âThis is all your fault, so come here and do something about it!â
A few months ago, if you had told Jean Grey that she would have to come home after a long day spent fighting apocalyptic evils to an angry wife who loved to yell at her, sheâd scoff and say she had more self-respect than to let herself fall into that situation. Now? Suffice it to say, said angry wife was the highlight of her day.
âGood evening to you too, Emma.â
Heavily pregnant, sprawled out in what could only be called a nest of blankets and throw pillows, and pouting up at Jean as she climbed into the bed with her, the White Queen could only be described as an utterly adorable sight. Not that Jean would say that out loud.
Not that she had to, of course.
âIâm not adorable,â Emma huffed, her pout only growing in response to the amused thoughts in her wifeâs head. âIâm in pain, Iâm suffering, and itâs your fault.â
She was as dramatic as ever.
Jean chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against the blondeâs lips. âMy deepest apologies, your majesty,â she cooed, âWhat can I do to help?â
âI donât care, just do something,â Emma whined, which was Emma-speak for âI need you to massage every inch of my body until I tell you to stop in roughly 3 hours.â
Jean couldnât help the grin that took over her features, âOf course, of course. Câmere, Em.â
A few months ago, if you had told Jean Grey that she would get to cuddle up with a huffy Emma Frost carrying her baby every single night, sheâd never believe you. Now? It was familiar how Emma seemed to slip so perfectly into her embrace, how her back would settle against Jeanâs front as the blonde wriggled into a comfortable position, how the redheadâs arms would wrap snugly around her wife and her swollen belly in order to hold them both.
Jeanâs eyes flickered the faintest shades of pink as she began her nightly duties, swollen feet and heavy limbs and tight muscles gently worked to ease under her telekinesis. Emmaâs quiet moan of relief at the ministrations wasnât lost on her ears as the redhead leaned forward amidst the massage to begin peppering her wife's shoulders and neck with kisses.
It only took a few minutes for the White Queen to have gone completely boneless in her arms, a few minutes for the ever feared and revered Emma Frost to be turned into mewling putty for Jean, utterly satisfied with the affection she was receiving.
Jean let her wife enjoy herself in silence, her fingers gently soothing over the tension in the blondeâs stiff shoulders, before she eventually ventured to ask, âHow has the baby been?â
It took a second to get a reply. âAs restless as ever.â
âAnd her mother?â
âMm⊠much the same.â
Despite the conversation they were carrying, Emmaâs head had tilted back against Jeanâs rain of adoration, enough to expose her neck for her wife as the redhead pressed kiss after kiss against the column of her throat. She was coming to though, pulled back towards a semi-coherency after floating her way through that blissful cloud of Jeanâs telekinetic charm.
Upon the blinking open of her lidded eyes, she was greeted by the redheadâs gentle chiding of, âRest is important, you know,â as her lips continued working against the blondeâs tender skin.
Even with Emma bliss still lazily radiating off of her, Jean could feel the weariness of the sigh the other woman let out. âThatâs all Iâve been doing, dear,â the White Queen said softly, âItâs utterly mind-numbing.â
âYouâre carrying our child, Emma.â
Another sigh. âAs everyone is ever so keen to remind me.â
Wriggling around in Jeanâs arms, Emma turned her head to be able to meet the other telepathâs gaze. âIâm not made of glass, Jeanie.â
âNo, youâre not.â
The redhead's agreement came quickly. Naturally. This was a fact Jean had known from the very start.
Even expecting, Emma had insisted she kept working, kept busy. There was always something to do: paperwork to push, children to care for, duties to attend to. The White Queen hardly stopped, even as she began showing, even as she was forced to trade her typical heels for more comfortable flats and drop her usual black coffee for a cup of simple, herbal tea.
It had taken a considerable amount of X-Men to finally convince the woman that Krakoa wouldnât completely fall apart without her, that she could take her leave without the nationâs economy imploding in on itself. In fact, it had been mused that the X-Men had faced many a threat in the past â apocalyptic, universal, even inter-dimensional ones â but a stubborn, pregnant White Queen was one of the scariest things the team had ever faced.
And yet, holding that very woman in her arms, Jean couldnât help but smile, âNot glass. You, Emma, are made of the most dazzling diamond this universe has ever seen.â
Reaching around, Jean cupped Emmaâs cheek with a hand, her green eyes crinkling at the corners as they locked onto her wifeâs crystalline blue ones. âBut, even the purest of diamonds ought to be polished and cared for to shine their brightest. You, my queen, are no exception.â Dipping her head, Jean pressed another kiss to the blondeâs lips as she continued, âEnjoy the rest while you can, Em,â she murmured, âonce our baby is here, Iâm sure weâll miss these moments of peace and quiet. Best we savour them while theyâre still plentiful.â
There was a brief moment of silence as the sentiment sank in, before the blonde began to slowly settle back against her wife. Turning her head, Emma leaned her face a little further into the hand still cradling her cheek, her lips brushing a delicate kiss of her own against her wifeâs fingertips. She was relaxed again, fully this time, her eyes slipping shut once more as she let herself be lulled to rest by her belovedâs words and her touch.
But, before she drifted off, in a voice as quiet as a whisper, Emma breathed out the softest, âI love you, Jeanie.â
And Jean smiled in turn, âI love you too, Emma.â
Lowkey hate this but Iâm sticking with it because I already plotted the story soâŠ
âIs everything alright? You look like somethingâs bothering you.â
Itâs Wanda, watching you a tad too carefully like sheâs already solved the puzzle in your mind.
Her voice is a welcomed one, interrupting the spiraling trajectory of your thoughts. Sheâs beside you on a stool in the compoundâs kitchen, nursing a cup of the lavender tea you initially brewed to soothe your aching throat, claiming you mustâve caught a bug training the new recruits.
âItâs⊠Iâm fine.â
Spilling your guts to the Sokovian didnât sound like a great way to spend your afternoon, but despite your dismissal, Wanda doesnât seem entirely convinced. Regardless, she allows you to down your tea without another word.
The elevator doors open and you donât even have to look up to know who it is, that scratchy feeling at the back of your throat tingling as your face warms. You recognize the familiar weighted footsteps, the timing of her stride that tells you sheâs far from happy, rubber soles squeaking in uneven pitches.
Natasha.
âLook, Iâm sorry, okay? What more do you want me to say? You of all people shouldâve known that I wasnât going to say no to that assignment regardless of any⊠personal commitments.â
Her voice comes out sharper than youâve ever heard it, especially not with you. It sets you on edge, and it doesnât take long for you to piece together who sheâs talking to.
âI guess those two are fighting again.â
Wanda murmurs into her cup, both of you watching as the redhead marches towards her quarters and out of sight, not even bothering to look up at either of you.
âMhm.â
You mumble, trying to seem as if youâre not overly invested in the state of Natasha and Mariaâs failing relationship.
It wasnât supposed to be common knowledge, but word gets around especially when most of their arguments escalated to screaming matches that even Stark engineered sound proofing couldnât cover up.
You swore that you didnât want to know the details, knew that it would only fuel endless comparisons and the selfish assumption that you would treat the widow better.
âYouâd think those two wouldâve figured out by now that having a majority of your relationship exist inside a board room isnât exactly healthy.â
Wanda scoffs, only ever stating the obvious. You want to agree, want to go off on a tangent about one-sided communication and half commitments, but all you can do is bite your tongue and try not to burst into another ugly coughing fit.
Wanda has her eyes on you again, that same concerned look on her face that needles down your spine and makes you want to hide your face behind your hands.
âAre you sure thereâs nothing wrong? Youâve been quiet these past couple of days.â
âAllergies. A few cough drops and Iâll be fine, promise.â
Youâre out of your stool before the witch can respond, a familiar bile rising in the back of your throat.
With hurried steps, you stumble into your room, one hand slapped over your mouth to catch anything that comes up should you not make it to your bathroom. You shoulder the bathroom door open, nearly crashing onto your knees just in time to spit and sputter into the toilet bowl.
Itâs a bloodied earthy mess, but underneath it all you can spy one single petal.
you can't sleep. you never can. so you do what you always do, find the library, find something dead enough to make the living world feel small, and wait for morning. what you don't expect is for wanda maximoff, closed off and careful and untouchable by anyone's account, to start showing up too. or to start leaving books out. or to schedule weekly evaluations that stopped being evaluations after the second one.
she doesn't do this with anyone. everyone says so. you're trying very hard not to think about what that means.
The compound had a particular kind of silence at 2am.
Not peaceful. Not the kind of silence that invited sleep or stillness or any of the things normal people did at this hour. It was the silence of a building that had seen too much, holding its breath between one catastrophe and the next. You had learned, in the eight months since you'd been assigned here, that the silence wasn't something you could sleep through. It pressed against the inside of your skull like something wanting out.
So you didn't try anymore.
You had a system. Shower, because the nightmares always left you sweating. Tea, because it gave your hands something to do. And then the library, because books about dead civilizations were the only thing that made the living world feel manageable. There was something deeply comforting about ancient Rome. About Egypt. About people who had built enormous impossible things and then been swallowed by time anyway. It made your own problems feel appropriately small.
You pulled your knees up on the wide leather chair in the corner, your chair, though you'd never said that out loud, and opened to the page you'd marked three nights ago. The Ptolemaic dynasty. Cleopatra hadn't slept well either, probably. You found that comforting.
You didn't hear her come in.
You never did, which should have unnerved you more than it did. Wanda Maximoff moved through spaces like she'd already been there, like the room rearranged itself quietly around her presence rather than the other way around. You looked up and she was simply there, at the far shelf, fingers trailing along the spines of books she clearly already knew by heart. A mug in her other hand. Dark Auburn hair loose around her shoulders.
You watched her for a second longer than you should have before looking back down at your page.
She didn't acknowledge you either. That was the thing about these nights, they had developed their own grammar, one neither of you had written down or agreed to. She came in, she chose a book or didn't, she sat. Sometimes across the room. Sometimes closer. You read. She read, or she didn't, sometimes just sat with her mug and looked at nothing in particular. You didn't make conversation. You didn't have to.
It had started about six weeks ago. You still weren't entirely sure what to make of it.
The first evaluation had been three months into your assignment.
Standard enough, you'd thought. New personnel, Wanda was senior, someone had to sign off on integration. You'd sat across from her in the office that always smelled faintly of something warm candles she wasn't supposed to burn, you suspected and waited for the performance questions.
They hadn't come.
Instead she had looked at you for a long, unhurried moment the kind of look that made you feel like something being read and asked what you'd studied before SHIELD recruited you.
Something had shifted in her expression. Not softened exactly. More like adjusted. Like she'd expected one thing and received another.
Why? she'd asked.
You'd thought about it. Because those people didn't know how their story ended. They just lived it. I find that honest.
She had looked at you for another moment. Then she'd written something down and told you the session was over.
You'd been called back the following week. And the week after that.
By the fourth one you understood they weren't really evaluations. By the fifth you stopped pretending you thought they were. You just came, sat down, and let her ask you things strange careful questions that circled around who you were rather than what you could do. What did you dream about. What did you miss from before. What were you afraid of that had nothing to do with the job.
You answered honestly. You didn't know why except that lying to Wanda Maximoff felt not just pointless but vaguely dangerous, and also if you were being truthful with yourself, in the private hours you wanted her to know. You couldn't explain that. You just did.
She never answered the same questions in return. You never asked her to.
"Ptolemaic?"
You looked up. She was closer than you'd registered, glancing at the cover of your book as she settled into the chair adjacent to yours. Not across the room tonight. Adjacent. Close enough that if you shifted your knee it would touch hers.
"Late Ptolemaic," you said. "The collapse more than the height of it."
"Mhm." She tucked her feet beneath her, cradling the mug in both hands. "You're drawn to the endings."
It wasn't a question. You thought about denying it and didn't bother.
"They're more honest than the beginnings," you said. "Beginnings are just people who don't know what's coming. Endings are people who do, and kept going anyway."
She looked at you then. Really looked, the way she did sometimes that made the back of your neck warm. In the low light of the library she looked not softer exactly, Wanda Maximoff was not a soft woman, but something in her had set down its guard slightly. The line of her shoulders. The way she held the mug loosely instead of like something to anchor herself to.
"You couldn't sleep," she said.
"Neither could you."
The corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile. "No."
You turned a page you hadn't read. "Bad night?"
She was quiet long enough that you thought she wouldn't answer. That was fine. She didn't owe you her bad nights any more than you'd asked for her good ones.
"I dreamed about Sokovia," she said finally. Quiet. Even. Like she was reporting something that had happened to someone else. "I don't always. Sometimes I go weeks. And then."
"And then," you agreed.
She looked at you again. "You have them too. The nightmares."
"Most nights."
"What are they about?"
You considered. Outside the compound's narrow library windows, the sky was the particular blue black of very early morning, not yet committed to dawn. "A younger version of myself that I couldn't get to in time." You paused. "I keep getting there almost. In the dream I'm always almost fast enough."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. With Wanda it never was. She had a way of receiving things you said without immediately doing anything with them, no reflexive comfort or deflection, just, taking it in. Holding it somewhere. It was the thing you had realized, slowly and then all at once, that you trusted about her.
"I used to think," she said, "that if I understood something well enough I could stop being afraid of it. I studied everything. Every language, every history, every war." A pause. "It doesn't work that way."
"No," you said. "But it passes the time."
This time she did smile. Brief and real and directed entirely at you, and you felt it somewhere below your sternum in a way you'd stopped trying to qualify.
The book Wanda had left for you the first time had been sitting on the small table beside your chair. You'd assumed it was a coincidence. Parallel Lives by Plutarch, worn paperback, someone else's margin notes.
The second time a slim volume on the construction of the pyramids you'd been less sure.
The third time you'd arrived to find something on Cleopatra's political strategy, you'd picked it up, held it for a moment, and looked across the room to where Wanda sat reading without looking at you.
"Thank you," you'd said.
"For what," she'd said, turning a page.
You'd let it go. You'd understood that was how it worked with her. The acknowledgment of a thing was sometimes the end of it. She gave carefully and didn't want to be watched doing it.
But you'd noticed. You kept noticing. The way she angled her body toward you in the library even when she wasn't looking at you. The way she placed herself between you and the door during mission briefings without appearing to think about it. The way she had appeared, three weeks ago, in the doorway of the medical bay when you'd come back with a gash along your forearm nothing serious, truly nothing and had looked at you with an expression that was gone before you could name it, replaced instantly by something careful and composed.
You should have had backup, she'd said.
I was fine.
You should have had backup.
She'd left before you could answer. The next mission she'd quietly restructured so you did.
Natasha had said it to you over coffee one morning with the particular bluntness she reserved for things she considered obvious.
"She doesn't do that with anyone."
"Do what," you'd said, aiming for casual.
Natasha had looked at you over the rim of her mug. "Sit with them. Leave things for them. Rearrange ops because she doesn't like the risk profile." A pause. "You know she monitors where you are in the building."
"She monitors everyone."
"She monitors everyone for threat assessment." Natasha had set down her mug. "That's not what this is."
You hadn't said anything.
"Just so you know," Natasha had said, and taken her coffee and left.
"Can I ask you something," you said.
The library had gotten quieter, if that was possible. Wanda looked up from the book she'd been reading with the focused patience of someone who already knew it well.
"You can always ask," she said. Which was not the same as I'll answer, and you both knew it.
"The evaluations." You kept your voice steady. "They stopped being evaluations a while ago."
She held your gaze. "Did they ever feel like evaluations?"
"No." You shifted in the chair, watching her. "Why me."
It landed in the space between you and stayed there. Wanda looked at you for a long moment, and you had the sensation you sometimes got with her of being read not intruded upon, nothing uncomfortable about it, just the feeling of someone looking at you clearly. Without the static most people brought.
"You came here," she said finally, "and you weren't afraid of me."
"I was a little afraid of you."
"You were appropriately cautious," she amended, and the dryness of it surprised a short laugh out of you. "Everyone else was one or the other. Afraid, or trying to prove they weren't. You just â" she paused, seeming to choose. "You just looked at me. Like I was a person."
You didn't know what to say to that.
"I wanted to know you," she said simply. Like it was that uncomplicated. For her, maybe it was. She'd had forty years to learn how to say true things without flinching from them. "So I found ways to do that."
"The books," you said.
"The books."
"The office sessions."
"Yes."
"The library."
She looked at you steadily. "I was already coming here. You made it better."
The word landed quietly. Better. You turned it over. Outside, the sky had shifted almost imperceptibly toward something lighter, the first suggestion of dawn still an hour away at least but beginning to make itself known.
"Wanda." Her name in your mouth felt significant in a way you'd been avoiding for weeks. "What are we doing."
She was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to be doing."
"I asked you first."
Something moved across her expression. Not quite amusement, warmer than that. She uncurled slightly from her chair, and you tracked the movement the way you'd been tracking her movements for months involuntarily, helplessly, with the specific attention of someone who had given up pretending they weren't paying attention.
"I think," she said, setting her mug down on the table beside her, deliberate and unhurried, "that you know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she stood, and crossed the small distance between your chairs, and when she reached you she didn't hesitate just reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a touch so certain and so gentle that your breath caught entirely.
"I want you close," she said, low. "I've wanted that for a while."
"You could have said something."
"I'm saying something now." Her hand had settled against your jaw, tilting your face up slightly, and the difference in height felt suddenly very present, the way her presence always became suddenly very present when she chose to let it. "You're twenty-eight years old and you read about dead empires because it makes the world feel smaller, and you answer every question I ask you like you've been waiting for someone to ask, and I have been â" a pause, something tightening almost imperceptibly in her expression â "very patient."
Your heart was doing something unreasonable. "You're always patient."
"Not with this," she said. "Not anymore."
When she kissed you it was exactly what you should have expected from her unhurried, certain, the kiss of someone who had decided and was not second-guessing the decision. Her hand stayed against your jaw and you reached up without thinking and curled your fingers into the fabric at her waist and she made a small sound against your mouth that undid something in your chest entirely.
She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her thumb moved along your cheekbone.
"Come with me," she said quietly. Not a question. The particular tone she had that wasn't a command either, just certainty. An assumption of yes because she knew you, had been learning you for months in libraries and quiet offices, and she knew.
She was right.
You stood. She took your hand the first time she'd done that, and the simple press of her fingers against yours felt enormous and led you out of the library, down the quiet corridor, into the low warm light of her room. The door closed behind you. She turned to face you in the near dark, unhurried, and reached for the hem of your shirt.
Your breath hitched as her fingers brushed against the bare skin of your waist. She tugged the fabric up once in question, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting her pull it over your head. The cool air hit your skin, but your attention was entirely on her.
"Wandaâ" you whispered, but she didn't give you time to finish.
Her mouth was back on yours before you could draw another breath, swallowing her name. There was no tentative exploration now, no testing the waters, she moved with the same deliberate certainty she'd used to cross the library, the same calm, terrifying patience she'd applied to everything else for months.
She walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress.
You fell back, and she followed you down, catching herself on her forearms above you, not letting her full weight settle. Her auburn hair created a curtain around both of you, trapping the warmth, the intimacy.
"You're sure," she murmured, more statement than question, her thumb tracing your lower lip.
The red glow of her eyes in the dim light did things to you.
"Always," you breathed, and it was the truth you'd been sure for weeks, probably longer.Â
She smiled against your mouth, that small, private curve of lips that said she already knew. Her hands moved to unhook your bra, and when the fabric released, she took a moment simply to look at you. To see you.
That was the thing about Wanda.
She never rushed the looking. She absorbed every detail, the hitch of your breath, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your fingers curled into her shoulders, as if memorizing a text she intended to keep. Her gaze was heavy, reverent, stripping away the remaining layers of your defenses without saying a word.
"You're beautiful," she said quietly. Like a fact. Like gravity.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. No one had ever looked at you like that, like you were a masterpiece, a puzzle they'd spent years trying to solve. She leaned down, pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, her hands sliding up to cup your breasts.
Her touch was gentle but firm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked under her fingers. She kissed lower, tracing the curve of your breasts with her lips before capturing one peak in her mouth. You arched into the sensation, hands gripping her hair as she sucked softly.
A soft moan escaped you. Above you, Wanda made a low hum of satisfaction against your skin, the vibration making your thighs press together involuntarily.
Her hand drifted down your stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pants. She looked up at you once, those scarlet eyes burning with want and something softer underneath, before slowly tugging them down your hips.
You lifted your hips to help her, kicking the pants away when they were loose enough. Now you were completely bare beneath her, exposed in a way that should have made you self conscious but somehow didn't. Something about the way she looked at you made you feel worshipped rather than examined.
Her fingers moved to the hem of her own shirt, taking her time.Â
"Keep your eyes on me," she said softly, her voice gone rough.
You obeyed. You would have obeyed anything she told you right now.
She pulled her shirt up and over her head, revealing smooth skin and full curves. She took her time unhooking her own bra, letting the straps slip down her arms before tossing it aside. You watched as she revealed herself to you, your breath catching at the sight.
"You're gorgeous," you whispered, the words leaving your lips before you could stop them.
Her smirk was slow, satisfied. "Eyes still on me," she commanded again, her fingers moving to the button of her pants now.Â
She unbutton them with deliberate, unhurried movements, stepping out of them and her underwear in one fluid motion.
Now she stood before you completely naked, every inch of her exposed and glorious. The dim light cast shadows that only enhanced her curves, her full breasts, the dip of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. She was a vision, and she knew it.
"You're staring," she said, but there was no heat behind the words. Only teasing satisfaction as she watched you look your fill. She placed a knee on the mattress beside your hip, crawling over you slowly, giving you a perfect view of everything. Your heart pounded in your chest.
Your hands moved almost without your conscious thought, cupping her breasts gently. She let out a soft sigh, leaning into your touch as she settled herself between your thighs. Her skin was warm and soft under your fingers, her nipples hard against your palms as you squeezed gently.
Wanda groaned low in her throat, the sound vibrating against you. She braced herself on one arm, hovering just above you, watching your hands explore her. When your thumbs brushed over her sensitive nipples, she rolled her hips against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that made you gasp.
"Good girl," she praised breathlessly, her scarlt eyes darkening.
Encouraged by her praise, you squeezed her breasts more firmly, rolling the nipples between your thumbs and fingers. Wanda's hips moved in time with your touches, grinding down on you as she kissed along your collarbone. Her hand snaked down between your bodies, finding your center already wet and ready.
Wanda spread your wetness around with her fingers, circling your clit slowly. Her touch was confident and sure, like she knew exactly what you needed.
She trailed kissing down your body, your neck, your breasts, your stomach, each kiss leaving a faint warmth in its wake. You writhed beneath her, every brush of her lips making you whimper.
"Mm," you moaned as she reached your thighs, her scarlet eyes looking up at you from between your legs with dark amusement.
She parted your folds gently with her fingers, exploring you.
The look on her face was pure reverence, like she'd discovered something sacred. She leaned in, breathing warm against your sensitive skin, and you whimpered, thighs trembling.Â
"So wet," she murmured, her voice thick with want. "All this for me?"
You could only nod, unable to form words as her tongue made its first slow, exploratory swipe up your slit.
Your back arched off the mattress immediately, a moan escaping your lips. Wanda held you steady with firm hands on your hips, keeping you from bucking away even as her tongue found your clit.Â
She lapped at you with the same patient, meticulous attention she gave everything else, slow circles, gentle pressure, exploring every ridge and fold like she was memorizing a map.
"Wanda," you gasped, your hands tangling desperately in her auburn hair. The sensation was overwhelming, soft, wet heat against your most sensitive spot, building a tight coil of pleasure low in your belly.Â
She hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves up your spine, and sucked your clit gently into her mouth.
Your toes curled, thighs trembling around her head.
She pulled back only to swirl her tongue lower, dipping it inside you briefly before returning her focus to your clit. Her free hand moved to rub slow circles on your inner thigh, a grounding counterpoint to the dizzying pleasure.
"You taste incredible," she murmured between licks, her voice muffled but sincere.Â
Your hips bucked against her mouth involuntarily.
She took your twitch as encouragement, her tongue pressing firmer against your clit while she slipped one finger inside you, curling it upward to find that sensitive spot.Â
The dual sensation made your vision blur at the edges.
"Fuckâ" you moan out, head thrown back against the pillows.
"That's it," she murmured against you, adding a second finger inside with practiced ease. Her tongue flicked rapidly across your clit as her fingers thrust slowly, deeply.Â
The wet sounds of her movements filled the room, impossibly loud in the silence.Â
Her eyes found yours, crimson than usual, glowing faintly in the dim light, as she watched you unravel beneath her.
Your eyes rolled back in your head as she hit that spot inside you perfectly, her fingers curling up with each thrust.Â
She was watching you closely, your chest heaving, your thighs shaking around her face, your muffled moans growing louder.Â
She pulled back suddenly, removing her fingers completely
She moved up your body instantly, her mouth finding the sensitive shell of your ear. She nipped at the lobe, soothing the sting with a flick of her tongue before whispering hotly against your skin.
"I want to be in you," she moaned, the words vibrating straight down your spine.
You moaned instantly at the thought, your body clenching around nothing.
A familiar red glow filled the room as she channeled her powers, fingers tracing down between your thighs.
When she pulled back, a length of smooth magic waited at your entrance, warm, pulsing with the same scarlet energy that crackled across her skin.Â
"Touch it," she ordered breathlessly, guiding your trembling hand to the magical cock.
Your fingers wrapped around the conjured member, marveling at the realistic feel, soft skin over firm, throbbing heat. Wanda groaned at your touch, her eyes fluttering shut briefly before locking onto yours with fierce intent.Â
She moved your hand slowly, letting you explore the length and girth.
"Put it inside you," she said, her voice rough with desire as she guided your hand to your entrance. You bit your lip, heart racing, and pressed the head against your slick opening. With a slow breath, you pushed your hips down, taking the first inch inside with a shuddering moan.
Your back arched against the mattress as it stretched you open, filling you completely in a way fingers never could. Wanda gripped your thigh, watching your face contort with pleasure.
"Fuck," Wanda groaned, eyes locked onto the sight of her magical creation disappearing inside you. She reached out with trembling fingers, spreading your folds to reveal the thick base stretching your hole wide open. "You're taking it so well," she praised, her voice hoarse with desire.
"It's... it's so big," you whimpered, writhing as you took another inch. The sensation was overwhelming, being filled so completely, knowing it was Wanda's magic inside you. She smirked, running her free hand up your thigh.
"You can take more," she assured, slowly thrusting her hips forward. The magical cock slid deeper, hitting spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You moan out, hands grasping at the sheets as she bottomed out completely inside you.
She paused when she was fully inside you, letting you adjust to the stretch. Her eyes were glued to where your bodies were connected, watching the way you fluttered around her magic thickness.
"Look at you," she murmured, leaning down to press kisses to your neck. "So full of me."
You whined, walls clenching tight around the cock. "Wanda..."
She began to move slowly, pulling the magical shaft nearly all the way out before sliding back in. The rhythm was torturously gentle, deep, deliberate thrusts that had you gasping for air. Each time she pushed forward, the cock seemed to pulse with her magic, swelling slightly and hitting that perfect spot.
Your eyes rolled back in your head.
"This is mine," she growled against your ear, picking up the pace. Her hips snapped harder now, driving the conjured length deep with every thrust. Your moans turned into needy whimpers, your walls gripping her tightly as she fucked you.
"Yes," you moan out as she hit that spot inside you perfectly, making your vision blur. "It's yours... only yours." Your hands clawed at her back desperately as she pounded into you relentlessly.Â
Wanda groaned deeply at your words, possessiveness flashing in her eyes.
"Right there," you moan out, your legs wrapping around her waist to pull her deeper. She hooked her arms under your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed and driving into you with powerful strokes. The angle was perfect, the magical cock hitting your spot with each thrust.
"You like that?" she grunted against your neck, her pace brutal now, Deep, fast thrusts that had your body shaking and your mind scattering. "You like being fucked by my magic cock?"Â
Your moan was your only response, loud, desperate sounds that she swallowed with hungry kisses.
She sat back on her heels, pulling you onto her lap so she could bounce you on her dick. Her hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as she slammed you down onto the thick length over and over.Â
You threw your head back, crying out as the new position let her hit even deeper.
"Fuck, you look so good riding my cock," she groaned, her eyes fixed on where your body was impaled on her conjured member. She leaned forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss as she continued to bounce you up and down roughly. Your moans were muffled against her lips.
She suddenly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look down between your legs.Â
"Watch," she demanded hoarsely. You whimpered, your eyes locking onto the sight of her magical sliding in and out of your pussy.
Your mouth dropped open as you watched the thick, veiny length split you open, disappearing completely inside you before pulling back out slick and shiny.Â
The sight was obscenely hot, you could see every ridge and vein, every twitch and throb of the enchanted dick as it fucked you senseless.
"That's all me," she moaned proudly, her hands gripping your ass to spread your cheeks wider for better visibility. She slammed you down particularly hard, making you moan out as the cock kissed your walls. "Watch yourself take every inch, baby. You're so beautiful like this."
Your vision blurred with pleasure.
She suddenly lifted you off completely, making you whimper at the loss. But then she was laying you on your back and lifting your legs over her shoulders, fitting the head of the cock back against your entrance.Â
"I want you to see this."
She pushed inside slowly, letting you watch your stretched hole open around the thick magical length. Your pussy gripped it desperately as she filled you inch by inch again.Â
"Does that feel good, baby?" she purred, her eyes never leaving your face. "Is my cock filling you up nice and deep?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your head falling back against the pillows.
She began fucking you slowly again, each thrust a deliberate show as you both watched her conjured cock slide in and out of your body. Her pace was torturously sensual, deep, measured strokes that let you feel every single inch.Â
"Rub your clit," she commanded breathlessly. "Show me how you make yourself cum when you think about me."
You reached down immediately.
You circled your clit desperately, fingers moving faster as she watched. She matched your rhythm with her thrusts, the magical cock pulsing inside you with each touch to your sensitive bud. "That's it," she praised, "Touch yourself for me while I fuck you."
Your hips bucked as you worked your clit furiously, matching Wanda's deep strokes. The dual sensation had you spiraling out of control, her thick cock stretching you perfectly while your fingers worked your swollen nub.Â
"I'm close," you gasped, your thighs trembling against her shoulders. "Wanda, I'm gonnaâ"
"Fuck," Wanda groaned, her eyes rolling back as your walls clenched around her cock like a vice. She felt you tighten around the magical length, fluttering and squeezing as you got closer. "You're so fucking tight, baby... you feel so good."
Then you hit your orgasm.
Your body arched off the bed, your moan echoing through the room.
That was all it took.
Wanda's eyes rolled back completely as she slammed into you one final time, her grip bruising on your thighs. "Oh fuckâ fuckâ" Her hips stuttered against yours as the magical cock seemed to pulse and throb harder, flooding your pussy with warm, glowing pleasure as she came with you.
She collapsed forward, burying her face in your neck as both of you came down from your highs.Â
Her breathing was ragged against your skin, the magical cock slowly dissipating into red sparks as she lost focus.Â
You lay trembling beneath her, completely wrecked and boneless, clutching at her shoulders.
"Holy shit," she rasped, pressing lazy kisses to your pulse.
You couldn't even form words yet. Your mind was completely blank except for the lingering aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasm.Â
You simply clung to her, your legs falling from her shoulders to drap over her hips as she nuzzled against your neck.
She eventually lifted her head to look at you, her eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. She traced a gentle thumb over your cheekbone, smiling slightly at your flushed face and messy hair.Â
"You okay?" she asked quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
"I..." you started, your voice completely wrecked and hoarse. You cleared your throat, still trying to catch your breath. "I can't feel my legs."
Wanda let out a breathy laugh, pressing another kiss to your temple. "Mission accomplished, then." She shifted slightly, settling her weight more comfortably beside you, one hand tracing idle patterns against your waist.
You stared at the ceiling, still working on breathing like a normal person. Your brain was coming back online in pieces, slow and warm, like something being reassembled without urgency.
"You know," you said finally, voice still wrecked, "Cleopatra was reportedly so compelling that grown men forgot how to function in her presence." A pause. "I get it now. I really get it."
Wanda lifted her head to look at you.
"Are you comparing me to Cleopatra."
"I'm saying the historical record finally makes sense to me personally."
She looked at you for a moment, that look, the one that had been unraveling you for months in libraries and quiet offices, and then she laughed. Really laughed, quiet and genuine, her face dropping against your shoulder.
"You're unbelievable," she said.
"You knew that. You read my file."
"I did." She pressed a smile against your skin. "It didn't cover this."
"The part where I make ancient history jokes in â" you glanced at the window, the sky beginning to suggest something like dawn "â whatever this hour is."
"No," she said. "That part was a surprise."
A comfortable quiet settled. Her hand had stilled at your waist, just resting. Outside the window the compound was still dark, that particular held-breath hour you knew better than any other. Except this time it didn't press against you. It just was.
"Hey Wanda."
"Mm."
"The first evaluation." You felt her go slightly still. "You already knew everything in my file."
It wasn't a question. She was quiet long enough to confirm it.
"I knew your file," she said.
"So what were you actually doing."
A pause. "Seeing if you were different in person."
"Were you?"
"Was I what."
"Disappointed. When you met me in person."
She lifted her head again and looked at you with something so plainly fond it made your chest ache. "The second session," she said, "you told me you studied Rome because people who don't know how their story ends are more honest than people who do." She held your gaze. "I thought about that for a week."
You looked at her. "I thought you stopped listening after I said classical antiquity."
"I was listening before you sat down."
The quiet that followed was warm and a little enormous. You turned your head toward the window. The sky was doing that thing, not dawn yet, but the idea of it, the first suggestion of something changing.
"I don't want to sleep," you said, more honest than you meant to be.
She understood. She always understood. "The nightmares."
"They're better some nights than others."
She shifted, resettling, her arm a more deliberate weight across you. "Stay," she said. Simple. Certain. "If it comes I'll be here."
You looked at her.
"You can't promise that," you said quietly.
"I know." She held your gaze. "I'm promising it anyway."
You thought about endings. About people who kept going after they could see what was coming. About Wanda Maximoff at forty who had lived through enough of them to know exactly what she was saying.
You pulled her closer instead of answering.
You slept.
For the first time in longer than you could remember, you slept straight through to morning and when you woke, slow and soft and unfamiliar with the feeling, she was still there. Reading. One hand still resting at your back like she'd kept it there the whole time.
On the nightstand beside the bed was a book you didn't recognize. Slim, worn at the spine. You reached for it without thinking.
Egyptian Astronomy and the Architecture of Eternity.
You looked at her.
She turned a page without looking up. "I found it months ago," she said. "I was waiting for the right time."
You held the book against your chest and looked at the ceiling and smiled at it like an idiot.
Grace Ashcroft whoâs normally the bottomest bottom but FOR YOU sheâs a pathetic top
Grace Ashcroft who whimpers when she puts it in, whether thatâs her fingers or a strap
Grace Ashcroft whoâs fascinated by how well you take her and looks at you like youâre godâs greatest gift to earth as you suck on her fingers while making eye contact
Grace Ashcroft who desperately tries not to cum just from touching you and has to resist the urge to rut into the mattress
Grace Ashcroft who always asks permission and double checks with you, no matter how long youâve been together
Grace Ashcroft who apologizes thinking about you while she touches herself even though itâs insanely hot
Summary: Days continue to pass within your cell, Natasha loses sleep.
Chapter Warnings/Tags: Descriptions of torture, past trauma, non-consensual touching, self-harm, biting, you get the ideaâŠ
A/N: Iâm alive! Barely⊠um I actually didnât think Iâd keep writing this story, but I was sick in bed and reread the entire thing and remembered why I wanted to write this in the first place. Iâm still not quite ready to write consistently again but have this for now! Also i lowkey hate what I wrote but no use trying to fix it now!
You could feel steel digging into your wrists.
Blurred vision greeted you as you began to stir, blinking up at the flickering bulbs screwed into painted over brick wallsâA puke mint green that made you shiver. Dots swam in your eyes, but soon you were able to make out the details of your surroundings.
W-Where am I?
The room was cold, that sickly kind of chill that pulled shivers out of your small frame and left you feeling exposed, naked in a sense. Despite the temperature of the room, there was wetness to the air, a moldy mildewy stench hinting at the damp conditions and infrequent airflow.
You werenât alone.
The background buzzing of the lights was interrupted periodically by muffled grunts and moans, whimpers even, that poured out of similarly chapped lips. There mustâve been about five other children chained to the floor, foreheads slick with sweat and enduring different stages of consciousness.
What happened?
A dull thud wracked at the base of your skull as you tried to remember, tried to recall anything besides glimpses of your parents' panicked faces and the backseat of your motherâs minivan.
Theyâd been driving for hours, you remembered, your fatherâs white knuckled grip clutching the steering wheel amid the tense silence of the car. Youâd asked to turn the radio on, but your parents seemed too busy exchanging looks and silent conversation.
âMama?â You heard a girl cry out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
She had to have been a few years younger than you, her face round with youth but blemished by scattered bruises and a split lip.
You watched as she started to thrash, pulling against the metal cuffs at her wristsâthe same ones binding all of you to metal hooks in the wall.
It made you uncomfortable, her distress, the way she screamed and cried out snotty tears. The other children began to take notice, either just waking up from the noise, or like you, observing with cautious fear.
A metal door swung open like a gunshot, sterile white light flooding the room. Some of the children visibly flinched from the sound, cowering into themselves like they knew something you didnât. It halted whatever questions you mightâve had for the pair of strange men that marched in.
You watched as they took in the little girlâs tantrum, sneering at her cries.
âLooks like someoneâs volunteering to go first.â One of them said, the words meaningless to the girl who continued to sob. You merely watched as the other man unclipped the chains binding both the girlâs wrists and fisted both in one hand. Like a makeshift leash, the man wrenched his hand back, violently hauling the child forward. You grimaced watching her knees hit the concrete floor as her arms were yanked.
âWould you hurry up? It fucking stinks in here.â Complained the man still posted by the door, annoyed by his colleague who seemed fascinated watching the child under him squirm.
âYou heard him, kid. Letâs go.â With a few more tugs, the child was forced onto her feet, legs shaking with unsteady steps.
You stayed silent as you watched the men leave with the girl in tow, dragging her behind them. The moment right before that steel door slammed shut was the last time you saw her.
X
Natasha couldnât sleep.
The alarm clock on her nightstand blinked back 3:38 am, only a five minute difference from the last time she checked. It felt like the damn thing was mocking her.
The sight of her bedroomâs ceiling was beginning to irritate her as her mind refused to shut down for the night.
The insomnia was nothing new, a reoccurring itch that tugged at the back of her skull for years, only somewhat subdued by self discipline and sleeping pills. Her bottle ran empty earlier that week thanks to a sudden uptick in restless nights like this.
The nightmares had come back, plaguing the few moments sheâd nod off, reinstating the perpetual cycle of suppressed memories bleeding into her dreams, a phase sheâd thought sheâd moved past.
3:41
The Russian breathed a curse into the air. Fuck it. She thought, propelling herself forward to sit up, throwing off tousled sheets.
Her laptop sat well within reach, lazily discarded from where sheâd again been pouring over your case.
It wasnât healthy to watch you. Natasha knew this, but it didnât stop her. She couldâve gone back to bed, had every chance to between pulling up the instance of SHIELDâs database, typing in her security code, locating the cameras linked to the holding cells, and pulling up the video feed to yours.
She catches sight of herself in the reflection of the screen. Her hair is a mess, sticking up in odd places and tangled in others. The bags under her eyes swing low and deep, highlighting her exhaustion.
This past week was affecting her, she knew it. The explicit details in each report, the photos, your face. It was a suffocating feeling, a weighted knot sat tight in her stomach. She hated it. Hated that you reminded her of a weakness sheâd buried, that you insisted on infiltrating her mind to the point of obsession.
Good, youâre sleeping. At least one of us is getting some rest.
It was a rare sight to see you so still, the closest youâve been to a relaxed state since you got there. The only disturbance was the furrow of your brow, your face twisting in pain every once in a while, sometimes accompanied by low whines. She was entirely aware that pain seemed to be the only way to get you to make any kind of sound.
The battle didnât last long.
From the grainy footage, Natasha watched as you bolted upright, sweat coating your forehead. There wasnât any audio âa weird bug that occurred a few days agoâ but she could tell you were screaming. Just when she began to be impressed by your lack of need to take a breath, you broke into a coughing fit.
Unbelievable.
With a slam, she forced the laptop shut, not even registering that she was purposefully getting out of bed until she was mid tying the laces of her shoes.
You were killing yourself. Slowly. It was infuriating to watch, to be a bystander to, as you shriveled up into nothing. An absurd amount of anger grated at the edge of Natashaâs mind. Sheâd be damned if you decided to up and die under her care.
X
âYouâre not eating.â
The Russian had seemingly invited herself in, making that two mornings in a row that Natasha had sat in that chair and asked stupid questions.
It was morning, right?
You tried to do the math in your head, but ultimately gave up as a spontaneous flurry of wet coughs seized your attention. Apparently youâd sat in those wet clothes long enough for the chill to seep under your skin.
âAnd from the looks of it, youâre running a fever too.â
Maybe you did feel a little warm, but the foundation of your survival depended on you not paying any mind to your wilting body.
The Russian didnât seem to share your apathy. She had her arms crossed with the attitude of a disappointed parent, feet planted firmly on the ground, and legs spread in a way youâd been told was âunladylikeâ by PR firms.
You were leaning on one of the glass walls your cot was positioned against, not really all âthereâ, but aware enough to avoid the scathing eye contact.
She clearly wanted you to say something.
You havenât had the need to use your voice much, hardly said a word since your first day. Itâd be nice to hear yourself talk again, to interrupt the constant silence.
You chose to pick at your damaged cuticles instead.
It was obvious she didnât like that decision.
âAt the rate youâre going, if you donât get enough food in your stomach, weâre going to have to tube feed you.â It was supposed to be a warning, a threat, but something about the shift in her eyes made it seem more like a plea.
Here she was again, searching for something you refused to give.
You watched her pitch forward, hunched closer with her hands clutched in her lap. There was steel in her eyes, a razor meant to cut into and the walls you had up.
You watched the floor instead.
âReally? You want to be hooked up to those machines again? To be put under?â
She didnât know how wrong she was. At that moment youâd give anything to get some decent sleep, preferably the kind where you didnât wake up. You wanted to laugh, but instead you just sat there, unmoved except from the occasional chill.
A memory tugs at the back of your mind, a flash of similar threats and heated bravado all in an attempt to provoke you.
âWhat would your parents say? Itâs your fault they had to die. Do you really want to waste their death being a stupid broken little girl?â
âThere you go again, getting that look.â Natashaâs voice is grating, an unwelcomed interruption to your reminiscing.
âWhere do you go, hm? Are you back there, at that place?â Sheâs fishing, and you know it. Tuning her out isnât hard, in fact itâs relatively easy to retreat back into your darker memories, hoping the phantom pain of every slap, kick, or punch you endured would remind you that nothing SHIELD could inflict on you would be worse than what youâve already suffered.
Still, the Russian kept pushing, âI saw it, you know? The tapes, the pictures, the things they did to you, made you do.â
She could be referencing anything for all you cared, the way her words flatlined. She probably expected you to gasp or lash out at the exposure.
If you were about five years younger, you mightâve. You used to break down so easily at the slightest mention of your past, would cling to Alison for hours in some panic-like state afraid that youâd wake up back at the lab with blood on your hands. It took years for you to actually have a conversation about it with Alison, and even then you were quick to anger and even quicker to hurt yourself.
Like a mind reader, the widow just seemed to know, âDoes Alison know? All of it?â
That made you fracture. The smallest slip, really, a tightness in your jaw, the dilation of your pupils, and the way your eyes snapped back to hers instinctively, like you werenât even aware of it.
Internally youâre screaming.
Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
It was a low fucking blow, and you both knew it, seeing the widow slightly flinch at your hardened stare.
She went fishing and hit a god damned landmine.
You want to spit, scream, fight back just to vent out your anger and protect that sacred thing between you and Alison. How fucking dare she?
Instead you took it out on your skin, digging your nails into your palm to form harsh crescent shapes. The pain kept you sane, it always had, whether it be self inflicted or the punishing kind you grew up with.
You know she sees it, the slightest glance at the white knuckled pressure you use to stab yourself. It doesnât bother you, far used to ignoring the pitying stares both Riri and Alison would throw your way anytime they saw your body after one of your âepisodesâ.
Only, you donât find pity in those green eyes. Acknowledgement, memorization in order to address it later, but not pity. You hate it.
You put every bit of resentment and unexpressed rage in your eyes as you insist on matching her stare.
A layer of skin under your fingernail finally gives way, blood blooming in the center of your palms only drawing your attention when Natasha opens her mouth to address it.
âLet me-
âĐĐŽĐž ĐœĐ° Ń ŃĐč (fuck off).â Itâs hissed between your lips with a venomousity as potent as you can muster in your weakened state.
The Russian visibly threw her off, making her pause. Even as she slowly goes through the process of getting up, she flounders at what to say.
As much of a mistake as it was exposing your knowledge of other languages, you couldnât help but be somewhat satisfied leaving the widow speechless.
âY-You speak Russian?â
You canât help but roll your eyes at the obvious, which you note makes you the slightest bit dizzy.
By the time the sudden vertigo diminishes, you realize the widow has both exited and re-entered your cell, now carrying a large cotton pad and some gauze.
It's deliberate the way you press your back into the wall, distancing yourself as much as you can from the other woman and her clear intent to bandage your bleeding hand.
Exasperated, Natasha halts mid-step and passive aggressively throws the medical supplies towards you, not so subtly taking in your reflexes as you snatch the items out of the air.
âSo you know Russian. What else?â
Ignoring her prodding, you slowly wrapped your hand, deliberately making sure you still have enough mobility to throw a punch.
You understand it all as she switches from Spanish to German and then to Mandarin. It made you all that more grateful for your career and having an excuse to keep up with your linguistic skills. It was always nice to be able to speak at least one native language at every international stop on tour.
I shouldâve been headed to Japan by now.
The reminder of your lifeâs upheaval stirs another wave of anger. You signal your end to the conversation by flopping over onto your cot, intent to stare daggers at the reflective walls instead of looking at the other woman.
You can feel the widowâs eyes still on you, paying little attention to the aggravated muttering leaving her lips. Waiting for her to leave, you close your eyes and fight down another onslaught of chills, refusing to shiver in the other womanâs presence.
Why hasnât she left already?
You donât anticipate the heavy steps that stalk over to you, but thereâs the weight of another body dipping onto your cot, a sudden grip wrenching you onto your back with another hand at your face
Your eyes shoot open to see the redhead hovering over you, fingers gripping the hinge of your jaw and prying your mouth open.
Her knees were pinning both your legs, keeping your body angled her way as her other hand grips what looks like SHIELDâs own version of a liquid ration.
At first youâre paralyzed, it was too much all at once, but then that ugly itching settles, your nerves screaming at you to make it stop, her touch scalding you, the bile rising at the back of your throat from having her close, the helplessness you felt as your fists finally start pounding into her sides to no effect.
Itâs an almost out of body experience, your mind refusing to process another shock, and your body relying purely on adrenaline and animalistic fear to keep fighting.
âI know, I know. Please donât fucking cry.â The words are garbled in your ears despite just how close she is, a splash of the watery food spilling out of the pouch in her hand and onto your tongue.
Youâre trying to shake your head free of her grip, not even noticing the tears until she mentioned them.
X
This is so fucked up.
The widow knew it, knew this was wrong and in no way a good idea to get you to trust her.
But the fact that you couldnât simply shove her off was enough of a sign that you were getting weaker. If Natasha could just get some food into you, maybe sheâd be able to fucking sleep at night.
And this was the only way to do it. If she came at you head on, youâd just outmaneuver her life before, and it was early enough in the morning that whoever was supposed to be watching you was obviously asleep.
âJust eat the damn thing and itâll be over.â Itâs gritted through her teeth and sheâs honestly baffled at your sheer determination to fight her off.
She feels your limbs begin to tire, gets her hand and the ration pouch a few more inches past your lips.
Almost there.
Then she feels you give way.
Natasha wants to celebrate immediately, doesnât even register the anger replacing the fear in your eyes. Her right hand is practically in your mouth, and her left loosens its grip on your jaw.
And your teeth clamp down. Hard.
The pain is instant, causing Natasha to recoil, peeling herself off of you as fast as she can, almost tripping on herself to gain some distance.
In utter horror, the widow examines her hand, perfect indentations of teeth carved into the now mangled flesh in between her thumb and pointer finger.
Her fury is blinding.
âYou⊠you BIT me?â Natashaâs scream rattles inside the cell, not at all affecting you as you lie limp, blood trickling down your chin.
Youâre not even looking at her, and that infuriates the spy enough for her to spew forth a string of colorful Russian curses.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you!â
That does something.
You snap upright, baring crimson stained teeth, and pure hatred in your eyes. Natasha almost retreats at the animal-like craze you aim her way.
âGET OUT!â
Tag List: @marvel-posts @angelbloodedd @starryjeongyeon
A/N: Ok so this was written with an older draft so if the pacing is terrible I apologize, still getting back into writing!
âThis is stupid.â Natasha mumbles.
The assassin is sitting outside a cleverly disguised SHIELD outpostâa brick and mortar storefront posing as a local cafeâtrying to fight the scowl etched across her face.
When the Russian had gotten the order to set up a meeting with you, she had immediately felt a wave of dread wash over her.
The faux restaurant was far too intimate for her liking, coupled with the fact that she knew nothing about you aside from the opinions and perceptions of others which only painted you as some glorified sex symbol. Knowing her luck, you were exactly like every other celebrity sheâd encountered before; egotistical, self-centered, and probably a pain in the ass to work with.
Clint pipes up from the other side of her ear piece, stationed on the roof of a building across the street, âStop looking so broody. You know the guys would kill to be in your position.â
Natasha scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she imagined the rest of the team having even a hint of the same tact and composure.
Half of them can barely form a sentence.
âYeah, well you can tell Sam that heâs free to take my place.â She muttered, fidgeting with the baseball cap and sunglasses shielding her face. The accessories clashed a bit with the loose gray hoodie she wore over a white T-shirt and jeans, making her stick out in a way that screamed âdonât pay attention to meâ.
The case files tucked beneath her jacket felt heavy, but mostly due to the doubt laying at the forefront of her mind.
This is so dumb, the Russian kept thinking. She would no doubt be far more comfortable meeting you in a more professional setting, like a conference room or anywhere where there werenât a dozen rookie agents posing as fake employees, ready to watch her fail at keeping a conversationâeither due to her own aloofness, or if the rumors were true, your air headed-ness.
âShush. You of all people are in dire need of a social life. Even Bucky has friends outside the team.â Clint chided in her ear.
âWell now you do. We need her to trust you enough to tell us everything, and you to vet her enough not to blow the whole operation.â
The widow rolled her eyes, âAnd we couldnât find anyone better? Like someone with training?â
âSheâs an actress. Thatâs like getting paid to lie. You two have that in common already.â
Fair enough.
It was puzzling to try and explain why the avenger was feeling so⊠uncooperative. Sheâd gone face to face with drug lords, dictators, biologically engineered soldiers, yet something about YOU specifically threw her off balance. Maybe it was the teasing from her colleagues, or having to stare at the damn photo that caused this entire thing one too many times.
She hadnât even met you yet, but the image of you she was putting together in her head only furthered her irritation. She was above babysitting starlets.
Natasha kept her head low, only looking up when Clint identified the sleek black car pulling up to the âcafeâ.
âOk, I see her. Iâm gonna let you two be alone now.â
X
This is crazy. The thought hadnât left your mind since Felicia approached you with Tonyâs invitation.
You hadnât expected anyone involved with your supposed new BFF to reach out so soon, let alone insist on a meeting. That, and the mountains of NDAâs you signed.
You tried burying the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.
You were used to under the radar agreements in the pastâa playboy needing a beard, a musician wanting to clean up his image, arrangements made with a note of secrecy and an understanding between both parties. You had the feeling that when your agent approached the whole endeavor with vague and clipped details, that you werenât stepping into something all that different.
Your driver, Ben, glanced back at you, an air of concern thrown your way from where your eyes met his in the rear view mirror.
âThese people youâre meeting⊠are you sure of their intentions?â
âI canât exactly say no to Tony Stark, can I? Iâm sure whatever they want isnât too bad. Maybe the avengers need a PR boost?â You didnât believe the words even as you said them.
All you knew was Tonyâs email had made it seem like refusing wasnât an option and that someone of your expertise was needed, whatever that meant.
Felicia had already put the idea of a fake relationshipâno friendship in your head, and this only seemed to cement it. It wasnât completely impossible, given the other womanâs reputation, or lack thereof.
You noted the furrow of your driverâs brows, a grunt echoing at the back of his throat in displeasure.
âIâll keep the car running just around the corner if you need me.â
A genuine smile flashed across your face, a soft curl of your lips that rarely saw use.
âThank you, Ben.â You tried to keep that smile as your destination rounded into view, warring against the pit forming in your stomach.
As the car settled into park against the curb, you diligently slipped out your phone from its place in one of your designer handbags, using the camera to do a last minute sweep of your appearance.
Sure it was a little vain of you, given that you were promised strict privacy with the only other party accompanying you being the Black Widow herself, but old habits die hard and nothing was more habitual to you than scrutinizing your image.
You wanted to distract from the oppressing seriousness this meeting had, choosing to dawn a casual dandelion sun dress and a kitten heel. It wasnât the most iconic or fashionable, but it and the minimal makeup you wore felt like a safe choice.
âIf Iâm not back in an hour, honk twice.â That had always been your shared signal to bail you out of stuffy events in the past. Hopefully it wouldnât be needed.
You dare not look out the carâs window, allowing yourself a bit of preparation as you stepped out onto the curb of a quaint little cafe. Thereâs something almost bare bones about it, like itâs on the verge of bankruptcy or newly opened, but you hardly have the time to fret over the idea. Your eyes scanned the place, passing over a few scattered patrons, almost missing the one you were there to see.
I remember that shade of red hair.
She isnât looking at you, her chair turned to face away from you so you donât bother hiding the amused smirk that forms once you take in the god awful outfit sheâs wearing. Honestly you expected the avenger to be a bit more dapper, although your smile fades when you consider maybe it was on purpose.
Maybe she didnât want to be seen with you.
You shake the thought away, steeling yourself for your approach, much like you readied yourself for any public appearance, with a practiced smile and measured steps.
âHi.â It comes out confident and not at all like you were battling the anxiety swirling in your stomach. She mustâve heard you coming, not at all surprised when you spoke from behind her, and only truly looking up to you the moment youâre directly across from her.
Remembering your manners, you quickly introduce yourselfâsomething you honestly hadnât had to do in a whileâand offer your hand.
You didnât expect the ex-assassin to simply look at the appendage unamused, keeping her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
Ouch.
Seeing as sheâs unlikely to reciprocate, you slowly pull back, smiling regardless as you take the liberty of sitting down across from her, your hands settled in your lap so you wouldnât fidget in front of her.
What a great start.
âCan I call you Natasha? Or do you prefer Black Widow?â You ask, tasting the way her name sat on your tongue. Despite the icy welcome, youâre trying to be polite, even if youâre already starting to regret showing up.
âNatasha is fine.â Her voice, not as husky as it was in the heat of battle but just as warm, brings on a sudden wave of shivers you have to suppress.
God she was pretty.
Up close with only a couple feet between you, you canât help the thought from entering your brain. In fact, you almost let your breath hitch the moment she takes off the ridiculous sunglasses, piercing green eyes staring directly at you with the same intensity as during your rescue.
Itâs awkward, the stilted silence that follows. Her sudden analytical gaze has you straightening your spine, fighting the flush that comes with the prolonged eye contact. The widow remains statuesque, unmoving, and absent of any real emotion other than thinly veiled boredom.
A part of you wonders if thereâs any wait staff around to serve you, begging for the possible distraction and an excuse for caffeine.
Was this it? You glance down, anything to break the tension. You want to bolt, drop the act and let your unease show, but you were better than that. Instead, you opt to jump straight to business, schooling your features to appear amenable.
âIâm awfully flattered that Tony decided to reach out,â You try, âEven if it did come as a bit of a surprise.â
You arenât sure if that offended her, the only reaction you get being a raised eyebrow. Itâs unnerving, the nothingness you receive, rarely are you ever not awarded any fanfare.
Not much of a talker. You surmise sarcastically in your head. Seriously, what you wouldnât kill for someone to show up to take your order.
âIâd actually like to take the time to once again thank you for saving me the other day.â Youâd practiced this part in your head a thousand times, not anticipating her to merely reply with a low grunt of acknowledgement.
Your lips quirk, a subtle response to the obvious dismissal.
Does she not even want to be here?
âItâs admirable, what you do. The city is lucky to have you, all of you.â You watch her blink, slowly like a cat deciding youâre not worth their time. Still you continue, âItâs my understanding that Mr. Stark reached out to discuss some sort of deal between the two of us.â Again, youâre giving her ample opportunity to speak up and fill in the details, but when she doesnât, you decide that maybe you should just bite the bullet and put all your cards on the table.
âWhat I mean to say is⊠while Iâve done these kinds of relationships in the past-
While you try to maintain a somewhat professional composure, your conversation partner does not and you somehow manage to get the other woman to falter, watching as she suddenly straightens up in her seat. She looks slightly aghast before becoming even more rigid, if such a thing was possible.
âExcuse me?â Her tone is biting, and it actually manages to make you flinch. You scramble mentally for a response, your tongue loosening more than you like.
âI-I apologize. Is that not what you wanted to hear? Maybe relationship isnât the right word,â Youâre fucking this up completely, â-um, would you rather call it an agreement? An arrangement, maybe? Weâll have time to work out the specifics later, after we discuss boundaries of course-
âStop talking.â Frustration coats the interruption and you can almost visibly see the other woman grit her teeth. Curiously, her cheeks are dusted with the faintest shade of pink as she mumbles something foreign. You canât help but find it cute.
The breath she releases is weighted as she reaches underneath her hoodie, making your eyes go wide for a second, only relaxing once sheâs pulling out a crisp manilla folder and placing it in front of you, now avoiding eye contact at all costs.
âYou- you- just⊠here.â
X
It wasnât like her to get flustered. For the most part, Natasha had been downplaying you in her head, even as you greeted her with that thousand watt smile.
Sure, you were pretty. Sheâd have to be blind to not acknowledge that, but looks aside, Natasha couldnât see a damn thing about you that made you so gosh darn special.
You were annoyingly formal with her, holding eye contact just the right amount, keeping your hands clasped in your lap, and not being discouraged by her attempts to make you squirm.
It was a beautiful act really, but the Russian could see the tension in your shoulders, the anxiety in your eyes, the rehearsed nature of your words and practiced flattery.
However, you had certainly caught her off guard the moment you said the word relationship. She silently cursed the others and their teasing for the way she unloaded her case work onto you with anything but grace. Sheâs all too conscientious of the other agents milling around in character, witnesses to her fumble.
âReal smooth, Romanoff.â She ignores Clint in her ear.
Spying the paperwork, Natasha watches as your forehead crinkles in thought, not at all expecting what had been placed in front of you. She notes your inherent curiosity, as you hardly wait before tearing into the document, scanning the first page with surprising intensity.
âOh. This isâŠâ You flip through the pages, paragraphs of redacted information and surface level evidence, notably choosing not to linger on the crime scene photos, â-definitely not what I was expecting.â
Your face pales as you further absorb the content of the files, and Natasha almost regrets not easing you into the subject a bit more delicately.
Just what the fuck did Tony tell you?
âWhat did you think this was?â It came out awfully defensive, not at all helped by the way the assassin curls in on herself protectively.
With your eyes now trained on the general debrief, you still manage to dawn an animated expression of surprise, like you werenât the one with absurd and crazy preconceived notions.
âI donât know! Normally when someone reaches out to me via a third party itâs to date me for like one or two weeks before we break up so they can get a boost in their career.â
Natasha almost flinched hearing the word date, seemingly more uncomfortable as you rambled on. She didnât want the image in her head, you and the idea of romance just unsettled her.
âYou thought this was a date?â She asks, undoubtedly intrigued and leaning further across the table.
X
You pause your reading to look back up at the other woman, practically balking at the accusation, cheeks tinted an unflattering shade of pink.
Were you being too presumptuous? Well, what were you supposed to think?
âWhat? No!â Your thoughts were spiraling, âI said normally. Iâve never been involved with someone like you.â Crap. You didnât mean it like that, and judging from the widowâs deepening scowl, she heard some sort of subtle insult.
âSomeone like me?â
A woman. You have to bite your tongue not to say it out loud.
âA superhero,â You offer instead, âSure, Johnny Storm flirted with me once, but heâs not exactly my type and-â
You hear the scraping of the metal chair in front of you as Natasha gets up, clearly in a hurry to be anywhere but with you.
âI knew this was a dumb idea.â Sheâs already starting to gather herself before you can even reply, getting ready to collect her documents and leave, only stopping once you slam a hand over the papers.
âWha- hold on!â Sheâs undeterred, abandoning the files in an effort to get out of there as fast as she can. For an assassin, she sure is jumpy.
âIâm sure SHIELD will compensate for your time, have a nice day.â
You chalk it up to panic, because thereâs no way you would normally be so bold as to reach over and grab the other womanâs wrist, but thatâs exactly what you do. It almost gives you whiplash just how fast her head snaps back to look at you, something unreadable in those green eyes.
With your mouth suddenly as dry as the sahara, itâs an eternity before you can remember yourself, too focused on the way her skin feels in your hand and the rush it sends down your spine.
âWill you sit back down? I didnât say I wouldnât help you out.â You release her hand like itâs about to burn you, more color rising to your cheeks as you choke down the sudden embarrassment.
Time seems to drag as you watch the widow make a decision, watching as the woman in front of you levels you with an unamused stare that makes you feel guilty for wasting her time. With a roll of her eyes, she eases back into her chair, perched at the edge like sheâs about to bolt again.
Thereâs something irritating about this whole charade. Itâs hard to label what you feel, almost disappointment? Not to say that you went and got your hopes up because that would be admitting to having any hopes at all, but thereâs a tad bit of bitterness that cuts through the sweet practiced act of yours.
âClearly I mustâve gotten the wrong impression, and for that I apologize.â You say, shaking your head. You calmly close the folder in front of you and desperately try to resume your initial attempt at stoic composure.
Internally youâre still reeling from the revelation that all your preparation, all your blundering and striving to make a good impression was unwarranted. You suppose it made more sense though, why else would someone like Natasha want to meet with you.
âLook, those guys in the photos? Yeah, I knew them. Nice people too, helped me practice some of my stunt choreography.â Thereâs a bit of edge there you donât try to hide. You purposefully keep your answer clipped. Youâre embarrassed, the only thing keeping you seated being the familiar names and faces in front of you.
âTheyâre dead.â The widow is quick to inform, and your shoulders slacken, not at all surprised.
The information wasnât new, but it certainly wasnât any easier to hear, or to have to explain why you werenât teary eyed. Sure you expressed your condolences through a heavily edited social media post like everyone else, but you werenât falling apart. Honestly if it werenât for the pictures in front of you, you donât think youâd be able to recall their faces.
âYeah, I heard. I wasnât close with any of them, but we went to the same parties, same casting calls,â you canât look at her, ashamed at your lack of a reaction, âEveryone knows everyone here.â
The Russian hums, as if sheâs only just now invested in what you have to say and you canât help the blistering exasperation that worms its way into your chest. Was that all your time was worth to her? The least you could do was match her in terms of pleasantries.
âSo thatâs all this is then? This deal of ours? Itâs about some mission?â You make sure to express your displeasure at the idea, not that you wouldnât cooperate, but you didnât have to be nice about it. The shitty cafe she chose was starting to make a lot more sense. Wait a minute⊠did- did that waiter just make direct eye contact with you and flinch?
âCorrect,â Natasha has your attention again, and you notice for the first time she doesnât look perpetually pissed off, âEverything detailed in those files has to do with SHIELDâs latest operationâŠâ Thereâs a pause, and something cold settles in her stare, no doubt meant to be intimidating, yet thereâs something thrilling about it too. âIâve been tasked with recruiting you as an informant.â
Huh?
It takes a moment for you to process her words, failing in keeping your face at a neutral expression. âAn informant? Like a spy?â Maybe itâs ill conceived, but the thought excites you. Probably the closest youâll get to playing in a Bond film.
âNo. At most, youâll be no contact. Simply observation.â From her stance, you can tell that itâs a non-negotiable.
While it doesnât make up for the lack of civility on the widowâs part, you listen intently as the agent in front of you dives further into your proposed assignment. You surprisingly uncover a new side of the woman as she tackles the debriefing with surgical precision and the eloquence of a seasoned professional.
You find yourself nodding along, grimacing as she brushes over some of the more unsavory details regarding some of the victims and their fatal last days on set. You digest the information like you would a monologue, making rapid connections in your head to names and places. Itâs with the pieces put together that you can visualize the sceneâ your coworkers, no, your peers, most of them just like you but not half as lucky, looking for the miracle that will push them into stardom. For you it was that lucky commercial, but for them, maybe itâs a magic drug.
Youâre brought back to the set of your last movie, to Peter, pushing himself and his body beyond what you knew was healthy to keep up with the absurd number of stunts his role was asking for. Was it possible that- no, Peter would never⊠right?
Youâre forced back into reality when you realize Natasha had asked you a question.
âYouâre an actress, right? How familiar are you with action movies and stunt work?â She says, almost worried.
Your face shuffles through about five different emotions before you break. You canât help it, the question sounds so ludicrous to you that you outright laugh. Not the dampened girlish giggle you usually let out, no, this was a bark, a full gut busting cackle, and right in the widowâs face. In fact, you almost grow teary eyed, and it takes several long drawn out moments before you look across from you to see a baffled look from the other woman and that only makes you laugh even harder.
âIâm- gosh, Iâm sorry! I just- oh my god!â Youâre having serious trouble reigning it in and the irritated frown from the other woman does nothing to help. It takes a moment for you to finally settle yourself, but youâre left brandishing your first genuine smile.
âYouâŠâ Your head tilted to the side, joyfully puzzled, â-donât know who I am, do you?â
For the first time, the novelty of it all isnât as damaging to your ego, but instead somewhat refreshing. You can tell Natasha is trying her best to bluff her way out of it, squaring her shoulders and deepening her look of displeasure.
âI have an⊠idea.â No she didnât. Honestly you shouldâve seen it the moment she remained seated to greet you, she truly had no clue.
You chuckle, âNo, no you donât. If you did, well, you wouldnât have asked that question.â Itâs obvious the concept of not knowing something annoys her, enough to where she almost pouts like a child.
Easing up on her, you relax into your chair with a sudden smugness, âYes, Iâm pretty familiar with action movies.â
Satisfied with your vague answer, the widow reaches over and flips to a page in the very back of the folder, one you somehow missed.
Youâre greeted with a face you know all too well, one thatâs spawned plenty of nightmares, and now directly in front of you bearing a smile of pearly white veneers, that face inspires an instinctual reaction of dread deep in your gut and the immediate response to jerk back in your chair.
You canât look at the other woman as shame threads itself around your ribs, but even as you stare holes into your lap, you know just how obvious your response was.
It doesnât seem to deter Natasha, as she barrels on in spite of how youâve withdrawn, âYouâve worked closely with him, right?â
Itâs with a great amount of effort that you close your eyes, counting out your breaths. What follows is a visual full body reset, as you seemingly retreat back to your professionally charming self, a forced smile creasing your lips.
âWow, you werenât kidding, you actually have no clue who I am!â You know youâre not fooling the widow, but you appreciate the unaddressed change.
âShould I?â She asks in what you suspect is an attempt to be distractingly playful based on the small ease of her brows. Regardless of her intentions, you welcome the shift.
âNo, no, no, I didnât mean it like that, it's just⊠Well, thatâs a first for me.â You find yourself smiling, intent on avoiding looking back down at the table. Natashaâs quick to pick up on it, choosing to close the folder without any further comment.
In your appreciation, you decide to be honest. âYes, I am⊠unfortunately familiar with Beck.â
âThereâs a story there youâre not telling me.â It isnât said to be accusatory, just factual, and for that youâre grateful.
âSorry, you arenât the only one with NDAâs.â Voicing it aloud starts another wave of dread, but perhaps itâs something in the way the Russian is looking at you, with a clear understanding and patience, that has you confiding in her. âWhat I can say is this; I wouldnât put it past Quentin to take whatever shortcuts he could to get ahead.â
âI know the type.â
Youâre sat there for what must only be a few moments, but feels almost serene compared to the tension you felt earlier. Itâs enough to make you comfortable with teasing the other woman.
âSo do you just not watch movies⊠or TV⊠or like, use the internet at all?â While youâre genuinely curious as to how this woman seems to be the one person on the planet with no idea who you are, she doesnât give anything away and simply employs an eyeroll that youâre slowly becoming fond of.
A/N: Something short I felt possessed to write while working on my other my other WIPS
Thereâs a hand on your throat and an arm wrapped possessively around the front of your waist, pinning you to the lithe form creeping behind you. With unmistakable strength, the hand at your neck guides your chin out, bearing the column of your throat and the thick jugular vein that pumps adrenaline-soaked blood through your body. Warm breath slides across your shoulder and though youâre vulnerable and blind from this angle, you know that behind you lies a predator waiting to sink twin ivory needles into your flesh.
âWandaâŠâ The whisper falls from your lips like a prayer, breathy and filled with an ache thatâs bone deep. Her dark chuckle, mocking in its tone, sends goosebumps rippling across your skin.
âEasy now, pretty girl. Just one bite?â You can sense the curl of her lips, the amusement on her face as she toys with you. Sheâs always had a habit of playing with her food.
A whimper escapes the back of your throat the moment her elongated canines slice through your skin, plump lips wrapping around your neck as she swallows down thick gulps of your blood. A heavenly moan reverberates the second a drop of that rich metallic liquid settles on her tongue, the sound lighting your insides on fire more than the euphoria that accompanies the bite.
Itâs impossible not to squirm, some long dead survival instinct screaming at you to resist, but whether your struggle has anything to do with your willingness to submit matters not underneath such unyielding power and strength.
âFucking delicious.â It rushes out of Wanda like a declaration, the thick muscle of her tongue lapping at the droplets of crimson that dribble past the initial puncture wound. Still it seems like hours have passed before she finally detaches from your neck.
Your head lulls onto her shoulder, heavy like it's been filled to the brim with bricks. Thereâs sweat on your brow and a shallowness to your cheeks, eyes fluttering to stay open as a wave of exhaustion hits you.
Wanda cradles your body like it's made of glass, something precious and delicate, âHush Malyshka, Iâve got you.â
Itâs hard to form words, but a soft whimper escapes as you roll your head to the side, your nose buried in her neck, drunk on her vanilla-like scent.
âYou did so well for me.â Her voice accompanies your slow descent into sleep, rich and warm, dripping with a satisfaction that only comes from having her fill of you.
and make sure your comments are kind!!! âI love this so much!â and âthis is amazing! Iâm so excited for what happens nextâ are more likely to get your favorite fics updated than âwhen will we get the next chapter?â
Wait Iâm sorry parent/child incest fic?????? Why does that exist? Why do you KNOW that exists?????? What the fuck đ€ą
I feel like you can sort of tell how long (or not) someone has existed in fannish spaces by how outraged they get about things like this. Like rings in a tree trunk lol. I've been in so many fandoms. At least one, but often multiple at the same time, since I was a teenager. I've seen just. Everything.
Sex pollen. Mpreg. Incest. Monster fucking. Tentacles. Pairings like Snape/Hermione that would be crazy abusive and illegal if they were real. Wild kinks. The babygirlification of all kinds of villains. So much RPF (the 'I sincerely believe they are secretly a couple' kind and the 'this is fictional but it's fun to imagine they're in love' kind.)
You learn to just scroll past shit you don't like or unfollow people or filter tags. The tldr of fandom is that humans are weird as fuck. And creative, and unhinged, and traumatized, and talented. And amazing. And every single thing that you clutch your pearls about 'well surely someone doesn't want to read/write THAT!' - someone does. Probably lots of people do. And those people are perfectly normal. In their offline lives, they're parents and siblings and they have jobs and friends and they go about their lives and they don't cause any harm. And that's the sticking point. There's this really concerning, frankly highly Evangelical idea that if someone enjoys the wrong kind of fiction, they are obviously a Bad Person. But nothing is that simple, and thought crimes aren't real, and you definitely have some thoughts or ideas that someone else would find fucked up. You don't have to like every kind of fic that exists. I certainly don't. But shaming people for their harmless fantasies about fictional characters is so boring. I saw Goody Proctor enjoying a Toxic Ship! Good for you, I'll alert the pope.
