure shoots off in your core, your eyes pinching shut as you exhale through your lips
“Yes.” It’s a quick nod of your head that satisfies her, not the titleless whisper that falls off your lips quietly and pathetically. She’s taught you better than to answer her so halfmindedly, but there’s time to remind you.
“Then you let me take care of it.” The finality in her voice seals your coffin for the night indefinitely, but Natasha’s not done reminding you how effortlessly she can get your body to fold. She’s not done abusing the power she still has left beneath her fingertips. “Kiss me. Come up here and kiss me, baby.” She nods her head, reminds you of how high her frame hovers over yours when you're situated like this, all folded into yourself on the bed while she stands, dressed in tactile clothes with more knives than you’re aware of tucked into the waistbands and pockets of her outfit.
Her lips are rough when yours first brush against them, your hands braced on her toned belly as you lean your weight against her body and sit up on your shins, the very tops of your knees hanging off the bed yet stationed between her strong thighs. The aquaphor you’d been sharing since Texas had been lost somewhere between scaling the rusted picket fence and jump starting a black camaro, but your lips haven’t fared the same fate as hers. Somehow, your lips are still cushiony and soft as they settle between Natasha’s, but she hadn’t expected anything less. Not from someone so perfect, so angelic and sweet.
Her tongue is probably the only warm thing about her body right now as it breaks through her lips and swipes across your bottom lip that maintains suction around hers. Your hands hold her belly, but hers make their way up to your hair as your head turns to let her tongue in to wander. You don’t need to be shown how she likes you anymore, you just fall into place, knowing the pleasure that follows. A whine climbs your throat as she tangles her fingers into the hair nearest your scalp, tugging only slightly as if to edge the accumulated tension from how often you’ve had it swept up into a ponytail.
Natasha moans when you brazenly — with all of the control you have left in your body — suckle on her tongue that scrapes across yours, and in a moment that's too quick for you to process but slower in reality, her fingers pull at your hair hard enough to shock you, regaining control of the kiss that you’ve nearly derailed. Her teeth bite your bottom lip as she pulls away too soon, cheeks flushed and lips swollen as a string of saliva follows her glistening mouth.
“Cheeky girl.” She hums, admiring the way you lick your lips clean of her taste without being told to clean yourself up. Her thumb comes to help what you can't reach with your tongue, swiping away the wetness beneath your lip before she feeds it back to you with a heavy pressure on the center of your tongue that gags you. She lets you have a moment of bliss only after the tears dissipate from your waterline, your cheeks hallowing around her thumb as you suck with a drunken gleam in your eyes that’s intoxicating.
“Please.” You lean in, begging for another chance to kiss her that deeply again, but Natasha shakes her head, pulling a knife from the cuff of her suit. It stirs something inside of you that you hadn’t thought about before, knowing she’d just been so soft with you, and yet a knife that she’d definitely killed someone with was being kept so close to your face.
“You like that one.” Natasha tracks your eye, a smirk pulling at her lips as she continues to undress haphazardly, like its not ruining her panties to watch you sweat with excitement over a weapon she’s plunged into many. “The one I used to cut your panties off in Venice.”
”Oh.” You shift on the bed, pressing your thighs together as you get lost in the memory of that night and the uncountable amount of orgasms you’d experienced all throughout the hotel room.
Natasha hums with a glint in her eyes, setting the last knife down on the nightstand before she nods toward the bathroom. “Don’t run the tub yet, just get a towel for your back and one for me and wait for me.” She leans in close to peck your lips once before she taps your thigh, directing you away with a pointedness in her green stare.
There’s a lightness in your head that hasn’t felt so attainable in a while, and when you get up off the bed you’re aware of the tingling in your legs that comes from not only the position you’d occupied, but the eager anticipation that drags you out to sea and strands you in an ice cold current, but you can’t focus on any one thing in specific despite the running list of things you realize and notice all at once as you move through the room on autopilot you didn’t even know you were aware of. It doesn’t really feel like time is moving at all around you as you grab two towels from the linen closet on the wall in the bathroom and spin around to analyze the tub, but evidently it is because one moment you’re all alone, two white towels beneath your arm, and your gaze set upon the bathtub with butterfly wings going crazy in your belly, and the next there’s arms tugging at the hem of your t-shirt, cold knuckles dragging along your skin as your wordlessly undressed.
Natasha’s warm breath leaves a trail of goosebumps up your neck as she kisses you softly, easing your right arm out of the hole in your shirt before the left, ensuring the towels never touch the floor in the process, and that the cold you face is only temporary as her kisses bloom warmth beneath your skin. She takes the towels from you and sets them on the counter once the t-shirt is on the floor and out of tripping zones for all parties, easing your shorts and underwear down your thighs in one fluid motion next. She taps your thigh to step out, cooing softly in your ear when you shiver.
The bath doesn’t take long to draw once she reaches over to fix the plug and get the hot water running, but she leaves you standing naked beside the bathtub for longer than necessary just to keep you antsy in anticipation for something that you’re not even fond of, enjoying the sight of your bare body as she stands fully clothed in a suit that had once put so much authority onto her name. There’s so much about this situation that drives her crazy and releases the nerves she’s never learned how to express. If she let you pick, you wouldn’t be doing this. And it's not even that she likes it, it’s that you let her. You don’t like it, and it makes you feel small, and exposed, and vulnerable, but you trust her, and in moments when she can’t even find the strength to trust her gut, that counts for more than the world itself.
“Step in, baby girl.” She coaxes gently, certain that the goosebumps accumulating on your spine are only half from arousal and definitely from nerves. She breathes deeply, her shoulders dropping before they roll back to square as she helps you over the wall of the tub and into the just-right water that sloshes mid-shin. “Too warm?” She asks quietly, knowing you’re a better gauge of temperature than she could ever be. So long as her body gets clean, the means of showering has never mattered much to Natasha Romanoff, even in freedom, even in adulthood.
“No.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your body as half of you warms up a considerable amount in only moments. Natasha tuts, reaching out to tap her hand against your wrist, shaking her head as she begins to work the zipper of her tactile suit down her body, letting it pool in a heap of wrinkles after it is pulled from her hips. “Mmm.” The water sloshes as you whine and shake your body in protest to her silent command, yet your body obeys the direction and forces your arms to drop to your sides within the same moment, further amusing Natasha who leaves her sports bra on as she climbs into the tub behind you. “Please!” She pays you no mind, which might turn you on even more, as she reaches back to the counter and pulls the two towels you grabbed near.
“Sit down on the edge, legs on the sides.” She hums, not fussed by your accumulating blush as you stand still in front of her. “Come on, sweet girl, I’m not going to tell you again.” The gentle coaxing is backed by a strongness in her stare that has you moving, sloshing through the water, sinking onto the ledge of the tub where a towel is draped behind your back until you’re situated enough to even consider putting your legs up. “Heels on the ledge, baby.”
“Please.” Your cheeks burn with shame as you shake your head, not sure what it is about this particular setting that makes your belly burn so fiercely, but it reduces you to whimpers and whines just to think about. It’s not the feeling you don’t like, which is part of why you don’t put up that hard of a fight. The feeling won’t feel the same without the build-up.
“Don’t make me do it, detka.” Natasha warns, already sinking onto her knees as she reaches for the bag still on the floor outside of the tub. You hadn’t seen her bring it in, hadn’t seen her come inside the small bathroom at all, but there it is and here she is and this is happening whether you want it to or not unless you say the one word you’re not even thinking about using; the word you like to forget you have, even though Natasha hates when you phrase it that way.
There’s no hiding your glistening core when your heels find their place on the thin ledge of the bathtub you know is clean only because she’d soaked a blood soaked hoodie in bleach within it hours before she’d left for your fake papers. It takes effort to keep them there with your body so stiff against the wall, and Natasha tuts and shakes her head as she recognizes you trying your best to keep your thighs as close together as they can be.
“I told you I wasn’t going to ask again.” She grits between a locked jaw as her hands drop the shaving cream and disposable razor she’d been grabbing with and instead settle on your knees, forcing them apart until one hits the shower curtain and the other rests against the wall. Your butt slips off the edge at the aggression just the slightest bit, engaging your core and thrusting your hips upward just enough to satisfy Natasha who hums at the unblocked sight of your throbbing clit she hasn’t even touched yet. “Keep them open or we can revisit how much you hate a spanked and shaved pussy.”
”No.” You shake your head dazedly, your lips pouting as you look down at Natasha between your thighs. She situates herself between your legs, moving closer to your core until the tops of your thighs rest some of your weight on hers, the tension in your engaged core dissipating slightly, but not all the way. Part of Natasha wants you fucked out and pliant tomorrow because she knows that otherwise, your nerves will derail the whole thing, but the other part just wants you to feel so unbelievably good.
“So keep them open and I won't have to do that.” She amends, grabbing the shaving cream again. She cups a handful of water, letting it fall over your core as she pulls the plastic off the top of the can with her teeth, spitting it over the side of her tub with infuriating attractiveness. “Good girl.” She hums when your thighs shake, trembling as you fight the urge to close them as water falls so perfectly overtop of your understimulated and aching clit.
“Ready baby?” She asks, nozzle of the car stationed over your pelvis. You shake your head, a mumbled no falling off your lips in the last second she’s giving you to back out before damage is done, but when you don’t say your safe word and your eyes pointedly avoid hers in shame that feels so nice in your belly, she hums with acceptance of the submission she’s being shown so perfectly. “Oh well.” She mocks sympathy as she lays the first squirt of cream on your maintained patch of hair that she’s only tackling to assert control. There’s no reason for this, and yet here you find yourselves anyway.
The razor drags across your skin smoothly, and while you hate the process, you admit she gives you a cleaner shave than you can manage most of the time. Not to say this happens often, but it's definitely one of the quicker ways that Natasha feels she’s regained complete control. It almost tickles as she takes on the insides of your thighs, but all amusement you’re even considering allowing yourself to feel dissipates when her fingers pull your lips apart, her fingertips prodding at your weeping entrance before they travel up to your clit.
Natasha taps the pulsating bud with two fingertips tauntingly, laughing in amusement as your hips cant and your hands grapple to grab at anything they can find, migrating to your chest to grab and pinch at your nipples that offer release. She doesn’t offer you a hand to grab onto, doesn’t remind you of the bar that’s mounted to the side of the wall right within reach, she watches as you grope and fondle yourself to find any kind of solid ground to channel the sensations she’s causing you into.
“Such a pretty pussy. You’re so needy, my love. So needy this little clit is just dancing for some attention.” Natasha leans in close to lap at your clit with the softest kitten-like stroke. Your hips jump upwards, desperate to chase the pressure she’d barely even given you, but her hands keep you still before you can buck shaving cream all over her chin and cheeks. “Shh, stop. You’re the only one who needs to be messy right now.”
Your head gets thrown back sometime between the comment and her fingers trailing down your labia like she’s admiring a painting while trying to add her own creative touch in the process. She pulls her fingers away only after she swipes across your opening again with featherlight pressure, rubbing her fingers together and holding them up to her face to admire. She pulls them apart obscenely, chuckling softly at it pearls and slips down her fingers, too much to keep under control with such carelessness. She hums in displeasure as it slides down toward her palm as she holds her hand up still inspecting, her tongue jutting out to lick her digits clean before it can fall to waste into the water, only adding to the tightness in your belly as you clench around nothing.
You can’t watch as she goes back to shaving you bald, can’t think as you drown in the sensations that she’s forcing you to feel with no release or relent. “Clenching around nothing, baby.” Natasha comments, unable to help herself after watching your walls contract for the third time in only a handful of seconds, her thumb pulling the top of your cunt taut, your clit fully exposed as she collects the last remaining bit of hair and shaving cream on the edge of the razor. “Leaky pussy can’t even handle me just touching it. That’s all I’m doing baby, just touching you and you’re dripping. String of wetness all the way down to the water, you know that? Know you’re dripping all over me and I can just tell how tight that little cunt is by looking at it?” She wipes the razor on the towel she has draped over the side of the tub, your hair and shaving cream smeared all over half of it, but then she grabs it, balls it up until the clean side’s all that’s exposed, and brings it down between your legs where she knows sensitivity has increased tenfold.
“Daddy!” You gasp, the final straw breaking as you jerk your hips, trying both to get away from the friction and to chase it. “Please! Please please please!” It’s a breathy mantra that you lose track of as quickly as you’d found it, your voice trailing off as you shake your head, not sure what you’re begging for or what you want or where you’re going from here.
“All this wetness.” Natasha continues to drone on about your arousal, unbothered by your fierce blush, or your growing desire that's starting to become too much in your bones. “Look at it. Look at how slutty that little pussy is. Just for me.”
Your eyes glance at the towel for only a moment, but there’s no denying the smear of clear glossy wetness that dampens and dirties it. She tosses it aside without care, pulling your thighs until more of your weight rests on her.
“But it’s not your fault is it, baby girl? Can’t help that you get so wet. Daddy trained you, huh? It’s all Daddy’s fault you're a wet, needy little girl, isn’t it?” Natasha feigns a coo as she trails her fingers against your mound, down your clit, towards your entrance. She’s soft, but not teasing this time. There’s no slight pressure followed by nothingness this time. Her fingers, three of them, sink into your core with some resistance, but the tightness of your walls is no comparison to her determination or the arousal coating her fingers. ”That’s right, that’s it. Oh, it’s not gonna take my girl any time to cum, is it? Oh no, no, you’re already clenching on my fingers. Oh, do you need to cum pretty girl? Yeah you do, yeah you do. Daddy knows your body, Daddy knows. Come on, cum for me, malysh. All over my fingers, make a mess. Shh, shh, there you go, there you go, sweet girl.” Natasha coos softly, easing her fingers out of your sensitive and stretched walls the second you show the first sign of being through and past your orgasm. She pulls you off the ledge entirely, down into her lap as she sinks into the water that needs to be drained and washed away, but for the moment, she stays, your chests flush together for the first time in a while. “Haven’t cum that hard in a while, huh? Just need a minute to get that pretty head on right again?” Natasha asks when you melt against her and remain a slumped blob, not a sound or a single hum coming from your chest as your eyelashes flutter against her neck as you thoughtlessly stare at her skin. “That’s okay, baby love. You did so good for more. Now I have a nice smooth baby to play with, huh?” She teases slightly, but you let her, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth as you melt contently into her. “Yeah, just keep breathing, sweetheart. Nice deep breaths for me.”
She doesn’t mean to rush you, but you’ve tested the patience of the water you sit in, and the temperature is becoming unwelcoming as waves slosh into your sides and shoulders as you slowly sink lower and lower into the tide.
“Gimmie a kiss, baby.” Natasha directs, grabbing your chin with her fingers and guiding your face up toward the light, forcing your eyes to focus on something other than the freckles that vary in darkness across her chest. You comply, albeit loosely, your lips resting against hers much to Natasha’s amusement as she presses hard into you before pulling away. “We’re gonna shower now, baby.” She rocks you slightly, if only to make sure your limbs are able to react and support your weight sufficiently when she eventually makes you stand.
“No.” You shake your head, looping your arms around her as you find your voice quietly. Natasha laughs, scoffing slightly benath her breath as she considers how it’s possible to have you so fucked out and pliant, and yet your first coherent utterance post-orgasm is still an act of petulant defiance agaisnt her authority. She doesn’t know how you can manage it so effortlessly, but she knows you aren’t even meaning to do it, which only amuses her further.
“Yeah, baby. We’re going to shower, and you’re going to go put some jammies on and wait for me in bed, and then how about I braid this mane of yours so we don’t even have to bother with it tomorrow morning. Let ya sleep in a little bit, hm? That sound like a good plan for a good girl?” She questions you sweetly, patiently, brushing her hand through your hair that's tangled from the wetness and tousling it’s experienced.
You nod, blinking your eyes just the slightest bit faster as your head doesn’t swim so terribly thick anymore. “Okay, so then it's time to get up.” Natasha nods encouragingly, helping you to your feet in the water that's slightly disgusting to look down at. She undoes the drain, turning the shower water back on hot and turning to face the brunt of the assault as the water warms back up to an acceptable and welcoming temperature.
She doesn’t let you think about anything for too long or too deeply, guiding you through the motions of showering, drying off, and getting to bed for the night. The next morning brings the same tender fate of care and affection, her thoughtful consideration sparing you no second or reason to wander off to the list of possibilities and outcomes that you could potentially face on your great escape to Norway where the real adventuring would begin. You wouldn’t have to pretend to find joy and comfort in cobwebs and dingy showers there, you’d be able to relax a little bit, at least until Natasha got a better idea of how to fix everything.
Fixing everything and the accords never crossed your mind once as she guided you through the docking station with a tight grip on your hand, keeping you beneath a current of control that was dissimilar to the ocean beneath you so drastically. The ocean churned and protested beneath the heavy metal of the ship as Natasha slid her cellphone and yours over the railing, dressed in a grey sweat seat that she’d lifted from a continent store on the corner only an hour ago. The bulge in her pants doesn’t go unnoticed, in fact, it's the only thing you’ve been thinking about as she manages the talking and the scamming.
The ship horn blows louder than you anticipated, but Natasha takes it as an excuse to pull you between her body and the railing, letting her strong arms provide a shield from the reverberations of sound all around you and the wind that tries to force its way into your bones. It's cold, too cold, but it's less confined out here. There’s scaffolding and metal hunks you can’t name that conceal identification, and with weather keeps away a majority of the people sharing the experience with you.
You can finally breathe when the ferry begins to leave the port, pulling away from the shore with no government order to stop immediately, but Natsha doesn’t take a breath for two entire minutes as she watches the coastline get farther and farther away through her peripheral vision. She stays still, eerily so, as she lets herself feel nervousness through the control she’s still grappling to maintain as an outlet. It’s a confusing mix of emotions, but she feels it full until she doesn’t want to anymore, turning her attention to you fully, entirely and truly fully, for the first time in a long time, her face nuzzling into your neck as she bites down on your collarbone.
Your hips jump in startled shock, grinding back against the bulge in her pants that swings with her body every time the waves jostle her frame. Her arms provide more than just decoration around you, Natasha knowing with certainty that if she were to let you go, you’d tumble over within seconds with the force building beneath the both of your feet from the winter waves.
She doesn’t comment on the movement of your hips as you manually mimic the unconscious sway that had created a point of contact between your body and the silicone extension of hers. The warmth from her chest radiates through your being as she leans closer, sandwiching you between the cold metal railing and the strength of her body as she turned to take your earlobe between her teeth, her tongue licking to smooth the ache away from your mind as she silently took advantage of your body.
”Anybody could see.” She mutters after a moment, reminding you of where you are and the bodies that you’re surrounded by for the foreseeable future. The warning barely sits on the surface of your skin for a moment, brushed off just as easily as the wind rolls over the apples of your cheeks with a harshness that chaps them.
“N-Nothings happening.” Natasha doesn’t expect the response that comes falling off of your lips with a shaky softness; some of the only words you’d spoken that morning at all. She laughs softly, muffling the sound in the pocket of your neck to keep from drawing attention to yourselves, feeling like she can breathe again for the first time as she zeroes her focus in on you. She’d used that line one too many times it seems, because now even in the half-drunk state that you maintain, you’re using her manipulation against her.
“No? Nothing’s happening, baby? We’re gonna play that game?” Natasha coos, brushing strands of hair away from your jawline that she peppers kisses into seconds later, selfishly seeking ounces of your warmth wherever she can find it
”Play that game.” You nod desperately, pussy clenching around nothing as you press up onto your tippy toes, trying to get the head of the strap-on to sit against your entrance through the layers of clothing that keep you separated.
”Good thing I picked this hoodie then, hm?” Natasha rips the waistband of your pants down faster than you can register the intention of the question, your fleece lined leggings bunching right beneath the curve of your ass with the black panties she’d insisted on being the choice for today. “Covers your ass.” She fills you in while pulling the waistband of her sweatpants down just enough to finagle the head shape of the strap overtop of them, her boxers bulging around the thick, girthy shape and length.
Three fingers last night. She’d done it for a reason. Not that you’re thinking enough about last night to realize the connection. You haven’t brought the strap out since before everything had gone down between Steve and Tony. You didn’t even know she had one with her until she’d off handedly mentioned it being at the bottom of a bag last week. It’s the big one, the one she’d worked for months to be able to fuck you with at random.
She doesn’t free the strap-on from its cotton confines, letting the arousal between your legs saturate it. The sensitivity you’d experienced last night hadn’t dissipated yet, nor would it until the hair around your clit grew back, and Natasha hums, soaking up the sounds and twitches of your body that only spread warmth throughout her from the very center of her being.
You whine when it becomes too much and not enough of anything at all, but her hands only grab your hips harder, pulling you against her strap and rocking the base back into her clit by doing so. She groans, dropping her face back into your shoulder as she works the strap between your thighs harder, faster, wishing she could feel how the cotton saturates until its wet, sodden and ruined from arousal she’d surely satisfied last night, but her little sluts insatiable at best sometimes, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been baiting it this entire time.
“Awfully fucking wet, baby.” She grunts against your neck, the warmth from her words sending shivers and shockwaves down your frozen spine. You shake your head wildly, but you know that you are, it doesn’t matter though. Your cheeks burn, flushed from heat and wind. “No? Oh, but I think you are. Mmm, let me just- Fuck.” Natasha pulls your panties aside and over the bulge in her boxers, the pressure driving the both of you insane but its short lived as she stills to change things, slipping the strap through the slot in her boxers but still refusing to put it inside, just ramming your sensitive throbbing clit over and over. “Fuck, I need to feel you.” Natasha mumbles, your head shaking again, a mumble falling off your lips that's inaudible but easy enough to fill in. “Shh, baby. Just the tip, just need to feel you a little bit. Just a little bit of this pussy.” It’s agony to pay when she slips only the head of the strap into you, splitting you open wide and staying there for a moment as she relieves the pressure on her clit, not wanting to cum just yet despite holding out for so long.
”Please.” You plead, rocking your hips back onto the strap as best as you can, but Natasha has the height advantage, and as fast as you move to get back up on your tippy-toes, her hand comes up to hold the base of your throat, not teasing, yet, just resting over the edge of your sweatshirt that you’d once wished was a full winter jacket. Not now. Now, sweat rolls off of you in pearls that dry quickly from the wind, goosebumps replaced with shivers of anticipation.
“Please?” Natahsa mimics, rocking her hips shallowly into you as her hands keep you still where she wants you. “Please what, baby? Please keep fuckign me with just the tip of your cock, or please fuck me deep until I can feel it for days? Which one is it, hm? What’s it going to be? Like this? Or do you want me, fuck, or do you want me deeper?” Natasha slams her hips into you hard, unforgivingly so, her hand dropping from your throat to sit over your bladder, pressing down with a cruel mess that has you writhing between her chest and the metal railing. “Do you want me here? In your belly?”
”Please!” Natasha will never get tired of hearing all the different ways she can get you to say it, but she concedes with your pleads before you can ask again in a different way, ramming you full with long, deep thrusts that have little speed built behind them, but enough strength to ensure bruises on your hips from the railing come morning time. “Hold it baby, just for a minute. Fuck, just so that I can get there too. Come on, be good. Be a good girl for me, fuck fuck fuck.” Natasha’s thrusts turn frantic quickly, but there needs to be no rhythm in place to secure your orgasm, your body tumbling over the edge the second permission falls from her lips cut short by a moan as na orgasm bursts through her body and yours in tandem.
A giggle tears through your chest in the aftermath of the orgasm, no real reason for the laughter but no reason to shove it all away either. Natasha laughs with you fondly, turning your head with her finger eventually to kiss you sweetly and deeply.
”We did it.” She whispers against your lips, her breath warm and welcomed across your face as she blocks it from the wind for the first time in too long. “The first step at least.”
Your in no state to weigh in on the standings of your safety and progress in the plan, and Natasha knows that, she doesn’t expect an answer, but she has to say it anyway for it to be real. You smile, nodding your head because you can recognize how significant this moment is to the both of you right now, but the only echo in your head right now is getting every inch of your body inside and on top of you at the same time, so deeply infatuated with her entire makeup that seconds pass slower, just a vortex of emptiness beside you and her tangled together and mangled.
”We’ve gotta stay out here a little bit longer, baby.” She breaks it to you eventually, her forehead resting against yours in a moment of gentle affection she would never want another soul to witness. You’re hers. She fought too hard to find you to let just anybody have the sweetest parts of you.
“It’s cold.” You whine softly, finding your voice, though not your body, still relying on her to keep the both of you standing on the deck.
”I know it’s cold, but people are still finding their spaces in there. Once it settles down a little bit we can go catch a couple hours of sleep and warmth, okay? You can be my brave girl for a little while longer, yeah?” You nod against her chest, too tired and cold to form words, not that Natasha’s ever required them from you. She’d live in silence before she found someone else. “This isn’t what I wanted for us, you know.” She says sparingly, despite both of you knowing that never in a million years had she pictured this for you even in her worst nightmare.
“I choose you.” You remind her simply, but it has the same effect as an entire monologue would’ve. Natasha nods, taking in another deep breath before she melts, resting her chin against your shoulder as she lets the both of you sway, being carried away into freedom for the first time in too long.
any idiot can have sex. but can you make a woman feel safe? comfortable? appreciated? adored? can you support her at her worst? no? then stay the fuck away from her.
Imagine Wanda as an innocent professor, as you seduce her.
—
“Ms? I think I need a little help with this assignment. I don’t quite understand the theory.”
You bite your lip as you lean over her desk, exposing what’s under your shirt. Everyone else is gone, and you made sure to close the door.
“Oh, of course! What is it that you don’t understand?” Her warm and friendly smile radiates through the room.
“How exactly does the biology work? I can’t seem to make sense of it.” You hand her your assignment sheet.
She furrows her eyebrows as she reads through what you’ve already written. Which is nothing.
“There’s nothing here..”
“I just thought we could spend some quality time together.”
You smirk, leaning forward even further, now exposing the red lacy bra you’d chosen specially. Her eyes widen, pushing her glasses up her nose and looking away.
“I—I don’t know what you’re trying to do but I think it’s best you leave.”
“Oh, but I’ve seen the way you look at me during lectures. Looking at my legs when you think I’m not aware.”
She blushes, the tips of her ears pink.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.. I really do think you should leave—“
“I’ve been thinking of you too. Late at night when I can’t sleep. But I think your fingers would be a lot more effective than my own, don’t you think?”
pixelskylines
2087
titsay
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
