Lowkey hate this but I’m sticking with it because I already plotted the story so…
“Is everything alright? You look like something’s bothering you.”
It’s Wanda, watching you a tad too carefully like she’s already solved the puzzle in your mind.
Her voice is a welcomed one, interrupting the spiraling trajectory of your thoughts. She’s beside you on a stool in the compound’s kitchen, nursing a cup of the lavender tea you initially brewed to soothe your aching throat, claiming you must’ve caught a bug training the new recruits.
“It’s… I’m fine.”
Spilling your guts to the Sokovian didn’t sound like a great way to spend your afternoon, but despite your dismissal, Wanda doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Regardless, she allows you to down your tea without another word.
The elevator doors open and you don’t 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 she’s far from happy, rubber soles squeaking in uneven pitches.
Natasha.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? What more do you want me to say? You of all people should’ve known that I wasn’t going to say no to that assignment regardless of any… personal commitments.”
Her voice comes out sharper than you’ve ever heard it, especially not with you. It sets you on edge, and it doesn’t take long for you to piece together who she’s talking to.
“I guess those two are fighting again.”
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.
“Mhm.”
You mumble, trying to seem as if you’re not overly invested in the state of Natasha and Maria’s failing relationship.
It wasn’t 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 couldn’t cover up.
You swore that you didn’t want to know the details, knew that it would only fuel endless comparisons and the selfish assumption that you would treat the widow better.
“You’d think those two would’ve figured out by now that having a majority of your relationship exist inside a board room isn’t exactly healthy.”
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.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You’ve been quiet these past couple of days.”
“Allergies. A few cough drops and I’ll be fine, promise.”
You’re 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.
It’s 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 —" 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 —" a pause, something tightening almost imperceptibly in her expression — "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.
"Wanda—" 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.
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.
"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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
The dual sensation made your vision blur at the edges.
"Fuck—" 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.
The wet sounds of her movements filled the room, impossibly loud in the silence.
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.
She was watching you closely, your chest heaving, your thighs shaking around her face, your muffled moans growing louder.
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.
"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.
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.
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?"
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.
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.
"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.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"I'm close," you gasped, your thighs trembling against her shoulders. "Wanda, I'm gonna—"
"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 fuck— fuck—" 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.
Her breathing was ragged against your skin, the magical cock slowly dissipating into red sparks as she lost focus.
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.
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.
"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 —" you glanced at the window, the sky beginning to suggest something like dawn "— 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 who’s normally the bottomest bottom but FOR YOU she’s a pathetic top
Grace Ashcroft who whimpers when she puts it in, whether that’s her fingers or a strap
Grace Ashcroft who’s fascinated by how well you take her and looks at you like you’re god’s 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 you’ve been together
Grace Ashcroft who apologizes thinking about you while she touches herself even though it’s 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 idea…
A/N: I’m alive! Barely… um I actually didn’t think I’d 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. I’m 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 walls—A 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 weren’t 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 must’ve 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 mother’s minivan.
They’d been driving for hours, you remembered, your father’s white knuckled grip clutching the steering wheel amid the tense silence of the car. You’d asked to turn the radio on, but your parents seemed too busy exchanging looks and silent conversation.
“Mama?” 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 wrists—the 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 didn’t. It halted whatever questions you might’ve had for the pair of strange men that marched in.
You watched as they took in the little girl’s tantrum, sneering at her cries.
“Looks like someone’s volunteering to go first.” 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 girl’s 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.
“Would you hurry up? It fucking stinks in here.” Complained the man still posted by the door, annoyed by his colleague who seemed fascinated watching the child under him squirm.
“You heard him, kid. Let’s go.” 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 couldn’t 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 bedroom’s 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 she’d nod off, reinstating the perpetual cycle of suppressed memories bleeding into her dreams, a phase she’d thought she’d 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 she’d again been pouring over your case.
It wasn’t healthy to watch you. Natasha knew this, but it didn’t stop her. She could’ve gone back to bed, had every chance to between pulling up the instance of SHIELD’s 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 she’d buried, that you insisted on infiltrating her mind to the point of obsession.
Good, you’re sleeping. At least one of us is getting some rest.
It was a rare sight to see you so still, the closest you’ve 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 didn’t last long.
From the grainy footage, Natasha watched as you bolted upright, sweat coating your forehead. There wasn’t any audio —a weird bug that occurred a few days ago— 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 Natasha’s mind. She’d be damned if you decided to up and die under her care.
X
“You’re not eating.”
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 you’d sat in those wet clothes long enough for the chill to seep under your skin.
“And from the looks of it, you’re running a fever too.”
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 didn’t 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 you’d been told was “unladylike” by PR firms.
You were leaning on one of the glass walls your cot was positioned against, not really all “there”, but aware enough to avoid the scathing eye contact.
She clearly wanted you to say something.
You haven’t had the need to use your voice much, hardly said a word since your first day. It’d 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 didn’t like that decision.
“At the rate you’re going, if you don’t get enough food in your stomach, we’re going to have to tube feed you.” 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.
“Really? You want to be hooked up to those machines again? To be put under?”
She didn’t know how wrong she was. At that moment you’d give anything to get some decent sleep, preferably the kind where you didn’t 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.
“What would your parents say? It’s your fault they had to die. Do you really want to waste their death being a stupid broken little girl?”
“There you go again, getting that look.” Natasha’s voice is grating, an unwelcomed interruption to your reminiscing.
“Where do you go, hm? Are you back there, at that place?” She’s fishing, and you know it. Tuning her out isn’t hard, in fact it’s 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 you’ve already suffered.
Still, the Russian kept pushing, “I saw it, you know? The tapes, the pictures, the things they did to you, made you do.”
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 might’ve. 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 you’d 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, “Does Alison know? All of it?”
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 weren’t even aware of it.
Internally you’re 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 doesn’t 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 “episodes”.
Only, you don’t 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.
“Let me-
“Іди на хуй (fuck off).” It’s 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 couldn’t help but be somewhat satisfied leaving the widow speechless.
“Y-You speak Russian?”
You can’t 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.
“So you know Russian. What else?”
Ignoring her prodding, you slowly wrapped your hand, deliberately making sure you still have enough mobility to throw a punch.
“¿Hablas Español? Sprichst du deutsch? Nàme zhōngwén ne?”
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 should’ve been headed to Japan by now.
The reminder of your life’s 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 widow’s 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 woman’s presence.
Why hasn’t she left already?
You don’t anticipate the heavy steps that stalk over to you, but there’s 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 SHIELD’s own version of a liquid ration.
At first you’re 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.
It’s 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.
“I know, I know. Please don’t fucking cry.” 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.
You’re 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 couldn’t simply shove her off was enough of a sign that you were getting weaker. If Natasha could just get some food into you, maybe she’d be able to fucking sleep at night.
And this was the only way to do it. If she came at you head on, you’d just outmaneuver her life before, and it was early enough in the morning that whoever was supposed to be watching you was obviously asleep.
“Just eat the damn thing and it’ll be over.” It’s gritted through her teeth and she’s 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, doesn’t 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.
“You… you BIT me?” Natasha’s scream rattles inside the cell, not at all affecting you as you lie limp, blood trickling down your chin.
You’re not even looking at her, and that infuriates the spy enough for her to spew forth a string of colorful Russian curses.
“What the fuck is wrong with you!”
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.
“GET OUT!”
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!
“This is stupid.” Natasha mumbles.
The assassin is sitting outside a cleverly disguised SHIELD outpost—a brick and mortar storefront posing as a local cafe—trying 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 she’d 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, “Stop looking so broody. You know the guys would kill to be in your position.”
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.
“Yeah, well you can tell Sam that he’s free to take my place.” 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 “don’t pay attention to me”.
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 weren’t a dozen rookie agents posing as fake employees, ready to watch her fail at keeping a conversation—either due to her own aloofness, or if the rumors were true, your air headed-ness.
“Shush. You of all people are in dire need of a social life. Even Bucky has friends outside the team.” Clint chided in her ear.
“I don’t do friends.” Especially vapid Hollywood ingénues, she wanted to add.
“Well 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.”
The widow rolled her eyes, “And we couldn’t find anyone better? Like someone with training?”
“She’s an actress. That’s like getting paid to lie. You two have that in common already.”
Fair enough.
It was puzzling to try and explain why the avenger was feeling so… uncooperative. She’d 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 hadn’t 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 “cafe”.
“Ok, I see her. I’m gonna let you two be alone now.”
X
This is crazy. The thought hadn’t left your mind since Felicia approached you with Tony’s invitation.
You hadn’t expected anyone involved with your supposed new BFF to reach out so soon, let alone insist on a meeting. That, and the mountains of NDA’s you signed.
You tried burying the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.
You were used to under the radar agreements in the past—a 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 weren’t 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.
“These people you’re meeting… are you sure of their intentions?”
“I can’t exactly say no to Tony Stark, can I? I’m sure whatever they want isn’t too bad. Maybe the avengers need a PR boost?” You didn’t believe the words even as you said them.
All you knew was Tony’s email had made it seem like refusing wasn’t an option and that someone of your expertise was needed, whatever that meant.
Felicia had already put the idea of a fake relationship—no friendship in your head, and this only seemed to cement it. It wasn’t completely impossible, given the other woman’s reputation, or lack thereof.
You noted the furrow of your driver’s brows, a grunt echoing at the back of his throat in displeasure.
“I’ll keep the car running just around the corner if you need me.”
A genuine smile flashed across your face, a soft curl of your lips that rarely saw use.
“Thank you, Ben.” 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 wasn’t the most iconic or fashionable, but it and the minimal makeup you wore felt like a safe choice.
“If I’m not back in an hour, honk twice.” That had always been your shared signal to bail you out of stuffy events in the past. Hopefully it wouldn’t be needed.
You dare not look out the car’s window, allowing yourself a bit of preparation as you stepped out onto the curb of a quaint little cafe. There’s something almost bare bones about it, like it’s 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 isn’t looking at you, her chair turned to face away from you so you don’t bother hiding the amused smirk that forms once you take in the god awful outfit she’s 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 didn’t 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.
“Hi.” It comes out confident and not at all like you were battling the anxiety swirling in your stomach. She must’ve heard you coming, not at all surprised when you spoke from behind her, and only truly looking up to you the moment you’re directly across from her.
Remembering your manners, you quickly introduce yourself—something you honestly hadn’t had to do in a while—and offer your hand.
You didn’t expect the ex-assassin to simply look at the appendage unamused, keeping her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
Ouch.
Seeing as she’s 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 wouldn’t fidget in front of her.
What a great start.
“Can I call you Natasha? Or do you prefer Black Widow?” You ask, tasting the way her name sat on your tongue. Despite the icy welcome, you’re trying to be polite, even if you’re already starting to regret showing up.
“Natasha is fine.” 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 can’t 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.
It’s 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 there’s 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.
“I’m awfully flattered that Tony decided to reach out,” You try, “Even if it did come as a bit of a surprise.”
You aren’t sure if that offended her, the only reaction you get being a raised eyebrow. It’s 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 wouldn’t kill for someone to show up to take your order.
“I’d actually like to take the time to once again thank you for saving me the other day.” You’d 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?
“It’s admirable, what you do. The city is lucky to have you, all of you.” You watch her blink, slowly like a cat deciding you’re not worth their time. Still you continue, “It’s my understanding that Mr. Stark reached out to discuss some sort of deal between the two of us.” Again, you’re giving her ample opportunity to speak up and fill in the details, but when she doesn’t, you decide that maybe you should just bite the bullet and put all your cards on the table.
“What I mean to say is… while I’ve 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.
“Excuse me?” 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.
“I-I apologize. Is that not what you wanted to hear? Maybe relationship isn’t the right word,” You’re fucking this up completely, “-um, would you rather call it an agreement? An arrangement, maybe? We’ll have time to work out the specifics later, after we discuss boundaries of course-
“Stop talking.” 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 can’t 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 she’s pulling out a crisp manilla folder and placing it in front of you, now avoiding eye contact at all costs.
“You- you- just… here.”
X
It wasn’t 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. She’d have to be blind to not acknowledge that, but looks aside, Natasha couldn’t 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. She’s all too conscientious of the other agents milling around in character, witnesses to her fumble.
“Real smooth, Romanoff.” 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.
“Oh. This is…” You flip through the pages, paragraphs of redacted information and surface level evidence, notably choosing not to linger on the crime scene photos, “-definitely not what I was expecting.”
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?
“What did you think this was?” 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 weren’t the one with absurd and crazy preconceived notions.
“I don’t know! Normally when someone reaches out to me via a third party it’s to date me for like one or two weeks before we break up so they can get a boost in their career.”
Natasha almost flinched hearing the word date, seemingly more uncomfortable as you rambled on. She didn’t want the image in her head, you and the idea of romance just unsettled her.
“You thought this was a date?” 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?
“What? No!” Your thoughts were spiraling, “I said normally. I’ve never been involved with someone like you.” Crap. You didn’t mean it like that, and judging from the widow’s deepening scowl, she heard some sort of subtle insult.
“Someone like me?”
A woman. You have to bite your tongue not to say it out loud.
“A superhero,” You offer instead, “Sure, Johnny Storm flirted with me once, but he’s not exactly my type and-”
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.
“I knew this was a dumb idea.” She’s 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.
“Wha- hold on!” She’s undeterred, abandoning the files in an effort to get out of there as fast as she can. For an assassin, she sure is jumpy.
“I’m sure SHIELD will compensate for your time, have a nice day.”
You chalk it up to panic, because there’s no way you would normally be so bold as to reach over and grab the other woman’s wrist, but that’s 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, it’s 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.
“Will you sit back down? I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you out.” You release her hand like it’s 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 she’s about to bolt again.
There’s something irritating about this whole charade. It’s 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 there’s a tad bit of bitterness that cuts through the sweet practiced act of yours.
“Clearly I must’ve gotten the wrong impression, and for that I apologize.” 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 you’re 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.
“Look, those guys in the photos? Yeah, I knew them. Nice people too, helped me practice some of my stunt choreography.” There’s a bit of edge there you don’t try to hide. You purposefully keep your answer clipped. You’re embarrassed, the only thing keeping you seated being the familiar names and faces in front of you.
“They’re dead.” The widow is quick to inform, and your shoulders slacken, not at all surprised.
The information wasn’t new, but it certainly wasn’t any easier to hear, or to have to explain why you weren’t teary eyed. Sure you expressed your condolences through a heavily edited social media post like everyone else, but you weren’t falling apart. Honestly if it weren’t for the pictures in front of you, you don’t think you’d be able to recall their faces.
“Yeah, I heard. I wasn’t close with any of them, but we went to the same parties, same casting calls,” you can’t look at her, ashamed at your lack of a reaction, “Everyone knows everyone here.”
The Russian hums, as if she’s only just now invested in what you have to say and you can’t 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.
“So that’s all this is then? This deal of ours? It’s about some mission?” You make sure to express your displeasure at the idea, not that you wouldn’t cooperate, but you didn’t 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?
“Correct,” Natasha has your attention again, and you notice for the first time she doesn’t look perpetually pissed off, “Everything detailed in those files has to do with SHIELD’s latest operation…” There’s a pause, and something cold settles in her stare, no doubt meant to be intimidating, yet there’s something thrilling about it too. “I’ve been tasked with recruiting you as an informant.”
Huh?
It takes a moment for you to process her words, failing in keeping your face at a neutral expression. “An informant? Like a spy?” Maybe it’s ill conceived, but the thought excites you. Probably the closest you’ll get to playing in a Bond film.
“No. At most, you’ll be no contact. Simply observation.” From her stance, you can tell that it’s a non-negotiable.
While it doesn’t make up for the lack of civility on the widow’s 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. It’s with the pieces put together that you can visualize the scene— 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 it’s a magic drug.
You’re 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?
You’re forced back into reality when you realize Natasha had asked you a question.
“You’re an actress, right? How familiar are you with action movies and stunt work?” She says, almost worried.
Your face shuffles through about five different emotions before you break. You can’t 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 widow’s 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.
“I’m- gosh, I’m sorry! I just- oh my god!” You’re 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 you’re left brandishing your first genuine smile.
“You…” Your head tilted to the side, joyfully puzzled, “-don’t know who I am, do you?”
For the first time, the novelty of it all isn’t 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.
“I have an… idea.” No she didn’t. Honestly you should’ve seen it the moment she remained seated to greet you, she truly had no clue.
You chuckle, “No, no you don’t. If you did, well, you wouldn’t have asked that question.” It’s 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, “Yes, I’m pretty familiar with action movies.”
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.
You’re greeted with a face you know all too well, one that’s 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 can’t 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 doesn’t seem to deter Natasha, as she barrels on in spite of how you’ve withdrawn, “You’ve worked closely with him, right?”
It’s 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.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding, you actually have no clue who I am!” You know you’re not fooling the widow, but you appreciate the unaddressed change.
“Should I?” 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.
“No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that, it's just… Well, that’s a first for me.” You find yourself smiling, intent on avoiding looking back down at the table. Natasha’s quick to pick up on it, choosing to close the folder without any further comment.
In your appreciation, you decide to be honest. “Yes, I am… unfortunately familiar with Beck.”
“There’s a story there you’re not telling me.” It isn’t said to be accusatory, just factual, and for that you’re grateful.
“Sorry, you aren’t the only one with NDA’s.” Voicing it aloud starts another wave of dread, but perhaps it’s something in the way the Russian is looking at you, with a clear understanding and patience, that has you confiding in her. “What I can say is this; I wouldn’t put it past Quentin to take whatever shortcuts he could to get ahead.”
“I know the type.”
You’re sat there for what must only be a few moments, but feels almost serene compared to the tension you felt earlier. It’s enough to make you comfortable with teasing the other woman.
“So do you just not watch movies… or TV… or like, use the internet at all?” While you’re genuinely curious as to how this woman seems to be the one person on the planet with no idea who you are, she doesn’t give anything away and simply employs an eyeroll that you’re slowly becoming fond of.
A/N: Something short I felt possessed to write while working on my other my other WIPS
There’s 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 you’re vulnerable and blind from this angle, you know that behind you lies a predator waiting to sink twin ivory needles into your flesh.
“Wanda…” The whisper falls from your lips like a prayer, breathy and filled with an ache that’s bone deep. Her dark chuckle, mocking in its tone, sends goosebumps rippling across your skin.
“Easy now, pretty girl. Just one bite?” You can sense the curl of her lips, the amusement on her face as she toys with you. She’s 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.
It’s 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.
“Fucking delicious.” 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. There’s 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, “Hush Malyshka, I’ve got you.”
It’s 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.
“You did so well for me.” 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!!! “I love this so much!” and “this is amazing! I’m so excited for what happens next” are more likely to get your favorite fics updated than “when will we get the next chapter?”
Wait I’m sorry parent/child incest fic?????? Why does that exist? Why do you KNOW that exists?????? What the fuck 🤢
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.
This was meant to be a oneshot but turned into a twoshot and I took a big writing break in between writing this so if it sucks I apologize! Also bonus points if you know where “the dress” is from ;)
Edit: The next part is being rewritten so give me some time!!
Men and Minors DNI
You remember the first time you saw Natasha in a dress.
You’d been working under Pepper Potts for about a year now. Your actual job title had little to do with public relations, but somehow you’d been saddled with the ongoing effort to extinguish the disastrous fire that was Tony Stark’s public perception. A prototype Iron Man suit went rogue? You were there to pay for the damages and organize repairs. Tony accidentally offended a foreign ambassador by being an asshole? You were sending gift baskets and exclusive business offers.
You were honestly relieved the moment you heard Tony had hired an assistant. Not only was it less stressful for your actual boss, but now someone new was there to endure the madness that came with being associated with Stark.
The birthday party was the first time you met her. “Natalie Rushmen”. The name didn’t stand out to you at first, but the second you saw the woman Tony was letting fire one of the repulser cannons, you decided you liked the way it sounded in your mouth.
“Please don’t give me more work during a party.” You approached Stark and the others, drink untouched in your hand.
You watched as Tony flashed you his devilish smile, not even acknowledging the mess he’d be making you clean.
Your gaze snapped to the pair of green eyes beside him.
The woman in front of you was to put it simply, breathtaking, but your real focus was drawn to the sinfully tight dress she was wearing.
The sultry animal print was enough to turn your ears pink but the ruffles stitched along the neckline had your eyes dangerously close to staring at her chest.
Prominent red lips curled into a smile as she saw where your attention was, bringing a rush of color to your cheeks. You decided that was the perfect moment to throw back a gulp of whiskey.
“Natalie, Natalie Rushmen.” She stuck out a manicured hand towards you. You mumbled your own introduction, shaking her outstretched hand and shuddering when your fingers brushed hers.
Tony traded looks between you two and decided it was best to sneak away and cause trouble elsewhere.
“You must be the new assistant. It’s nice having another person to babysit the billionaire.” Her laughter short circuited your brain for a moment, leaving you entirely unprepared for the moment Tony decided to take a ride in the Iron Man suit.
That was years ago, and at first, the two of you fell into a strange sort of dance, brief exchanges in the hall, touches lingering a tad too long over handing off documents. The woman captivated you in between sarcastic remarks and tantalizing pencil skirts.
Upon learning that the unbelievably attractive woman you were sort of flirting with, was actually an undercover spy for a top secret government agency made you the slightest bit self conscious. You were quick to assume her growing interest in you was just for the sake of appearances. What did you have to offer for someone that routinely assassinated men for a living.
Still, Natalie, or more accurately “Natasha Romanoff” didn’t leave your mind for weeks.
Then just as quickly, there she was again, not at all like you remembered, standing in the same briefing room that you were about to enter.
You can still recall the way her eyes met yours through the glass, and the way you went in the opposite direction, making a beeline towards the nearest elevator, heels clacking hurriedly on the floor.
It took months of first avoiding her and all things to do with this “Avengers Initiative”, then awkwardly making small talk, before she finally cornered you in your office.
You were ready to curse Tony out for no doubt giving her your whereabouts when such plans of retaliation were abruptly stalled by a hand cradling your jaw, and lips cautious, but overwhelmingly pressed against yours.
Fast track to the present, and there you were, Natasha Romanoff’s long term girlfriend, stubbornly going through her closet.
“Seriously?” You directed towards the assassin sitting on the bed.
“Who would’ve guessed that the super scary Black Widow was a major clothes thief!” A pause and then, “Are- Are these my sweatpants?”
Natasha looked all too amused by your outburst, as you held up the article of clothing accusingly.
“They’re too big on you anyways. Maybe if you weren’t so short-
“I am average height!” She smiled watching you snap. That had always been the dynamic between you two, her teasing, and you fighting back until you became a flustered mess.
“Sure detka, keep telling yourself that.”
“This is not about you and your freakishly tall russian genetics!” You huffed, going back to work flipping through hangers.
“Wanda and I were gonna watch a movie and I can’t find my lazy day hoodie!” You were borderline pouting, scanning the closet’s contents meticulously.
The bed squeaked once behind you before a pair of arms encircled your waist, Natasha’s sturdy presence at your back. Her chin was perched over your shoulder, a noncommittal hum coming from the back of her throat.
“You mean the one you took from me the night we first fu-
“THE DETAILS AREN’T NECESSARY!” You screamed, turning around in her arms.
The blush coating your cheeks delighted her to no end, especially now that you were looking up at her.
“What matters is that it’s mine now and I can’t find it.” She took in the disappointed look on your face before leaning in to peck your upturned lip.
“Don’t worry malyshka, it’s probably in here somewhere.”
You stepped out of her embrace to glare at the closet like it had personally offended you. It wasn’t as if it was disorganized, no there was just so much packed inside.
“Why do you even need this many clothes? You wear the same thing everyday.” You watched her shrug before you started inspecting her wardrobe again.
“Like since when did you start wearing overalls?” You turn to her, washed out denim clutched in your hand.
“Those are from an undercover op in Texas.” She prattled off.
The image of your girlfriend posing as a ranch hand, skin slicked with sweat from the oppressive sun, biceps flexing as hay bales were hauled around, it made you commit the idea to memory, saved for a “rainy” day.
Another usual outfit caught your eye, a cut up tattered black crop top with some vintage rock and roll band you’d never heard of.
“What about this one?” You asked, spying the accompanying fish nets and laddered tights.
“Underground rave, ended in a drug bust.”
“And these?” The pair of workout pants weren’t visibly different from Natasha’s normal choice of clothes, save for the giant pink bubble lettering that spelled out “juicy” on the butt.
“That… That was a gift from Yelena.” The chuckle you let out cut off abruptly the moment you saw it.
The dress was borderline salacious.
“Wait, WHAT is this?! I’ve definitely never seen you in this!” You clutched at the article of clothing, ripping it free from the attached hanger and letting your eyes roam over every seam and intricate stitch.
It was a tight black number, cinched at the waist with a generous neckline that dipped into a torturous display, off the shoulder sleeves adding to what would no doubt be a devastating view of your girlfriend’s collar bones.
“That was for a case Fury dropped. Something about a high end trafficking ring in need of a classic honeypot.”
Your brain was assaulted with another round of delicious fantasies, these ones especially vivid.
Some eclipsed alley behind a bar, Natasha in that dress, her eyes hooded and blown out with lust, breath hot on your neck. You’d have her pinned against a wall, or any surface really, hands full of her thighs and tongue painting her chest. She’d be ready for you, underwear long gone, or maybe she wouldn’t even bother putting any on, closer to her slick, heady-
“I need to see you in this.” You announced, suddenly desperate to make your daydreams a reality.
Watching you practically drool over the dress and the prospect of your girlfriend wearing it, landed a smug smirk and a raised eyebrow in your direction.
“Oh really? Why’s that?”
You weren’t even paying attention to Natasha creeping closer to you, head full of unholy premonitions.
Clearing your throat, you made the excuse of saying, “Well, um, it’s just that you obviously haven’t worn it, and it would be such a waste to just leave it collecting dust…”
You slowly trailed off, now hyper aware of your girlfriend’s knowing stare and how she was now stepping into your space.
You tried to hold her gaze, even as those calculating green eyes bore into your soul.
Eventually you cracked, “Ugh you know why!”
You tried shifting away from her satisfied grin, but a finger directed your chin back to her.
“You’re always in a suit or wearing pants! Plus you regularly torture me every time I’m in something low cut! It’s not fair!” You whined, a bit more invested than you ought to be.
While it was a basic fact that your girlfriend looked gorgeous in everything, her more risque outfits were always meant for seducing some arms dealer or flirting past security. You figured it was about time you got to be on the receiving end.
“Oh yeah? What’s in it for me?” She challenged, hip cocked and arms crossed. You knew she would play along, but hadn’t considered she’d make you work for it.
“Um, my happiness? Making your overworked girlfriend’s dreams come true?” She didn’t budge. You racked your brain for something you could offer, but the only hint you needed was the wicked gleam in her eyes.
“Fine! ONE date on the motorcycle, but if I die or fall on my ass, I’m taking the bus.” As scary as Natasha’s death trap was, your libido was more powerful than your fear.
“Of course you ride the bus.”
“IT'S BETTER FOR THE ENVIRONMENT!” You squeaked, cheeks red. You focused back on the dress.
“So…” You offered. A part of you wanted verbal confirmation before getting your hopes up.
As you expected, the widow relented.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” She quipped, rolling her eyes affectionately as you joyfully fist pumped the air.
“HELL YES!”
X
It took a few weeks before the perfect opportunity arrived.
You’d almost forgotten about the deal you made with your girlfriend, that is until Pepper emailed you a guest list to run through with Tony for the next Avenger’s Charity Gala.
You’d attended the event in the past, both with your own invite, and then later on as Natasha’s plus one, but you knew this year would be different, given that you were in charge of most of it.
You waited until a few days before the specified date to ask, seeing as you were overly busy with planning said event, and Natasha was somewhere in Europe tailing a rogue metahuman.
“Unless you have some mistress I don’t know about, I’m assuming you’re still taking me as your plus one to the charity gala?” You asked over the phone, sacrificing the international minutes to spend a moment alone with the Russian.
You could hear the scoff leave her lips, as she adjusted the phone, picturing it balanced carefully between her shoulder and ear.
“Don’t joke like that. If anything, it’s you who’d have a mistress, what with your girlfriend halfway around the world every other week.”
You clicked your teeth, agreeing that the separation was beginning to wear on you, given that you were crashing at her apartment, tucked into the bed that felt far too empty.
The distance was bearable, if only thanks to the optimal cell service and nightly calls.
Oh and the phone sex.
“Mhm I guess you caught me. I’m sorry you had to find out about my affair with Sarah Jessica Parker during my Sex and The City reruns.”
Natasha hummed over the line, probably mid stake out or pouring over data sets. You imagined the focused look on her face, hanging onto your every word, like a welcomed distraction.
“Of course I’m taking you, malysh. You know I hate those things.”
“I don’t know, you seemed to be having a blast last year.”
You blushed at the memory, remembering the thrill of feeling Natasha’s hands skirt up your dress from beneath your assigned table, trying to stutter through a conversation as her possessive grip on your thigh roamed beneath the tablecloth.
“I think we managed to permanently ruin Steve’s innocence.” The smirk was evident in her voice, a touch of warmth to her otherwise level timbre.
“What brought this up? Tony isn’t making you work during the party, is he?” You picked at the hem of your T-Shirt, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“No, no. Don’t worry, you don’t need to strangle my unofficial boss just yet.” While it was possible that you might have been downplaying your work load, you’d put in enough hours to get the majority of the bureaucratic nonsense situated, scheduling caterers, entertainment, even double, no triple checking the seating chart.
Still, it wasn’t something you wanted the Russian to worry about.
“Good. He should know better than to mess with what’s mine.” You rolled your eyes affectionately, fighting back the urge to smile. Ignoring the strain on your cheeks, you cleared your throat, hoping to shift focus on your original intentions.
“Um, it was actually about that thing we talked about.”
“Hmm? What thing? We talk about a lot of things.” She feigned indifference, an obvious attempt to bait you, but your sudden nerves took over.
“Y’know, the dress…” You trailed off, heat coating your cheeks. Still, you weren’t being let off that easily.
“Sounds familiar, maybe you can be more specific.”
The groan in the back of your throat shifted to a pathetic whine, wishing you could reach into the phone and shake your girlfriend.
“Natty, please! I’m being serious.”
She simply laughed, a light breathy sound that honestly seemed like a much needed relief, her voice slipping into something sickening sweet.
“I’m sorry, detka. You know I’m only teasing. Of course I remember.” She mused, “You looked so cute trying to negotiate.”
“Maybe I’ll see if Sam still needs a date actually-
“Not so fast.” She chided, “You’re stuck with me.”
The joy she got from messing with you never outweighed her ability to check-in, turning soft and reassuring.
“I know I like to play, but I want you to be comfortable asking me for things.”
You’d grown comfortable letting your girlfriend set the pace of your relationship, patiently waiting for her to trust you, to let you in, you never wanted to ask for too much.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” You questioned, filled with the irrational fear of being seen as some sort of needy sex freak, or worse, that you only loved her for her appearance.
“Weird that you find me attractive? Kroshka, I’d be more upset if you didn’t daydream about tearing my clothes off.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.” God, you needed her to come home soon, already anticipating the moment you could jump her bones.
“Oh yeah? Why don’t you fill me in on whatever’s going through that pretty little head of yours, detka?” As tempting as the idea was, and wow did the Russian pet name do something to you, you started hearing rushed voices on the other line, preceded by gunfire and your girlfriend’s frustrated grunt.
“Sounds like duty calls. You better get back out there Agent Romanoff.”
You tried not to laugh at her mumbled Russian swearing, hearing the shuffle of her feet even as she kept you on the line.
“Чёрт, this isn’t over, got that?”
“Uh huh, love you too. Oh, and try not to get shot.”
X
On the night of the charity gala, you two decide to get ready separately.
You’re stepping off of the compound’s elevator half an hour early, already dolled up to at least look a bit worthy of being Natasha Romanoff’s long term partner. You had to defend your title after all.
Not wanting to draw too much attention but still appear like you belonged on the arm of someone as stunning as your girlfriend, you decided on a simple yet flattering red cocktail dress that showed a modest amount of cleavage and hugged your curves nicely.
While you had every intention of letting Natasha be the show stopper between you, it wasn’t like you weren’t also trying to subtly seduce the woman, taking care to check off all of your girlfriend’s preferences; you wore your hair up to expose the column of your neck,—a favorite place for the widow to leave her mark—kept your makeup light, emphasizing on your natural features, and you even wore the heels she liked; the black red bottomed pumps that drove her crazy.
“Wow, you clean up nice.” Steve was there to greet you, fiddling with the cuff links of his navy blue blazer.
You flashed the blonde a smile and let him walk you over to the living room couch. Regardless of the hard work you spent on your appearance, he didn’t judge you the moment you unceremoniously flopped onto the cushions.
You tried withholding the groan buried in your throat, “Thanks, Cap. I’m just glad Pepper’s in charge of handling Tony tonight. Did you know he got drunk last night and ordered for an entire ice sculpture to be made? I really needed the night off.”
Steve threw his head back, easy laughter rumbling through his chest, “Yeah, I bet. Does Natasha know you’re here already?”
“Probably not, but I don’t mind waiting. After all, you never rush a lady, Steve.”
“You should listen to her, Cap. Maybe then Sharon Carter would call you back.” Wanda’s voice echoed down the hall, announcing her arrival before you saw her.
She flashed you that cheeky smile you associated with your best friend, ignoring Steve’s blundering for a response.
“Woah there Wands, someone might have to call the fire department cause you are smoking!” You joke, winking at the witch.
It was true, hell, if you weren’t madly in love with Natasha and if Wanda wasn’t like a sister to you, you’d probably be all over her with those hazel eyes of hers and your shared sense of humor.
Indulging your banter, the witch gave you a full turn around of her outfit; a deep red and black dress with some lace embellishment to match the fingerless gloves she wore. She kept her usual combat boots, which you had to admit was smarter than the death traps you wore.
“You don’t look so bad yourself, púpsik.” You dramatically pretended to shy away from the compliment.
“Maximoff! You’re just trying to sweet talk me into being your plus-one, aren’t you?”
“And piss off your psychotic girlfriend?” She laughed, “Yeah, no thanks.”
“Aw,” You pouted, “If we were looking for a third, just know you’d be my first pick.” You let out another giggle watching the witch roll her eyes affectionately.
“You and Natasha need a third? How long’s the waiting list and where do I sign up?” Sam, because of course it was Sam, sauntered into the room, an uncomfortable looking Bucky shoved into a matching tuxedo trailing behind him.
You pretended to gag, “Ugh, eww! No boys allowed!”
Sam barked out a laugh, “Oh yeah? Then why do you call Natasha Dad-
“WE ARE CHANGING THE TOPIC!” Steve was on his feet now, face beet red and hands thrown over his ears. The others failed to contain their amusement, laughter spilling out.
“Anyways,” Steve huffed, “Are we just waiting on Natasha?”
You stood up, suddenly in work mode as you tried to recall the guest list and who was confirmed to show, “Tony is probably derailing the event setup, Thor is catching a ride with Carol, —I think they’re pregaming on some party planet.” You checked off half the missing team, trying to remember where the others were.
“Bruce is bringing Jennifer along,—I’m not sure if Jen will be in She-Hulk mode—and Clint is taking the night off to be with his kids. A few others from outside the team should be there too.” You nodded, not bothering to list off the unofficial team members —that would take forever.
Sam threw his hands up, impatient, “Then what are we waiting for? Go get your girl so we can get going.”
You scoffed, “I don’t- hold on, that's her,” The vibration of your phone interrupted your conversation, Natasha’s sleeping face—she didn’t know you had that picture, nor that it was her contact photo—staring back at you.
Natty <3: Kroshka I have some last minute things to get done before the party. Go ahead without me, i’ll be right behind you!
“She’s not riding with us, says she’ll meet us there.” You tried not to sound disappointed. The optimistic part of you thought maybe she needed more time on her hair or makeup, and who were you to stand in the way of perfection.
Steve came around behind you, a reassuring arm at your back, “Are you okay with that? She won’t mind us stealing you will she?”
You hummed, pretending to think it over, “Technically supervising you children falls under my job description, so…”
The group chuckled, your best friend deciding to claim your right arm and link it with hers, “Haha, but I thought you weren’t working tonight?”
You huffed, “With a boss like mine? I’m always working. Now come along kiddos, the limo’s waiting for us downstairs.”
You took it up as your sole responsibility to wrangle the other adults into the elevator, squeezing enough to accommodate your entire group. With the heroes in tow, you shuffled the herd of them out the compound, only slightly nitpicking at some of the final details of their outfits.
The ride to the event hall wasn’t as smooth as you’d hoped— stopping once because one of the boys forgot their phone, only to discover it in their pocket— but the premium limousine service you were tasked with hiring came through in the form of plush leather seats, surround sound, and a partition that was immediately put into use the moment your noisy friends entered the vehicle.
“Wooo, Tony really went all out, didn’t he?” Sam grinned, nursing a glass of non alcoholic champagne —something you remembered to switch out with the real stuff when you hired the car. He was sandwiched between Bucky and Steve, squished due to the musculature of the three men and the lack of leg room from the unconscious man spreading.
You pretended to be offended behind the rim of your own drink, scowling from your spot next to Wanda, “Excuse you, don’t give that manchild credit that isn’t his! I nearly had an aneurysm compiling the seating chart, let alone finding rides for half the guest list!”
Bucky raised a thick brow, “Does Stark know you talk about him like that when he’s not around?”
You couldn’t hide the playful smirk you wore, “Why do you think Pepper hired me? While my paychecks might be signed by Tony, his wife’s where my true loyalty lies, and she’d agree with me.”
You watched the older man think it over before going back to his champagne, “In that case, thanks for the swanky limo.”
“You’re very welcome. You guys deserve to feel like rockstars for a change.” You supplied, only to stare straight in Sam’s direction, “That’s not an excuse to start acting crazy, okay? I do not need a repeat of last year.”
Despite having the night off, anxiety still swirled in your stomach. Tonight had to go perfectly, otherwise you’d be out of a job. No, that was mostly the nerves talking, but still, this was the first year you’d be responsible for practically everything.
“Oh so Stark’s allowed to drink and fly but the second I make a couple laps around the room it’s a big deal?” The man whined, arms thrown up at you.
“You knocked down TWO chandeliers,” You paused to down the rest of your glass, “AND almost hit someone!”
From beside you, you could see Wanda’s ruby colored lips curl into a teasing smirk, “Well, it was only General Ross.”
You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving the witch, “Yeah, who now happens to be the president, AND exactly who this party is supposed to be for.”
The conversation halted as the car took a rather wide turn, inspiring the need to brace yourself against the woman next to you. Steve on the other hand barely moved an inch from his position parallel to you.
“So it’s not for charity?” He asked, more innocently than you’d expect.
You brushed him off, deciding to hide behind the act of grabbing another drink, “What? No, of course it’s for charity!”
“It’s to make us look good.” Wanda stepped in to help you, ignoring the glare you threw her.
“And that. But mostly charity!” You smiled, not entirely convincing. It lasted for a moment before you sighed, letting your shoulders drop in resignation.
“Look, at least you guys don’t have to attend any dinners with investors. Asking Stark to use a napkin is hard enough. I don’t suppose any of you know what a terrapin fork looks like?” You were met with a shaking of heads and an even more confused look from the captain.
“All I ask is that you all behave for just ONE night a year, okay?” You begged, whatever faith you had, crumbling the moment you realized only Wanda was listening. Steve was trying, but beside him Bucky and Sam had started to argue over something, so it felt like a losing battle.
Maybe taking the night off was a bad idea.
You eventually arrived only five minutes behind schedule, a new personal best for the team, who often loved to show up fashionably late. However, walking into the carefully decorated reception hall was another story.
You threw the group a sympathetic smile as the second they were spotted, it activated some lind of chain reaction. You immediately found yourself in the familiar enough situation of watching your close friends get pulled from your side and ushered around for photos, shaking hands, and anything else that came with their coveted celebrity.
And because you trusted the others enough not to make complete fools of themselves—honestly it was more due to the fact that you weren’t technically on the clock—that left you (the non-Avenger) to walk in by yourself.
You didn’t envy the others, finding yourself lucky no one was breathing down your neck for a red carpet interview or asking you annoying questions like “Who are you wearing?” And “Who’s the hottest one on the team?” (The answer was obviously Natasha).
No, instead you had the privilege of strutting right up to security, who instantly recognized you, and being let into the building without the extra fanfare.
The sight that greeted you inside was both expected, yet still just as nerve wracking. Dozens of well-dressed patrons littered the floor, branching out to occupy all three stories of the space, and visible to you from the glass railings and clear staircases.
The interior itself looked like it’d been pulled from every movie’s stereotypical depiction of a wealthy social gathering, with plush carpeted floors and lit sconces decorating the walls. You also made sure to spare a glance towards one of the newly installed crystal chandeliers, the tiered rings hanging just above your head.
“Hey, kid. Fancy seeing you here.” You sighed, knowing that irritatingly smug voice anywhere, hell, you could practically hear the annoying smile in his voice.
Slowly, not quite ready to be reminded of your poor work life balance, you turned, reluctantly coming face to face with the man who’d ruined your semblance of normalcy.
“Mr. Stark.” You held up your smile for a micro second before letting your face fall flat. He, however, was of course thrilled to see you.
“Nuh uh, none of that! You call me worse things behind my back, the least you could do is call me by my name.” That pearlescent smile of his never ceased to grate on your nerves as he clapped a hand onto your shoulder, the other one occupied with a finger of scotch. With him, that cocky attitude of his always spelled trouble for you.
You remained deadpanned, “Right. Are you enjoying the party, Mr. Stark?”
You watched him chuckle and gesture his glass towards you, “As much as I can during these kinds of things, but hey, you should be proud kiddo! The place looks great!”
No thanks to you.
Maybe it was an overly stressful week, but your usual reluctant fondness for your unofficial employer was wearing thin.
Thankfully, like an angel sent from on high, your actual boss swooped in to rescue you from the conversation.
“Tony, there you are! Oh, hi sweetie, I didn’t realize that you were here already.” Your eyes visibly lit up seeing the matronly smile on Pepper’s face, even if the pet name made you blush. You weren’t quite used to her kindness, even after all these years. It only made you want to keep impressing her.
“Yes, ma’am. I managed to wrangle up the team, well minus Nat, but the others should be finishing up their walkthrough with the press any minute.” You prattled off, ever the obedient employee, checking off the verbal list on your fingers.
She squeezed your arm affectionately and offered that same warm look your way, “Oh that’s great, but you know you’re not supposed to be working tonight, right? You should go have some fun.”
“Exactly what I was saying!” Tony remarked as he saddled up next to her, grabbing her by the waist,
You ignored him, focusing on Pepper, “Are you sure? It’s really not that much trouble. I know there’s some high profile connections here and-
“Nope. I’m cutting you off. Let me deal with the suits tonight, you deserve a break.”
Chuckling, Tony added, “Yeah, Pep. I don’t think that’s gonna stop her.”
You panicked, again wanting to prove yourself, “No. No. No! I can relax! I’ll… mingle. But if you need anything-
“Go!” Pepper urged, leaving no real room for argument as you quickly waved goodbye to start working the room.
You were blatantly ignoring Pepper’s request.
You could almost feel the disappointed look on her face from across the reception hall as you flitted from person to person, networking instead of truly enjoying yourself.
30 minutes, that’s how late your girlfriend was now. You try not to think about it, grateful when you eventually stumble upon some familiar faces.
“Director Fury! What a pleasant surprise! When I sent out the invitation, I didn’t think you would make it.” You greeted the older man with the reserved politeness you saved for those who could easily make your life a living nightmare.
He eyed you coolly, more like an assessment than simply taking you in, “It’s important for SHIELD to show support for our agents, especially our more super ones.”
“Plus he enjoys the free food.” He was joined then by the familiar face of Maria, someone you’d been hoping to have a word with.
“Commander Hill.” Your tone came off rather icy, a readable tension to your word.
Maria simply laughed, “I take it you’re still upset I sent Natasha to Europe.”
“Did you really have to make it so long?” You whined, quickly losing whatever edge you had to your voice.
Your relationship with the commander started off rather formal, as you were deathly afraid of making things awkward for your girlfriend, but after years of putting up with Natasha’s penchant for danger and the emergency calls that came with it, Maria had always been there to calm your nerves.
“Can’t exactly play favorites, can I? She actually outperformed most of our other agents on that operation.” She added, looking to Fury for confirmation.
You sighed, “Of course she did...”
Your conversation drifted into other matters, mostly work related, until a familiar android floated your way.
“Director Fury, Commander Hill.” Vision greeted, robotic voice cutting through the air.
You’d tasked the sentient AI with heading up security for the evening, so his presence immediately set off alarm bells.
“Vision. Is something wrong?” You asked, peering around his figure, anticipating some kind of disaster.
He shook his head stiffly, “Quite the opposite actually. In the time that has elapsed since the start of tonight’s event, I have been able to dispatch remaining SHIELD resources throughout the city. I’m pleased to report only a few petty crimes, but I will continue monitoring the situation.”
Maria, who happens to be listening in, turns to you with a quizzical brow, “You have Vision running security?”
“I mean, he’s pretty much a walking metal detector, why not?”
She accepts the answer with a shrug before getting pulled into a heated conversation between Fury and some government legislators, not at all envious about being roped into the potential social minefield.
Watching her walk off, your attention lands back on the android, “I assure you I am much more capable than that. I’m also running thermal scans, monitoring radio signals and camera footage, and minimally invasive x-rays.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“Affirmative, although I was not able to persuade the asgardian guests to follow the ‘no weapons policy’.” He reports, seemingly displeased with himself. You follow his line of sight to spy Thor and a raucous group of Norsemen bellowing out laughter across the room, drinks in hand. Hanging on the inside of his wrinkled suit is of course Mjölnir.
“I think that’s okay considering half the guests are technically biological weapons anyway. Just notify me if anything comes up, yeah?” You watch as he starts to nod but is interrupted by a small ding and a flashing light at his temple.
“Ms. Potts has just requested that I not bother you tonight.” You instantly scour the room for your boss, not finding her in the sea of people. You suspect she’s still keeping an eye on you though.
You focus back on Vision, staring into his cybernetic eyes, “Hey, you’re supposed to be taking orders from me tonight, remember?”
“Affirmative.” He barely manages to get out the response in time before a sudden yelp causes him to whip his head in the direction it came from. You follow his line of sight to see an older well dressed woman balancing herself on the arm of her companion, broken heel dangling from her fingertips.
“It appears my presence is required elsewhere.”
“Go save the day.”
You’ve just finished convincing a group of substantial donors to cough up a few bucks when a familiar blonde tries waving you down from the corner of your eye.
Yelena quickly makes her way to you, sauntering with a smile like she’s about to tell you the perfect joke, but stops short and frowns at the vacant space beside you that her sister would normally take up.
“Mýshka? Has my sister left you all alone?” She wonders, reaching out to touch your shoulder. You grant her a small reassuring smile, trying to fight the urge to pull out your phone and check the time.
She’s only an hour late… that’s not too bad, right?
“Lena! Oh, Nat’s just running late, you know her.” You hope your festering anxiety is well hidden behind your nervous smile.
You take the time to admire her appearance, noting her recent haircut, the short blonde locks slicked back to make her look even more dashing in the three piece suit she wears.
Yelena smirks, kissing her teeth, “Ah, that makes sense. Natalia wouldn’t let you out by yourself if she could help it.”
She gestures somewhat to your attire and you try not to blush under the attention. Instead you focus your gaze on the brunette coming up to join your conversation.
Kate Bishop, who you originally met during a consultation at Bishop Security—long before you found out about her proficiency in archery—greets you with a grin.
“If it’s any consolation, traffic’s only gotten worse since the party started. Something about a bank robbery on Fifth Street?” You vaguely remember Vision referencing something like that.
Seeing her in this particular environment is nothing new, nor is the violet dress she’s worn to many events such as this, but the other woman beside you seems to appreciate it.
“Kate Bishop!” Yelena purrs, her accent curling around the name like an inside joke.
“You don’t have to say my full name every time, you know?”
“Oh, but it’s so fun to say!” The Russian beams.
You watch their exchange with a secretive smile, a little bit amused by the way they seemingly play off of each other.
“Hey Kate, I didn’t realize you knew anyone here other than Clint.” You say, deciding to remind them of your presence amidst whatever situation they’ve got going on.
The nineteen year-old blushes, but tries to come off dismissively, “Oh Yelena and I go way back.”
Your eyes flick over to the blonde, finding her smile taking on a more smug look as she blatantly stares back at Kate. Racking your brain for any possible connection, you recall something Natasha mentioned several months ago,
“That’s right, I heard you tried to kill Barton. Nice.”
Yelena mirrors your enthusiasm with an even bigger grin, “Right? It was fun.”
For her part, Kate simply looks between the both of you like you’ve gone mad, “Fun? You went on a revenge trip because you thought Natasha was dead.”
“Yeah… sorry about that. It was our anniversary and I guess sneaking away to some off-grid safe house wasn’t the best idea.” You attempt at looking a little sheepish, “But hey, at least you met someone your age, Kate.”
“Hey! You’re not that much older than me! And don’t forget about Peter!”
You chuckle, rolling your eyes fondly, “Right, sorry I’ve lost track of all the children my girlfriend’s rag tag group of friends have adopted.”
That earns a laugh out of the two women, and you’re keen to keep the conversation going, but a scuffle out of the corner of your eye makes you pause.
The girls take your sudden silence as an invitation to follow your line of sight, where you spot who you assume to be the main culprit. Thor Odinson, backed by his asgardian groupies, seemed to have discovered a few of your Wakandan guests, most notably King T’challa and his accompanying Dora Milaje.
You fail to hold back a groan, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.
“Tell Pete I said hi when you see him, I have to go stop Thor from trying to arm wrestle the king of Wakanda.”
Thor and his penchant for starting trouble hadn’t been the only thing to keep you busy, and you find yourself drained enough to indulge in some fruity alcoholic concoction at the bar.
While the stools aren’t the most comfortable, your feet are beginning to ache, making the break a welcome one.
You feel the presence of someone come up to you and you debate whether or not you have it in you to tell whoever it was that you weren’t in the mood. You don’t face them directly, too busy with your palms digging into your eyes and your elbows on the counter of the bar, but the voice has you relaxing only slightly.
“I’m glad you’re finally taking a break, but you look a little glum. You okay?”
It's Pepper, looking at you with that soft gaze of hers before she quickly turns her attention to the waiting bartender, ordering an extra dirty martini.
“Hmm, I don’t know. I’ve broken up about three alien fights, a magic battle between Wanda and the Sorcerer Supreme, had to rescue the band from being eaten by Carol’s weird cat, oh, and my wonderful girlfriend is now late and I’m stuck babysitting her super powered playmates!”
You finish your rant a little on edge, feeling like your patience is beginning to fray. You down the rest of your drink, not really caring how messy it made you look.
“I think we need to get you another drink.” She advises, calling on the bartender again to pour you another. A sigh rolls out of you as you take to resting your head against your palm and lean to focus on the other woman.
“Sorry, how’s Tony? I can’t imagine he isn’t keeping your hands full.” You ask, trying to spy the troublemaker nearby. You honestly think Pepper is a saint for putting up with Tony for so long.
“He’s actually behaving for once. The surprise visit from Natasha really scared him straight. I think she wanted to keep you from worrying.” She smirks, and you fail to hide the sadistic grin that takes over your features imagining the encounter.
So she wasn’t joking earlier. You hum to yourself before remembering your frustration.
“Of course she has to do something stupidly sweet. I’m supposed to be annoyed with her.”
“Any idea what’s keeping her?” The question shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, and while you’re normally secure in your relationship with the other woman, you start to wonder if maybe you’ve actually scared Natasha off with your desires. It’s the only explanation you can come up with.
“It’s just some stupid deal we made. I found this dress in her closet and… god I probably made her uncomfortable. I mean why else would she not show?” You whine, shoving your face into your hands.
Pepper takes a moment to try and soothe you, rubbing comforting circles on your back. You feel her suddenly stop as the air around the room shifts like a cord about to snap, the murmuring of conversation picking up in hushed tones towards one direction.
You lift your head confused, only to hear your boss chuckle and lean in to tease you.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
The sight that greets you has you scrambling not to fall off of your bar stool, the air in your chest suddenly being ripped out as your mouth goes dry.
It’s almost straight out of one of your deepest fantasies, cinematic in the way time seems to slow to a crawl as the person you’ve been waiting all evening for finally comes into view.
Holy shit.
The crowd of socialites parts like the sea, both men and women subtly and not so subtly admiring the view your girlfriend paints as she enters the room.
You assume she’s looking for you, crystalline viridescent eyes sweeping the room under thick lashes, and while you're not intentionally trying to avoid her gaze, you relish the moment it affords you to truly take the sight of her in.
You don’t know where to focus on first, your stare is drawn to too many places, like an endless buffet of skin for your eyes to feast on. You drink her in like a cold glass of water after having roamed the desert for forty years and you can see that you’re not the only one who appreciates the view, finding multiple patrons around the room just as captivated.
The dress has absolutely no right looking as good as it does. It’s form fitting, tight in all the right places just like you knew it would be. As perfectly tailored as the garment is, you're left with the perfect silhouette of her figure, her curves just begging to fit into the palm of your hands. The black fabric ends just above her knees, leaving you to trail down her legs to land on the pair of heels that will no doubt let her tower over you.
From her sharp jawline to the exposed column of her neck, you unabashedly rake your eyes over her, landing on the expansive view of her collarbone, your tongue darting out to lick your lips, just thinking of getting to taste the skin there.
You’d like to believe you have permission this one time to not so subtly objectify your girlfriend, the way your thoughts are immediately diving into the unsavory.
Oh my god. Her tits look amazing.
You want to slap yourself for the intrusive thought.
Get it together horn dog! Be a fucking gentlemen!
Yet, you can’t stop the goofy grin that takes up your face.
You quickly turn to your boss, a bit flustered by having forgotten you weren’t alone, “Pepper, I need you to forget whatever you’re about to see because there is no way I can maintain our professional relationship without you doing so.”
The older woman laughs, amused by the seriousness in your face, “Yeah, yeah, go drool over your girlfriend.”
You barely register her departure, suddenly aware that you’ve been spotted. The lips you’ve kissed a thousand times are drawing you back in, plush and soft looking, painted a deep scarlet that you can’t wait to smudge later on, as Natasha slowly cracks a devilish smile.
It’s entirely on purpose the way she saunters up to you, hips swaying with that seductive confidence you’re familiar with. The blood in your veins is running hot, thrumming with a need that settles at the base of your gut.
You almost want to thank whatever god is listening that this woman is solely yours the way she appears near ethereal.
You’re still slack jawed the moment Natasha approaches, all too pleased with your attention.
“Hi, baby.” She purrs, now close enough to breathe the same air as you. It sends a jolt zipping down your spine.
You’d thought you’d memorized every inch of her face, but you start to wonder if maybe you were only fooling yourself the way her beauty seems even more enhanced. Her sharp features are striking, her cheekbones high and prominent with a light dusting of makeup to bring out the contours of her face.
God you’re dying to kiss her. Why weren’t you kissing her already? Oh right…
