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Chapter Text

The first sign that Wanda was well and truly sloshed was the way the front door swung open with a little too much enthusiasm, banging against the stopper with a loud thwack . The second was the dramatic, flourishing bow she executed in the doorway, one hand pressed to her chest as if she were a grand dame of the theatre. The third, and most definitive, was the giggle that bubbled out of her, light and untethered as a soap bubble.

"My love!" she announced to the empty living room, her voice echoing slightly. "Your conquering hero has returned from the wilds of… Steve's ridiculously boring poker night!"

Natasha looked up from the book she was reading on the couch, a fond, weary smile already playing on her lips. She had known this was coming. Wanda, coerced into a team "bonding" night, had sworn she'd only have one drink. Natasha, a realist and an expert on her girlfriend's tolerance, had known better.

"Your hero looks a little flushed," Natasha observed, setting her book aside. "Did you conquer the poker table or the whiskey bottle?"

Wanda navigated the path to the couch like a sailor on a stormy sea, her hips swaying with an exaggerated swagger that nearly sent her into the coffee table. She caught herself at the last second, patting the wood as if to soothe its ruffled feelings. "Details, details," she waved a dismissive hand, a faint red mist swirling around her fingertips like tipsy fireflies. "What matters is I'm here. With you. The most beautiful woman in any of the nine realms."

She finally reached her destination, collapsing not so much onto the couch as into Natasha's personal space. She draped herself over Natasha's lap, head pillowed on her shoulder, and nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Her hair, smelling faintly of expensive shampoo and bourbon, tickled Natasha's skin.

"Mmm, you smell good," Wanda mumbled, her lips ghosting against Natasha's pulse point. "Like… like home and secrets and my future wife."

Natasha's breath hitched. Drunk Wanda was a poet, apparently. A very, very handsy poet. One of Wanda's hands began a slow, meandering journey up Natasha's thigh, her touch warm and seeking.

"Wanda, baby," Natasha said, her voice a low, gentle rumble. She caught the offending hand, lacing their fingers together. "You've had a bit to drink."

"I have had the perfect amount to drink," Wanda corrected, tilting her head back to look at Natasha through heavy-lidded, impossibly green eyes. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the irises whole. "The perfect amount to appreciate this." Her free hand came up to cup Natasha's jaw, her thumb stroking over her cheekbone. "All of this."

Her gaze dropped to Natasha's lips. The intent was so palpable it was practically a physical force. Natasha felt her own resolve begin to fray at the edges. It was one thing to be the stoic Black Widow, the unshakable Avenger. It was another thing entirely to be the girlfriend of a ridiculously attractive, intoxicatingly affectionate witch who was currently doing everything in her power to seduce her.

"You're beautiful when you're trying to be noble," Wanda whispered, her voice husky. A tendril of red energy snaked out from behind her, flicked off the lamp on the end table, and plunged the room into the soft, intimate glow of the city lights outside.

"That's cheating," Natasha murmured, though she made no move to pull away.

"All's fair in love and war," Wanda countered, leaning in closer, her breath a sweet, whiskey-scented promise. "And this, my darling Natasha, is a little bit of both."

Natasha had to fight a smile. "You're a menace."

"I'm your menace," Wanda corrected, her lips finally, finally brushing against Natasha's. It was a soft, tentative touch, a question asked in the universal language of want.

With a strength of will that should have earned her a medal, Natasha gently turned her head, so Wanda's kiss landed on her cheek instead. "And as my menace, I'm ordering you to bed."

Wanda pulled back with a theatrical pout. "To bed? Natasha, I just got here! The night is young, and I am full of… amorous intentions."

"You're full of bourbon, is what you are," Natasha chuckled, starting the delicate process of untangling herself from Wanda's limbs. "And we're going to get you some water and tuck you in."

Wanda was having none of it. As Natasha tried to stand, Wanda's arms snaked around her waist, holding her in place with surprising strength. The red mist in the air thickened, coalescing into shimmering, semi-solid ribbons that wrapped playfully around Natasha's wrists, tugging her back down.

"My magic agrees with me," Wanda said smugly, resting her chin on Natasha's shoulder from behind. "It wants you to stay. It thinks you're being a spoilsport."

"Your magic is as drunk as you are," Natasha sighed, but she let herself be pulled back. She twisted in Wanda's grasp to face her, cupping her girlfriend's face in both hands. The magical restraints dissolved into harmless sparks. "Look at me, solnyshko ."

Wanda's pout softened at the endearment.

"I want you," Natasha said, her voice dropping into a register of raw honesty that cut through the alcoholic haze. "More than you know. But I want you . The real you. Not the you that's currently being sponsored by Jim Beam. You understand?"

Wanda blinked slowly, processing. A flicker of clarity seemed to dawn in her eyes. She bit her lip, a silent admission of guilt. "But I really, really want to kiss you."

Natasha’s heart melted. "I know, baby. I really want to kiss you, too." She leaned in and pressed a firm, loving, and entirely chaste kiss to Wanda's forehead. "Let's make a deal. We get you to bed. You drink a whole gallon of water. And tomorrow morning… we can 'talk' about your amorous intentions. We can talk about them all day."

Wanda considered the offer, her head lolling to the side. The promise of a 'discussion' tomorrow seemed to finally get through to her. "All day?" she asked, her voice small.

"For as long as you want," Natasha promised, her thumb stroking Wanda's cheek.

"Okay," Wanda conceded, her body finally going lax with acceptance. "Okay. But you have to carry me."

Natasha laughed, a real, genuine laugh that filled the quiet room. "You drive a hard bargain, Maximoff."

"I'm a conquering hero," Wanda mumbled, her eyes fluttering closed as Natasha maneuvered her arms under Wanda's knees and back. "I deserve… to be carried."

Lifting her was easy. Wanda curled against her chest, already half-asleep, a contented sigh escaping her lips. As Natasha carried her toward the bedroom, she felt Wanda's hand move from her shoulder to rest directly over her heart.

"You're so patient," Wanda whispered, her voice thick with impending sleep.

Natasha adjusted her grip, pressing a kiss into Wanda's hair. "Only for you," she said softly, kicking the bedroom door open. "Always, only for you."

Chapter Text

The common room of the Avengers Compound smelled richly of whiskey, stale beer, and poor decisions. What had begun as Steve’s well-intentioned "Poker and Friendship Night" had, several hours and a few depleted bottles later, devolved into something far more chaotic.

The poker game itself was a ghost, the chips scattered across the room felt like brightly colored tombstones. In its place, a tableau of drunkenness was on full display.

Bucky Barnes was in the silent, contemplative stage. He sat hunched over in an armchair, nursing a glass of something dark, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor as if it held all the universe's secrets. The only sound he made was the soft, rhythmic clink of ice against glass, a morose metronome for the evening's decline.

Maria Hill, on the other hand, was the loud, argumentative drunk. "It's not a real flush if all the cards are sad!" she declared to Sam Wilson, jabbing a finger at a discarded hand. "Look at that one. The King of Clubs. He's miserable. That's a Mourning Flush. It doesn't count."

Sam, who was sober enough to be enjoying the spectacle immensely, just shook his head, a wide grin splitting his face. "Maria, I promise you, that's not in the rulebook."

"Then the rulebook is emotionally illiterate!"

And then there was Wanda. She wasn't silent like Bucky or belligerent like Maria. Wanda was a happy, ethereal drunk. A faint, rosy mist curled from her fingertips every time she gestured, which was often. She was currently trying to teach a stack of poker chips to fly in formation, her brow furrowed in concentration as they wobbled in the air like drunken bumblebees.

"You see, Steve," she explained with the utmost seriousness, "The trick is to make them feel aerodynamic. You can't just… push them."

Steve, the designated pillar of exhausted sobriety, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Wanda, maybe the chips should stay on the table."

"They're happier in the air," she whispered conspiratorially, before one of the chips lost its nerve and plummeted into Maria's drink, causing a splash that made her yelp in outrage.

It was into this glorious mess that Natasha Romanoff walked.

She didn't announce herself. The Quinjet's landing had been her only fanfare. One moment the doorway was empty, the next she was leaning against the frame, a ghost in tired black sweats. She was smudged with dirt, a fresh bruise blooming high on her cheekbone, her hair scraped back in a messy braid. Her eyes, weary from a mission that had stolen three days of her life, took in the scene with an expression that was one part exhaustion and nine parts deep, deep affection. This was her circus. These were her monkeys.

Sam saw her first, his grin widening. "Look what the cat dragged in," he called out. "And I mean that in the best, most 'glad you're not dead' way possible."

Heads turned. Steve’s face flooded with relief. Maria squinted, trying to make her eyes focus. "Romanoff! Did you bring tequila? We need tequila."

But Wanda’s reaction was different.

It wasn't just that she saw Natasha; it felt as if she had sensed her arrival on a different plane of existence. Her head snapped up, the floating poker chips forgotten, clattering back to the table. Her green eyes, wide and hazy with alcohol, locked onto Natasha's form in the doorway. The entire, chaotic room seemed to melt away from her perception, leaving only the woman who had just come home.

"Tasha," she breathed, the name a soft, reverent puff of air. The red mist around her hands flared, swirling into a bright, joyful cloud.

And then she was moving. It was a beeline fueled by bourbon and adoration, a little unsteady on her feet but unwavering in her destination. She weaved around the corner of the couch, nearly clipped the coffee table, and didn't slow until she had crashed into Natasha's arms.

Wanda buried her face in the crook of Natasha's neck, inhaling deeply. "You're home," she mumbled into her skin, her voice thick with emotion and booze. "You smell like wind and metal and… mine." Her arms snaked around Natasha's waist, holding on with a desperate tightness, as if she was afraid Natasha might fade away.

All the weariness from the mission seemed to evaporate from Natasha's body, replaced by the warmth of the witch in her arms. She wrapped her own arms around Wanda, holding her steady, her hand coming up to cup the back of her head. "I'm home, solnyshko ," she murmured, pressing a kiss into Wanda's hair. "I'm here."

"Good," Wanda said, tilting her head back to look up at her. Her eyes were shining. "I saved you a seat, but then Bucky looked too sad to move, and Maria declared war on the cards, and my chips learned to fly."

Natasha let out a low chuckle, her thumb stroking Wanda's cheek. "Sounds like I missed all the fun."

"The fun wasn't here yet," Wanda said, her meaning perfectly clear. She leaned up, her lips seeking Natasha's. "The fun just got home."

From across the room, Sam cleared his throat loudly. "Alright, you two, some of us are trying to have a serious discussion about the emotional state of playing cards here."

Natasha shot him a playful glare over Wanda's shoulder before turning her attention back to her girlfriend. "I think it's time for one of us to go to bed."

Wanda's pout was immediate and immense. "But you just got here."

"And I'm exhausted," Natasha said softly. "And you're about three drinks past your bedtime. C'mon."

She gently disentangled herself, though she kept a firm arm around Wanda's waist. Wanda sagged against her, content to be led. "Okay," she agreed easily. "But you have to tell me about the mission."

"Tomorrow," Natasha promised, steering her toward the hallway.

"And you have to kiss my forehead."

Natasha paused, leaned down, and pressed a long, tender kiss to Wanda's brow. "Done."

"Okay," Wanda sighed, completely content. As Natasha guided her out of the room, she looked back over her shoulder at the mess they were leaving behind. She didn't look at her friends, or the cards, or the glasses. Her gaze was fixed on Natasha, her entire world happily condensed into the woman holding her.

"This place is nice," Wanda mumbled, her head finding its favorite spot on Natasha's shoulder. "But you're my home."

Chapter Text

The music was a low, expensive thrum beneath the cacophony of conversations, a signature of any party hosted by Tony Stark. It was less a celebration and more a mandatory exhibition of good cheer. Across the sprawling common room, Natasha stood in a cluster of gravitas; Thor booming about some Asgardian feast, Steve looking politely interested, and Tony gesturing wildly while explaining a new nano-tech innovation to Rhodey. She was listening, of course, but her attention, as always, was tethered by an invisible string to a different part of the room.

Her anchor was at a round table, surrounded by a haze of competitive tension and whiskey fumes. Wanda, her face flushed with a lovely pink that Natasha knew came from the bourbon and not a blush, slammed a card down on the table.

"Read 'em and weep, Barton!" she declared, her voice a little too loud. A faint, scarlet mist coiled around her knuckles. "Full house, aces high!"

Clint squinted at her hand, then at his own pathetic collection of cards. "That's... not possible. I was watching the deck."

"My powers extend beyond your mortal comprehension," Wanda said with a grand wave of her hand. The gesture sent a shimmer through the air that made the lights flicker.

Sam, leaning back in his chair with a wide grin, took a slow sip of his beer. "Translation: she's cheating, and we're all too scared of the witch to call her on it."

Bucky, who had been silently nursing his drink, grunted in agreement. "She turned my last good card into a goddamn butterfly."

Wanda simply smirked, raking in the pile of chips with both hands. The red energy around her intensified, a low, happy hum of victory and alcohol. Natasha saw it from across the room: that tell-tale glow that meant Wanda’s control was getting as fuzzy as her logic. With a subtle nod to Steve, she disentangled herself from the conversation, her movements fluid and silent as she crossed the floor.

She didn't speak, just came to stand behind Wanda's chair, placing her hands lightly on her shoulders. Wanda stiffened for a fraction of a second before melting completely. The aggressive, competitive energy vanished, replaced by a pure, unfiltered joy that was so potent Natasha could almost feel it warming her skin.

"Tasha," Wanda breathed, tilting her head all the way back to gaze up at her, her green eyes wide and adoring. She abandoned the poker chips completely, her hands coming up to cover Natasha's on her shoulders. "Did you see? I'm winning!"

"I see you're terrorizing your friends," Natasha murmured, her voice a low, private counterpoint to the party's noise. She leaned down, her lips brushing Wanda's hair. "Maybe it's time to cash in your winnings, hmm?"

"But the night is young," Wanda purred, twisting in her seat to better wrap an arm around Natasha's waist, pulling her closer. Her other hand began a slow, deliberate journey up Natasha's side, a clear and public exploration. "And now that my good luck charm is here, I feel invincible." Her fingertips traced the hem of Natasha's shirt, threatening to dip underneath.

Natasha's breath hitched. She caught Wanda's wandering hand, lacing their fingers together. "You're a menace, Maximoff," she said, though there was no heat in it.

"I'm your menace," Wanda corrected, leaning her head against Natasha's hip and pouting. "And I have intentions. Many, many intentions."

Clint snorted. "Oh, here we go."

Suddenly, a blue-and-silver blur shot past the table, resolving itself into Pietro. He skidded to a halt, a cocky grin on his face, his hair disheveled from playing tag with the Barton kids.

"Having fun, sestra ?" he teased, his eyes dancing between Wanda's possessive grip on Natasha and Natasha's look of saintly patience. "Try not to scandalize the Captain. He looks like he might faint."

Wanda didn't even look at him. Her gaze was still locked on Natasha. With an almost imperceptible flick of her wrist, a shimmering red tendril of energy snaked out from behind her, completely unseen. It solidified for a split second, wrapping around Pietro’s ankle before dissolving back into nothing.

Pietro took a step, and his feet suddenly seemed to betray him. He yelped, flailing his arms in a comical pinwheel before tumbling to the ground in a graceless heap of limbs and wounded pride.

" Wanda ," Natasha's voice was a soft, firm warning.

Wanda gave her a look of pure, unadulterated innocence. "He tripped," she said sweetly. "He moves too fast. It happens."

From the floor, Pietro groaned. "I hate you."

"Get in line," Sam laughed, offering him a hand up.

Natasha sighed, gently prying Wanda's arm from around her waist. "Alright, that's it. Party's over for you."

"Is it?" Wanda whispered, getting to her feet and immediately crowding into Natasha's space, her body flush against hers. She snaked her arms around Natasha's neck, her expression turning sultry. "I think the party is just getting started." Her voice dropped to a low, promising murmur against the shell of Natasha's ear. "Let's go back to our room. I'll show you what a 'full house' really looks like."

A flush crept up Natasha's neck. She could feel at least three sets of eyes on them, brimming with amusement. With a strength of will forged in the Red Room, she put her hands on Wanda's waist, creating a small, respectable amount of distance between them.

"You," she said, her voice steady despite the wildfire Wanda was trying to start in her veins, "are going to drink a tall glass of water. And then another one."

"Later," Wanda bargained, leaning in for a kiss.

Natasha skillfully turned her head so the kiss landed on her cheek. "Now," she countered, beginning the slow, arduous process of steering her very drunk, very amorous, and very powerful girlfriend away from the party. "Say goodnight, Wanda."

Wanda pouted, but allowed herself to be led away, pressing a final, lingering kiss to Natasha's neck as they went. "Goodnight," she called out to the table, her voice dripping with smug victory. "I'll be busy.”

(...) 

The moment the heavy door to their bedroom clicked shut behind them, the muffled thrum of the party vanished, replaced by an intimate, ringing silence. It was a silence that Wanda seemed determined to fill.

"Alone at last," she purred, her voice a low, husky thing that vibrated right through Natasha. She turned in Natasha’s gentle hold, her movements fluid despite the alcohol, and pressed herself flush against the assassin's body. Her hands slid from Natasha’s waist up to her shoulders, then threaded into the fiery red hair at the nape of her neck. "No more poker. No more prying eyes. Just you."

Natasha’s hands rested on Wanda's hips, a steadying, grounding presence. "And a very large glass of water," she reminded her, her voice a low rumble.

Wanda made a soft, displeased sound. Before Natasha could move toward the kitchenette, a playful, shimmering ribbon of scarlet energy snaked past her, wrapping around the doorknob. With a decisive click , the lock engaged. The lights in the room dimmed to a soft, seductive glow, leaving only the moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows to silver the edges of their bodies.

"The water can wait," Wanda whispered, her eyes dark and bottomless in the low light, fixed on Natasha’s mouth. "I, however, have been waiting all night."

She surged upward, capturing Natasha’s lips in a kiss that was all bourbon and heat and pent-up desire. It was demanding and messy, a stark contrast to their usual easy rhythm. Natasha froze for a heartbeat, her mind screaming warnings, her body arching into the kiss on pure instinct. Wanda’s magic, a tipsy accomplice, pulsed in the air around them, a warm and persuasive thrum that seemed to buzz against Natasha’s skin, urging her to give in.

With a strength of will that felt like tearing muscle, Natasha gently but firmly broke the kiss, turning her head. Wanda’s lips trailed across her jaw, hot and seeking.

"Wanda," Natasha breathed, her own voice unsteady. "Stop."

"Make me," Wanda challenged, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of Natasha's neck. One of her hands slid down Natasha's back, bold and proprietary, cupping her ass and pulling their hips flush together. Natasha could feel the sharp hitch of Wanda’s breath against her throat, the heat of her own blood roaring in her ears.

This was the battle. Not against aliens or assassins, but against the intoxicating pull of the woman in her arms and the traitorous weakness in her own knees.

"You're drunk," Natasha stated, the words a lifeline to her flagging resolve.

"I'm devoted," Wanda corrected, her voice muffled against Natasha’s skin. "And very, very appreciative of the view I had tonight." Her free hand came up to ghost over Natasha’s chest. "You stood there with them… Thor, Steve… like a queen. My queen. And all I could think about was getting you back here."

The raw sincerity in her voice was a more potent weapon than any kiss. Natasha’s hands, which had been trying to create space, instead tightened their grip on Wanda’s hips. Her resolve was a fortress, and Wanda’s words were the battering ram at the gates.

Wanda must have sensed the shift, the slight falter in her defenses. She pressed her advantage, pushing forward until Natasha’s back was flush against the cold, unyielding surface of the door. The balance of power had shifted. Wanda crowded her, a captivating, bewitching heat, her leg slotting between Natasha’s.

"Just one more kiss, Tasha," she pleaded, her forehead resting against Natasha’s. "A real one. Then water. I promise."

Natasha looked into those wide, pleading green eyes. She saw the lust there, yes, but beneath it, she saw the deep, unwavering adoration. She was lost.

She leaned in.

The fortress crumbled.

Her hand came up to cup Wanda's jaw, her thumb stroking her cheek as she tilted her head. She was going to give in. To hell with nobility. Just for a moment, she was going to let herself have this.

But as their lips were a hair's breadth from touching, Wanda’s focus wavered. Her body, fueled by alcohol and adrenaline, suddenly slumped, her balance giving way. She stumbled forward, her full weight falling against Natasha, her head landing with a soft thud on Natasha’s shoulder.

"Whoa," Wanda mumbled, her voice suddenly thick with exhaustion. "The room is… spinny."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

The fiery lust in Natasha’s veins cooled, replaced by a wave of overwhelming, protective tenderness. This wasn’t her queen. This was her baby, drunk and dizzy and in need of care.

With a soft sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, Natasha wrapped her arms securely around Wanda. "I know, moya lyubov ," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I know. Let's get you to bed."

This time, Wanda didn’t protest. She allowed Natasha to guide her, pliant and sleepy, toward the bedroom. The red mist in the air had faded, the lights slowly brightening back to normal as Wanda’s concentration dissolved.

Natasha sat her down on the edge of the bed and knelt to gently pull off her boots. Wanda watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"You're so good to me," she slurred softly.

"Always," Natasha replied, her voice quiet. She stood and helped Wanda out of her party clothes, her movements efficient and gentle, and pulled a soft, oversized t-shirt; one of her own, over Wanda's head.

After fetching the promised glass of water and making sure Wanda drank most of it, Natasha pulled back the covers. Wanda crawled into bed, her body curling into a ball immediately.

Natasha tucked the duvet around her shoulders, her fingers lingering on Wanda's cheek. Wanda's eyes were already closed, her breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep.

"Tomorrow," Natasha whispered to the sleeping witch, a promise to herself as much as to Wanda. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about your 'intentions'."

She stood there for a long moment, watching her, a fond, weary smile on her lips. She had resisted. She had won. And as she went to sleep on her side of the bed, the victory felt exquisitely, frustratingly lonely.

Chapter Text

The air in the conference room was stale, thick with the drone of bureaucracy and the scent of over-brewed coffee. Steve Rogers stood at the head of the long, polished table, gesturing with earnest hands at a holographic map of Eastern Europe. His voice was a low, serious rumble, detailing troop movements and potential threats with a gravity that demanded attention. Attention Natasha Romanoff was struggling, desperately, to give.

She sat ramrod straight in her chair, a perfect model of a rapt agent, her hands clasped loosely on the table before her. A pen lay beside her notepad, where she’d managed to scrawl a single, jagged line before her concentration had fractured into a million glittering pieces. Her gaze was fixed on Steve, her expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. But beneath the table, her thighs were clamped together so tightly they ached.

Across from her, Wanda Maximoff was the picture of innocence. She was idly toying with a loose thread on her sleeve, her head tilted as if she were hanging on Steve’s every word. But her eyes, those deep, knowing pools of green, were fixed on Natasha, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips. A faint, shimmering wisp of scarlet energy, invisible to every other eye in the room, snaked from Wanda’s twitching fingertips. It coiled through the air like a living thing, a heat-seeking serpent of pure pleasure, before slipping beneath the table to find its target.

Natasha’s breath hitched.

The magic was a phantom touch, a warm, insistent pressure that ghosted against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, tracing feather-light patterns that made her shiver. It was a prelude, a wicked little promise. The night before, a haze of whispered words and tangled limbs, Wanda had gifted her this… alteration. A whim, a fantasy spoken aloud, and Wanda, with a mischievous grin and a swirl of crimson power, had made it real. Now, nestled between her legs, was a weight and a heat that was both foreign and intoxicatingly her own. And Wanda, her beautiful, cruel Wanda, was playing with her new toy from across the room.

The scarlet threads tightened their dance, sliding beneath the fabric of her uniform trousers, wrapping around the burgeoning length of her cock. It wasn't a rough touch, but a maddeningly skillful one. The magic mimicked the slow, deliberate drag of fingertips, tracing the veins, cupping the weight, teasing the head with a circling, ghostly caress. Natasha’s jaw tightened. She dug her fingernails into her own palm, the small, sharp pain a pathetic anchor in the swirling sea of sensation threatening to pull her under.

“...the intelligence suggests they’ll move their primary assets by sunrise,” Steve was saying, oblivious. “Stark, what’s the ETA on the satellite sweep?”

Tony, who had been leaning back in his chair, idly spinning a tablet on his finger, flicked his eyes toward the screen. “Give me ninety minutes for a full-spectrum pass. Though I could probably find your lost puppy in sixty if you ask nicely.”

A wave of heat washed through Natasha as Wanda’s magic changed its tactics. It was no longer teasing. The ghostly fingers tightened, stroking her in a firm, steady rhythm. Up and down. A slow, agonizing friction that promised release and then pulled away, over and over again. Natasha shifted in her seat, a restless, jerky movement that drew a quick, concerned glance from Clint Barton, seated beside her.

He leaned in, his voice a low whisper. “You okay, Tasha?”

She couldn't speak. She could only manage a curt, sharp nod, hoping it looked dismissive enough. Her eyes flickered to Wanda. The younger woman met her gaze, and her smile widened fractionally. Her fingers flexed in the air, a silent gesture, and the magical assault intensified. The pace quickened, the strokes growing harder, more demanding. A low sound, a choked whimper, caught in the back of Natasha’s throat, and she had to disguise it as a cough, pressing her fist to her mouth.

Her whole body was humming, a live wire of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The room seemed to fade into a hazy, distant blur. Steve’s voice, Tony’s quips, Bruce’s thoughtful hums—it was all just background noise to the roaring symphony Wanda was conducting between her legs. She could feel the pressure building, a sweet, coiling tightness deep in her gut. She was close. Dangerously, terrifyingly close.

She had to get out. She could stand, make an excuse, flee to the bathroom before she completely humiliated herself.

But then she looked at Wanda again. The raw, possessive hunger in Wanda’s eyes was a chain, rooting her to the spot. There was a challenge there, a dare. Let them see. Let them all see how you fall apart for me. And Natasha, to her own shock, found she didn't want to run. A darker, more thrilling part of her wanted to give in. Right here.

Tony’s voice cut through her haze, his tone sharp with perception. “Romanoff? You got something to add, or are you just trying to levitate through sheer force of will over there?”

Her head snapped toward him. His eyes, behind the tinted glasses, were narrowed, a spark of knowing amusement in them. He’d noticed. He didn’t know what he was noticing, but he saw her distress, her flushed skin, the sheen of sweat on her brow. Clint, too, was staring, his brow furrowed with genuine worry.

That was the final push.

Wanda’s magic surged, a final, overwhelming wave. The phantom hand closed around her, stroking with a frantic, merciless pace. Natasha’s back arched, her hands gripping the edge of the polished table until her knuckles were white. Her vision swam with black spots. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood, the pain a distant echo. A silent scream built in her chest as the pleasure crested, a cataclysmic, shattering peak that ripped through her body. Her hips gave a single, convulsive jerk against the chair, a movement she couldn't suppress, and a wave of hot, wet release flooded the front of her trousers.

For a moment, there was nothing but the fading aftershocks of bliss, a ringing in her ears, and the hot dampness cooling against her skin.

The meeting droned on for another five minutes, but it was an eternity. Natasha didn’t move, didn't breathe, didn’t dare to do anything but stare blankly at the table, her mind a hollowed-out cavern. When Steve finally called the meeting to a close, she stayed seated, praying everyone would just leave.

Clint squeezed her shoulder. “Tasha? Seriously. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” she rasped, her voice hoarse. “Just tired.”

He lingered for a moment, unconvinced, but eventually let it go, following the others out of the room. Tony was the last to leave, pausing at the door. He gave her a long, speculative look, his gaze flicking down to her lap and then back to her face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, and with a wink that said I don’t know what your secret is, but I approve , he was gone.

Leaving her alone.

Well, not quite alone.

Footsteps, soft and deliberate, approached from across the room. Wanda appeared at her side, leaning down, her lips brushing against Natasha’s ear. Her voice was a low, throaty purr, laced with triumphant amusement.

“Did you have a productive meeting, darling?” she whispered, her hand settling on Natasha’s shoulder, a stark contrast to the magical assault moments before. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you cleaned up. And then, I think it’s time for round two.”

Chapter Text

The first assault was the sunlight. It wasn't the gentle, welcome light of a new day; it was a malicious, targeted attack, stabbing through Wanda’s eyelids with the force of a physical blow. 

The second assault was sound; the distant, cheerful clatter of plates from the common room was a cacophony of agony. 

The third, and most insidious, assault came from within: a tiny, vengeful blacksmith had set up shop behind her eyes, her stomach was performing a nauseous ballet, and her mouth tasted like a desert inhabited by sad, fuzzy creatures.

A groan escaped her lips, a pathetic, wounded sound.

"Good morning, my conquering hero."

The voice was a low, velvet murmur next to her ear, the only sound in the universe that didn't feel like a physical injury.

Natasha was already up, dressed in soft grey sweats, holding a glass of water and two painkillers like a holy sacrament. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes – her impossibly perceptive eyes – danced with a light that Wanda was too miserable to interpret.

"Don't call me that," Wanda rasped, her voice cracking. She fumbled for the glass, her hand shaking. "The hero has been vanquished. By bourbon."

Natasha helped steady her hand as she drank, her touch cool and soothing. "A valiant effort was made, though. I hear the playing cards are still talking about their brief but glorious flight."

Wanda squeezed her eyes shut, the memory making her stomach lurch. "Please don't."

Eventually, after the painkillers and a promise of coffee, Natasha managed to coax her from the sanctuary of their room. Dressed in Natasha's softest hoodie and a pair of leggings, Wanda shuffled into the common room like a ghost haunting her own crime scene.

She was spotted immediately.

"Look what the witch dragged in!" Pietro announced from the breakfast bar, his voice offensively cheerful. He zipped over to her in a blur, peering at her face with mock concern. "Sestra, you look terrible. Was it my fall that upset you so? I hope you didn't worry about me all night."

Wanda flinched, raising a weak hand. "Too loud, Pietro. And no."

"She's lying," Clint called out from the couch, where he was pointedly shuffling a deck of cards. "She's just mad she can't cheat today. Her hexes probably have hangovers too."

Sam, sitting across from him, chimed in, "You gotta be careful with that witch-brew, Wanda. A mortal hangover is one thing, but when you mix chaos magic and whiskey? I'm surprised your hair didn't turn into snakes."

From his armchair, Bucky looked up from his coffee, his expression deadpan. "The butterfly sends its regards. It has a headache."

Wanda let out a pained moan and buried her face in her hands. The entire room seemed to be spinning with their collective amusement. 

Natasha, who had been guiding her toward a blessedly empty sofa, shot the group a look. It wasn't a glare, not quite. It was something far more terrifying; a silent promise that she had a very long memory and knew all of their weaknesses. The teasing subsided into knowing smirks.

Natasha fought a smile so hard her jaw ached. She sat down next to Wanda, pulling the smaller woman into her side protectively. "Vultures," she murmured, just for Wanda to hear. "Don't listen to them."

Wanda sagged against her, grateful for the shield. "You're the only one who's nice to me."

"Mmm, am I?" Natasha asked, her voice dropping into that low, intimate register that was hers and hers alone. She leaned in, her lips close to Wanda's ear, the warmth of her breath a stark contrast to the misery of the hangover. The teasing began, but this was a different vintage entirely.

"I was just wondering," Natasha whispered, her tone laced with a silken, playful thread, "if all those 'many, many intentions' you had last night are feeling a little delicate this morning."

Wanda stiffened. A hot blush, entirely unrelated to alcohol, crept up her neck. She remembered. Oh, God, she remembered everything. Crowding Natasha against the door, the purred promises…

Natasha continued, her lips brushing the shell of Wanda's ear. "You also mentioned something about a 'full house'. I'm still waiting for a proper explanation on that one." She pulled back just enough to look at Wanda, her eyes sparkling with an unholy amount of amusement and affection. "You seemed so sure of the rules. I'd love for you to… demonstrate."

This was so much worse than the team’s mockery. Theirs was a blunt instrument; this was a scalpel, wielded with expert precision, laying bare all of her drunken bravado. Wanda groaned, a new sound of pure, mortified embarrassment, and hid her face in the curve of Natasha's neck.

"You are the worst," she mumbled into Natasha's sweatshirt.

Natasha's laugh was a soft, rumbling vibration against her. She wrapped her arms around Wanda, holding her close, her hand stroking her hair.

"No, I'm the best," Natasha corrected softly, pressing a kiss to Wanda's temple. "I'm the one who's going to get you toast." And as she held her girlfriend, she allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. She was, without a doubt, the very best.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was a perfect little pocket of Italy tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. Low light, the scent of garlic and baking bread, and a bottle of deep red Chianti between them. Natasha watched Wanda over the rim of her glass, a soft, genuine smile playing on her lips. The candlelight danced in Wanda's eyes, turning the green to polished jade.

Wanda had been regaling her with a story about a training mishap involving Sam and a flock of pigeons, her hands gesturing animatedly, a faint shimmer of red magic occasionally sparking at her fingertips when she got particularly excited. She was two glasses in, and the wine had painted a lovely flush high on her cheekbones and loosened that last, tightly-wound coil of tension she always carried.

"And then he said," Wanda leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "he said he was now their king and they owed him fealty."

Natasha let out a low, throaty chuckle. "I'm sure that will go over well with Fury."

"I think he should lean into it," Wanda mused, taking a sip of wine. "A crown of feathers. A scepter made of a stale baguette." She met Natasha's eyes, and her playful smile slowly melted into something warmer, deeper, and far more intimate. Her foot found Natasha’s under the table, her bare toes tracing a slow, deliberate line up her calf. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me too," Natasha said, her voice soft. The simple touch sent a familiar, pleasant hum through her veins.

"You're staring," Wanda said, a slow, knowing smile playing on her mouth. She placed her glass down, her fingers brushing against Natasha's over the table. Her touch was warm, electric.

"I'm admiring," Natasha corrected, her voice a low murmur. "There's a lot to admire.” Natasha loved these moments; the world outside, with all its noise and chaos, simply fell away, leaving only the two of them.

The ride back to the Tower was when the pleasant hum crescendoed into a demanding thrum. Natasha drove the sleek, anonymous Audi through the glittering city streets, one hand on the wheel. Wanda, in the passenger seat, had shifted, turning her whole body toward Natasha. The wine had burned off the last of her inhibitions, leaving behind a warm, simmering need.

Her hand rested high on Natasha's thigh, her thumb stroking lazy, hypnotic circles on the inside of her leg. "Did you miss me?" Wanda asked, her voice a low purr that was barely audible over the soft rock on the radio.

"You know I did," Natasha answered, her eyes fixed on the road, though her focus was rapidly being stolen.

"That was a nice date," Wanda purred, her fingers beginning a slow, deliberate ascent up Natasha's leg, her touch feather-light on the material of her trousers. "But I'm ready for dessert."

Natasha's breath hitched, but she kept her eyes on the road. "I thought you had tiramisu."

"I'm thinking of something else," Wanda whispered, her hand climbing higher, reaching Natasha's inner thigh. "Something warmer. Sweeter." She leaned across the center console, her lips ghosting against Natasha's ear. "I want you."

The car swerved almost imperceptibly. Natasha's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Wanda," she warned, her voice tight.

"Tasha," Wanda mimicked, her fingers pressing down with tantalizing purpose. "You've been so good. So patient. But the party's over. And I want to get fucked."

The bluntness of it, the raw want in Wanda's voice, sent a jolt straight to Natasha's core. She glanced over again, her professional gaze assessing. Wanda's eyes weren't hazy or unfocused. They were sharp, lucid, burning with a clear and undeniable fire. This wasn't the sloppy, giggling Wanda from poker night. This was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

"You're sure about that?" Natasha asked, her own voice dropping into a husky register. "You know what you're asking for?"

Wanda's smirk was pure sin. "I know. And I know you want to give it to me."

A slow, predatory smile touched Natasha’s lips. She pressed down on the accelerator. "Is that an order, Maximoff?"

"It’s a threat," Wanda countered, her fingers finally dipping under the hem of the dress to touch bare skin. "A very, very serious threat."

The second the door to their room clicked shut, Natasha proved she had been listening. She didn't give Wanda time to speak, to tease, to do anything but let out a surprised gasp. She grabbed Wanda's hand, her grip firm, and made a beeline for the bedroom, pulling her girlfriend along.

She backed Wanda against the nearest wall, caging her in with her body. "A threat, huh?" Natasha murmured, her voice a low, dangerous growl. Her hands came up to frame Wanda's face, her thumbs stroking her flushed cheeks. "You've been playing with fire all night, solnyshko. Now you're going to get burned."

Wanda's breath hitched, her eyes wide with thrilled anticipation. "Promise?"

Natasha didn't answer with words. She answered with her mouth, crashing down on Wanda's in a kiss that was all heat and dominance. It was a plundering, possessive kiss, a world away from the gentle romance of the restaurant. Natasha’s tongue swept into Wanda’s mouth, tasting of wine and want, and Wanda met her thrust for thrust, her fingers tangling in Natasha’s hair, pulling her closer.

When Natasha finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless. She didn't let Wanda recover. Her mouth trailed down, leaving a searing trail of open-mouthed kisses along Wanda's jaw, down the column of her throat. Wanda’s head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, giving Natasha better access.

"You wanted my attention," Natasha whispered against her collarbone, "Now you have it. All of it."

She didn't go for her mouth. Instead, she began a slow, maddening pilgrimage down her neck, her open-mouthed kisses wet and hot. She bit down gently on Wanda's pulse point, rewarded with a sharp gasp.

"You like that?" Natasha murmured against her skin. "Like it when I take control?"

"Yes," Wanda breathed, her head tipping back to grant her better access. "Tasha, please…"

"Please what?" Natasha teased, her hands pushing up Wanda's sweater, her palms flat against the warm skin of her stomach. "Use your words." Her mouth moved lower, finding the swell of Wanda's breast above the lace of her bra. She licked a stripe straight up from the cup to Wanda's collarbone, making her shudder.

Wanda's fingers fisted in Natasha's hair. "Fuck me," she begged, the word a broken prayer. "Please, just fuck me."

"Soon," Natasha promised, a cruel, delicious sound. She pushed Wanda's bra aside, taking her nipple into her mouth, sucking hard. Wanda cried out, her hips bucking forward instinctively. Natasha mirrored the motion with her other hand, sucking and teasing one peak while rolling the other between her thumb and forefinger until it was a tight, hard point.

Natasha took the hardened peak into her mouth again, suckling hard, her tongue laving the sensitive nub until Wanda was whimpering, her fingers digging into Natasha's shoulders.

She gave the other breast equal, torturous attention before pulling back, leaving them wet and aching. Wanda’s eyes were glassy with pleasure, her chest rising and falling in ragged pants.

"Please," Wanda begged, her voice shaky. "Tasha, please."

"Please what?" Natasha teased, her hand sliding down Wanda's stomach, her voice dropping to a filthy whisper. "Tell me what you want me to do to you. I want to hear you say it."

"I want you... fuck, I want you to eat me out," Wanda gasped out, the words a surrender. "I want your mouth on my pussy."

Natasha's eyes darkened, her pupils blown with love and lust. "As you wish," Natasha smirked, before pushing Wanda toward the bed. 

She laid her down, spreading her legs with an unhurried, deliberate reverence. Natasha stripped Wanda's pants and underwear off with an efficiency that was terrifyingly hot, then settled between her legs. She looked up at Wanda, panting, her eyes wide and pleading.

"You're so beautiful like this," Natasha whispered, her voice thick with lust. "So wet for me already." 

She dipped her head, her tongue flicking out to taste the proof. Wanda arched off the bed with a strangled cry. Natasha held her hips down, settling in, her mouth closing over Wanda's core. She devoured her. 

Natasha smirked against her pussy, then settled in, her tongue and lips working with a devastating, expertise, tracing merciless patterns, dipping inside, sucking at her clit until Wanda was mindless, her magic flaring around her in harmless, shimmering waves of red.

She lapped at the slick folds, licked circles around the rigid pearl of her clit, sucking it gently into her mouth before releasing it, only to trace its length again and again. 

Natasha brought her right to the precipice, holding her there, on the brink of shattering. Natasha slid two fingers inside her, stretching her, fucking her with a slow, deep rhythm that perfectly complemented the work of her mouth.

“You're so wet, so tight, babe.” Natasha rasped, pumping her fingers into Wanda in a steady, relentless rhythm. 

She found her g-spot, pressing down, and Wanda screamed, her body convulsing. She was close, so close, her moans turning into incoherent pleas. "That's it, baby," she murmured against her slick folds. "Come for me."

"No," Wanda panted, her voice breaking. "Together. I want you with me."

She grabbed Natasha’s wrist, her grip impossibly strong, and pulled her up the bed. A whirlwind of scarlet energy enveloped Natasha, shredding her dress and underwear into nothingness in a split second, leaving her bare and exposed. Natasha landed atop Wanda, their slick skin sliding together.

Natasha's fingers were still buried deep inside Wanda, but before she could restart her rhythm, Wanda wasted no time. She guided her own hand down, her fingers finding Natasha's wet, waiting entrance. She slipped two fingers inside, her movements mirroring Natasha's own.

Their eyes locked, a silent, frantic communication passing between them.

"Right there," Natasha gasped, her head falling back as Wanda's fingers curled inside her, hitting that perfect spot. It was a mirror of slick heat, a shared, frantic rhythm. 

"Look at me, Tasha," Wanda commanded, her voice raw. Their eyes locked. "I want to watch you. I want us to come together."

Natasha thrust her fingers deeper into Wanda, matching the rhythm of Wanda's fingers inside her. "Fuck, Wanda... right there."

It was no longer teasing. It was a desperate, shared need. Their moans filled the room as they moved together, a frantic, perfect dance. Wanda's hips bucked, Natasha's arched, their bodies straining toward that final, inevitable peak.

Wanda cried out, her head falling against the pillow as she felt her orgasm starting. Natasha was right behind, she bit down on Wanda's shoulder, crying out Wanda's name as her orgasm crashed over her, a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. 

Wanda convulsed around her fingers, her own release tearing from her throat in a raw cry, a final, shuddering pulse of red light flaring in the room before fading into a soft, contented glow. Their worlds shattered in a supernova of shared release. They collapsed together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and panting breath, their mission, finally and perfectly, complete. 

“That was-” Wanda panted, slowly removing her fingers from inside her girlfriend. “You're the best, Tasha.” She curled up against Natasha, her eyes glowing under the moonlight entering the room. “I love you so much. You know that, right?” 

“I know, moya lyubov.” Natasha's smile was so bright and soft, in a way that was reserved to only a few people in her life. “I love you too. More than I'll ever be able to put into words.” 

“You show me everyday, more than you know.” Wanda kissed her slowly. “And that's more than enough for me.” 

Chapter Text

The music was a physical thing, a bassline that vibrated through the polished concrete floor of the Avengers Tower common room, up through the soles of their shoes, and into their bones. It was Tony’s birthday, or maybe just a Tuesday; with him, the reasons for a party were always flimsy and the execution always deafeningly grand. People thronged the space, a mix of SHIELD brass, Stark Industries board members, and the occasional celebrity looking for a brush with real-life superheroes.

Wanda felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes, a dull throb that had nothing to do with the alcohol in her system and everything to do with the psychic noise of the crowd. She was leaning against a wall near the bar, nursing a glass of something red and expensive, trying to build her mental walls high enough to get a moment’s peace.

Then, she saw her.

Natasha was a slash of black silk and dangerous grace moving through the room. She wasn’t dancing, just…circulating. A shark in a glittering fish tank. She’d nod at a senator, share a brief, low-murmured word with Maria Hill, and then her eyes, those impossibly green, all-seeing eyes, would sweep the room again. For a breathtaking second, they met Wanda’s. A smile, small and meant only for her, touched Natasha’s lips before she turned away.

The hunt was over. The target was acquired.

Wanda didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, a warm body pressed against her back, blocking out the chill of the wall. “Tired of the circus?” Natasha’s voice was a low purr in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Wanda turned, finding herself caged between Natasha and the wall. The proximity was intoxicating. She could smell Natasha’s perfume, something subtle and spicy, layered over the clean scent of her skin. “They’re very loud,” Wanda murmured, her eyes flicking down to Natasha’s lips.

“They are,” Natasha agreed, her own gaze fixed on Wanda’s mouth. She raised a hand, her fingers tracing the line of Wanda’s jaw. The touch was feather-light but it burned like a brand. “But I can think of something much louder we could be doing.”

The raw suggestion in her tone sent a jolt of heat straight to Wanda’s core. The air crackled with a scarlet wisp of her magic, a subconscious tell of her burgeoning desire. “And where would we do that?” Wanda whispered, her voice husky.

Natasha’s smile widened, a flash of predatory white. “I have a key to every room in this tower. Pick one.”

That was all the invitation Wanda needed. She let her glass clatter onto a nearby table, her hand finding Natasha’s. She didn’t need a key. She just needed a direction. Weaving through the oblivious crowd, they slipped out of the main party area and into the quieter, more sterile corridors of the residential wing. The muffled beat of the music faded behind them, replaced by the sound of their own breathing.

Wanda pulled Natasha into the first unmarked room she found; a small, private lounge, rarely used, furnished with a low sofa and a wide, panoramic window overlooking the glittering expanse of Manhattan. The door hissed shut, plunging them into near silence, the city lights painting their faces in shifting patterns of silver and gold.

The moment they were alone, the carefully constructed dams of their control burst. Natasha surged forward, pressing Wanda against the door and capturing her mouth in a kiss that was all heat and demand. It wasn’t gentle or tentative; it was a collision. Tongues tangled, teeth nipped at swollen lips, and Wanda moaned into Natasha’s mouth, her hands fisting in the material of Natasha’s silk top.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this all night,” Natasha growled against her lips, her hands roaming down Wanda’s back, cupping her ass and pulling her impossibly closer.

“All night?” Wanda breathed, tilting her head back to give Natasha better access to her neck. “I’ve wanted this since the day I met you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled in Natasha’s chest. Her lips found the sensitive spot just below Wanda’s ear, and Wanda arched into her, a helpless, needy sound escaping her throat. They stumbled toward the couch, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. Natasha pushed Wanda down onto the soft leather, following her down to straddle her hips. The weight of her was a heady pressure, grounding and thrilling all at once.

“You’re so beautiful,” Natasha murmured, her fingers tracing the collar of Wanda’s dress. “So responsive. I love that.”

The praise was like a drug, making Wanda’s head swim. “You make me,” she gasped, her hips bucking up instinctively. “You have no idea.”

Natasha chuckled, a dark, pleased sound. She kissed her again, slower this time, a deep kiss that promised a world of sin. Her hand moved from Wanda’s dress to the button of her own pants. Wanda’s eyes fluttered open as she watched, mesmerized. Natasha’s gaze never left hers as she unzipped her black trousers. But along with soft skin and fabric, something else was revealed.

Wanda’s breath hitched. Tucked against Natasha’s stomach, semi-hard and straining against the confines of a very tight boxer brief, was a cock. It was thick and beautifully shaped, every vein a testament to the super-soldier serum that hummed through Natasha’s blood.

Seeing the stunned, wide-eyed awe on Wanda’s face, Natasha’s confidence seemed to swell. The cock twitched, rising fully. “Like what you see, malyshka ?”

Wanda could only nod, her throat suddenly dry. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers hovering just above the shaft. “N’tasha… it’s…”

“Perfect?” Natasha supplied, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. She pressed her hips down, letting the hot, rigid length grind against Wanda’s stomach through her dress. “I know. Now tell me how much you want it. Tell me how good you’re going to be for me.”

“I’ll be so good,” Wanda whimpered, the words ripped from her. The combination of the unexpected appendage and the demanding praise was short-circuiting her brain. Her magic flared again, a soft red glow enveloping them, making the air warm and thick with the scent of desire. She pulled at the hem of her own dress, desperate for more contact. “Please, Nat. I need it. I need you.”

“That’s my good girl.” Natasha’s voice was velvet and steel. She leaned down, her cock pressing insistently against Wanda’s dress. “You’re doing so perfectly. Just looking at you, so open and ready for me… you’re incredible, Wanda.”

Each word of praise was a physical blow, making Wanda squirm and buck beneath her. Natasha worked her dress up over her hips, baring her to the cool air of the room. She was slick and ready.

“So wet for me already,” Natasha praised, her tone reverent. She slicked the head of her cock with Wanda’s own moisture before positioning it at her entrance. “You were made for this, weren’t you? Made for me.”

Wanda cried out as Natasha pushed inside her, a slow, deliberate invasion that stretched her and filled her completely. It was a perfect, overwhelming fullness. Her legs wrapped around Natasha’s waist, pulling her deeper. 

“You take me so well.” Natasha said, her hands caressing Wanda’s hips. 

“Yes,” Wanda sobbed, her head thrashing on the leather cushions. “Oh, god, yes, Nat, you feel so good. You’re so fucking perfect.”

The praise worked both ways. Hearing it from Wanda, seeing the absolute worship in her eyes, made Natasha’s movements harder, faster. She began to thrust, a steady, punishing rhythm that had Wanda seeing stars.

“Look at you,” Natasha grunted, her own control starting to fray. “Taking all of me. Such a good, greedy girl. You want it all, don’t you?”

“All of it,” Wanda chanted, meeting each thrust with a desperate upward push of her hips. “Don’t stop. You’re so amazing, Natasha, so powerful. Fuck, I love feeling you inside me.”

The room was filled with the slick slap of their bodies, their gasps and moans, and the endless, filthy loop of praise. It was a litany of devotion, a sacrament of lust. Wanda’s magic pulsed in time with Natasha’s thrusts, the red glow intensifying as she felt her climax building, a searing, unstoppable wave of pleasure.

“Nat, I’m close!” she cried out, her nails digging into Natasha’s back.

“I know you are, baby, you’re doing so well,” Natasha gasped, her pace quickening. “Come for me. Show me how good it feels.”

That was all it took. With a final, desperate cry of Natasha’s name, Wanda’s body convulsed around her. Her orgasm was a firework of pure sensation, amplified by the scarlet energy that burst from her fingertips and washed over them both in a wave of warmth. The sight of it, the feeling of her clenching so tightly around her, sent Natasha over the edge. With a hoarse shout, she emptied herself deep inside Wanda, her body shuddering with the force of her own release.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined together, their bodies slick with sweat, their harsh breathing slowly evening out. Natasha collapsed on top of Wanda, pressing her face into the crook of her neck.

She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Wanda’s damp skin. “You were incredible,” Natasha whispered, her voice thick with spent passion. “Absolutely perfect.”

Wanda smiled, a languid, satisfied curve of her lips. She stroked Natasha’s hair, her heart finally slowing from its frantic pace. “So were you,” she murmured, feeling utterly sated, completely owned, and more powerful than she had ever felt in her life.

(...)

The quiet hum of the tower’s life support systems slowly filtered back into their awareness, a stark contrast to the storm of passion that had just broken over them. Wanda lay bonelessly beneath Natasha, her body tingling with the aftershocks of her climax, the heavy, comforting weight of the other woman a perfect anchor. She felt utterly wrung out and completely, blissfully full.

Natasha stirred, lifting her head from Wanda’s neck. Her green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with pleasure. “You okay?” she murmured, her voice still rough.

“More than okay,” Wanda breathed, a contented smile playing on her lips.

Natasha made a move to pull out, a gesture towards practicality in the aftermath, but Wanda’s hands shot to her hips, holding her in place. “No,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Don’t go yet.”

A questioning eyebrow rose on Natasha’s face. Wanda shifted, a complex maneuver that somehow ended with Natasha on her back on the leather couch and Wanda kneeling between her legs. The cock, still nestled partway inside her, slipped free with a wet sound that made Wanda’s stomach clench all over again. It was slick with her own essence, glistening in the dim light from the city below.

“Wanda, what are you doing?” Natasha asked, but there was no protest in her tone, only a deep, simmering curiosity.

Wanda didn’t answer with words. She leaned forward, her red-tinged magic swirling faintly around her hands as she gently cupped the base of the shaft. She looked up at Natasha through her lashes, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration on her face. “You praised me,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire and something more. “You told me I was good. Perfect.”

She lowered her head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the tip. Natasha’s breath hitched.

“You are,” Natasha managed to say, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Wanda’s neck.

“So are you,” Wanda murmured against her. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever had. And good things… good things should be worshipped.”

With that, she took Natasha into her mouth.

The initial shock of the sensation made Natasha’s back arch off the couch. Wanda was relentless. She took all of her, her throat muscles contracting around the thick shaft in a way that was almost as good as the real thing. Her tongue was a torment, tracing every vein, swirling around the head, laving the underside with a devotion that was obscene. A low groan was ripped from Natasha’s chest, a sound of pure, helpless pleasure.

“Fuck, malyshka…” she gasped, her grip tightening in Wanda’s hair, not pulling, just holding on for dear life.

Wanda hummed in response, the vibration traveling up the shaft and sending a jolt straight to Natasha’s core. She looked up again, her eyes glowing with a faint crimson light, her lips still wrapped firmly around her prize. “You taste so good,” Wanda slurred around the mouthful. “Like victory. Like me.”

The filthy words, the sight of the powerful witch on her knees for her, so eager and devoted; it was a devastating combination. Natasha felt her own orgasm, which had seemed a distant memory moments ago, begin to coil tight and low in her belly once more.

“Your mouth is incredible,” Natasha praised, her voice strained. “You’re a fucking natural. The way you take it all… such a good, greedy mouth for me.”

Wanda’s only answer was to suck harder, her jaw working, bobbing her head in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. She used her hands, too, stroking the parts of the shaft her mouth couldn’t reach, cupping the weighted base, squeezing in time with her sucking. The sounds were incredible; wet and sloppy, punctuated by Natasha’s sharp gasps and guttural groans. The air crackled with power, both sexual and supernatural.

Natasha was close, so close. Her hips began to buck instinctively, fucking into Wanda’s talented mouth. “Wanda… fuck… I’m gonna…”

Just as she felt the climax about to crest, Wanda pulled away. The sudden loss was an agony. Natasha cried out, a frustrated, needy sound.

“Shhh,” Wanda soothed, crawling up her body to straddle her hips again. She was dripping wet, her own desire reignited by the act of worship. “As much as I love the taste of you, I need to feel you inside me again.”

She leaned down and captured Natasha’s mouth in a deep, wet kiss, tasting of themselves. Then, she reached down, guiding the slick head of the cock back to her own weeping entrance.

“Tell me you want it,” Wanda demanded, her voice a low growl, echoing Natasha’s earlier commands.

“I want it,” Natasha gasped immediately, her eyes wild. “God, I need it. Get on, Wanda. Ride me.”

“Say please.”

A feral grin split Natasha’s face. “Please.”

Wanda smiled, a slow, predatory smile of her own. She lowered herself with painstaking slowness, impaling herself on the thick shaft. Both of them groaned as she took her inch by agonizing inch, the friction exquisite, the feeling of being stretched and filled again almost too much to bear. When she was buried to the hilt, her core clenching tightly around the welcome invasion, she stayed still for a moment, just letting them both feel it.

“Is that good?” Wanda whispered, her forehead resting against Natasha’s.

“Perfect,” Natasha breathed. “Now move.”

Wanda began to ride her. She started with a slow, grinding roll of her hips, building a delicious friction that had them both moaning. Her hands braced on Natasha’s shoulders, she leaned back, her back arching and her head thrown back, a vision of pure ecstasy.

“Look at you,” Natasha rasped, her hands coming up to cup Wanda’s breasts, pinching her nipples through her dress. “Look at how fucking beautiful you are riding my cock. You’re taking me so deep.”

“I want all of it,” Wanda panted, picking up the pace. Her hips moved with a steady, powerful rhythm, her inner muscles milking every single thrust. The sound of their wet bodies slapping together filled the room, a filthy, primal beat. “I love how you fill me up. I love being your good girl.”

“The best girl,” Natasha corrected, her voice getting louder, rougher. “The best fucking girl in the world. Look at you bounce for me. Fuck, Wanda, you’re going to make me come again.”

“Then come with me!” Wanda cried out, her own climax building with a terrifying intensity. “Tell me I’m good when I come for you.”

The praise was the final trigger. “You’re so good! So fucking perfect! Come on, baby, let go! Fucking come for me!”

It was all the permission she needed. Wanda screamed, a raw, piercing sound of pure pleasure as her orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed, clenching down on Natasha in wave after wave of ecstasy. The sight, the feeling of her, was too much for Natasha’s frayed control. With a final, guttural roar, she came with Wanda, her own orgasm exploding through her in a full-body tremor.

Wanda collapsed forward, completely spent, her cheek resting on Natasha’s chest, their hearts hammering in unison. The room was silent again, save for their ragged breaths. This time, the silence was heavier, thicker, saturated with a level of intimacy that transcended even the filthy acts they had just committed. It was raw and it was real. And it was theirs.

(...)

Time melted away in the quiet lounge, measured only by the slow drift of clouds past the moon and the frantic beating of their own hearts settling into a synchronized, calmer rhythm. Wanda was draped over Natasha, a silken, boneless weight of contentment. Her ear was pressed to Natasha’s chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of her heart. Natasha’s hand stroked Wanda’s hair, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her scalp.

The air was thick with their scent, a heady mix of sweat, sex, and Wanda’s faint, spicy magic. The cock was still a solid weight between them, a constant, pleasant reminder of what they’d just shared. Wanda shifted, just slightly, and her thigh brushed against Natasha’s cock. It was softer now, but the contact alone was enough to send a fresh jolt of lightning through her nerves.

A low hum of interest vibrated through Natasha’s chest, right under Wanda’s ear. “What was that?” Natasha murmured, her voice a low, teasing rumble. “Don’t tell me you’re ready for more already.”

Wanda lifted her head, her dark eyes locking with Natasha’s. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “I’m a growing girl,” she whispered. “I have a big appetite.” She punctuated the statement by pressing her hips down, a deliberate, grinding motion against her cock.

Natasha’s answering grin was pure predator. The serum in her veins meant her stamina, her recovery, was something beyond human. She was already feeling the familiar coil of desire tightening in her gut again. “Is that so? And what, exactly, is my good girl hungry for this time?”

“You,” Wanda said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She pushed herself up, off of Natasha, and slid to the edge of the couch. The movement was fluid, graceful, and full of intent. She turned, not to face Natasha, but to present her back to her. She knelt on the plush leather cushions, placing her palms flat and arching her back. The hem of her dress was already bunched around her waist, and she gave a little wiggle, a silent, blatant invitation.

The view was staggering. Wanda, on all fours, her perfect ass lifted high, practically begging for attention. The city lights of Manhattan created a glittering, cinematic backdrop for her silhouette.

Natasha let out a low whistle, a sound of genuine, impressed appreciation. “Well, well. Look at you. So eager to please. You didn’t even wait for me to ask.” She sat up, the couch creaking softly as she moved. “You look magnificent like that, Wanda. Absolutely made to be taken.”

The praise washed over Wanda, making her skin prickle and her core clench with anticipation. She pushed her hips back further, a silent plea. “Then take me,” she breathed, her voice muffled by the couch cushion. “Please, Nat. I need you again. Deeper this time.”

“Deeper?” Natasha chuckled, a dark, thrilling sound. She moved behind Wanda, her body heat a scorching presence. She didn’t enter her right away. Instead, she leaned forward, her mouth hot against Wanda’s ear. “Oh, I can give you deeper.” Her hands settled on Wanda’s hips, her thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. “But first, I want to feel how ready you are for me.”

Her fingers, already slick, dipped between Wanda’s folds. Wanda gasped, her body jolting as Natasha found her clit, circling it with an expert touch before sliding two fingers deep inside her. Wanda was already soaked, her inner walls hot and slick.

“Fuck,” Natasha groaned into her ear, her own control fraying at the sheer wetness of her. “You’re dripping for me. So hot and tight. You’re always so ready to be filled, aren’t you? Such a perfect, greedy cunt for my cock.”

Wanda whimpered, bucking back against Natasha’s hand, chasing the feeling. “Please, Nat, stop teasing. Fuck me. Just fuck me now.”

“Anything for my good girl.” Natasha pulled her fingers out with a wet pop and grabbed the base of her cock, guiding it to Wanda’s waiting entrance. She pushed the head in, just the tip, and held it there. “Tell me who this belongs to.”

“You,” Wanda cried out, her patience gone. “It’s yours! I’m yours! Now, please.”

With a final, possessive growl, Natasha surged forward, sinking her entire length into Wanda in one powerful, brutal thrust.

A scream was torn from Wanda’s throat. This angle was different. Deeper. It felt as if Natasha was striking the very bottom of her, touching her soul. It was overwhelming, a sensation that bordered on pain but tipped right over into the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.

“That’s it,” Natasha grunted, her hands gripping Wanda’s hips like vices, holding her in place. She began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before ramming back in, stretching her, filling her completely with each punishing stroke.

“Oh, god, Natasha,” Wanda sobbed, her face pressed into the couch. Her magic, her control, was completely gone. Scarlet energy bled into the air around them, pulsing in time with Natasha’s thrusts.

“I love watching your magic flare when I’m fucking you,” Natasha praised, her voice a harsh rasp next to Wanda’s ear. She leaned forward, nipping at Wanda’s shoulder as she picked up the pace, her thrusts becoming faster, harder, more frantic. The couch groaned under their combined force, the sound lost beneath the wet, slapping rhythm of their bodies and Wanda’s breathless moans. “I love seeing you lose control. It’s the sexiest fucking thing in the world.”

“Don’t stop,” Wanda chanted, her mind a haze of pure sensation. “You’re so good, so strong. Fuck me apart, Natasha. Ruin me.”

“I will,” Natasha promised, her own climax building. She reached one hand around, her fingers finding Wanda’s clit again, rubbing it in time with her relentless fucking. The dual stimulation was too much. Wanda screamed, a high, keening wail as her orgasm slammed into her, a violent, full-body cataclysm that made her see white. Her inner muscles clamped down on Natasha’s cock, milking it with an impossible tightness.

“YES!” Natasha roared, the sight and feel of Wanda’s climax sending her hurtling over the edge. She fucked her harder, faster, for a few more desperate seconds before shouting Wanda’s name as her own release shuddered through her, emptying herself deep inside the witch’s convulsing body.

She collapsed on top of Wanda, her chest heaving, her body slick with sweat. They stayed that way for a long time, tangled together in the aftermath of a hurricane, two forces of nature who had found their equal and their end in each other. Natasha pressed a final, lingering kiss to Wanda’s damp, flushed neck. “Fucking flawless,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Every time.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, and then, reluctantly, Natasha moved, pulling out of Wanda. They both groaned in frustration, and Natasha settled back on the couch, bringing Wanda with her. She settled Wanda against her body, stroking her damp hair. "You did so well, babe."

"Did I really?" Wanda lifted her head to look at her, her wide green eyes shining with a mixture of hope and satisfaction.

"Yes," Natasha said simply, and leaned in to kiss her. "I can't believe it took us this long to do this."

"I hope this is just the beginning," Wanda said, caressing Natasha's abdomen, her fingertips tracing imaginary patterns on her skin.

"If that's what you want." Natasha smiled.

"Is that what you want too?" Wanda bit her lip, her hand stilling for a moment.

"By now you should know I don't do anything I don't want to." Natasha looked at her seriously for a moment, then her expression softened. "I want to, Wanda. I want to for as long as you want me to."

Chapter Text

The silence between them was never silent. It was a loaded, breathing thing, thick with unspoken words and heavy with the things they did instead of talk. 

It lived in the space between their hands as they passed in a hallway, in the lingering eye contact across the mission debriefing table, in the deliberate, almost insolent way Wanda would let her magic curl like smoke around Natasha’s wrist, just to watch the muscles in the spy’s jaw tighten.

It had been months. Months of this excruciating, delicious dance.

The rest of the Avengers were at their breaking point.

“I swear to God, I’m going to lock them in a closet,” Clint muttered into his coffee, watching the two of them from the kitchen. In the common area, Natasha was sharpening her knives, a picture of lethal focus. Or she would have been, if not for the small, crimson wisp of energy currently making one of the knives float just an inch out of her grasp every time she reached for it.

“Don’t,” Steve sighed, not looking up from his sketchbook. “Last time Tony tried a ‘forced team-bonding exercise,’ he had to replace a load-bearing wall.”

“This isn’t team-bonding, this is an intervention,” Sam Wilson chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “It’s painful. You see the way they look at each other? It’s like watching a nature documentary. Two predators sizing each other up, except they’re both ridiculously in love and just… idiots.”

Natasha’s hand finally snapped out, snatching the knife from the air with impossible speed. She didn’t look at Wanda, who was lounging on a nearby sofa, a smug, cat-like smile playing on her lips.

“Having trouble, Romanoff?” Wanda’s voice was a low purr, laced with Sokovian velvet.

“Just enjoying the show, Maximoff,” Natasha shot back, her voice flat, but her eyes, when they finally lifted to meet Wanda’s, held a dangerous fire. “You’re getting predictable.”

“Oh, I am full of surprises,” Wanda promised, and the air crackled.

Clint groaned and dropped his head onto the kitchen island with a loud thud.

(...)

The tension between them had its own seat at the breakfast table. This morning, it tasted like coffee and frustration.

Natasha was at the island, methodically stirring sugar into her mug, her movements economical and precise. A predator at rest. Across from her, Wanda was watching, her chin propped on her hand, a small, secretive smile playing on her lips. She wasn’t eating, merely observing. Hunting.

As Natasha lifted the mug, it stopped, hovering an inch from her lips. A faint, crimson corona, visible only if you were looking for it, pulsed around the ceramic.

Natasha didn’t look at Wanda. Her gaze remained fixed on the floating mug. "Maximoff." The name was a flat statement. A warning.

"Romanoff," Wanda chirped back, all innocence. "Is something wrong? You look thirsty."

The mug dipped teasingly, the scent of the dark roast wafting up. From the living room sofa, Sam Wilson groaned and threw a cushion over his head. Clint, passing through, just shook his head and kept walking, muttering, "I'm too old for this."

Natasha’s gaze finally slid to meet Wanda’s. It was a clash of emerald and smoldering embers. "I'm patient," Natasha said, her voice a low, silken threat. "I can wait until your little light show is over."

"Oh, I can go all day," Wanda purred. The mug did a slow, lazy pirouette in the air. "I have... considerable stamina."

The double meaning hung between them, thick and suffocating. Natasha’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk. With a speed that would have startled anyone else, her hand shot out, not for the mug, but for the sugar bowl. She plucked a single cube from it and, with a flick of her wrist, sent it soaring through the air. It landed with a soft plink directly in Wanda’s half-full glass of orange juice on the other side of the island.

Wanda’s concentration broke for a fraction of a second. The red glow vanished. The mug dropped.

Natasha’s reflexes were flawless. She caught it before a single drop could spill, her fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving Wanda’s. The look in them was triumphant, challenging. Your move.

Wanda’s mouth fell open in a silent, indignant gasp before it curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "That was a cheap shot."

"There are no cheap shots," Natasha replied coolly, taking another sip. "Only opportunities."

And the promise of future opportunities, of payback and escalation, charged the air between them so heavily that Sam swore he could hear it buzzing from under his cushion.

(...)

The training room floor was slick with sweat. They were the last two left, as they often were. The official session had ended an hour ago, but theirs never seemed to.

"You're telegraphing your moves," Natasha grunted, sidestepping a spinning kick from Wanda and using the momentum to try and sweep her legs.

Wanda leaped effortlessly over Natasha’s leg, landing as softly as a cat. "And you're getting predictable."

It was their constant refrain, their mantra. A lie they both enjoyed telling.

This wasn't a normal spar. With them, it never was. It was a violent, intimate ballet. Natasha would press the attack, all brutal efficiency and controlled power, forcing Wanda to use her powers not as a weapon, but as a shield. 

A crimson wave would ripple out, not to blast Natasha, but to soften the floor beneath her feet, making her slip. A scarlet thread would snake out to wrap around her wrist, not to hold her, but to gently tug her off balance.

It was an invasion. Wanda’s power, a manifestation of her very being, was constantly *touching* Natasha, ghosting over her skin, tangling in her hair, whispering against her gear.

Natasha broke through a shimmering shield with a vicious elbow strike, the move flowing seamlessly into a grapple. She got in close, under Wanda's guard, her body pressing flush against the witch's. One of her arms wrapped around Wanda's waist, the other reaching for her neck. It was the kill shot. The end of the fight.

But she stopped.

Her fingers rested on the pulse point of Wanda's throat. Wanda’s hands were flat against Natasha’s chest, a faint warmth bleeding through the tactical fabric. They were both breathing heavily, the sound loud in the cavernous room. Natasha could smell Wanda; sweat, something like burning sugar from her powers, and that infuriatingly sweet scent of her shampoo. Wanda could feel the solid, unyielding muscle of Natasha's body, the heat of it a stark contrast to the cool leather of her suit.

"You're hesitating," Wanda whispered, her voice husky. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.

"I'm evaluating," Natasha breathed back, her thumb stroking almost unconsciously against the frantic pulse in Wanda's neck. "Deciding where to strike first."

Her gaze dropped to Wanda’s mouth.

Wanda's breath hitched. "Are you?"

The moment stretched, taut and agonizing. It was Steve Rogers, walking in with a towel slung over his shoulder, who broke it. He took one look at the two women locked in their charged embrace, sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who had seen too much, and turned right back around.

"I'm just gonna... get some water," he called over his shoulder, his retreat hasty.

The spell was broken. Natasha released Wanda and stepped back, a professional mask slamming back into place. But her cheeks were flushed, and her breathing was still too fast. Wanda watched her go, a knowing, hungry look in her eyes.

(...)

The mission was supposed to be simple infiltration and data retrieval. It wasn't.

Alarms blared, red lights strobing through the dark corridors of the HYDRA facility. Gunfire echoed behind them.

"This way!" Natasha hissed, grabbing Wanda's arm and pulling her into a dark, narrow maintenance shaft. She slammed the door shut, plunging them into near-total darkness and a silence broken only by their own ragged breaths and the frantic beating of their hearts.

The space was impossibly tight. They were pressed together from chest to knee, a forced intimacy that made the air thick and hard to breathe. Natasha had one hand braced against the wall by Wanda's head, the other resting low on Wanda’s back, holding her steady. Wanda's hands were on Natasha's shoulders, her fingers digging in.

Outside, heavy boots pounded past their hiding spot. They both held their breath.

In the suffocating dark, every point of contact was magnified. Wanda could feel the solid warmth of Natasha’s body, the tension in her muscles. Natasha could feel the subtle tremor running through Wanda, a mix of adrenaline and something else.

(...)

Tony Stark did not throw parties; he orchestrated symphonies of controlled chaos. The penthouse floor of the Avengers Tower was a living, breathing testament to hedonism. Bass throbbed up from the floorboards like a secondary heartbeat, a primal rhythm that vibrated in your teeth. 

Lasers of emerald and sapphire sliced through plumes of theatrical smoke, painting the writhing, laughing bodies of New York’s elite in fleeting moments of artistry. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, exotic perfumes, and the electric tang of too many people pretending they weren’t looking at the superheroes in their midst.

“I give them ten minutes,” Clint grumbled, nursing a beer from a secluded perch on a balcony overlooking the main floor. He nodded down at the scene below. “Ten minutes before one of them does something stupidly dramatic and I have to pretend I don’t know them.”

Sam, standing beside him, followed his gaze. “Which one?”

Clint let out a short, humourless laugh. “Take your pick. But my money’s on the idiots.”

There was no need to ask who ‘the idiots’ were. Below, Natasha, in lethal stillness at the edge of the maelstrom. She wore a backless black dress that was both elegantly simple and sinfully revealing, clinging to her athletic frame like a second skin. She held a glass of vodka, her posture relaxed, but her eyes were constantly moving, scanning, assessing. A predator at ease, but never off-duty.

And then, Wanda made her entrance.

She didn’t just walk into the room; she poured herself into it. She wore a dress the colour of spilled wine, a deep, decadent crimson that seemed to drink the light. It was silk, or something that behaved like it, flowing around her legs as she moved, a whisper of fabric against skin. 

Her hair was down, a dark cascade over her bare shoulders. She held a drink, her fingers stroking the condensation on the glass, and her eyes – her knowing, smouldering eyes – found Natasha’s across the crowded room almost instantly.

A slow, deliberate smile bloomed on Wanda’s face. It was a promise. It was a threat.

Natasha’s jaw tightened infinitesimally.

Wanda didn’t approach. That would be too easy, too kind. Instead, she set her drink down on a passing tray and allowed herself to be absorbed by the dance floor. 

The song shifted, the beat dropping into something deep, sensual, and grinding. Wanda moved with it, a fluid, hypnotic motion of swaying hips and rolling shoulders. She wasn't dancing with anyone, not really. 

Her eyes were half-closed, a look of private ecstasy on her face, but every so often they would flutter open, and she would look – directly, insolently – at Natasha.

It wasn't a dance. It was a story. A monologue performed with her body. This is for you , her movements said. This is what you could have. This is what you’re denying yourself.

Natasha didn’t move a muscle, but a muscle in her cheek ticked betrayingly. She took a long, slow swallow of her vodka, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the fire igniting in her belly. 

She felt watched, not just by Wanda, but by everyone who knew them. She could feel Clint’s pitying gaze from the balcony, and could practically hear Sam’s sigh. They thought this was a game. They didn’t understand. This was warfare, and Wanda was deploying a weapon of mass destruction.

After two songs that felt like an eternity, Wanda, flushed and gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, retrieved her drink and began her slow, circling approach. She moved like a shark, weaving through the crowd until she was standing right behind Natasha, her front pressing lightly against the spy’s exposed back.

Natasha went rigid.

Wanda leaned in, her lips so close to Natasha’s ear that her warm breath was an intimate caress. "You look beautiful when you're suffering, Natasha," she whispered, her voice a velvet purr that slid straight down Natasha's spine. 

A single, delicate thread of crimson power, invisible to anyone else, slithered from Wanda’s hand and traced the line of Natasha’s vertebrae, a ghost-touch that felt like fire.

"I'm not suffering," Natasha said, her voice dangerously quiet.

"No?" Wanda’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. A shiver traced its way down Natasha’s arm. "You look like a woman dying of thirst while watching the ocean. All that control. It must be so exhausting. Don't you ever just want to… let go?"

Wanda pulled back slightly, moving to stand beside her, leaning her hip against the bar. She took a theatrical sip of her drink, her eyes hooded, her gaze fixed on Natasha's mouth.

"You've been watching me all night," Wanda continued, her voice dropping lower, more intimate, pulling them into a bubble amidst the chaos. "You watch me in the gym. You watch me at breakfast. You watch me when you think I'm not looking. I feel your eyes on me like a touch. All that looking, Natasha. All that wanting." She leaned in again, her voice a devastating, final blow. "And you do nothing. It must be torture."

It wasn't a tease anymore. It was an indictment. Wanda had peeled back every layer of Natasha’s control and laid her bare. She had seen the raw, desperate hunger Natasha kept locked away and had called it by its name.

Something inside the Black Widow snapped.

The noise of the party, the lights, the people; it all vanished. There was only the crimson of Wanda’s dress and the challenge in her eyes. Natasha slammed her empty vodka glass down on the bar, the sound a sharp crack that cut through the bass. Her hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around Wanda’s wrist in a grip that was pure steel.

Wanda gasped, a flicker of shock and pure, undiluted arousal flashing in her eyes.

"You want me to do something, Wanda?" Natasha's voice was a guttural growl she barely recognized as her own. Her green eyes were feral, stripped of all civility. "Fine."

She didn’t wait for an answer. She yanked Wanda off-balance, pulling her away from the bar and into the throng. It wasn't a walk; it was a conquest. Natasha moved with brutal purpose, a human battering ram parting the sea of dancing bodies. People stumbled out of her way, their laughter dying on their lips as they saw the thunderous, focused rage on her face.

Wanda stumbled after her, a breathless, triumphant laugh escaping her lips. She had poked the dragon, and now she was being dragged back to its lair. It was everything she had wanted.

Natasha didn't stop, her grip unyielding. She found the hallway leading to the guest suites, a quiet, dimly lit artery off the main heart of the party. She shoved the door to Wanda's room open, dragged Wanda inside into the darkness, and kicked the door shut behind them. The heavy thump of the door was followed by the sharp, definitive click of the lock.

Silence. Heavy, absolute, broken only by two sets of frantic, ragged breaths. The muffled pulse of the party was a distant, irrelevant planet.

"You," Natasha panted, shoving Wanda back against the solid wood of the door, caging her in with her body, "have been asking for this for months ." Her hands came up to frame Wanda's face, her thumbs stroking her cheekbones with a possessive roughness that was anything but gentle.

Wanda tilted her head back, offering her throat, a gesture of submission that was simultaneously the height of provocation. Her eyes glittered in the gloom. "And you," she breathed, her voice shaking with adrenaline and victory, "have been wanting to give it to me."

"More than you will ever know," Natasha rasped, and then her mouth crashed down on Wanda’s.

The kiss wasn't a release; it was a detonation. It was months of unspoken want, of calculated teases and simmering rage, all compressed into a single, brutal point of contact. Natasha’s mouth was punishing, a desperate attempt to conquer the woman who had so effortlessly conquered her. 

Her tongue plunged into Wanda's mouth, a raw, claiming thrust that Wanda met with equal, ravenous fire. A choked, triumphant sound was torn from Wanda’s throat, and she clawed at Natasha's back, her nails digging into the fine fabric of her dress.

"Is this what you wanted?" Natasha growled, breaking the kiss to press her forehead against Wanda's, both of them panting, their breath mingling in the small space. Her hands slid from Wanda's face down her body, gripping her hips with bruising force. "All your little games, your fucking tricks. Was this the prize?"

"Yes," Wanda gasped, her hips bucking against Natasha’s. "You. Like this. Losing control."

"Oh, I'm not losing control, little witch," Natasha rasped, her voice a low, guttural promise of violence and pleasure. "I'm taking it."

With one swift, brutal motion, she hooked her hands under the hem of Wanda’s silk dress and yanked it up around her waist, the wine-red fabric bunching in her fists. Wanda wore nothing but a pair of tiny, black lace panties, a laughably fragile barrier that Natasha had no intention of removing. 

Her free hand gripped Wanda’s thigh, hiking her leg up to wrap around her hip, forcing her open, pinning her more firmly to the unyielding wood of the door.

Wanda’s head fell back with a thud against the door, a low, desperate moan escaping her lips. "Natasha–"

"Shut up," Natasha commanded, though her own control was fraying, her voice thick with need. She pressed the hard ridge of her cock against the delicate lace covering Wanda’s cunt, grinding down, a promise of the friction to come. "You wanted this. You begged for this. Now you're going to take it." 

Her eyes meet Wanda's in a silent question, and she felt Wanda's hip shifting lightly, giving her access.

Natasha pushed the thin fabric of Wanda’s panties to the side with two determined fingers, the damp heat she found there making her own breath hitch. Wanda was soaked, ready for her. The sight, the scent, the feel of it was a final, devastating blow to her restraint. She positioned herself, her hips flush against Wanda’s, and then she thrust forward.

Wanda screamed, a raw, piercing sound that was half pain, half pure ecstasy. Natasha filled her completely, a thick, stretching pressure that lit up every nerve in her body. 

It was rough, clumsy, and utterly perfect. Natasha’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of Wanda's ass, holding her pinned as she began to move, fucking her against the door with a frantic, punishing rhythm.

"Fuck," Natasha grunted, her lips finding the sensitive skin of Wanda's neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. "You feel so fucking good. So tight around me. Did you think about this, Wanda? When you were floating my knives? Did you imagine me fucking you raw against a door?"

"Every. single. time," Wanda choked out, her leg trembling as she clung to Natasha. The friction of their bodies, the rough texture of Natasha’s dress against her inner thigh, the solid weight of the assassin fucking into her with a desperate, pent-up fury; it was too much. 

Her magic, always tied to her emotions, flared uncontrollably. The lights in the room flickered wildly, and a vase on a nearby dresser exploded, showering the floor with porcelain and water.

Natasha just laughed, a low, triumphant sound against Wanda's skin. "That's it. Fucking come for me." She drove into Wanda harder, faster, her hips slamming into her with a wet, slapping sound that echoed in the small room. 

Wanda's back arched, her nails scoring red lines on Natasha's back. The pleasure was a tidal wave, a chaotic, crimson storm building inside her, and Natasha was its merciless epicenter. "Please," she sobbed, not even sure what she was begging for.

"Please what?" Natasha taunted, her thumb finding Wanda's clit through the tangle of fabric and flesh, rubbing hard circles. "Please stop? Or please don't?"

"Don't," Wanda begged, and her whole world shattered into blinding white light. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and absolute. 

Her body convulsed around Natasha’s, her inner muscles clenching and milking her in wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. She cried out Natasha’s name like a prayer, her body going limp against the door, utterly spent.

For a moment, Natasha held her there, her own breathing ragged, her body thrumming with the aftershocks of Wanda’s release. 

Then, with a tenderness that was a stark contrast to the beautiful brutality of the last few minutes, she slowly withdrew. Wanda's leg slid down, and she would have collapsed if Natasha hadn't been holding her up.

Without a word, Natasha scooped Wanda into her arms. She carried her across the room, past the shattered vase, and sat on the edge of the wide, messy bed, settling Wanda onto her lap so she was straddling her, facing her. Wanda’s head rested in the crook of Natasha's neck, her body trembling.

"Look at you," Natasha murmured, her voice soft now, laced with a dark, possessive satisfaction. "A complete mess. Just for me."

She took the straps of Wanda's dress and slowly, deliberately, dragged them down her arms. The wine-red silk parted, exposing Wanda’s chest. Her breasts were flushed, her nipples hard, pebbled peaks. One of Natasha’s arms wrapped securely around Wanda’s waist, holding her in place.

"So beautiful," Natasha whispered, before leaning forward and taking a nipple into her mouth.

Wanda gasped, a fresh wave of sensation jolting through her exhausted body. Natasha’s mouth was hot and wet, her tongue laving, licking, before she began to suck, pulling the sensitive nub deep into the heat of her mouth. 

She worked it mercilessly, nipping with her teeth, laving the faint sting away with her tongue, driving Wanda to the edge of madness all over again. While her mouth worshiped one breast, her free hand moved to the other, pinching and rolling the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

Wanda was in her lap, moaning softly, her fingers tangling weakly in Natasha's hair. This was different from the frantic energy at the door. This was a slow, deliberate claiming, an exquisite torture.

As Natasha continued her relentless assault on Wanda’s breasts, her free hand snaked down, slipping between their still-clothed bodies. She found the damp lace of Wanda’s panties, pushed to one side. She didn't hesitate. Two fingers slid effortlessly inside Wanda's slick, sensitive channel. Wanda whimpered, her hips twitching.

"Shhh," Natasha murmured against her breast. "I've got you. Just feel this."

Her fingers began to move, a slow, perfect rhythm. In and out, stretching her, while her thumb found Wanda's clit, swollen and hypersensitive. She began to rub, slow, steady circles of friction that sent shockwaves through Wanda's system.

"Oh, God, Natasha... I can't..." Wanda sobbed, her body already starting to clench.

"Yes, you can," Natasha whispered, her voice a hypnotic command. Her fingers moved faster, her thumb more insistent. 

Natasha shifted, reluctantly pulling her fingers out of Wanda's tight pussy, creating a fraction of space between their hips. "Your first orgasm was beautiful, little witch," she whispered, her voice a low, thick rasp against Wanda's skin. "But it just made me harder."

Her hand moved with purpose, guiding the thick, straining length of her cock, hot and heavy, to Wanda’s slick entrance. She nudged the head of it against Wanda’s swollen folds, and Wanda gasped, her eyes flying open. The sheer size of it, the solid reality after the frantic fucking at the door, was a new kind of shock.

"That's right," Natasha murmured, feeling Wanda's inner muscles flutter in anticipation. "You feel that? That's how much I want you. I'm not done with you. I'm not even close."

She held Wanda’s gaze, a silent command passing between them, before she began to press forward. This time it wasn't a frantic, punishing thrust. It was a slow, agonizingly deliberate invasion. 

Wanda cried out as Natasha slid into her, stretching her, filling her inch by torturous inch until she was seated fully, deeply inside her. Wanda’s back arched, her nails digging into Natasha’s shoulders as she took all of her, the perfect, overwhelming fullness a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

"There," Natasha breathed, a shudder running through her own frame. "Fuck... that's where I belong. Deep inside you."

For a long moment, she didn't move, letting Wanda adjust, letting them both revel in the feeling of being joined so completely. Then, with an arm locked securely around Wanda’s waist, she began to rock her hips. 

It was a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, designed for maximum sensation, for pure, unadulterated friction. Each roll of her hips sent her cock sliding against Wanda’s G-spot, drawing a continuous, broken stream of moans from the witch’s lips.

As if that weren’t enough, Natasha’s free hand moved back down between them, her fingers easily finding Wanda’s clit, already swollen and hypersensitive. She began to rub, slow, steady circles that mirrored the deep, rocking rhythm of her hips.

"Oh, God, Natasha... I can't..." Wanda sobbed, her body already starting to clench, caught in an inescapable net of pleasure. The deep, full strokes of Natasha's cock, the sharp, targeted torment of her fingers, it was overwhelming.

"Yes, you can," Natasha grunted, her own control slipping as she felt Wanda begin to tighten around her. "You're going to come for me again. You're going to come on my cock. Come for me, Wanda."

Her fingers moved faster, her hips drove deeper. She watched Wanda's face, saw her eyes roll back as she was consumed by the pleasure. 

With a final, desperate cry that was swallowed by Natasha's mouth crashing back down on hers, Wanda came apart for the second time. It was even more violent than the first, a deep, full-bodied orgasm that made her body convulse, her inner muscles milking Natasha's cock in wave after incredible wave.

That was all it took. Feeling Wanda’s orgasm gripping her, hearing her shattered cries against her lips, sent Natasha over the edge. With a hoarse, guttural roar, she slammed into Wanda one last time, her own release ripping through her. She poured her cum deep inside Wanda, a hot, thick flood of pure release that felt like coming home.

Her body shuddered, her head falling forward to rest on Wanda's shoulder, her breathing harsh and ragged. She didn't pull out. She stayed right where she was, buried deep inside Wanda's warmth, her fingers still resting gently on her clit. Wanda was limp in her lap, completely spent, her cheek resting against Natasha's chest.

They stayed there for a long time, locked together in the quiet aftermath. The only sounds were their hearts beating a tandem rhythm and the distant, muffled thump of a party that felt a universe away. 

Natasha held Wanda tight, her hand stroking her sweat-slick back, breathing in the scent of their mingled sex and her victory. This was more than a fuck. It was an unconditional surrender. And in the silence of the room, they both knew they had been utterly, and finally, conquered.

The silence that followed was a thick, heavy blanket, woven from sweat, lust, and the ghost of Wanda’s final, shuddering cry. Natasha didn't move, staying buried deep inside Wanda, her forehead resting on Wanda’s shoulder, her own harsh breaths slowly evening out. 

She could feel the faint, slick trickle of her own release between Wanda's legs, the possessive, primal satisfaction of it a balm on her frayed nerves. Wanda was a dead weight in her lap, pliant and utterly boneless, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Finally, with a reluctance that felt physical, Natasha began to withdraw. The slow, wet slide of her pulling out of Wanda’s slick heat drew a soft whimper from the witch’s lips. Natasha grunted, a low sound of approval, and sealed the sound with a soft, lingering kiss, a stark contrast to the brutal claiming that had come before. It was a kiss of ownership, of arrival.

She didn't let Wanda go. Still holding her securely, Natasha stood and carefully laid Wanda in the center of the sprawling, rumpled bed. The wine-red dress was a ruined thing, bunched around her waist, her breasts still exposed and flushed from Natasha’s attention. Her hair was a wild halo on the white pillows, her legs shaky and weak. She looked debauched. She looked perfect.

Natasha stripped off her own ruined black dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. For a moment she just stood there, letting Wanda’s dazed eyes roam over her body before she slid into the bed beside her, pulling the soft duvet over both of them.

Immediately, she turned onto her side, pulling Wanda against her. She tucked Wanda's back into her front, spooning her so their bodies were flush. One of Natasha’s arms wrapped around Wanda's waist, her hand splayed protectively over her stomach. The other hand came up to gently thread through Wanda's tangled hair, her fingers massaging her scalp in slow, soothing circles. She pressed a soft kiss to Wanda's shoulder blade, then another to the nape of her neck.

Wanda sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment, and melted back into the embrace. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep lethargy and a profound sense of peace. The tension that had been a constant companion for months was just… gone. In its place was this. This quiet, solid warmth.

For a long time, they just lay there, breathing in unison. The muffled bass from the party was a distant, ignorable annoyance.

"So," Natasha whispered, her voice a low murmur against Wanda’s hair. "All that... just to get me in your bed."

Wanda smiled, a small, tired curve of her lips. She shifted slightly, tilting her head back to try and see the woman holding her. "No," she answered, her own voice husky and soft. "All that... just to have you like this." She nudged her head against Natasha's chin. "Quiet. Mine."

Natasha's arm tightened around her waist. Her fingers stilled in Wanda's hair. "And what if I don't want to be quiet?" she challenged softly, though there was no heat in it. "What if I liked the games?"

"The games are over, Natasha," Wanda murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. 

She felt Natasha’s hand move from her stomach, her fingers tracing the path down, between her legs, not with any demand, but with a gentle, proprietary touch. Just a reminder.

"Maybe," Natasha conceded, her lips finding the pulse point on Wanda's neck. She didn't kiss it, just rested her mouth there, breathing her in. "Or maybe... the rules have just changed."

Wanda didn't answer. She didn't need to. She just snuggled deeper into Natasha's hold, her body safe and sated. 

Outside, the party raged on. Tony was probably looking for his wayward Avengers. The team was likely placing bets on whether they had killed each other. But in here, locked away from the world, the war was finally over. 

And in the quiet, shared breaths of the aftermath, they both knew, with absolute certainty, that they had both surrendered. And they had both won.

Chapter Text

The low thrum of the Audi's engine was a contented purr beneath them, a sleek black panther gliding through the late-night veins of New York. Streetlights smeared across the ridiculously polished hood, molten gold sliding over the dark metal as Natasha expertly navigated the sparse traffic. The city was winding down, but inside the car, the air was electric, still buzzing from their date.

It had been perfect. A ridiculously expensive restaurant Tony had recommended, with a private table on a rooftop overlooking the twinkling sprawl of the city. Wanda had worn a dark crimson dress that clung to her curves in a way that had made Natasha’s breath catch in her throat all evening. Natasha, in a tailored black suit, felt Wanda’s eyes on her with every shift, every sip of wine, a silent, smoldering conversation passing between them.

Now, with the soft leather of the seats cradling them and the intimate darkness of the cabin wrapping around them like a blanket, that smolder was threatening to catch fire.

Wanda shifted, the silk of her dress whispering against the leather. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a decisive click that cut through the soft music playing on the stereo.

Natasha glanced over, one eyebrow raised in a silent question, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Impatient, are we, malyshka ?" she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through the small space. "The Compound is only twenty minutes away."

"An eternity," Wanda whispered back, her accent thick and syrupy. She slid across the console, her movements fluid and deliberate, until her hip was flush against Natasha's thigh. The scent of her perfume; something dark and floral, like night-blooming jasmine and sin, filled Natasha’s senses, intoxicating her. "I've been waiting all night to have you to myself."

Her hand came to rest on Natasha's thigh, high up near her groin, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the fine wool of her suit trousers. Natasha’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white for a fraction of a second. She kept her eyes on the road, but her focus was splintering, every nerve ending zeroing in on Wanda’s touch.

"You're going to make me crash Tony's very expensive, very trackable car," Natasha warned, though her voice lacked any real conviction. Her pulse was already starting to hammer a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

A wicked little smile touched Wanda's lips, her eyes gleaming in the dashboard lights. "I have faith in your multitasking abilities," she said, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. Her fingers danced from Natasha’s thigh to the front of her trousers, ghosting over the pronounced bulge there. "And besides," she added, leaning in so her breath was hot against Natasha’s ear, "I can catch us if we fall."

With that promise hanging in the air, Wanda’s nimble fingers went to work on the buttons of Natasha’s fly. The sound of them popping open, one by one, was obscenely loud in the quiet car. Natasha swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. The highway stretched out before them, a ribbon of dark asphalt and white lines, but it was all starting to feel distant, unreal.

Wanda’s hand slipped inside, her cool fingers wrapping around the thick, straining length of Natasha’s cock. Natasha hissed through her teeth, her hips bucking involuntarily against the seat. Wanda had her boxers bunched down in an instant, freeing her completely. The air, cooled by the car's climate control, hit her exposed skin, making the head of her cock bead up with precum.

"Wanda," Natasha breathed, a plea and a prayer all at once.

Wanda didn't answer with words. She lowered her head, her dark hair spilling over Natasha’s lap like a silken curtain. She started by pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head of her cock, tasting the slick bead of fluid there. Her tongue darted out, a wet, hot whip that made Natasha’s whole body jolt.

"Keep your eyes on the road, my love," Wanda murmured against her, her voice muffled but the intent perfectly clear.

Natasha’s head fell back against the headrest, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. The car fishtailed, tires screaming a brief, sharp protest on the asphalt before she wrenched the wheel straight again. Her free hand, the one tangled in Wanda’s auburn hair, tightened its grip, not pulling, but clenching, her knuckles stark white. She was an anchor in a storm of Wanda’s making, and she was drowning.

Wanda’s smile was a predatory, knowing thing against Natasha's skin. She loved this. Loved unraveling the world’s most dangerous spy with nothing but her mouth and her devotion. She deepened her suction, pulling Natasha impossibly further, bobbing her head in a steady, relentless rhythm. Her tongue was a weapon, laving the sensitive ridge of the crown before flicking down the length of her, tracing the thick, pulsing veins. Natasha tasted of salt, power, and the faint, metallic tang of pure, unadulterated arousal.

With her free hand, Wanda continued her ministrations, her fingers still bathed in that soft, scarlet glow. The magic wasn’t just for show; it was a physical touch, a hum of chaotic energy that sank beneath Natasha’s skin, making every nerve ending sing, amplifying every sensation tenfold. She stroked the heavy weight of her balls, her thumb gliding over the taut skin in time with the greedy pull of her lips. She felt Natasha’s hips begin to twitch, a desperate, involuntary rhythm seeking purchase against Wanda’s mouth.

“Fuck, malyshka… you need to… stop,” Natasha gasped, the words broken, meaningless. They both knew she didn’t mean it. It was the last gasp of her control, the final protest of an agent who was never supposed to be this vulnerable. Her breathing was ragged, her entire body trembling with the effort of keeping the car on the road while Wanda was intent on driving her straight off a cliff of pure sensation.

“Shhh,” Wanda murmured, pulling back just enough for her words to be a hot breath against the head of Natasha’s cock. “I’m taking care of you. Just drive.” She punctuated the sentence with a flick of her tongue directly over the slit, rewarded by a sharp, guttural groan and the feeling of Natasha’s whole body seizing.

She took her back in, faster this time, greedier. Her own wetness was beginning to soak through her jeans, the scent of her arousal, slick and sweet, joining the heady cocktail in the car’s interior. She could feel the tell-tale clenching in Natasha’s thighs, the way her hips began to jerk with more urgency. She was close. So close.

“Wanda…” Natasha’s voice was a raw plea now, stripped of all pretense. “Gonna… Christ, I’m gonna…”

“Show me,” Wanda demanded, her voice thick. She drove her thumb into the space behind Natasha's balls, pressing up firmly as she quickened her pace, swallowing her down to the hilt again and again.

Her hands went to Wanda’s head, fisting in her hair, no longer just anchoring but guiding, fucking her face with a desperate, frantic rhythm. “Right there,” she snarled, a raw, animal sound of pure need. “Don’t you dare stop.” she grunted out, the words strained. The world outside the windshield was a meaningless whirl of light and shadow. The turn was coming up fast, too fast.

"I know," Wanda breathed, pulling off for a second to look up at her, her lips slick and glistening, her eyes dark with possessive hunger. "Let go, Nat. I've got you."

Wanda met her thrust for thrust, her throat opening to take all of her, her own magic flaring brighter around her hands, a beautiful, chaotic nova of red light that illuminated the cabin in flickering crimson. She watched through her lashes as Natasha’s face contorted, her jaw tight, her eyes screwed shut in a mask of agonizing pleasure. This was her Natasha. This raw, undone, beautiful creature was hers.

“That’s it,” Natasha rasped, her hips beginning to buck instinctively, chasing the friction. “God, you’re so good at this. Such a good girl for me, taking me like this.”

With a final, hoarse scream of Wanda’s name that was swallowed by the confines of the car, Natasha came. Her body arched violently against the seat, her hips slamming one last time against Wanda’s lips. A hot, thick flood of release filled Wanda’s mouth, the taste of her victory, salty and utterly intoxicating. Wanda swallowed every last drop, humming in satisfaction as Natasha’s body shuddered through the aftershocks, her breath coming in ragged, painful sobs.

Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, erased everything. Her body arched, her foot slamming down on the accelerator instead of the brake. The world exploded.

For a split second, there was the horrifying screech of tires losing their grip on the asphalt, the sickening lurch as the car spun out of control. Natasha’s eyes snapped open to see the guardrail rushing towards them.

But before the impact, before the shriek of twisting metal, a new color flooded the cabin. Red.

A shimmering, scarlet energy erupted from Wanda’s hands, cocooning them in a protective sphere. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Outside the bubble, there was a deafening symphony of destruction—the crunch of the fender, the explosive pop of the airbags deploying, the shatter of the windshield as the car flipped, rolling once, twice, before coming to a grinding, final halt on its roof.

Then, silence. A profound, ringing silence broken only by the frantic pounding of Natasha’s own heart and the faint, ominous ticking of the cooling engine.

They were upside down, held in place by Wanda’s magic, completely unharmed. Not a scratch. Wanda slowly released her hold on Natasha’s cock, her mouth still tingling. She pushed herself up slightly, her expression a mixture of lingering lust, shock, and a dawning, horrified amusement.

Dust motes danced in the single, unbroken headlight beam that cut through the darkness. The smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, and deployed airbags filled the air.

Natasha hung there, suspended in the red glow, her mind slowly catching up. The phantom feeling of her orgasm was still pulsing through her veins, a stark contrast to the violent wreckage surrounding them. She looked at Wanda, then at the crushed roof just inches from her head, then back at Wanda.

A slow, shaky breath escaped her lips. "You said you'd catch us."

Wanda gave a weak, breathless laugh. "I did," she said, gesturing with a flick of her wrist to the intact bubble of reality they occupied amidst the chaos. "The car, however..."

Her voice trailed off as the gravity of the situation finally landed. The car. Tony’s six-figure, prototype, one-of-a-kind Audi. Which was now a crumpled, upside-down heap of very expensive scrap metal on the side of a highway.

Natasha groaned, letting her head fall back. The explanation they were going to have to give Tony Stark began to form in her mind, and every version of it was utterly, spectacularly unbelievable.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the creak of stressed metal and Natasha's ragged breathing as she processed the sheer, unadulterated chaos they were in. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the slow, heavy throb of pleasure still echoing in her groin. Upside down, pants around her knees, inside a six-figure car that now resembled a crushed soda can, with the woman responsible for all of it looking at her with wide, glistening eyes.

"Okay," Natasha said, her voice strained but level. The spy in her was already kicking in, running threat assessments and calculating escape routes. "First things first."

Her immediate priority was her state of undress. It was one thing to explain a totaled vehicle; it was another thing entirely to do it with her cock still slick and cooling in the open air. She began the awkward, inverted process of trying to pull up her boxers and trousers, a feat of ridiculous gymnastics made possible only by Wanda's psionic hold that kept her from dangling by the seatbelt.

Wanda, catching on, gave a tiny, almost imperceptible flick of her fingers. A faint scarlet aura enveloped the bunched-up fabric, subtly coaxing it up Natasha’s legs, a silent, magical accomplice to preserving her dignity.

"Thank you," Natasha grunted, finally managing to wrangle the material over her hips. The button was a separate, fumbling challenge.

She'd just managed to fasten it when a new sound cut through the night. It wasn't the distant wail of approaching sirens she was expecting. It was a high-tech, cutting whine that grew louder by the millisecond, a sound every Avenger knew as intimately as their own heartbeat.

Fwwoooosh-BOOM.

A three-point superhero landing, executed with practiced flair, shook the ground just feet from the wrecked car. The red and gold armor gleamed under the one remaining headlight, a monument to technological arrogance. The faceplate of the Iron Man suit retracted with a smooth hiss, revealing Tony Stark’s face, etched with a combination of concern, irritation, and insatiable curiosity.

"Well," he said, his voice amplified slightly by the suit's external speakers, "this is a pickle."

He took a step closer, his heavy metallic footsteps crunching on shattered glass. His eyes, sharp and analytical, took in the entire scene in a sweep: the car, on its roof; the distinct lack of a second vehicle or impact point on the guardrail; the two of them, hanging inside, looking bizarrely calm and completely unharmed.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y. told me there was a boo-boo," Tony continued, tilting his head. "She used the 'significant thermal event followed by a rapid, unscheduled disassembly' alert, which is my personal favorite. But she also said biosigns were stable. No broken bones, no concussions, not even an elevated heart rate, Romanoff, which is frankly just showing off."

He tapped the mangled roof of the car with a gauntleted finger. The tink sound was pathetic. "My car, on the other hand, appears to be experiencing a catastrophic failure to continue existing. So. Talk to me. What happened? And please, make it good. I'm in the mood for a story."

Natasha shot a look at Wanda. Let me handle this.

"There was a deer, Tony," Natasha said, her voice as flat and even as she could make it. "Jumped right out in front of me. I swerved to avoid it."

It was a classic, the gold standard of single-car accident excuses. Plausible. Simple.

Tony stared at her for a solid three seconds, his expression unreadable. Then he burst out laughing. It wasn't a small chuckle; it was a loud, full-throated laugh that echoed slightly in the metal helmet.

"A deer!" he wheezed, pointing a finger at her. "A deer! On the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway? Natasha, this isn't a quaint country lane in Sokovia. The only wildlife here are rats the size of schnauzers and pigeons with gambling addictions. F.R.I.D.A.Y.," he said, not taking his eyes off them, "run a full-spectrum scan of a fifty-meter radius. Search for hoof prints, fur, deer pellets, a PETA membership card, anything."

There was a moment of silence. "Scan complete, Boss," F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s disembodied voice chimed through the suit's speaker. "No evidence of cervidae found. There are, however, trace amounts of asphalt, gasoline, and what appears to be a discarded churro."

Tony’s grin was predatory. "No deer," he said, spreading his hands. "So, let's try again. What happened to my Audi R8 GT, which, I might add, had a brand new inertial dampening system I was hoping to test under less terminal conditions."

He began to circle the wreckage, his gaze missing nothing. He noted the way the metal was crushed, the peculiar lack of skid marks leading to the crash site.

"It was my fault," Wanda said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm.

Tony stopped his pacing and looked at her. "Oh?" he said, his interest piqued. "The passenger is taking the blame? This is a new twist. Did you spill a drink? Drop your phone? Tell her that her haircut makes her look like she's about to ask for the manager?"

"I... distracted her," Wanda said, choosing her words carefully. A faint blush was creeping up her neck, a tell that Tony’s eagle eyes locked onto immediately.

"Distracted her," Tony repeated slowly, savoring the words. He took another step closer, leaning down to peer through the shattered frame of the driver's side window. His gaze flickered between Natasha's stony expression and Wanda's defiant blush. The suit's internal sensors were probably going wild, analyzing their biometrics, their pheromones, the very air in the car.

He was so close now they could hear the soft hum of the arc reactor in his chest. His eyes narrowed, a slow, dawning realization spreading across his features. It was the look he got when he solved a complex equation, connecting disparate points of data into a single, elegant, and in this case, deeply mortifying solution.

He sniffed the air.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "It's funny. For a car that supposedly just crashed to avoid a phantom deer, it smells an awful lot like Chanel No. 5, desperation, and..." He paused, taking one last, theatrical sniff. "...is that you, Romanoff?"

Natasha’s blood ran cold.

Tony's eyes dropped from her face, down her body, lingering for a fraction of a second on her lap before snapping back up to meet her gaze. A slow, wicked, utterly infuriating smirk spread across his face.

"So," he said, pushing himself back to his full height. "No deer. Just a little... road head. And here I was, worried you two weren't having any fun on your date." He clapped his gauntleted hands together once, the sound like a gunshot in the night. "Well, that explains the lack of skid marks. Hard to hit the brakes when your copilot is trying to swallow the gear stick."

Tony’s smirk was a weapon, and it was aimed directly at Natasha’s rapidly crumbling composure. He savored their stunned silence for another beat before clapping his hands together again, the metallic sound echoing with finality.

"Right! Cleanup time!" he announced to the empty night. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., deploy the 'Oh Honey, No' protocol."

From the darkness above, a new sound emerged. A coordinated hum of repulsors. A squadron of sleek, empty Iron Man suits, silver and unadorned, descended from the sky like a flock of high-tech vultures. They moved with an eerie, silent efficiency, landing around the mangled Audi. Heavy-duty cables and magnetic clamps emerged from their chassis, attaching to the car's frame with solid, definitive thunks .

"Well, I'm not carrying you," Tony said, gesturing between Wanda and Natasha. "My suit's not rated for that level of romantic awkwardness. Looks like it's on you, Sparky." He gave Wanda a wink that was pure poison.

Natasha closed her eyes for a brief moment. This was it. The nadir. The absolute pinnacle of mortification. Wanda’s psionic hold softened, allowing Natasha to stand, albeit unsteadily, as the world was no longer upside down. She looked at Wanda, a silent conversation passing between them. There’s no way out of this but through.

Wanda gave her a small, reassuring nod. With a tenderness that was in stark contrast to the surrounding wreckage, she slid one arm behind Natasha’s back and the other under her knees. A soft, red glow enveloped them as Wanda lifted her effortlessly into her arms, bridal style. Natasha stiffened, her pride screaming in protest, but she forced herself to relax, looping an arm around Wanda’s neck and burying her face in the crook of her shoulder. It was either this or try to explain to Steve why she was too jelly-legged to walk on her own. She could still smell her own arousal, mingled with Wanda's perfume, on Wanda's skin.

"Everyone ready for the parade?" Tony chirped. With a blast from his boots, he shot into the air, hovering impatiently. "Let's go! I'm missing my post-mission-that-wasn't-a-mission scotch!"

As one, Tony’s small army lifted the carcass of the Audi into the air. Wanda, with Natasha held securely against her chest, rose gracefully, surrounded by a gentle scarlet aura. They formed a bizarre procession through the night sky: Tony leading the way like a narcissistic herald, a flying funeral cortège for a dead sports car following behind, and bringing up the rear, the two women at the heart of the chaos, locked in a deeply intimate, deeply incriminating embrace.

The flight back to the Compound was agonizingly long. Tony would occasionally zip back, flying circles around them. "You two comfortable back there? Need a pillow? A chaperone?" he'd call out, his voice tinny through the suit's speaker. Natasha just pressed her face deeper into Wanda's shoulder, wishing the world would swallow her whole.

They saw the welcoming committee from a mile out. A cluster of figures stood on the main landing pad, bathed in its bright floodlights. Tony, naturally, had alerted them.

Steve was pacing, his arms crossed over his chest, the picture of parental concern. Sam stood beside Bucky, both of them looking from the sky to the ground with sharp, curious eyes. Bruce had his hands in his pockets, looking analytically worried, while Rhodey stood with an air of profound exasperation that meant he knew this was Tony-related trouble. And then there was Pietro, a silver-blur of nervous energy, vibrating on the spot with impatience and concern for his sister.

Tony’s suits landed first, depositing the automotive corpse onto the pad with a grim finality. A collective gasp and a low whistle from Sam went through the waiting group.

Then Tony touched down, retracting his helmet as he strode towards them. "Everyone calm down, they're fine. The car, not so much."

Before the questions could start, Wanda descended, floating the last few feet to the ground as gently as a falling leaf. She landed with barely a sound, Natasha still cradled in her arms.

The sight shut everyone up. The wrecked car was one thing. But Wanda carrying a perfectly healthy-looking Natasha Romanoff like a damsel in distress? That was a sight so strange, so unexpected, that it broke their brains.

Steve was the first to find his voice, rushing forward. "Nat! Are you hurt? What happened? Why is she carrying you?"

"Oh my god, Tasha," Bruce said, his eyes wide with alarm, already shifting into doctor mode. "Did you hit your head? Do you feel dizzy?"

"Is that Tony's car?" Sam asked, gesturing with his thumb at the wreck. "Damn, Nat. When you borrow something, you really commit."

Pietro zipped up to Wanda’s side, his eyes scanning them both. " Sestra ? Are you okay? What did you do?" he asked in rapid-fire Sokovian.

Bucky just stared, his gaze flickering between Natasha’s hidden face and Wanda’s resolute expression, a thousand questions in his silent, assessing gaze.

"Everybody just back up, give them some space," Rhodey commanded, trying to control the scene. He looked at Tony. "What the hell happened?"

All eyes fell on them. The air was thick with questions, with worry and rampant curiosity. This was the moment of truth.

Natasha finally lifted her head from Wanda’s shoulder. Her expression was a perfect mask of neutrality, her voice utterly devoid of emotion.

"There was a deer."

Wanda set her down gently on her feet. Natasha stood, perfectly balanced, and brushed a non-existent piece of dust from her suit trousers. Wanda looked at the assembled team, her face a picture of wide-eyed earnestness.

"A deer," she confirmed, nodding gravely.

Tony threw his hands up in a gesture of helpless agreement, his face a mask of feigned sincerity that wouldn't have fooled a child.

"It was a deer," he said, shaking his head with mock sadness. "Tragic. Came out of nowhere. Huge son of a bitch. Nothing they could do."

The Avengers stared, a silent, baffled unit. They looked at the car, which looked like it had been in a fight with a building. They looked at Natasha and Wanda, who didn't have a hair out of place. They looked at Tony, who was clearly enjoying this more than anyone should enjoy a quarter-million-dollar loss. And all they got, from all three of them, was the same, single, absurd explanation.

"A deer."

Chapter Text

The Avenger’s Tower was silent, except for the low murmur of the security systems, the air conditioning, and the rain outside. Wanda sighed, closing the book she was reading and setting it aside on the nightstand. Ever since they'd started getting closer, Wanda had noticed she was attracted to Natasha.

Well, she knew it wasn't just attraction, but she'd never say anything out loud because, apparently, to Natasha, she was just a friend. "My bedroom door is always open for you, Wanda. For whatever you need," Natasha had said a few weeks ago. Their conversations had become longer, deeper. But there was also something that felt like teasing beneath the surface, yet nothing that suggested Natasha saw her as more than a friend.

Wanda let her head fall back against the headboard and closed her eyes. Maybe a hot tea would help her sleep. She got up and walked out into the hallway, barefoot even, and before she could take ten steps, she heard sounds coming from Natasha's room.

She stopped, her heart racing, hundreds of thoughts racing through her mind before she remembered that if it had been something dangerous, JARVIS or whatever security system Tony had in the complex would have alerted them already.

Wanda tilted her head, the sound becoming clearer as she approached the half-open door to Natasha's room. A sound so faint it was almost stolen by the whisper of the ventilation. Her name.

“Wanda…”

She pushed it open a bit more, peering into the gloom. The room was lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. And in the center of it all, on the bed, was Natasha.

The Black Widow, the unshakeable Avenger, was a ruin of pleasure. Her head was thrown back against the pillows, a sheen of sweat glistening on her throat. One hand was tangled in her fiery red hair, while the other worked mercilessly between her thighs, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. Her hips bucked in a desperate, searching rhythm, chasing a release that remained just out of reach.

“Oh, fuck… Wanda… please…” she gasped, her eyes screwed shut, utterly lost in a fantasy that was now standing in her doorway, watching.

A coil of possessive heat tightened low in Wanda’s belly. She leaned her shoulder against the cool wood of the doorframe, crossing her arms as she drank in the sight. She watched the beautiful, strong line of Natasha’s arched back, the clench of her powerful thighs, the way her slick fingers disappeared into her own heat. It was the most vulnerable, most exquisitely powerful she had ever seen the legendary spy.

As if feeling the weight of her gaze, Natasha’s frantic movements stuttered. Her eyelids fluttered, then flew open. Her eyes, glassy and dark with arousal, found Wanda standing in the shadows. There was no shock, no flicker of shame. There was only a raw, bottomless chasm of want that mirrored Wanda’s own. A slow, predatory smile touched Natasha's lips.

Wanda returned it with a naughty, knowing smirk of her own. She pushed off the doorframe, her movements slow, deliberate, each step a promise.

“Looks like you could use a hand,” she purred, her voice a low thrum in the charged air.

Natasha’s only answer was a choked sob, a desperate, eager nod as she spread her legs wider in blatant invitation. “I need you ,” she panted, her voice rough with need.

“I know,” Wanda said, her own voice husky. She closed the distance, her knees pressing into the soft mattress as she crawled onto the bed. She didn’t touch her, not yet. She just loomed over her, a witch ready to claim her prize. “All this time… you wanted me.”

“Always,” Natasha breathed.

That was all the confirmation Wanda needed. She leaned down, capturing Natasha’s mouth in a kiss that was pure combustion. It wasn't gentle or hesitant; it was a collision, a violent release of weeks of unspoken tension, of flirtatious glances and loaded words. Their tongues slipped together against each other, Wanda’s teeth scraped against Natasha’s plump lower lip, drawing a soft gasp that Wanda swallowed greedily. She tasted of salt and sex and a desire so potent it was intoxicating.

Wanda’s hands began to roam, pushing the thin strap of Natasha’s tank top aside to cup her breast. Natasha moaned into the kiss, arching into the touch. In a fluid motion, Natasha reversed their positions, pushing Wanda onto her back and straddling her hips, never breaking the kiss. Her hands tangled in Wanda’s dark hair, holding her captive as she deepened the kiss, taking control.

But Wanda’s power wasn't in strength; it was in subtlety. Her fingers danced down Natasha’s stomach, diving between her legs. Natasha broke the kiss with a sharp hiss of pleasure, her head falling back.

“Patience, Nat,” Wanda whispered, her fingers tracing teasing circles just above her wet curls. She pushed Natasha gently, rolling her back onto the mattress and following her down, their bodies flush. Wanda’s mouth left Natasha’s lips and blazed a trail of fire down her throat, across her collarbone, until she found the taut peak of her breast. She licked it once, a slow, deliberate circle, before taking the nipple into her mouth, suckling hard.

Natasha cried out, her back bowing off the bed, her fingers digging into Wanda’s shoulders. “Wanda, fuck…”

Wanda moved to the other breast, giving it the same reverent, greedy attention. She laved and bit and sucked until Natasha was a writhing, panting mess beneath her. Then, she slid further down the bed, her lips and tongue mapping every inch of skin, the soft plain of her stomach, the sharp jut of her hip bone. She paused, looking up at Natasha through her dark lashes.

“I want to taste how much you want me,” Wanda declared, her voice thick.

She parted Natasha’s slick folds with her thumbs and dove in. The taste was divine, a heady mix of Natasha’s unique scent and pure arousal. Wanda was relentless. She worshiped her with her tongue, licking and circling and dipping inside, learning the rhythm that made Natasha’s breath catch and her hips jerk. Natasha’s hands fisted in the sheets, her moans turning into choked pleas.

“Wanda… please, I’m going to… I’m so close…” she begged, her body trembling on the verge of an orgasm Wanda had no intention of letting her have. Not yet.

With a final, deep lick that made Natasha scream, Wanda pulled back. She sat up between Natasha’s trembling thighs, a satisfied, predatory smile on her face. Natasha looked at her, dazed, confused, and utterly desperate.

“Now,” Wanda said, her eyes beginning to glow with a faint, scarlet light. “For the main course.”

She raised her right hand, palm up. Tendrils of crimson energy, like smoke made solid, bled from her fingertips. They swirled in the air, a chaotic nebula of pure desire given form. The chaos began to coalesce, to thicken and lengthen, weaving itself into something solid, something shockingly real.

It was a dick. Carved from solid, shimmering scarlet light, veins of darker energy pulsing within it. It was long, thick, and curved perfectly, the head flawlessly smooth with concentrated magic. It hummed with contained power, radiating a palpable heat that Natasha could feel even from a distance.

“"Well, that's something…” Natasha's eyebrows arched in surprise and excitement.

“I made it just for you,” Wanda said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She let the magical cock hover, moving it slowly towards Natasha. She didn't aim for her drenched cunt. Instead, she traced the glowing head along her inner thigh, making Natasha gasp and flinch. She nudged her clit with it, the magical heat and vibration sending a jolt through Natasha's entire system.

A wicked smile spread on her lips as she moved across the bed, crawling on her knees until she was beside Natasha's head. She held her cock, stroking it slowly. Her eyes fixed on Natasha's, a vision of pure sin and lust; Natasha's eyes burned with a fierce need. She swallowed hard, waiting for Wanda's next move, and it only made her more turned on. Then, she lifted it, pressing the smooth, warm head against Natasha’s lips. “You want this, don’t you? You want to be filled with my magic. You want to take me in your mouth.”

Natasha didn’t need to be told twice. With a guttural groan, she surged upwards, grabbing the base of the magical cock and pulling the head into her mouth. Wanda hissed, a full-body shock of pleasure rocking her. The sensation was unreal. She could feel the heat, the wetness of Natasha’s mouth, the suction, as if it were her own flesh.

She watched, mesmerized, as the world's most dangerous woman took her magic deep into her throat, her eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. Natasha’s skills were, unsurprisingly, legendary. She licked and sucked and worshipped it, her hands holding Wanda’s hips, pulling her closer.

Finally, Wanda couldn't take any more. She gently pulled the slick, glowing cock from Natasha’s mouth. “As good as that is,” she panted, her eyes blazing, “I have a much better place to put this.”

“Yes!” Natasha moaned, laying down and spreading her legs so Wanda could settle between them again. 

She repositioned herself, kneeling between Natasha’s thighs and holding the magical cock at her entrance. Natasha’s cunt was practically weeping, slick and ready.

“Now,” Wanda growled. “I’m going to take what’s mine.”

She pushed forward slowly, torturously. Natasha cried out as the thick, magical head entered her, stretching her, filling her. Wanda paused, letting her adjust before thrusting deeper, inch by agonizingly pleasurable inch, until she was buried to the hilt.

“Fuck… oh god… it’s so… full,” Natasha choked out, her head falling back onto the pillow.

"Oh my god, that feels so good," Wanda moaned, remaining still for a moment. She could feel Natasha's pussy pulsing around her magical cock, sending a jolt of lust through her body like Wanda never imagined possible.

She wasn't even sure why she'd chosen to conjure a magical cock to fuck Natasha since it was their first time, but it just felt right, and judging by Natasha's reaction, she felt the same way.

"Wanda, please move," Natasha moaned, her hand finding Wanda's thigh and caressing it.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, Nat,” Wanda whispered, beginning a slow, deep rhythm. She could feel every clench and ripple of Natasha’s inner muscles gripping her creation. “I want to feel you come for my magic. I want to hear you scream my name when you do.”

“Yes! Fuck, yes, Wanda, please!” Natasha cried out, her hips meeting every thrust with wild abandon. “Don’t stop… fuck me… fuck me harder!”

Wanda obliged, her thrusts becoming a merciless, punishing assault. The room was filled with the wet, slapping sound of magic against flesh and Natasha’s unending, broken moans. Wanda changed the angle, making the head grind directly against her g-spot, and Natasha’s body went rigid.

“Come for me, Natasha,” Wanda commanded, her voice a hypnotic spell. 

Natasha cried out, her body finally reaching the orgasm she had been seeking for an hour before Wanda appeared. A world-shattering orgasm ripped through Natasha, a long, keening wail tearing from her throat as her cunt clamped down in violent, shuddering waves. The sight, the feeling of Natasha coming completely undone around her magic, sent Wanda over the edge. A wave of her own pleasure crashed through her, and with a final, deep pulse, the magical cock pulsed inside Natasha, releasing Wanda’s own release.

Wanda collapsed on top of Natasha’s quivering body. She was panting, sweat-soaked, and utterly victorious. She leaned down, capturing Natasha's lips in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of sex and sweat and spent power. She pulled back just enough to whisper against her mouth, her voice a raw, possessive promise.

“Mine.”

“Yours.” Natasha moaned.

(...)

For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing, ragged and slow, mingling in the space between them. A half-hour passed in a haze of languid kisses that tasted of salt and each other, of lazy, tracing fingers mapping new constellations on skin. 

"So, since when have you had a crush on me?" Wanda asked, her fingers sliding through Natasha's damp hair.

They had settled into bed; Wanda was propped up against the pillows, Natasha lying half on top of her, her head on Wanda's chest. Wanda’s thumb stroked the frantic pulse point on Natasha’s neck, feeling it slowly steady, while Natasha’s calloused fingertips sketched idle patterns over the soft skin of Wanda’s stomach.

"I don't know if we can call it a crush." Natasha smiled against Wanda's skin. "Not after what we did."

Wanda laughed, shaking her head slowly. "Who would have thought, you have a sense of humor."

"I thought that was why you came looking for me this time of night." Natasha smiled mischievously, her eyes meeting Wanda's.

"Totally." Wanda rolled her eyes affectionately. "So, what happens now?"

"Now?" Natasha bit her lip, leaning back on her hands, her lips brushing Wanda's. "Now you fuck me again, Maximoff."

She pushed herself up, straddling Wanda’s hips in a single, fluid motion. The hunter, taking her rightful place at the top of the food chain. She leaned down, her fiery hair falling like a curtain around them, creating their own private world.

“Am I?” Wanda asked, licking her lips as her eyes took in every detail of Natasha's body above her. She brought her hands to Natasha's hips, slowly moving up to her breasts and caressing them, her thumbs slowly brushing over her nipples.

“We’re not done,” Natasha murmured, her voice a low, husky growl against Wanda’s skin. Her hands roamed, no longer idle, but purposeful, relearning the shape of Wanda’s body. And as her fingers danced over Wanda’s stomach, dipping lower, Wanda felt that familiar, tell-tale thrum of power begin to gather in her core.

Beneath Natasha’s searching hands, the magic responded. It wasn't a grand spectacle like before, but a slow, inevitable swelling of power, an answer to Natasha’s touch. The crimson, ethereal cock began to form again, pressing insistently against the soft skin of Natasha’s pussy. It grew hard and hot, a tangible manifestation of Wanda’s reignited desire.

Natasha let out a low, appreciative hum, looking down at the magical appendage nestled between their bodies. “Look at that,” she purred. “So eager for me.”

She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she leaned down further, her mouth finding Wanda’s breast. She licked a slow, hot circle around the nipple before taking it into her mouth, her suckle strong and greedy. Wanda cried out, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in red hair. Natasha moved to the other breast, giving it the same punishing, exquisite attention, all while grinding her hips down in a slow, teasing circle.

Wanda was panting, helpless beneath her. The friction of Natasha’s slick, wet cunt sliding against the shaft of her magical cock was a sweet, maddening torture.

“Tasha… please…” Wanda gasped.

“You want it, don’t you?” Natasha whispered, lifting her head. Her lips were slick, her eyes blazing with triumph. “Beg me to take it.”

“Please… I need you to…”

“Good girl.” Natasha smirked. She shifted, her wet folds parting, the head of the magical cock pressing against her entrance. She let out a soft hiss of pleasure, the heat of it making her whole body tremble. Then, with a slow, deliberate groan, she lowered herself.

Wanda watched, mesmerized, as Natasha impaled herself on her magic cock. She took it all, inch by agonizing inch, her face a mask of pure, intense pleasure. Her inner muscles clamped down, milking the magical shaft, and Wanda threw her head back with a guttural moan. It was a completely different sensation from fucking Natasha; this was being taken, being used for another’s pleasure, and it was intoxicating.

Once she was fully seated, her body flush with Wanda’s, Natasha began to move. At first, it was a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling, drawing out every ounce of sensation. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on Wanda’s shoulders, her gaze locked on Wanda’s.

“Look at you,” Natasha panted, her voice dripping with dominant heat. “Under me. So helpless. This cock might be your magic, Wanda, but right now… it’s mine to play with.”

She picked up the pace, her slow grind turning into a steady, pounding rhythm. She was a master of her own pleasure, riding Wanda with a practiced, predatory skill that left Wanda breathless. Wanda could only hold on, her fingers digging into Natasha’s hips, anchoring herself as Natasha fucked herself on her magic.

“Fuck… Nat… you feel… incredible,” Wanda gasped, her own climax building with a terrifying intensity.

“I know,” Natasha grunted, her movements becoming faster, more frantic. “I’m going to ride you until you come inside me again. I’m going to come so hard on your magical cock, you’ll feel it in your teeth.”

Her body was coiled tight, a spring of pure tension. Wanda could feel the tremors starting deep inside her, the clenching of her muscles around the magical shaft. “I’m close… oh god, Tasha, don’t stop!” Wanda cried out.

“Never,” Natasha promised, a feral growl tearing from her throat as her own orgasm slammed into her. She cried out Wanda’s name, her body convulsing in a violent, shattering release. Her inner walls pulsed and milked the magical cock in a final, frantic rhythm.

The feeling of Natasha’s powerful orgasm, of her complete surrender to pleasure, all centered around Wanda's power, was the final push. Wanda cried out, a wave of pure ecstasy ripping through her, her own climax crashing in time with Natasha’s.

Natasha collapsed onto Wanda’s chest, a dead weight of boneless satisfaction. They lay there for a long moment, hearts hammering in unison, their bodies slick with sweat. Natasha lifted her head just enough to press a final, possessive kiss to Wanda’s lips.

“Round two is mine,” she whispered, before collapsing back into a contented heap on Wanda’s chest.

(...)

Natasha’s declaration, “Round two is mine,” hung in the air, a promise shimmering with heat. She didn’t move, still laying on top of Wanda. Natasha could still feel Wanda's magical cock inside her, a warm, solid length of power still sheathed deep inside, a constant, intimate connection between them.

They lay like that for what could have been minutes or an hour, lost in a timeless bubble of afterglow. Wanda’s hands roamed Natasha’s back, tracing the elegant lines of her spine and the sharp silhouette of her shoulder blades. Natasha’s fingers drew idle patterns on Wanda’s neck, her touch both a comfort and a spark.

"Aren't we done yet?" Wanda asked, caressing Natasha's back, and deep down she already knew the answer.

She felt Natasha's pussy clench and throb around her magical cock, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her.

"Unless you're already tired," Natasha replied. She kissed softly between the valleys of Wanda's breasts.

And under that soft, searching touch, Wanda felt it happen. A deep, primal thrum started in her core, a familiar gathering of power. Inside Natasha, the magical cock, which had softened in the wake of their orgasm, began to swell and pulse, growing rigid and hot once more.

Natasha let out a sharp, surprised gasp against Wanda’s lips, her eyes flying open. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face as she felt Wanda harden completely within her.

“Well, well,” she purred, her voice a husky invitation. “Seems like you’re ready for round three.” She licked her lips, kissing Wanda slowly. 

With a predatory grace, she disentangled herself, pulling away with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room. The sight of the shimmering crimson cock, slick with her own fluids as it withdrew from her body, made her own breath hitch. Without a word, she turned, crawling across the bed until she was on her hands and knees, presenting herself to Wanda in a blatant, beautiful offer. The curve of her spine, her spectacular ass, the blatant invitation of her posture… it was a work of art designed to drive Wanda insane.

Wanda’s mouth went dry. She bit her lip, a low growl rumbling in her chest as she moved to kneel behind Natasha. Her hand came up, caressing the smooth, sweat-slicked skin of Natasha’s back. Her fingers dipped into the dimples just above her ass, tracing the full, round cheeks. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against Natasha’s ear.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Tasha,” she whispered, her voice thick with lust. “On your knees for me. Ready to be taken.”

She took the head of her magical cock and pressed it against Natasha’s drenched folds, not pushing in, just circling, teasing. Natasha whimpered, pushing back against it, desperate for the friction.

"What are you waiting for then?" Natasha moaned, pushing her body against Wanda's again.

“Such a greedy girl,” Wanda taunted, her fingers spreading one of Natasha’s ass cheeks. “You want my cock so badly, don’t you? You want me to fuck you until you forget your name.”

“Yes… fuck, Wanda, just put it in me,” Natasha begged, her voice a raw plea.

“Since you asked so nicely.”

Wanda grabbed Natasha’s hips, pulling her back hard as she thrust forward. The magical cock plunged into Natasha’s heat, burying itself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming motion. Natasha screamed, a high, sharp sound of overwhelming pleasure as she was filled completely.

Wanda established a relentless, punishing rhythm, fucking Natasha from behind with a raw power she hadn’t unleashed before. This was primal. This was possession. The wet, slapping sound of magic on flesh filled the room, a filthy symphony set to Natasha’s choked moans.

Leaning forward, Wanda tangled her free hand in Natasha’s fiery hair, fisting it at the scalp and pulling her head back. Natasha cried out at the sharp, pleasant pain, her back arching even further, giving Wanda a deeper, better angle.

“That’s it,” Wanda growled into her ear, her thrusts slamming into Natasha’s cervix with every stroke. “Take it all for me. Every fucking inch.”

Her other hand slid from Natasha’s hip, up her sweat-slicked back, over her shoulder, until it wrapped around her throat. She didn’t squeeze hard, just applied enough pressure to be felt, to be a reminder of who was in complete control. Natasha’s moans became strangled gasps, her breath catching, turning every sound into a desperate, needy prayer.

“Oh fuck… Wanda… right there…” she panted, her body trembling under the sensory assault.

“Look at you,” Wanda hissed, her voice pure filth. “Taking my cock in your greedy cunt, my hand around your throat. You belong to me, Natasha. Say it.”

“I’m yours… fuck, I’m yours, Wanda, please… harder!”

Wanda gave her what she wanted, her hips moving like pistons. She was lost, consumed by the sight of Natasha’s body taking everything she had to give, by the sounds she was pulling from the unshakable spy. She felt Natasha’s inner walls begin to clench, the tell-tale sign of her impending orgasm.

“That’s it, come for me again,” Wanda hissed, her own release building like a tidal wave. “Come on my cock.”

Natasha cried out, a long, guttural sound that was cut off by Wanda’s hand on her throat, as her third orgasm ripped through her body in a violent, all-consuming torrent. Her cunt pulsed and milked the magical shaft in a frantic, desperate rhythm.

That was all it took. Feeling Natasha break so completely sent Wanda over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, she roared her own release, a blinding wave of pleasure that whites out her vision.

As their screams faded into ragged gasps, the magical construct finally dissolved, its purpose served. Wanda collapsed on top of Natasha, their bodies slick and trembling, their heartbeats hammering a frantic, shared rhythm. For a long while, they just lay there, wrapped in the quiet, intimate aftermath, too exhausted to move, too sated to speak. 

Wanda finally felt her magic cock disappear, and carefully she got off Natasha, settling back onto the bed and bringing her with her.

Natasha snuggled into Wanda's chest once more, one arm draped over her stomach, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on Wanda's skin, but without ulterior motives this time. For the first time in her life, Natasha had truly enjoyed the act, and had truly wanted every second of it.

"What's going on in your head?" Wanda asked gently.

Natasha stiffened for a second, then relaxed again. She rested her chin on Wanda's chest, her eyes meeting hers again in the room lit only by the lamp. "I was thinking we could go out to dinner sometime." Natasha didn't want to lie, and this wasn't exactly a lie. She wanted whatever had happened between them tonight to continue, and for it to be more than sex, but she still didn't want to dump her heavy past on them.

She could sense from the way Wanda looked at her that she knew there was more, but she was grateful when she simply smiled and didn't press her. 

"Oh, now, you want to take me on a date?" Wanda smiled, her body shaking gently with laughter.

"Better late than never." Natasha smiled, pushing herself up slightly to kiss Wanda again.

Chapter Text

The restaurant’s warm light still clung to them as they stepped out into the cool night air, Natasha’s hand comfortably curled around Wanda’s. The city hummed around them, the low purr of passing cars, muffled laughter spilling from bars, the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a street cart down the block.

They had barely made it half a block before it happened.

A woman in her mid-twenties approached – stylish scarf, nervous smile – clutching her phone like it was a lifeline.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you, but… could you tell me how to get to Madison and 82nd?” Her voice was just a little too high, a little too breathless.

Natasha’s polite smile clicked on instantly; that charming, perfectly disarming curve of lips that made strangers trust her without thinking. “Of course,” she said, her tone warm but calm. She took two steps closer to glance at the woman’s phone screen, explaining in quick, concise directions how to get there.

Wanda stood just behind, watching the exchange. The girl’s eyes flicked up to Natasha more than once, not just to listen, but linger. Her cheeks had gone pink. Natasha, being Natasha, didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

When the woman finally thanked her – a little too brightly – and walked away, Natasha fell back into step beside Wanda like nothing had happened.

Wanda didn’t say a word, but Natasha felt it immediately; the subtle tightening of Wanda’s grip on her hand, the way her magic whispered to life in little red threads curling lazily between her fingers.

Natasha glanced down at her, a small smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’re quiet all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine,” Wanda murmured, eyes fixed ahead.

“Mhm,” Natasha hummed, clearly not buying it. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

“That wasn’t lying,” Wanda said, but her accent was thicker now, the way it got when she was flustered.

Natasha slowed her pace just enough that Wanda had to meet her eyes. “You’re thinking she was hitting on me.” It wasn’t a question.

Wanda’s jaw tightened a little. “She blushed.”

“I give good directions,” Natasha deadpanned.

The faintest crack appeared in Wanda’s pout, but she turned her face away before Natasha could see the almost-smile. The red magic swirled again at her fingertips as they passed under a streetlamp, painting her hand in a ghostly light.

Natasha bumped her shoulder lightly against Wanda’s. “Hey. There’s only one person I want to go home with tonight. And she’s got this unfair advantage” Natasha’s voice dropped, warm and teasing. “she’s holding my hand right now.”

Wanda glanced up at her through her lashes, still pretending to be stubborn. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I’m helping,” Natasha said, lips curving into that infuriatingly confident smirk. “By the time we get back to the compound, you’re going to realize you’ve been pouting over nothing.”

“I don’t pout,” Wanda said automatically, but Natasha’s soft laugh beside her proved she wasn’t fooling anyone.

They walked the rest of the way like that; Natasha’s thumb brushing over Wanda’s knuckles, her presence radiating patience and quiet reassurance, the steady beat of her heart grounding Wanda more than any words could. By the time they reached the compound’s front doors, Wanda’s magic had faded back into a gentle hum, her pout softened into something dangerously close to a smile.

Natasha leaned in as they entered, voice low just for her: “Told you… only you, malishka.”

Wanda squeezed her hand, finally letting the corners of her mouth turn up. “Good. I don’t share.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened. “That’s my girl.”

(...)

The compound was quiet when they stepped inside, most of the team either out on missions or already tucked away in their own corners of the building. Natasha didn’t bother turning on the main lights; the soft amber glow from a lamp in the corner was enough to guide them through the living room and toward their shared space.

Wanda still hadn’t said much. Her hand was in Natasha’s, but there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t fully let go yet. Natasha didn’t rush her, she never did.

Once the bedroom door closed behind them, Natasha set her jacket on the back of a chair and walked straight back to Wanda, sliding her hands up her arms until they rested gently on her shoulders. “Alright,” she murmured, voice low and deliberate, “tell me what’s still going on in that head of yours.”

Wanda hesitated, eyes flicking away. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Natasha’s brows lifted in quiet amusement. “Magic doesn’t spark around your fingers for nothing.”

Wanda let out a small huff, caught between exasperation and fondness. “She looked at you like… like she wanted to follow you home.”

Natasha’s smirk softened into something slower, deeper. She stepped in closer until there was barely an inch between them, tilting her head so she could catch Wanda’s gaze. “And yet… I’m here. With you. My jacket’s here. My boots are here. All my things: here.” Her lips quirked. “Guess that means you already won.”

That pulled the ghost of a smile from Wanda, but it didn’t erase all of it. Natasha could see the flicker of insecurity still hiding in her eyes. So instead of teasing further, she wrapped her arms fully around Wanda’s waist and guided them both backward until they sank onto the edge of the bed.

Natasha leaned back against the headboard, pulling Wanda onto her lap as naturally as if they’d done it a thousand times – because they had. She tucked Wanda in close, one hand splayed protectively over her back, the other combing through her hair in slow, lazy strokes.

“You know,” Natasha said after a quiet moment, “people are always going to notice you. The way you look, the way you move… hell, I noticed you the second I saw you. But here’s the difference–” she pressed a kiss to Wanda’s temple, lingering there “I didn’t just notice. I stayed. I chose you.”

Wanda exhaled against her collarbone, the last threads of tension finally loosening. “You’re very good at this,” she murmured, voice quiet in the dim room.

“Good at what?”

“Making me feel… safe,” Wanda admitted, almost shyly.

Natasha’s lips curved against her hair. “That’s my favorite job.”

They stayed like that; Natasha’s arms secure, her scent warm and familiar, the sound of her steady breathing filling the room until Wanda’s magic faded completely, leaving nothing but that soft hum of contentment in its place. And when Natasha finally coaxed her under the blankets, Wanda curled right back into her side without hesitation, whispering into the darkness, “Only you.”

Natasha’s answer came without pause. “Always.”

Chapter Text

The familiar weight of the quinjet settling onto the launchpad was a sigh of relief made manifest. The mission had been a success, a clean in-and-out with just enough gunfire and adrenaline to make the quiet of the Compound feel like a luxury. Natasha Romanoff ran a hand through her hair, the red strands sticking to the sweat on her temple, and shared a brief, professional nod with Steve before the ramp lowered. Her eyes, however, found Wanda’s across the cabin. Just a flicker, a silent conversation that passed between them in a heartbeat, promising something more than the sterile debrief that awaited them.

They kept up appearances, as always. Natasha headed for her wing, Wanda for hers. The charade was a necessary evil, a game of smoke and mirrors played for an audience of their friends, their family. It was a game Natasha was exceptionally good at, but one she was growing tired of. The only prize she wanted was the freedom to walk beside Wanda, hand in hand, without the world holding its breath.

Two parallel lines that only ever converged behind closed doors. The lie was beginning to wear thin, like old leather.

In her bathroom, Natasha let the scalding water sluice the grime and tension from her body. Steam billowed, obscuring her reflection, but her thoughts were sharp and clear, every single one of them a homing missile aimed at the witch down the hall. She imagined the water clinging to Wanda's skin, beading on her lashes, tracing paths down her stomach. The thought alone was enough to make her own nipples pebble. She dried off, leaving her skin damp and warm, and pulled on a soft, black tank top and a pair of worn grey sweatpants that hung low on her hips, she padded barefoot from her room, through the quiet halls, and towards Wanda’s room.

Wanda’s door wasn't locked. It never was for her.

Natasha slipped inside, a ghost in the dim light. Wanda was propped up against a mountain of pillows on her bed, a single lamp casting a warm, golden glow over her. Her hair, still damp from her own shower, was a dark halo around her head. She was dressed in a silk nightgown, the color of blood and wine, its delicate straps a stark contrast to the tome resting in her lap. The Darkhold. Its corrupt energy felt like a low-level hum of static in the air, a frequency Natasha had learned to tune out in favor of the much sweeter music of Wanda’s body. Wanda’s brow was furrowed in concentration, her fingers tracing the arcane symbols on the page. 

She didn't look up when Natasha entered, but a tiny, knowing smile played on her lips. "I could hear your heart beating from the hallway."

Natasha moved to the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she stretched out beside Wanda, her head resting on the pillow next to her lover’s hip. She inhaled deeply, catching Wanda’s scent; something clean like soap, something sweet like magic, and something utterly, intoxicatingly her.

"Just admiring the view," Natasha purred, her fingers tracing the curve of Wanda’s thigh through the silk. She leaned in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sliver of exposed skin. Wanda shivered, her focus on the ancient text wavering for a fraction of a second. Natasha smiled against her leg.

"I'm trying to read, Nat," Wanda said, though there was no real heat in her protest. It was a token effort, a flimsy shield against the inevitable.

Natasha’s answering smile was slow and wicked. "Is it distracting you from your bedtime story?" she purred, her voice a low, velvety rasp. She reached out, tracing the line of Wanda's jaw with a single, calloused finger. "This thing makes you furrow your brow. I don't like it when you're not smiling."

Natasha’s hand slid higher, pushing the silk of the nightgown up, just enough to expose a bit more of skin. Her palm was warm and calloused against the cool, smooth skin of Wanda’s inner thigh. She nuzzled closer, her lips replacing her hand, her tongue darting out to taste her.

"It's important research," Wanda murmured, her eyes still fixed on the arcane symbols, though Natasha could see the fine tremor in her hand, the slight flush rising on her cheeks. She was trying so desperately to maintain her composure. It was adorable.

"I'm sure it is," Natasha whispered, leaning down, her lips ghosting over the pulse point in Wanda’s neck. "But I have more important things on my mind."

She pulled away, kneeling on the bed, her eyes fixed on Wanda as her hands found the hem of her tank top and she pulled it up, over her head before throwing it anywhere in the room. Then Natasha hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sweatpants. She held Wanda's gaze again as she pushed them down her hips, her movements fluid and deliberate, a silent, sensual striptease performed for an audience of one. She kicked them away, standing before Wanda in nothing but scars and skin, a pale predator in the lamplight. She saw Wanda's eyes flicker from the page, just for a moment, taking in the sight of her before snapping back to the text, her cheeks flushed a darker shade of crimson. She leaned forward until their noses were almost touching, her hands resting on Wanda's silk-clad thighs. "I'm going to make you forget every word in that book."

Her fingers, light as a spider's kiss, traced the delicate line of Wanda’s collarbone, just above the scalloped lace of her nightgown. Wanda tried to ignore it, her eyes glued to the book. Natasha’s hand trailed lower, a ghost of a touch over her sternum, circling the swell of her breast through the silk.

"Nat," Wanda warned, her voice catching for a fraction of a second.

Natasha leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin behind Wanda’s ear. "Shhh," she whispered, her breath hot and promising. "Keep reading. Don't mind me."

Natasha’s hands went to the hem of the silk nightgown, slowly, reverently, pushing the fabric up Wanda's thighs, over her hips, bunching it at her waist. Wanda’s breath hitched. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the Darkhold.

Natasha moved then, shifting down the bed to kneel between Wanda’s legs, pushing them gently apart. She looked up, her gaze locking with Wanda’s. A faint, scarlet nimbus began to bleed into the air around her head, coalescing into the sharp, familiar lines of her crown. Her eyes, no longer focused on the arcane text, were beginning to glow with an inner red light, a mixture of raw power and raw arousal. She was still clutching the book to her chest as if it were a shield.

Natasha leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick a single, defiant stripe up the inside of Wanda’s thigh. Wanda gasped, her whole body jerking.

"Don't let me stop you," Natasha whispered, her breath hot against Wanda’s sensitive flesh. Her voice was thick, a promise of the depravity to come. 

A low, guttural sound escaped Wanda’s throat. 

She pushed the nightgown up to Wanda’s chest, baring her completely to the warm lamplight. She admired her for a moment, the soft curve of her stomach, the folds already wet, before moving up again. "You’re so beautiful," she breathed, before capturing Wanda’s mouth in a kiss.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, demanding, a clash of teeth and a slick slide of tongues. Natasha tasted of mint and arousal, a heady combination that made Wanda’s head spin. Wanda’s hands tangled in Natasha’s hair, pulling her closer, surrendering to the assault. Natasha’s hands were busy, one cupping a breast through the silk, teasing the nipple into a hard peak, the other tracing patterns of fire on her exposed hip.

Natasha broke the kiss, leaving Wanda breathless and panting. Her eyes were alight with a feral gleam as she began her slow, deliberate descent. She kissed the hollow of Wanda's throat, licked a stripe down her sternum, her tongue circling one nipple before taking the peak into her mouth and sucking hard. Wanda cried out, her back arching off the bed, her control shattering.

"Tasha," she gasped, her voice thick with pleasure and need.

“Don’t mind me. I know it’s important research, right?” Natasha smirked, as she continued her journey south. Kissing Wanda’s ribs, her stomach, her hip bones. Her fingers slipped between Wanda’s legs, finding her wet and ready. She parted her folds with an expert touch, her thumb circling that exquisitely sensitive nub, making Wanda buck against her hand.

“Oh, my god.” Wanda moaned, her eyes shutting for a second. 

Natasha positioned herself, her arms under her thighs, looking up at Wanda through her lashes, a vision of pure, unadulterated lust. "You can keep reading, babe," she whispered, her breath a hot puff against Wanda's most sensitive skin. "But I'm going to have my meal. And I am absolutely starving."

She settled between Wanda’s open thighs, her head dipping low. The touch of her tongue was a deliberate, shocking drag, from the base of her wet curls all the way to the exquisitely sensitive peak. Wanda cried out, a sharp, strangled gasp, her entire body bucking. The crown on her head flared brighter.

"So eager for me," Natasha murmured, her lips brushing against Wanda’s curls. "So wet. You taste like heaven, moya lyubov’."

Wanda’s world narrowed to that single point of contact, that glorious, filthy friction. Natasha was an artist, and Wanda’s body was her canvas. She laved and licked with a slow, languid rhythm, savoring every taste, learning every fold. Then her pace quickened, her tongue becoming a merciless weapon, flicking and circling until Wanda was whimpering, her body torn between the rigid control she was trying to maintain and the waves of exquisite pleasure crashing against her defenses. The magical crown on her head burned brighter, a beacon of her losing battle. The red glow in her eyes intensified, the runes in the book blurring into meaningless squiggles.

"Shhh," Natasha murmured against her, before taking Wanda's clit into her mouth, sucking gently. Wanda whimpered, her hips beginning a slow, involuntary rotation. The book trembled in her hands.

Natasha was relentless. She teased the edges, laved the sensitive folds, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of Wanda’s thighs to hold her still.

"Tasha..." Wanda choked out, the name a prayer and a curse. 

"You feel that, solnyshko?" Natasha’s voice vibrated through her, a deep, resonant thrum that made the magic in her veins sing.

She tasted of salt and magic, a flavor that drove Natasha wild. She used the flat of her tongue for long, slow, torturous strokes, then the tip for quick, sharp flicks that made Wanda gasp and shudder. She varied the pressure, the speed, a symphony of sensation designed to shatter every last shred of Wanda's control.

"Tasha..." Wanda choked out, the name a broken prayer. Her hips were lifting off the bed now, trying to meet the relentless assault of Natasha's mouth. "Stop... don't stop..."

Natasha just hummed, a predator enjoying her feast. She slid two fingers inside Wanda's slick, tight channel, stretching her, filling her, while her mouth continued its merciless worship. Wanda cried out, a raw, guttural sound of pure, overstimulated bliss. The book was shaking violently now, her arms trembling with the effort of holding on. The air in the room crackled with stray energy. A glass of water on the nightstand vibrated, dancing on the edge.

"Let go of the book, moya lyubov’," Natasha said, her voice muffled but clear, a vibration that shot straight to Wanda's core. "Grab me. Show me where you want it."

That was the breaking point. With a sob that was half surrender, half desperation, Wanda let go. The Darkhold crashed to the floor with a heavy, final thud. At the same instant, her hands flew to Natasha's head, her fingers tangling brutally in her red hair, yanking her closer, grinding her pussy against Natasha's talented mouth.

"You like that?" Natasha looked at Wanda through her lashes, her voice muffled against her pussy, her words a vibration that shot straight to Wanda's core. "Like when I eat you out like I've been starved for a week? Tell me what you want, solnyshko."

"I want to come," Wanda sobbed, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more pressure, more of Natasha’s talented mouth. "Make me come, Tasha. Her hips bucked hard, a frantic, desperate rhythm. 

"Beg me," Natasha growled against her.

"Make me come, Nat, please , make me come, please!"

"As you wish," Natasha growled.

That was all the invitation Natasha needed. She smiled, and then her tongue was back in Wanda's pussy, working along with her fingers. Natasha curled her fingers, hitting the spot that sent Wanda hurtling over the precipice.

The orgasm hit her like a lightning strike.

A piercing scream ripped from her throat, a sound of pure, animal ecstasy. Her back bowed off the bed, her body locked in violent, shuddering convulsions. The scarlet crown exploded in a blinding flash of light, bathing the room in crimson before dissolving into a shower of fading embers. Her magic, finally unleashed, slammed through the room, causing the lamp to flicker and die, plunging them into near darkness, lit only by the faint moonlight through the window. Pleasure crashed through her in debilitating, endless waves, and Natasha held on, swallowing every drop of her climax, taking every shuddering cry into her mouth, holding her, anchoring her, until the last tremor faded and Wanda collapsed back onto the mattress, a boneless, panting wreck.

In the quiet dark, Natasha slowly, reverently, licked her clean. She moved up Wanda’s slick body, pulling the duvet over them both, and gathered her into her arms. She kissed her sweat-soaked temple, her cheek, her lips.

"Better than some dusty old book?" Natasha whispered, her voice laced with smug satisfaction.

Wanda could only manage a weak nod, turning her head to press a grateful, exhausted kiss to Natasha's collarbone. "Much better," she breathed, melting into the assassin's embrace, safe and loved and utterly undone.

Chapter Text

The party was pure Tony Stark: loud, ostentatious, and shimmering with booze-fueled energy. Music thrummed through the floor of the common room, and laughter echoed off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering expanse of New York City. For anyone else's birthday, Natasha would have found an excuse to be on a covert mission in another hemisphere. But it was hers, and Tony's version of affection was unapologetically extravagant, so she endured.

She had staked her claim on a plush armchair in a slightly less chaotic corner, nursing a glass of water and watching the chaos with the detached amusement of a lioness observing a pack of playful hyenas. Her gaze, however, kept snagging on a particular whirlwind of dark hair and crimson leather. Wanda.

Wanda, who had started the evening with a celebratory glass of champagne, had since been personally "tutored" by Thor on the merits of Asgardian mead, and was now accepting some fluorescent blue concoction from Clint at the bar. Natasha sighed, a small, fond smile touching her lips. She knew exactly where this was heading.

It took another twenty minutes for the inevitable to happen. Wanda, her cheeks flushed a charming pink and her movements imbued with a certain liquid grace that bordered on a wobble, navigated the crowd with the single-minded focus of a heat-seeking missile. Her target: the birthday girl.

She arrived at Natasha’s chair and, instead of sitting on the adjacent sofa, she simply bypassed all traditional seating arrangements and melted bonelessly into Natasha's lap, draping herself over her girlfriend like a very expensive, very drunk blanket. She wrapped her arms around Natasha’s neck, nuzzling into her shoulder.

"Hiiii, birthday girl," Wanda purred, her voice a warm, breathy thing against Natasha's skin. She smelled of sugar, expensive perfume, and poor decisions.

"Hi, trouble," Natasha murmured back, her arm instinctively coming around Wanda's waist to steady her. "Having fun?"

"Mhmm," Wanda hummed, shifting to press a series of wet, sloppy kisses along Natasha’s jawline. "But I'm ready for the party to be over." She pulled back just enough to look at Natasha, her eyes sparkling with mischief and mead. "So you can unwrap your present."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "I thought you and Clint already gave me the industrial-grade coffee machine?"

"No, silly," Wanda giggled, booping Natasha on the nose. "Your special gift. The one you can only open in the bedroom." She leaned in, her whisper a hot gust in Natasha's ear. "It's me. I'm the special gift. I'm not even wearing underwear. For easy access."

"Wanda." Natasha's eyes darkened with desire, but she took a deep breath and pushed it to the back of her mind. She gave a small chuckle. She knew the girlfriend she had, and she knew that Wanda was pure temptation, especially when she was drunk, because what little inhibition she had just went out the window. Natasha turned her head, capturing Wanda’s lips in a soft, brief kiss. "That's a very generous gift, solnyshko . We can talk about it in the morning."

Wanda's face fell. Her entire body seemed to deflate. She pulled back, her brow furrowed in drunken confusion. "In the morning? But the birthday is today! Presents are for today!"

"And you're a present I want to be able to enjoy properly," Natasha said patiently, her hand stroking Wanda's back. "Not one that's half-Asgardian mead."

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Wanda's lower lip shot out in a pout of truly epic proportions. She slumped further into Natasha's lap, her expression one of profound, theatrical tragedy.

"You don't want me," she whispered, her voice cracking with despair. She looked up at Natasha through her lashes, her eyes glistening. "Is it because I had the blue drink? I knew it was a mistake. You don't love me anymore."

Natasha's heart did a ridiculous little flip. Drunk Wanda was a masterclass in emotional manipulation, and damn her, it was adorable. She cupped Wanda’s face in her hands, her expression softening into one of deep, unwavering affection.

"Hey. Look at me," she said softly, waiting until Wanda's pouty eyes met hers.

She leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't a quick peck. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, full of all the love and fondness she felt. It was a kiss that said I love you so much . When she pulled back, she kept her forehead pressed against Wanda's.

"I love you more than anything, Wanda Maximoff," she murmured, her voice a low, serious rumble meant only for her. "And because I love you, and because I respect you, I am not going to have sex with you when you're this drunk. Us being together doesn't change the rules. Your consent is important, and right now, your consent is sponsored by Tony Stark's entire liquor cabinet and Thor’s Asgardian Mead."

She punctuated the sentence with another soft kiss on Wanda’s pouting lips. "You are the best gift," she whispered. "But you're a gift I'll be unwrapping tomorrow, when you can actually remember it."

Wanda blinked, momentarily placated by the kiss and the raw sincerity in Natasha's voice. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and rested her head back on Natasha's shoulder.

"Fine," she mumbled into her neck. "But you have to promise to be extra thorough when you unwrap it. To make up for the delay."

The pout remained, a stubborn, adorable fixture on Wanda's face, but she seemed to accept her fate, content for now to be a warm weight on Natasha's lap. The party swirled around their little island of domesticity.

"Well, well, well," a familiar, smug voice boomed as Tony Stark sauntered over, a glass of something amber in his hand. "Look what we have here. Birthday girl getting an early present delivery. Is she whispering sweet, magical nothings in your ear, Romanoff? Or just the coordinates to the nearest kebab stand?"

Wanda lifted her head from Natasha's shoulder, fixing Tony with a narrowed, wobbly glare. "I'm her special gift, Stark. It's a secret. Top secret. Above your pay grade."

Natasha's hand tightened on Wanda's waist, a silent warning. "Tony," she said, her voice dangerously smooth. "Don't you have a ridiculous new car to show off to someone who cares?"

"Ouch. Tough crowd," Tony said with a grin, raising his glass in a mock toast before wandering off in search of a more receptive audience.

The pulsing beat of the music shifted, flowing into a track with a driving, sensual rhythm. Wanda's eyes lit up. She slid off Natasha's lap, a little unsteadily, and held out her hands. "Dance with me," she demanded more than asked.

"Wanda, I don't-"

"It's your birthday," Wanda interrupted, her expression turning earnest. "You have to dance with me on your birthday. It's the law."

Natasha sighed, but she couldn't refuse that face. She allowed Wanda to pull her to the edge of the makeshift dance floor. The moment they were there, Wanda abandoned all pretense of a formal dance, melting against Natasha's back and wrapping her arms around her stomach. She swayed in time with the music, her body a warm, sinuous pressure against Natasha's. Her lips found Natasha's ear.

"Just think," she whispered, her voice a low, teasing vibration. "In a few hours, you can have your hands all over me. No audience." Her own hands slid slowly down Natasha's front, her fingertips tracing the edge of her black dress before Natasha caught them, lacing their fingers together.

"Behave," Natasha murmured, though a reluctant smile played on her lips. She turned in Wanda's arms to face her, pulling her close. They moved together, a slow, intimate sway that was entirely out of sync with the energetic music, but felt perfectly right.

They danced for a few songs, Wanda's energy slowly flagging. Soon she was leaning more than dancing, her head resting heavily on Natasha's shoulder. They were just about to retreat back to their chair when Thor, booming with laughter, clapped Clint on the back nearby. Clint, spotting them, grinned.

"Hey, look who's still standing!" Clint called out, weaving his way over with Laura in tow. "I'm impressed, Wanda. You're holding that Asgardian stuff better than I did my first time."

"I’m a witch," Wanda mumbled into Natasha's shoulder. "We have high tolerance for... potions."

"You want another?" Clint asked, gesturing toward the bar.

Natasha shot him a glare so potent it could have stripped paint. Laura elbowed her husband gently in the ribs. "Clint, leave the poor woman alone. Can't you see she's about to turn into a pumpkin?" She gave Natasha a sympathetic look. "Happy birthday, Nat. Your gift seems to be enjoying herself."

"She's a handful," Natasha admitted, her voice soft with affection as she stroked Wanda's hair.

"The best ones always are," Laura said with a knowing smile before dragging Clint away.

They finally made it back to the armchair. Wanda, all her flirty energy spent, curled up on Natasha’s lap again, this time like a cat seeking the warmest spot in the house. Her playful teasing was replaced by sleepy, affectionate murmurs.

"I love your birthdays," she said softly, her eyes half-closed. "'s an excuse to be extra close to you."

"We're always close, moya dusha ," Natasha whispered, kissing the top of her head.

"Mmm, not like this," Wanda sighed contentedly. "Tomorrow... we stay in bed. All day. I'll make you breakfast... the special pancakes... with the strawberries..." Her voice trailed off, her breathing deepening. "...and lots of... kis..."

A soft, delicate snore cut her off mid-word. She was completely out, her body a dead weight of sleep and trust in Natasha's arms.

Natasha looked down at the woman passed out on her lap, a wave of overwhelming love washing over her. She carefully maneuvered a stray strand of hair from Wanda’s face, her expression impossibly tender. This, right here, was the best part of her birthday.

With a practiced ease that came from years of carrying more than just her own weight, Natasha adjusted her grip, slid one arm under Wanda’s knees and the other around her back, and stood. She carried her precious, sleeping burden out of the slowly emptying party, ignoring the knowing smiles from the few remaining Avengers.

In the quiet of their shared bedroom, she laid Wanda gently on the bed. The moonlight streamed through the window, painting her in shades of silver and blue. With slow, careful movements, Natasha worked the zipper on Wanda’s dress, easing the crimson fabric off her shoulders. She changed her into one of Natasha's own worn, soft black t-shirts that smelled like home. She took a soft cloth and gently wiped the last traces of glittery eyeshadow and party makeup from Wanda’s face, her touch as reverent as if she were cleaning a priceless work of art.

Finally, she changed into her own sleep shorts and tank top and slid into bed beside her. Wanda, even in her deep sleep, immediately sought her out, curling into her side and sighing softly. Natasha wrapped her arms around her, pulling the duvet over them both. She rested her chin on the top of Wanda's head, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"Happy birthday to me," she whispered into the darkness, holding her greatest gift close.

(...)

The first thing Natasha became aware of was the silence. A deep, profound quiet that was the antithesis of the thrumming chaos of the night before. The second was the warm, solid weight of Wanda plastered to her side, one hand fisted in the fabric of Natasha's shirt, her breath a soft puff against her collarbone. Sunlight, soft and apologetic, filtered through a gap in the blackout curtains.

Natasha remained still for a long time, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeam, simply committing the feeling of Wanda, peaceful and deeply asleep, to memory. She was a masterpiece of slumber, her brow smooth, her lips slightly parted. With the practiced, silent grace of a shadow, Natasha began the painstaking process of detangling herself. She lifted Wanda's arm, slid out from under her, and carefully replaced her own body with a pillow, which Wanda immediately hugged with a soft, contented sigh. Mission accomplished.

She ghosted out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a barely audible click. The common room was a battlefield.

It was a scene of glorious, hilarious carnage. Thor was the first fallen soldier she saw, sprawled across the largest sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other hanging off the edge, his fingers inches from Mjolnir, which sat on the coffee table like a silent, judgmental paperweight. His snores were a tectonic rumble that vibrated through the floor. On the opposite couch, Sam Wilson was curled into a tight ball, his face buried in a cushion, looking far less serene. And on the long chaise by the window, Pietro Maximoff was a tangled mess of limbs, asleep in a pose that suggested he'd tripped mid-sprint and simply hadn't woken up upon impact.

A faint smile touched Natasha's lips. Amateurs.

She padded into the kitchen, the smile vanishing as her focus shifted. Bruce was already there, wearing glasses and a rumpled t-shirt, quietly stirring something in a mug. He looked up as she entered, his eyes tired but kind. He offered a quiet nod of solidarity, the silent greeting of a fellow early-riser in a house full of hedonists.

"Morning," Bruce said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rough night?"

Natasha smirked, setting her empty coffee mug on the counter. "For some more than others. Wanda's still out cold."

Bruce chuckled, glancing toward the common room. "Not surprised. She was... enthusiastic last night. You holding up okay?"

"Always," Natasha replied, her tone dry but warm, filling her mug it with the darkest, strongest coffee the Stark-issued machine could produce, sipping it black as she began to assemble her supplies.

What followed was a masterclass in quiet efficiency. Bruce, from his perch at the breakfast bar, watched with a sort of stunned, silent awe.

He had seen Natasha Romanoff take down a room full of armed hostiles in under thirty seconds. He had seen her pilot a Quinjet through an asteroid field. He had never seen her like this.

She moved with a focused, deliberate grace. The flour was measured with scientific precision, the eggs cracked with a sharp, one-handed flick of the wrist. Soon, the gentle hiss of blueberry pancakes hitting a hot, buttered griddle filled the kitchen, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the lingering smell of stale beer. The bacon sizzled in a separate pan, each strip laid out in a perfect, parallel row.

She washed a medley of strawberries, raspberries, and sliced mango, arranging them in a small bowl as if decorating a Fabergé egg. A dollop of thick, Greek yogurt went into another. Then, the finale: the antidote. She worked the industrial juicer with an expert's familiarity, feeding it oranges, carrots, and a formidable knob of ginger. The result was a vibrant orange concoction that looked both healthy and vaguely threatening—a hangover cure designed by the Black Widow.

Bruce just stared. He had made himself tea. Natasha was conducting a symphony.

"You know," Bruce said, breaking the silence, "if you ever retire from espionage, you could open a breakfast joint. This is... intense."

Natasha glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "You saying I should trade my Widow's Bite for a spatula, Banner?"

He raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Just saying, you'd make a killing. Wanda's lucky."

Natasha's expression softened, just for a moment, before she turned back to her work. "She deserves it," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Finally, she assembled it all on a large tray. A stack of fluffy pancakes, a side of perfectly crisp bacon and scrambled eggs, the bowls of fruit and yogurt, a small glass of her potent juice, and a steaming mug of coffee with just the right amount of milk, exactly how Wanda liked it. It wasn't breakfast; it was an apology from the universe for the sins of last night. It was an offering.

She picked up the tray, her movements perfectly balanced. Before she left, she caught Bruce’s eye. He simply raised his eyebrows, a slow, impressed smile finally breaking through his tired expression. No words were exchanged. None were needed. He understood completely.

Natasha gave him a single, brief nod of acknowledgement and turned, carrying her masterpiece of morning-after diplomacy back towards the bedroom, back to her sleeping queen.

(...)

The world returned to Wanda not in a rush, but as a slow, unwelcome tide. The first sensation was a dull, persistent drumbeat behind her eyes. The second was a mouth that tasted vaguely of blueberries and regret. She groaned, a low, wounded sound, and tried to burrow deeper into the darkness, but the pillow she was hugging didn't smell right. It smelled like a pillow. It didn't smell like Natasha.

Her eyes cracked open. The room was mercifully dim, but a figure stood silhouetted against the brighter light of the hallway, a tray held in her hands. As her eyes adjusted, the silhouette resolved into Natasha, an infuriatingly fresh and composed vision in a simple tank top and sleep shorts. And then the scent hit her, cutting through the hangover fog like a beacon. Coffee. Bacon. Something sweet.

Salvation had arrived.

"I come bearing gifts," Natasha said, her voice a low, amused murmur that didn't rattle Wanda's skull. She moved into the room and set the tray down on the bedside table. "Or maybe just a peace treaty for the war you waged on your own liver last night."

Wanda pushed herself up, wincing as the room tilted slightly. "Don't say 'waged'," she mumbled, her own voice a croak. "Too loud."

Natasha's lips quirked into a smile. "Alright. The gentle disagreement you had with several bottles of very expensive alcohol." She nodded towards the bathroom. "Go. Brush your teeth. You'll feel more human."

Moving with the careful, deliberate motions of someone navigating a minefield, Wanda slid out of bed. The cold water on her face was a blessed shock, and as she scrubbed the ghost of mead and blue cocktails from her teeth, she felt the first inklings of humanity return. When she emerged, Natasha had fluffed the pillows behind her on the bed, creating an inviting throne.

Wanda sank back against them with a grateful sigh. Natasha settled the heavy tray over her legs, and Wanda stared down at it in awe. It was a work of art. A perfect stack of blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, vibrant fruit, and the most powerfully orange juice she had ever seen.

"You," Wanda said, her voice filled with reverence, "are a goddess."

"I'm the one who didn't mix champagne, Asgardian mead, and whatever neon sludge Clint handed you," Natasha replied dryly, handing her the glass of juice. "Drink this first. Doctor's orders."

Wanda obeyed. The juice was cold, sweet, and then came the kick; a sharp, clean slap of ginger that seemed to reset her entire system. She blinked, feeling her focus sharpen slightly. "Wow. That's... assertive."

"It's a juice with a purpose," Natasha said, watching her with a fond, patient expression as Wanda finally picked up a fork and cut into the pancakes.

She ate in blissful silence for a few moments, the food a balm to her weary soul. With every bite, the world felt a little more stable, the drumming in her head a little softer. Natasha simply watched, sipping her own coffee, content.

Finally, feeling substantially more alive, Wanda set her fork down and looked at Natasha, a familiar, playful spark returning to her eyes. She patted the mattress beside her. Natasha obliged, setting her mug down and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"So," Natasha began, her voice dropping into a low, teasing whisper. She reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind Wanda's ear. "Now that you've been refueled and decontaminated... how's my 'special gift' feeling?"

A slow, wicked grin spread across Wanda's face. The hangover was forgotten, replaced by a much more immediate and pleasant ache. She put the tray carefully onto the floor, her movements suddenly much quicker.

"The gift," Wanda announced, her voice a sultry purr, "is feeling very, very generous. And it's ready to be unwrapped. Thoroughly. As promised."

She hooked her fingers into the hem of Natasha's tank top, pulling her down for a kiss. It was hungry and sweet, tasting of maple syrup and coffee and the morning-after promise she'd been waiting for. Natasha laughed into the kiss, melting into it for a moment before pulling back just an inch, her hand coming up to rest on Wanda's cheek.

"Finish your breakfast first," Natasha murmured, her lips brushing against Wanda's. "The unwrapping will be much more enjoyable when the gift isn't about to pass out from low blood sugar." She stole one last, quick kiss. "I'll wait. I'm very patient."

A small, genuine smile bloomed on Natasha's face. She reached over and stole a perfectly crisp piece of bacon from Wanda's plate, popping it into her mouth with a wink.

Wanda watched her, a slow-burning fire igniting in her gaze. She let Natasha have the bacon, but her patience was visibly fraying at the edges. She took one last, hearty bite of pancake, chewed, and swallowed with a decisive finality.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Wanda accused, though there was no heat in it, only a simmering amusement. "The valiant, responsible girlfriend act."

"Immensely," Natasha confirmed, her eyes glinting with mischief as she snagged a strawberry from the fruit bowl. "It's a nice change of pace. You should try it sometime."

"Pass," Wanda said immediately. She leaned forward, the last of her breakfast forgotten. The shift in her posture was subtle but absolute. The tired, grateful woman was gone, replaced by a predator who had just finished sharpening her claws. "I'm more of an 'instant gratification' kind of girl."

With a movement that was both deliberate and fluid, she took the tray from her lap and set it firmly on the floor beside the bed. The gentle clink of ceramic on hardwood was the only sound in the room for a beat, a clear, definitive end to the morning’s formalities.

Then, she moved.

Before Natasha could react, Wanda was shifting, turning, and settling onto her lap, straddling her thighs and facing her. The soft cotton of Natasha’s old t-shirt rode up Wanda’s legs, and she wrapped her arms loosely around Natasha’s neck, her body fitting against hers as if she were made for it. The air crackled, suddenly thick with a delicious, unspoken promise. Wanda leaned in, her lips ghosting over Natasha’s, so close but not quite touching.

"Now," Wanda whispered, the word a husky vibration that sent a shiver straight down Natasha's spine. "Where were we? I believe a certain gift was promised some... thorough unwrapping."

Natasha's breath hitched. Her hands, acting on pure instinct, came to rest on Wanda's hips, her thumbs tracing small, slow circles on the bare skin just below the hem of the t-shirt. The responsible girlfriend had officially clocked out.

"The gift," Natasha murmured, her voice a low thrum, "was also supposed to be well-rested and fully functional."

"Oh, she is," Wanda purred, pressing a line of soft, tantalizing kisses from the corner of Natasha’s mouth to her jaw. "Every system is online. Fully charged. Eager to perform a full diagnostic." She pulled back just enough to look Natasha in the eye, her own gaze dark with a potent mix of love and raw hunger. "I waited all night, Tasha. I was a very good, very patient girl." She leaned closer still, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "I'm done being patient."

That was it. The last thread of Natasha's saintly restraint snapped. This was the Wanda she craved; confident, demanding, and utterly devoted. She was a force of nature, and Natasha had no desire to seek shelter. She wanted to stand in the heart of the storm.

A slow, predatory smile touched Natasha’s lips. "Good," she whispered, her hands tightening on Wanda's hips, pulling her impossibly closer. "Because so am I."

Wanda closed the infinitesimal distance between them, her mouth capturing Natasha's in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle pecks from before. It was a kiss of release, of pent-up longing finally uncaged. It was deep and demanding, a tangle of tongues and soft, desperate sounds. Natasha met her fire with her own, her hand sliding from Wanda’s hip up her back, threading into her hair to angle her head for a deeper connection. It tasted of coffee and maple syrup and a desperate, shared need.

When they finally broke for air, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other.

"Happy birthday," Wanda whispered against her lips, a triumphant, breathy sound.

Natasha chuckled, a low, rumbling sound of pure contentment. "It is, isn't it?" she replied, before capturing Wanda's mouth once more, ready to finally, and very thoroughly, unwrap her gift.

The world narrowed to the space between their mouths, the scent of their skin, the heat of their breath. Natasha’s hands slid from Wanda’s hips, gliding up her sides, her thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. The kiss deepened, Natasha taking control, a low groan of possessive satisfaction rumbling in her chest.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Natasha breathed against her lips, her voice a rough, husky promise. “All night, watching you, knowing you were mine to take home.”

“I’m yours,” Wanda gasped, her head falling back as Natasha’s lips left her mouth to blaze a trail of fire down her throat. “Always. Take me. Unwrap me, Tasha. I’m all for you.”

“Patience, moya lyubov ,” Natasha murmured, her lips finding the sensitive pulse point at the base of Wanda’s neck. She bit down, gently, just enough to make Wanda gasp and arch against her. “A gift this special deserves to be savored.”

Her hands went to the hem of the t-shirt. Slowly, deliberately, she began to pull it upwards. It was an act of reverence, of unveiling. She peeled the soft cotton away, revealing the pale skin of Wanda’s stomach, the delicate line of her ribs. Wanda’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into Natasha’s shoulders. Natasha continued her slow ascent until the shirt was bunched under Wanda’s arms, her beautiful, full breasts bared to the morning light.

“God, you’re perfect,” Natasha whispered, her gaze filled with raw adoration. She leaned in, her tongue flicking out to trace the swell of Wanda's breast before her mouth closed over a tight, beaded nipple.

A broken cry tore from Wanda’s throat. Her back bowed, offering herself more fully. Natasha suckled her, laving her with attention, one hand coming up to cup the other breast, her thumb teasing the nipple there into an identical peak. Wanda was unraveling, her hips starting to rock against Natasha’s thigh in a desperate, searching rhythm. A faint, scarlet mist began to bleed from her fingertips, a visual manifestation of the pleasure overwhelming her senses.

“So responsive,” Natasha praised, her voice thick as she moved her mouth to the other breast, giving it equal worship. “You feel so good. Do you feel how much I want you?”

“Yes,” Wanda whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut. “Please, Tasha. I need you. I need your hands on me. Inside me.”

Natasha pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it aside. She laid Wanda back against the pillows, her body a canvas of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Natasha hovered over her, a predator admiring her catch.

“Let me see you,” Natasha commanded softly, her gaze traveling down the length of Wanda’s body. She moved down, kissing the dip of her navel, then lower, her fingers brushing the small patch of dark curls. Wanda gasped, her legs falling open in a willing invitation.

“You’re so wet for me already,” Natasha murmured, her fingers parting the slick, swollen folds. She dipped one finger into her heat, then two, watching Wanda’s face as she did. “Ready to come for your birthday girl?”

“Yes, please… don’t stop,” Wanda begged, her hips lifting off the bed to meet the slow, deliberate thrust of Natasha’s fingers.

Natasha found her rhythm, a perfect cadence that was both torturous and divine. She hooked her fingers, curling them to press firmly against that sensitive, hidden spot inside. Wanda cried out, a sharp, keening sound, her magic flaring around them in a warm, red haze. Natasha leaned down, her mouth finding Wanda’s again in a deep, bruising kiss, swallowing her moans as her fingers worked their magic. She moved faster, harder, feeling the exquisite tension coiling in Wanda’s body.

“That’s it, solnyshko ,” Natasha whispered into her mouth. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

And Wanda did. Her body went rigid, her inner muscles clenching violently around Natasha’s fingers. A raw scream of pure pleasure was ripped from her throat, muffled against Natasha’s mouth. The scarlet energy pulsed, a silent, beautiful explosion that mirrored the climax wracking her body. She shuddered, coming down in waves, her body trembling and pliant.

Natasha held her through it, whispering praises into her ear, kissing her sweat-damp temple until her breathing evened out.

Wanda lay boneless for a long moment, her eyes fluttering open to look at the woman above her. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her face.

With a surge of renewed strength, she used her leverage to flip them, pushing Natasha onto her back with a soft ‘oof’. Now Wanda was the one in control, straddling Natasha's hips, her hair a wild halo around her head. She looked down at Natasha, her eyes dark and full of intent.

"The gift," Wanda purred, leaning down to kiss her deeply, "likes to give back."

She moved down Natasha's body, her hands and mouth retracing the same path Natasha had taken, but with her own unique brand of worship. Natasha, so used to being the one in control, could only lie there and take it, her hands fisting in the sheets as Wanda’s mouth moved lower, parting her, tasting her.

"Wanda…" Natasha gasped, a rare crack in her composure.

"Shhh," Wanda murmured against her slick flesh. "Just feel."

And Natasha did. She let go, surrendering to the exquisite skill of Wanda’s tongue, the pleasure building into a tight, sharp point. It was different from Wanda’s explosive release, it was a deep, implosive climax that stole her breath and made her body lock, a silent scream caught in her throat as she shuddered into oblivion.

Wanda moved back up, settling onto her chest, their slick bodies sliding together. She held her, kissing her softly as Natasha’s breathing slowly returned to normal. They lay tangled in the messy sheets, bodies spent, hearts full.

Wanda rested her head in the crook of Natasha's neck, nuzzling her. "Happy birthday, my love," she whispered.

Natasha’s arm came around her, holding her tight. A low, genuine laugh escaped her lips.

"Best. Gift. Ever."

Chapter Text

Loving you like I never have before

I'm needing you to open up the door

If begging you might somehow turn the tides

Then tell me to I've got to get this off my mind

The silence in the Romanian safe house was a physical presence. It was thick and suffocating, a shroud woven from unspoken grief and the damp, earthy smell of the forgotten farmhouse. It settled in the corners where cobwebs reigned, clung to the rough-hewn wooden furniture, and pooled in the hollows of Natasha Romanoff’s collarbones as she watched Wanda Maximoff waste away.

For three weeks, this has been their world. A world shrunk to four walls, two beds, and the vast, bottomless chasm of Wanda’s sorrow.

Natasha leaned against the doorframe of the main room, arms crossed, her body a casual stillness that belied the frantic thrum of her heart. She tracked Wanda’s non-movements. The way she sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the room, her spine as rigid and unyielding as a steel rod. The way her head was bowed, dark hair falling like a curtain to hide her face from a world she no longer wished to see. The plate of bread and cheese Natasha had left on the small table beside her hours ago remained untouched, a small monument to futility.

Loving Wanda, Natasha had come to realize, was like trying to cup water in her hands. The more desperately she tried to hold on, to contain the overwhelming flood of it, the more it slipped through her fingers, leaving her with nothing but the wet, cold ache of her own helplessness. It was a vulnerability she hadn't felt since the early days with Clint, a raw nerve exposed to the air, and she hated it as much as she cherished it.

"The moon's out," Natasha said, her voice deliberately soft, a single, smooth stone tossed into the churning waters of the silence. "It's a clear night."

Wanda didn't respond. The only sign she’d heard was a faint tremor that ran through her shoulders. A small, almost imperceptible flicker of red, like heat haze, shimmered around her fingertips for a bare second before vanishing. The air tasted faintly of cinnamon and burnt sugar. Wanda was leaking. The sheer, overwhelming force of her power, tied as it was to the maelstrom of her emotions, was fraying at the seams. She was a living bomb, counting down to a detonation she wasn't even aware of.

I never thought I'd be speaking these words

I never thought I'd need to say

Another day alone is more than I can take

Natasha pushed off the doorframe and walked towards her. Each step was measured. She knew the wrong word, the wrong movement, could send Wanda spiraling. "You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry." The voice was a ghost, thin and brittle.

"Your body doesn't care if you're hungry, Wanda. It cares about fuel." She stopped behind her, close enough to feel the strange, static warmth radiating from her skin. "Let me help you."

That earned her a reaction. A bitter, broken sound that might have been a laugh in another life. Wanda turned her head just enough for Natasha to see the sharp line of her cheekbone, the pale skin. Her eyes, when they met Natasha's, were voids.

"Help?" she whispered, the word laced with a poison meant to wound, to push away. "Can you bring back the dead, Romanoff? Can you build me a new life from the ashes of the one I burned down? Can you un-make me?" She looked forward again, a dismissal. "This is not your mission. There is nothing here for you to save."

But I need you to , a voice screamed in the back of Natasha's mind. I'm loving you like I never have before, and it's tearing me apart to watch you do this.

She didn't say it. She just retreated, the silence rushing back in to reclaim the space between them, heavier and more menacing than before.

The screaming started just after two in the morning.

It wasn't a scream of the lungs, but of the soul. A psychic shriek that tore Natasha from a shallow, restless sleep and had her on her feet, pistol in hand, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was followed by a deep, groaning tremor that shook the farmhouse to its foundations. Dust rained from the rafters. The water in the glass by her bed vibrated, tracing frantic patterns on its surface.

She threw the door to Wanda's room open and stumbled into chaos.

It was no longer a bedroom. It was the epicenter of a hurricane made of grief. Wanda was writhing on the bed, her body caught in the throes of a nightmare given terrifying form. Thick, roiling tendrils of scarlet energy, darker and more violent than Natasha had ever seen, erupted from her, lashing out like enraged serpents. They tore deep, smoking gouges into the stone walls, splintered the wooden floorboards, and shattered the small window, sending glass exploding into the night.

Whispers slithered through the air, overlapping voices speaking in Sokovian; harsh, accusatory tones she couldn't understand but whose intent was clear. Flashes of impossible images burned in the air: a streak of blue and silver, a face of crimson and chrome, the horrifying, final bloom of an explosion.

Wanda’s eyes were wide open, staring at a horror only she could see. They were glowing with a malevolent, crimson light. This wasn't just a loss of control. This was an annihilation. A self-immolation.

If suddenly the sky is falling

Could it be too late for me

If I never said I'm sorry, then I'm wrong, yes, I'm wrong

Then I hear my spirit calling

Wondering if she's longing for me

And then I know that I can't live without her

Any semblance of a plan evaporated. There was no protocol for this. The only directive that screamed through her training was threat neutralization . But Natasha didn't see a threat. She saw the terrified girl she'd pulled from the rubble of Sokovia, the young woman who'd looked at her with such hesitant hope, the brilliant, powerful soul she'd come to-

She holstered her weapon. The click of the gun sliding into its holster was impossibly loud, yet completely swallowed by the psychic roar.

"Wanda!" she yelled, forcing her legs to move, to step over the threshold into the storm.

A whip of chaos magic snapped towards her, a blur of red hate. Natasha threw herself to the side, the energy sizzling past her cheek, the air cracking with its passage. The heat of it was intense, a phantom burn on her skin. She got to her feet, her heart a wild bird in her chest.

"Wanda, it's me! Come back!"

"GET OUT!" The voice that answered was not Wanda's. It was a legion, layered and distorted, echoing with the power that was consuming her. "I WILL UNMAKE YOU!"

In the heart of the storm, Wanda's glowing eyes found hers. For a second, a flicker of lucidity. A flash of pure, undiluted terror.

Won't you save me

Saving is what I need

I just want to be by your side

Won't you save me I don't want to be

Just drifting through the sea of life

"You can't save me," the witch sobbed, her real voice breaking through the distortion for a heartbreaking moment before being submerged again. "I am a monster."

"No," Natasha said, her voice dropping, finding a pocket of stillness in the gale. She took another step, then another, her gaze locked on Wanda's. "You're not."

She was close now. Close enough to see the tears streaming from Wanda’s eyes, each one sizzling as it hit the incandescent energy coiling around her. Close enough to be torn apart.

She reached out her hand.

The moment Natasha’s fingers made contact, the world went white. Not a violent white, but a soft, absolute silence. The psychic screaming, the tearing of wood and stone, the hissing whispers; it all vanished, replaced by a profound and total stillness. For a single, terrifying beat, Natasha thought this was it. This was what it felt like to be erased.

Then, sensation returned in a rush. The first thing she registered was the solid, trembling warmth of Wanda’s skin beneath her palm. The second was the smell of burnt sugar and rain. The third was the shuddering gasp that tore through Wanda’s body.

The maelstrom of red energy didn't strike her. It recoiled. It flowed around her hand like water around a stone, finding in her an object of absolute, unshakeable intent. It found no fear to feed on, no aggression to fight. It found only a quiet, resolute certainty.

Natasha stepped fully into Wanda's space, her other hand coming up to cup the other side of her face. "Wanda," she whispered, her voice the only sound in the universe. "I'm right here. Look at me."

Through the fading crimson haze, Wanda's eyes struggled to focus. The molten glow receded, like embers cooling, revealing the terrified, grief-stricken green beneath. "Natasha?" The name was a fragile question.

"I've got you," Natasha affirmed, her thumbs stroking gently over Wanda’s tear-stained cheeks. "I've got you. Just breathe with me."

Won't you save me

Saving is what I need

I just want to be by your side

Won't you save me I don't want to be

Just drifting through the sea of life

She saw the exact moment Wanda's dam of control finally, completely shattered. It wasn’t a violent explosion, but a quiet, catastrophic implosion. The last vestiges of scarlet light dissolved into nothingness, and the strength that had been holding Wanda’s body rigid evaporated. She fell forward, a dead weight of exhaustion and despair.

Natasha caught her, her arms wrapping securely around the younger woman's shaking frame. She sank with her to the floor, pulling Wanda into her lap, heedless of the splintered wood and sharp debris. Wanda buried her face in the crook of Natasha's neck, her arms locking around her with a desperate, crushing strength. And she began to sob.

They were not the wild, keening cries of the nightmare. They were silent, gut-wrenching sobs that shook her entire body, the kind that came from a place so deep and broken there was no air left for sound. Natasha held her through it, one hand tangled in her hair, the other rubbing slow, steady circles on her back. She murmured meaningless comforts, Russian lullabies from a half-forgotten childhood, anything to fill the void. She held her as if she could physically absorb the pain, could shield Wanda from the wreckage of her own heart with nothing but her body and her will.

Won't you

Listen, please baby, don't walk out that door

I'm on my knees you're all I'm living for

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time had ceased to have meaning. The moon tracked its way across the sky, its cold light shifting through the shattered window, illuminating the scene of devastation and intimacy. Eventually, the violent tremors rocking Wanda's body subsided into a faint, exhausted trembling. Her breathing, still hitched and ragged, deepened.

Natasha shifted carefully, her own muscles screaming in protest. Wanda was asleep, her face still buried against Natasha’s throat, her grip on her shirt still iron-tight. Gently, so as not to wake her, Natasha began the slow, arduous process of getting them off the floor. She hooked her arms under Wanda, gathering her up. Wanda was lighter than she should be, a bird with hollow bones.

She carried her to her own bed in the main room, the one untouched by the chaos, and laid her down. She pulled the rough wool blanket up to Wanda’s chin, tucking it in with a tenderness that felt foreign and overwhelmingly right.

For a long moment, Natasha stood there, watching the faint rise and fall of Wanda's chest in the pre-dawn gloom. The room was a disaster zone, a testament to the power Wanda wielded and the pain that drove it. But here, in this small pool of quiet, was the survivor.

Natasha walked over to the small basin of water by her own bed, soaking a cloth. She returned to Wanda's side, knelt, and began to gently, carefully, clean the grime and tear tracks from her face.

It was during this quiet ministry that Wanda’s eyes fluttered open. They were clear. Puffy and red-rimmed, but clear. 

"They told me in the Red Room," Natasha said, her own voice low, not looking up from her task, "that some hands are only made for hurting. That I was a tool, and my only purpose was to break things. That the red in my ledger was a stain that could never be washed out." She finally met Wanda's gaze, her expression stripped of all artifice. "For a long time, I believed them."

Wanda swallowed, a pained, difficult motion. "And now?"

"Now," Natasha said, setting the cloth aside and letting her hand rest on Wanda's forearm, a simple, grounding point of contact. "I know that any hand can be taught to build. It’s just harder. It takes more work." Her fingers squeezed gently. "And you have to have someone who's willing to show you how."

Loving you like I never have before

I'm needing you to open up the door

If begging you might somehow turn the tides

Then tell me to I've got to get this off my mind

A single tear escaped Wanda’s eye and tracked a slow path to her cheek. She didn’t try to wipe it away. "I destroyed the room," she whispered, shame and fear coloring her tone.

"It's just a room," Natasha said simply. "We'll fix it. Together."

I never thought I'd be speaking these words

I never thought I'd need to say

Another day alone is more than I can take

The words were an unspoken vow in the quiet space between them. Wanda’s eyes held hers, a universe of pain and a fragile, terrifying glimmer of hope swirling within them. She gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, and her eyes drifted shut again, this time in a true, healing sleep. Natasha didn't move, staying knelt by her side, her hand a steady, constant anchor in the dark.

(...)

Dawn broke, painting the bruised sky in watercolors of grey and rose. Light crept through the boarded windows, illuminating the destruction in Wanda's room and the fragile peace in the other. Natasha hadn’t slept. She had remained by Wanda’s side, a silent vigil, watching over a sleep that was finally, blessedly, dreamless.

When Wanda awoke again, it was with a gasp, her body tensing as the memories of the night came rushing back. Her eyes flew open, wide with panic, darting around the unfamiliar room.

"Hey," Natasha’s voice was a low murmur, instantly drawing her focus. "You're okay. You're safe."

Won't you

Listen, please baby, don't walk out that door

I'm on my knees you're all I'm living for

Wanda's frantic gaze landed on Natasha, still knelt by the bed. She saw the exhaustion etched around Natasha's eyes, the dust smudged on her cheek, the unwavering steadiness in her gaze. The panic subsided, replaced by a wave of crushing shame.

"I could have killed you," she breathed, the words heavy with horror.

"But you didn't," Natasha countered, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That matters more." She rose, stretching her stiff limbs. "I'm going to make some coffee. You should drink some water."

It was a simple, domestic command, so profoundly normal it was jarring. And it worked. The new dynamic settled over them, fragile but present. The silent, observing sentinel and the ghostly, grieving wraith were gone. In their place were two women in the quiet aftermath of a storm.

Later that morning, Natasha found a broom and began sweeping up the splintered glass and wood. She expected Wanda to remain on the bed, a spectator to the cleanup of her own destruction. But after a few minutes, a shadow fell over the doorway. Wanda stood there, wrapped in the wool blanket, her arms crossed around herself. She watched Natasha for a long time.

"I can help," Wanda said, her voice small.

Natasha stopped sweeping and looked at her. "Okay."

Wanda hesitated, then stepped into the wrecked room. Her eyes traced the deep, angry gouges in the walls, the scorch marks on the stone. She flinched, but she didn't retreat. She picked up a larger piece of the shattered window frame, her movements tentative, and placed it on the pile Natasha had started. They worked in silence, a slow, shared rhythm of repair.

Over the next few days, a new routine took shape. They fixed what they could, patching the wall with spare planks from the barn, boarding up the broken window completely. They spoke more. The conversations were stilted at first, circling the edges of the gaping hole Wanda's grief had left. But Natasha didn’t push. She let Wanda come to her, offering quiet solidarity when words failed.

One afternoon, as Natasha was cleaning their plates, Wanda spoke from the table. "He's not just gone," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I feel… the absence. Where he was, there's a hole. Not just in the world. In me."

Natasha dried her hands and sat opposite her. "I know." She thought of Budapest, of Dreykov's daughter, of the red ink that never quite faded. "Some holes don't ever fill back in. You just... learn to build around them. You make the new shape of yourself."

Wanda looked down at her hands, which were resting on the table. A faint, nervous tremor ran through her fingers. "I'm afraid," she confessed. "Of this." She gestured vaguely with her hand, a flicker of red dancing on her fingertips for a moment. "I don't know how to control it when the grief is so loud. It listens to the grief, not to me."

"Then we teach it to listen to you," Natasha said, her voice firm. She reached across the table, not to take Wanda’s hand, but just to lay her own next to it, palm up. An invitation. "We make your voice louder."

Slowly, hesitantly, Wanda mirrored the gesture, placing her hand next to Natasha's. Their pinkies brushed. The contact was electric, a jolt of warmth and life. Wanda didn't pull away.

That evening, they sat outside on the rickety porch steps, watching the sun dip below the horizon, bleeding orange and purple across the sky. The air was cool and clean. For the first time, the farmhouse

Won't you save me

Saving is what I need

I just want to be by your side

Won't you save me I don't want to be

Just drifting through the sea of life

Chapter Text

The weeks following the mission had been a fragile illusion of peace, a thin veneer over the cracks that had formed in their carefully constructed world. On the surface, Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff had slipped back into their routine with practiced ease. They sparred in the training room, their movements a dance of precision and trust, sweat-soaked and laughing. They shared meals with the team, elbows brushing at the crowded Avengers’ dining table, stealing glances over plates of pasta and teasing remarks from Tony. At night, they fell asleep tangled in each other’s limbs, Natasha’s breath warm against Wanda’s collarbone, Wanda’s fingers tracing idle patterns on Natasha’s back. To anyone watching, they were the same unshakable unit they’d always been; a partnership forged in fire, tempered by love.

But beneath the surface, a quiet tension thrummed, a low-voltage current of unease that hadn’t existed before the mission. It had been a brutal operation, a high-stakes extraction in a war-torn city where every shadow hid a threat. Too many variables, too little control, and one searing, horrifying moment that had nearly shattered everything. Wanda had been caught in an explosion, a sudden inferno of fire and debris that swallowed her whole. She’d emerged unscathed, her scarlet energy flaring into a protective cocoon, her eyes blazing with fury as she tore through the enemy lines. But Natasha had seen the explosion first. For three eternal seconds – seconds that stretched into a lifetime – she had believed Wanda was gone.

That moment had planted a seed of dread in Natasha’s heart, a poison tree that took root in the fertile soil of her subconscious. Its branches twisted through her dreams, bearing fruit in the dead of night. She could hide it during the day, burying it beneath her Black Widow mask, her sharp wit, her steady hands. But at night, when the world was quiet and her defenses were down, the fear crept in, insidious and unrelenting.

Tonight, they slept as they always did, pressed close in the sanctuary of their shared bed. Natasha’s arm was slung possessively over Wanda’s waist, her face nestled into the soft crook between Wanda’s neck and shoulder. Even in sleep, she inhaled Wanda’s scent; a faint blend of lavender and something uniquely her, a grounding ritual that reassured Natasha’s unconscious mind that Wanda was still there, still warm, still breathing. Wanda, for her part, slept with one hand curled loosely in Natasha’s hair, her body angled toward her partner as if drawn by gravity. It was a position born of habit, of love, of a need to be as close as possible after too many close calls.

But in Natasha’s dream, there was no warmth, no safety. Only fire and screaming.

The dream was vivid, visceral, a cruel replay of the mission gone wrong. The roar of the explosion was a physical blow, the air thick with ash and ozone, stinging her throat. Natasha was running, her legs pumping, her lungs burning, but the ground was molasses, slowing her steps to a maddening crawl. She could see Wanda ahead, a flash of her red jacket, her dark hair whipping in the wind as she turned, her mouth opening to call out. But the words were lost in a blossom of orange and black. The explosion consumed her, a wave of force that threw Natasha back, her scream silent and useless against the deafening blast. She reached out, fingers clawing at the air, but there was nothing to grab; no hand, no Wanda, only the void left behind.

The grief was a living thing, a crushing weight on her chest that stole her breath. It was the absolute, final certainty of loss, a truth so unbearable it tore at the fabric of her being. She was alone again, as she had been before Wanda, before love had dared to take root in her guarded heart. The dream didn’t let her wake, didn’t let her escape. It held her there, drowning in the aftermath, the world reduced to ash and silence.

“No…” The word escaped as a choked whisper in the silent bedroom, a ghost of the scream trapped in her dream. Natasha’s sleeping form tensed, her hand on Wanda’s waist tightening into a desperate, bruising grip, nails digging into soft skin. “No, no, please…” The sound was raw, ragged, ripped from a place deeper than her lungs. Her head thrashed on the pillow, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “Wanda… stay with me. Please…”

Wanda was awake before the first syllable fully formed. It wasn’t the sound that roused her, but the sharp, electric spike of terror that flooded their connection; a psychic bond forged by Wanda’s magic and their shared intimacy. She felt Natasha’s fear as if it were her own, a jagged blade slicing through her chest. It was the third time this week, the fourth since the mission. Each time, it broke her heart anew.

Her eyes snapped open in the dark, adjusting instantly to the dim outlines of their bedroom. Without a single wasted motion, she moved, turning into Natasha, her body becoming a shield, an embrace, a living anchor to reality. She wrapped her arms around Natasha’s trembling shoulders, pulling her tight against her chest, one hand cupping the back of Natasha’s head, fingers threading through her sweat-damp hair. “Shhh, Tasha,” she murmured, her voice a low, steady thrum against Natasha’s ear, thick with her Sokovian accent. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Natasha flinched, still caught in the liminal space between nightmare and reality. A sob broke from her lips, a sound of pure agony that made Wanda’s throat tighten. “Don’t go… I couldn’t… couldn’t save you…” Natasha’s voice was barely coherent, fractured by the weight of her fear.

Wanda’s heart fractured in response, a sharp ache that spread through her chest. She pressed a firm kiss to Natasha’s temple, then another to her damp forehead, her lips lingering as if she could kiss away the pain. She tightened her hold, as if she could physically squeeze the fear out of her, ground her in the present. “It was a dream, moya lyubov,” she whispered, her Sokovian endearments a soft, familiar balm. “Just a nightmare. It’s over now. You’re home, you’re in our bed. And I’m right here. Feel my heart? I’m right here with you.”

She gently guided Natasha’s trembling hand to her chest, pressing her palm flat against her sternum so she could feel the slow, steady beat of her heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The rhythm of life, the proof of her presence. Wanda’s other hand continued to stroke Natasha’s hair, her touch deliberate and grounding, a silent promise that she wasn’t going anywhere.

A soft, unconscious pulse of red magic began to emanate from her, a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with destruction and everything to do with love. It wasn’t a spell, not exactly, just an extension of her desperate need to soothe, to comfort, to ward off the phantoms that haunted the woman she loved. The glow was faint, barely visible in the dark, but it warmed the sheets around them, creating a cocoon of safety in the vastness of the night. It was Wanda’s magic at its purest, a manifestation of her heart, wrapping them both in a quiet embrace.

Slowly, the storm in Natasha’s mind began to break. The feeling of Wanda’s solid form against hers, the sound of her voice, the steady beat of her heart beneath her palm; they were anchors, pulling her from the drowning black water of the dream. The ragged sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, each one a little steadier than the last. Natasha sagged against Wanda, her body still trembling, but her grip loosening as she clung to her like a lifeline. Her face pressed into Wanda’s chest, seeking the warmth, the reality of her.

Wanda didn’t release her. She held on, one hand stroking up and down Natasha’s back in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, the other cradling her head. She whispered a constant stream of reassurances, not demanding a response, just filling the silence left by the nightmare. “We’re okay, Tasha. See? We’re both okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m never, ever going anywhere. Vse khorosho, moje srce. Everything is okay, my heart.”

Natasha’s breathing evened out, but Wanda didn’t stop. She continued the litany long after the trembling had stopped, long after Natasha’s body had gone slack with exhaustion. She lay there in the dark, holding her entire world in her arms, memorizing the feeling of Natasha being alive, warm, and safe against her. The weight of her, the rise and fall of her chest, the faint scent of her shampoo, it was a map of everything Wanda cherished, a reminder of why she fought so hard to keep them both whole.

But even as Natasha settled, Wanda’s mind churned. She couldn’t unsee the terror in Natasha’s unconscious pleas, couldn’t unfeel the way her own heart had seized at the thought of Natasha enduring that pain alone. She knew the nightmares weren’t just dreams; they were echoes of a truth they both lived with. Their lives were a constant dance with danger, and every mission carried the risk of loss. Wanda had her magic, her shields, her power, but Natasha had only her skill, her will, and the fragile human body that housed them. The thought of losing her – of failing to protect her – was a fear Wanda carried too, though she buried it deep.

She pressed her lips to Natasha’s forehead again, lingering there, her breath warm against her skin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, so softly it was barely audible. “I’m sorry I scared you.” It was an apology for the mission, for the explosion, for the moment she’d let herself be reckless, trusting her magic to save her when she should have thought of what it would do to Natasha. She hadn’t considered the cost, not until these nights when she felt the aftermath in Natasha’s trembling hands.

Natasha stirred slightly, as if sensing the shift in Wanda’s emotions even in her half-sleep. Her voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “Not your fault,” she mumbled, her words slurred but firm. “Never your fault.”

Wanda’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. She didn’t argue, didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace they’d found. Instead, she tightened her hold, her magic pulsing softly, a silent vow to protect this woman who had become her home. She would stand this watch all night, and every night, if it meant keeping the darkness at bay.

As the hours passed, Wanda stayed awake, her gaze fixed on the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. She thought of the mission, of the choices they’d made, of the life they’d built together. She thought of the future, of the battles still to come, and the quiet moments like this that made it all worth fighting for. She didn’t know how to banish Natasha’s nightmares entirely, but she could be here, every time, to pull her back. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

The night stretched on, and Wanda held her love close, a sentinel against the shadows, guarding the fragile, precious thing they’d found in each other.

Chapter Text

The mission had been a brutalist poem written in bruises and blood, a twenty-page epic of close calls and closer shaves across three continents. Natasha Romanoff felt every single syllable of it etched into her bones. The ache in her shoulder was a sharp, insistent counterpoint to the dull, throbbing bassline in her lower back. Her mind was a static-filled radio, numb from days of hyper-focus, and her body was a machine begging to be powered down.

The elevator ride to their floor was an exercise in leaning against the cool metal wall. The walk down the hallway felt like a pilgrimage. All she wanted was the searing heat of a shower to melt the grime and tension away, and then the cool, dark oblivion of her side of the bed. Sleep. That was the mission now.

She keyed in the code to their shared suite, the soft clicks of the lock an impossibly loud sound in the quiet corridor. The door swung inward on silent hinges, and she stepped across the threshold, ready to drop her gear bag and begin the slow, painful process of shedding her tactical gear.

And then she stopped.

Everything stopped. The pain in her shoulder vanished. The ache in her back ceased its relentless hum. The static in her head cleared, replaced by a single, sharp, crystalline note of pure awe.

The room was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, cast not from lamps but from dozens of floating, gently pulsing candles conjured by Wanda’s magic. And in the center of the room, standing like a goddess awaiting her worshiper, was Wanda.

She was wearing it. A vision in sheer, blood-red chiffon that floated around her like a captive storm cloud. The robe was a masterpiece of ruffles and suggestion, hiding nothing of the exquisite black lace bra beneath it, or the tantalizing glimpse of thigh-high stockings held up by a garter belt. A long, silver necklace lay against her pale skin, a single, ornate key dangling just above her navel, drawing the eye and the imagination. Her hands, clad in elegant black gloves, were clasped loosely in front of her.

But it was her face that shattered Natasha’s composure completely. A soft, knowing smile played on her lips, a smile that was just for Natasha. And her eyes – those impossible green eyes – were overflowing with a love so profound, so absolute, it felt like a physical blow.

Natasha’s gear bag slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy, muffled thud that barely registered. Her mouth was dry. Her heart, which had been beating a slow, exhausted rhythm, was now hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The weariness that had clung to her like a leaden cloak was incinerated, burned away by the sheer, overwhelming sight of the woman before her.

Wanda took a slow step forward, the sheer robe whispering against the floor. "Welcome home, moya lyubov," she said, her voice a low, velvet melody that wrapped around Natasha and pulled her in.

Natasha couldn't find her own voice. She could only stare, drinking her in. She looked from Wanda's love-filled eyes, down the line of her throat to the impossible temptation of the key, to the way the crimson fabric both concealed and revealed the perfect curves of her body.

"I missed you," Wanda murmured as she closed the distance between them. She didn't touch her, not yet. She just stood before her, letting Natasha look her fill. "I wanted to... take care of you. I thought you might be tired."

A choked, raw sound that might have been a laugh escaped Natasha's throat. "I was," she managed, her voice rough with love and desire. "I was exhausted. I was in pain. I couldn't feel my own hands." She took Wanda's hands in hers. "And now... all I feel is you."

Wanda's smile deepened. She brought their joined hands up, pressing a soft kiss to Natasha’s knuckles. "Good," she purred. "That was the plan." She leaned in, her lips ghosting by Natasha’s ear. "The bath is drawn. And I have the key..." She pulled back, tapping a gloved finger on the silver key that rested against her skin. "To your complete and total relaxation."

Natasha's eyes darkened, her gaze dropping to the key, then back to Wanda’s waiting mouth. The mission was over. A new one had just begun.

"Show me what it unlocks," Natasha whispered, before crushing her mouth to Wanda's in a kiss that tasted like homecoming, like salvation, like the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

(...)

The kiss was a drowning, a plunge into a deep, warm ocean after a lifetime in the desert. Natasha clung to Wanda, her world shrinking to the press of their lips and the soft, maddening texture of the gloved hands that now framed her face. Wanda was the one to break it, pulling back just enough to leave Natasha chasing her mouth, dazed and wanting.

“Come,” Wanda whispered, her voice a spell. She didn’t release her, but instead began to walk backward, leading a pliant Natasha out of the entryway and towards the en-suite bathroom. “Let me take the world off of you.”

The bathroom was a sanctuary. The large, sunken tub was already full, the water steaming and shimmering with something that swirled like liquid starlight. The magical candles from the bedroom had migrated here, floating near the ceiling and casting a soft, flickering glow that made the room feel sacred. The air was thick with the scent of lavender, chamomile, and something deeper, more complex; sandalwood, maybe. An aroma designed to soothe, to sedate, to prepare.

Wanda brought Natasha to the edge of the tub. “Arms up,” she commanded softly.

Obediently, like a soldier following a new, infinitely more pleasant set of orders, Natasha raised her arms. Wanda’s gloved fingers went to the heavy clasps on Natasha’s tactical vest. With an expert’s familiarity, she unbuckled the straps, her movements deft and sure. The heavy weight slid off Natasha’s shoulders, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh as the pressure on her bruised muscles vanished. Wanda let it fall to the floor without a glance.

“Better?” Wanda murmured, her fingers now working at the zipper of the black catsuit.

“Mmm,” was all Natasha could manage.

The zipper hissed as Wanda drew it down, revealing the sweat-damp sports bra and the pale, scarred skin of Natasha’s torso. She peeled the tight material off Natasha's shoulders and down her arms. She knelt, her crimson robe pooling around her on the floor like blood, and tugged the suit down past Natasha's hips, her movements unhurried and worshipful. She found the holsters strapped to her thighs, her fingers gently unbuckling them and removing the weapons with the casual intimacy of someone who knew every secret their lover’s body held.

Finally, Natasha stood before her, clad only in her practical bra and panties, the roadmap of scars on her body a stark testament to the life she lived. Wanda’s eyes traced them, not with pity, but with a fierce, possessive reverence. She rose, her gloved hands coming to cup Natasha’s face.

“So strong,” Wanda whispered, pressing a kiss to a faded white line on her collarbone. “So beautiful.” She undid the clasp of the sports bra, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of Natasha’s panties and slid them down, leaving Natasha completely bare. “And all mine to care for.”

She helped Natasha step into the tub. The heat was a blissful shock, a liquid embrace that immediately began to soothe her screaming muscles. Natasha sank down with a groan of pure relief, her head falling back against the edge of the tub, her eyes closing.

She heard a soft rustle, and when she opened her eyes again, Wanda was kneeling beside the tub, her red robe now unfastened, revealing the full glory of the black lace lingerie beneath. She had taken a sea sponge and was lathering it with fragrant soap.

“Just relax,” Wanda instructed, her voice a low purr. She began to wash her, her movements slow and languid. She started with her shoulders, her gloved hands gliding over the tense muscles, kneading away the knots. She found every bruise, her touch impossibly gentle, her lips often following to press a soft, healing kiss against the discolored skin.

Natasha melted. All the armor she wore, both physical and metaphorical, dissolved into the steaming water. When Wanda took a bottle of shampoo and began to wash her hair, her clever fingers massaging her scalp, Natasha thought she might actually cry from the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of being so completely and tenderly cared for.

“You feel good?” Wanda whispered, rinsing her hair with a pitcher of warm water.

“Wanda…” Natasha breathed, her voice thick. “I don’t think ‘good’ is a big enough word.”

Wanda smiled, her task complete. She set the sponge aside. Natasha’s body was clean, her muscles pliant, her mind blissfully quiet. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a warm, heavy-limbed languor. Wanda’s work was done. Almost.

She leaned over, her breasts pressing against the wet edge of the tub. She reached for the silver key that hung between them. “I believe I promised this would unlock your relaxation,” she murmured, her voice dropping an octave, becoming thick with promise. “But I have other keys. For other locks.”

She dipped the silver key into the hot water, then drew it slowly from the hollow of Natasha’s throat, down between her breasts, over her stomach. Natasha’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering open. The trail of the cool, wet metal on her heated skin was electric. Wanda drew it lower, circling her navel, before letting it trace the inside of her thigh.

“For instance,” Wanda purred, her eyes locking with Natasha’s, her own desire a palpable force in the room. “This one… this one unlocks the part of you that’s been screaming for me since you stepped through that door.”

Her free hand slid into the water, fingers ghosting over the freshly washed skin of Natasha’s thigh, moving purposefully higher. Natasha’s legs parted instinctively, her body arching in the water as Wanda’s fingers found her, already slick and waiting.

“Oh,” Natasha gasped, her head tipping back as Wanda’s thumb found her clit, beginning a slow, maddening circle. “Yes. That lock.”

Wanda leaned in and captured her mouth in a wet, searing kiss, her other hand still teasing her with the key. “Let me hear you,” she whispered against her lips, her fingers diving inside. “Let me hear you come unlocked.”

The water sloshed, echoing the frantic rhythm of Natasha's heart as Wanda’s thumb continued its hypnotic circles. Natasha's head was thrown back, her wet hair clinging to the edge of the tub. Her hands, which had taken down armies, gripped the smooth porcelain with white-knuckled intensity.

“Look at you,” Wanda whispered, her voice a low, throaty thrum of adoration. She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of Natasha’s ear. “The unbreakable Black Widow… so beautifully broken for me. You feel that, Tasha? How ready you are?”

Her fingers inside mimicked the promise of her words, sliding deep, then pulling back just enough to make Natasha whine, a frustrated, needy sound she rarely made.

“Wanda… please…” Natasha gasped, her hips lifting from the bottom of the tub, seeking more pressure, more friction. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing, my love. I’m worshipping,” Wanda corrected, her voice thick with desire. She increased the tempo, her thumb moving faster, her fingers pressing firmly against that perfect, hidden spot inside. “I’m reminding your body what it’s made for. It’s not just for fighting. It’s for this. For me. To feel this good.”

Natasha’s world was a swirling vortex of heat and water and Wanda’s voice. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for release. The last vestiges of the mission – the pain, the exhaustion, the cold numbness – were being systematically overwritten by this scorching, all-consuming pleasure.

“Do you feel how tight you get when I do that?” Wanda purred, curling her fingers in a deliberate, knowing way that made Natasha cry out. “You’re gripping me so perfectly. Like you never want to let me go. Let me have you, Natasha. Give it to me. All that control you hold onto so tightly… let it snap. For me.”

She leaned down, capturing Natasha’s mouth in a deep, wet kiss while her hand moved with relentless, unerring precision. She felt the moment the tension in Natasha’s body coiled into a final, unbearable knot. She felt the tremors start in her thighs.

“That’s it,” Wanda murmured against her lips. “Come for me, moya zvezda. Fall. I’ll catch you.”

And with one last, firm press, Natasha shattered.

It wasn’t a loud explosion, but a deep, seismic implosion that stole her breath and locked every muscle in her body. A sharp, strangled cry was swallowed by Wanda’s mouth as her back arched out of the water, her body held rigid in the throes of a climax so powerful it felt like it was resetting her soul. The world went white behind her eyes, and there was nothing but the feeling of Wanda’s hand inside her, Wanda’s mouth on hers, Wanda’s love surrounding her.

She came down in waves, her body going boneless, slumping back into the water with a long, shuddering sigh. Wanda held her, her fingers gentling to a soft caress, her lips pressing soft, reassuring kisses to her cheek, her jaw, her temple.

“So beautiful,” Wanda whispered, her voice filled with awe as she held Natasha through the last of the aftershocks. “You did so well, my love.”

She pulled the plug, and the water began to drain with a soft gurgle. Natasha could barely move, her limbs heavy with a blissful, boneless exhaustion that was the polar opposite of how she’d felt an hour ago.

When the tub was empty, Wanda stood. “Alright, my warrior. Up you get.”

Natasha made a weak attempt to move, and Wanda laughed softly. She leaned down, wrapping her arms under Natasha's back and knees. With a strength that always surprised Natasha, Wanda lifted her from the tub as if she weighed nothing. Natasha’s head lolled against her shoulder, her arms wrapping loosely around Wanda’s neck.

Wanda carried her, dripping and pliant, to where a huge, impossibly soft towel was waiting. She didn't just wrap her in it; she cocooned her, lovingly drying every inch of her skin with a tenderness that made Natasha’s heart ache. The scars, the bruises, the new cuts; Wanda’s hands moved over all of it with the same gentle reverence.

Finally, dry and wrapped in the plush towel, Natasha was lifted again. Wanda carried her out of the steam-filled bathroom and into the softly lit bedroom. The bed was ready, the sheets crisp and cool.

Wanda laid her down gently, brushing the damp hair from her forehead. She pulled the covers up to Natasha’s chin, tucking her in like the most precious thing in ger life. She leaned down, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her lips.

“Sleep now, my love,” Wanda whispered, her green eyes shimmering with an emotion so deep it was bottomless. “I’ve got the watch tonight. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Natasha’s eyes were already closing, the last coherent thought drifting through her mind as she fell into the deepest, most peaceful sleep she’d had in years: Home. I’m finally home.

(...)

Sleep released Natasha gently, like a lover letting go of an embrace. There was no jarring alarm, no lingering ache, just a slow, peaceful drift back to consciousness. She woke up feeling... whole. The deep, bone-bruising exhaustion was a distant memory, replaced by a profound sense of rest that felt utterly foreign and deeply welcome.

The room was dim, the floating candles having long since winked out, replaced by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately found Wanda, curled up in a plush armchair across the room, a book resting in her lap. She wasn’t wearing the crimson robe anymore, but a simple silk pajama set, her hair tied in a loose bun. She looked serene, beautiful, and the sight sent a wave of warmth through Natasha’s chest.

Then, a new scent registered. Not just the lingering lavender from the bath, but something rich and savory. Natasha pushed herself up on her elbows, the heavy towel falling away. On the table beside the bed sat a tray laden with food—a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, and a tall glass of vibrant orange juice. A meal fit for a starving soldier.

And that’s when the guilt hit her, a sharp, unpleasant pang in her gut.

Wanda had done all of this. The bath. The massage. The mind-blowing release. She had dressed herself up like a sin carved from ruby and lace, a fantasy made flesh just for Natasha. And what had Natasha done? She’d passed out. She’d let her exhaustion win, leaving her magnificent, loving girlfriend to… what? Put away her lingerie and read a book alone?

“I fell asleep,” Natasha said, her voice a rough whisper in the quiet room. It sounded like an apology. It was.

Wanda looked up from her book, her expression immediately softening as she saw Natasha was awake. She placed a bookmark between the pages and set it aside. “You were supposed to,” she said, her voice a low, warm murmur. “That was the point, Natasha. For you to rest.”

“No,” Natasha insisted, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She ignored the food, her gaze fixed on Wanda, her face a mask of genuine regret. “You… you went to all that trouble. You were wearing… God, Wanda, you were wearing that robe . The lingerie. The stockings, the key… you were art. And I just… I let you put me to bed like a child.”

Wanda rose and crossed the room in a few fluid steps, kneeling in front of Natasha. She took Natasha’s hands in hers, her thumb stroking over her knuckles. “Hey,” she said softly, forcing Natasha to meet her eyes. “Listen to me. Taking care of you, watching you finally let go and sleep without nightmares… for me, that was the main event. We had a good time in the bath, didn’t we?” A playful spark lit her eyes. “I certainly did.”

“We did,” Natasha admitted, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “It was… more than good. But I wasn’t all here. I was a ghost running on fumes. I want to appreciate it. I want to appreciate you . Properly.” Her grip tightened on Wanda’s hands, her voice dropping, losing its apologetic tone and gaining a raw, demanding edge. “Wanda.”

The shift was instantaneous. Wanda’s playful smile faltered, replaced by a look of rapt attention.

“Put it on again,” Natasha commanded, her voice low and firm. “For me. Right now. The red robe. The gloves. The stockings and the garter belt. Everything. I want to see you again, but this time… I’m awake.”

The air in the room thickened, charged with a new, potent energy. Wanda’s lips parted, a soft, surprised breath escaping. Then, her mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile that was pure temptation. Her eyes darkened, the green turning into a deep, knowing forest green.

She leaned in, her lips ghosting over Natasha’s. “You were exhausted a couple of hours ago,” she purred, a challenge and a promise in her tone. “Are you sure you have the stamina for what happens when I put that outfit on?”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. She met Wanda's gaze, her own eyes burning with a fierce, rekindled fire.

“Try me.”

Wanda’s smile widened. She rose to her feet, her movements a deliberate, sensual sway. “Alright,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper that made the hairs on Natasha’s arms stand up. “But your dinner is going to get cold.”

She walked towards the closet, pausing at the door to look back over her shoulder, her eyes full of sin and love.

“I’ll be right out. Don’t you dare fall asleep this time.”

Natasha didn't move from her spot on the bed. She watched the closet door with the focused intensity of a sniper watching a target. She reached for the tray, her movements economical and purposeful. She took a long, deep drink of the orange juice, the cool, sweet liquid a welcome shock to her system. Then she picked up the steak knife and fork and began to eat, her eyes never leaving the closet. She ate with a speed and efficiency that spoke of years of hurried meals in war zones, but her mind was entirely present. She was fueling up. Preparing.

The quiet click of the closet door opening made her pause, a piece of perfectly seared steak halfway to her lips. She set the fork down, her meal forgotten.

Wanda emerged from the shadows of the closet, and the air crackled. The lamplight caught the deep crimson of the robe, making it shimmer like wine held up to a flame. She had put it all back on. The sheer fabric floated around her, hinting at the black lace and pale skin beneath. The garter belt clasped the tops of the thigh-high stockings, a promise of sin and silk. The elegant gloves covered her hands, and the silver key lay nestled in the hollow of her throat, a silent, tantalizing invitation.

She walked towards the bed, not with the gentle uncertainty of before, but with the slow, deliberate stride of a queen returning to her throne. She stopped at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped, a faint, challenging smile on her lips.

Natasha’s throat went dry. Her heart hammered a powerful, steady rhythm against her ribs. This was no tired apparition; this was a goddess in the flesh, and Natasha was her sole disciple.

Slowly, Natasha slid off the bed and onto her knees on the floor in front of Wanda. She didn't touch her. She just looked up, her gaze tracing every line, every curve, every shadow.

“I am so sorry,” Natasha said, her voice a low, raw thing, filled with a sincerity that was almost painful. “I’m sorry I was too tired to see you. To properly appreciate this. Forgive me.”

Wanda’s smile softened, the challenge melting into pure, unadulterated love. She reached out, her gloved hand stroking Natasha’s cheek. “There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered. “But… if you insist on making it up to me…”

“I do,” Natasha interrupted, her voice firm. She took Wanda’s gloved hand and pressed a fervent kiss into the center of the palm. “Tonight is not about me. It’s not about my mission or my exhaustion. It’s about you. Let me worship you, Wanda. Let me show you what you deserve.”

She kissed her other gloved hand before her lips traveled higher, pressing against the sheer fabric covering Wanda's hip. She inhaled deeply, her senses filled with Wanda's scent. Her hands came to rest on Wanda's thighs, her thumbs stroking the silky material of the stockings.

“This,” Natasha murmured against her hip, “is a work of art. And you… you are a masterpiece.”

Her hands slid up, tracing the line of the garter straps to where they met the delicate lace of the panties. She didn't remove anything. Instead, she moved back to kneel before her, her eyes fixed on the silver key.

“You said this unlocks things,” Natasha whispered, her gaze hot.

Wanda’s breath hitched. “I did.”

Natasha reached up, her fingers brushing against Wanda’s skin as she carefully unclasped the necklace. She held the key in her palm for a moment, then looked back up at Wanda. “Tonight, it unlocks you. All of you. For me to adore.”

She set the key on the nightstand. Her worship would be done with her hands, her mouth. She returned her attention to Wanda’s body. She started with the gloves, taking the tip of each finger into her mouth, sucking gently on the fabric before pulling the glove off with her teeth. She did it for both hands, kissing the newly bared skin of each wrist, each palm, each finger.

Then she rose slightly, her mouth finding the hem of the robe. She took the tie in her teeth and pulled, letting the crimson chiffon fall open. It slid off Wanda’s shoulders, pooling at her feet like a sigh. Wanda stood before her now in only the black lace lingerie, the stockings, and the garter belt.

“God,” Natasha breathed, her eyes devouring her. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Or the life of you,” Wanda whispered back, her fingers tangling in Natasha’s hair.

Natasha’s hands went to the hooks of the garter belt, unfastening each one with painstaking care. She rolled the stockings down Wanda’s legs, agonizingly slowly, pressing kisses to every inch of newly revealed skin; the knee, the calf, the ankle. When Wanda stood completely bare from the waist down, Natasha didn’t stop. She pressed her face to the soft skin of Wanda's inner thigh, her lips moving higher.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured against her skin. “So perfect. I want to taste you. I want to spend the rest of the night right here, reminding you how perfect you are.”

Wanda’s fingers tightened in her hair, a silent plea. Her hips tilted forward, offering herself. “Then do it, Tasha,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Worship me.”

Natasha accepted the invitation. Her mouth closed over Wanda’s center, and a broken cry tore from Wanda’s throat. A soft, scarlet mist began to bleed from her fingertips, swirling in the air around them. Natasha dedicated herself to her task with a single-minded focus. Her tongue was an artist’s brush, painting strokes of pleasure, while her hands held Wanda’s hips, keeping her steady. She learned her rhythm, the specific pressure that made her gasp, the angle that made her back arch.

“That’s it,” Natasha praised between licks, her voice a muffled, guttural sound. “Come for me, Wanda. Scream for me. Show me how good my love feels.”

Wanda was lost in a world of pure sensation. Her head was thrown back, her body trembling violently. “Tasha… I’m… oh god… I’m so close…”

“I’ve got you,” Natasha promised. She quickened her pace, her mouth becoming more demanding, driving Wanda right to the edge and then pushing her over.

Wanda cried out, a raw, pure sound of ecstatic release that filled the room. Her magic flared, the red mist pulsing in time with the violent clenching of her muscles. Her body went rigid, and she collapsed forward, her weight supported only by Natasha’s shoulders as she rode out the powerful, soul-shaking orgasm.

Natasha held her, letting her tremble, whispering praises against her sweat-slick skin until she was calm again. Only then did she guide Wanda back onto the bed, laying her down among the pillows. Wanda looked at her, her eyes hazy and unfocused, her body completely boneless.

Natasha stripped off the remaining lace bra and her own towel, her body humming with a desperate, patient need. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Wanda’s hips.

“My turn to have you?” Wanda whispered, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.

Natasha leaned down, brushing their lips together. “Our turn,” she corrected. She settled down onto Wanda, sheathing herself against her slick, warm heat. Both of them groaned, a perfect harmony of pleasure and homecoming. “This time,” Natasha whispered, beginning to move in a slow, deep rhythm, “we do it together. Eye to eye. And I’m not letting you go until morning.”

The promise hung in the air, a sacred vow whispered in the space between heartbeats. Natasha kept the rhythm slow, a deep and deliberate claiming. Every push was a sentence; every retreat was a question. Do you feel this? Do you feel me? Do you know how much you are mine?

Wanda’s eyes, locked on hers, answered every one. They were dark pools of pleasure and adoration, her pupils blown wide. Her hands came up to frame Natasha’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheekbones. A faint, scarlet haze began to seep from her palms, not a torrent, but a gentle mist that swirled around Natasha’s head, smelling faintly of cinnamon and burnt sugar. It was the scent of Wanda’s pleasure, of her very soul reaching out.

“Stay with me,” Natasha commanded, her voice a low rasp. She leaned down, capturing Wanda’s mouth in a kiss that was as deep and rhythmic as the movement of her hips. She poured all her worship, all her apology, all her desperate, consuming love into it.

Wanda kissed her back with equal ferocity, her legs wrapping high around Natasha’s back, locking her in place, pulling her impossibly closer. “Nowhere else to go,” Wanda gasped against her lips when they broke for air. “I’m yours, Tasha. All yours. Take what you want.”

“I want all of it,” Natasha growled, her control starting to fray. The sight of Wanda beneath her, utterly undone, her body open and accepting, was the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever known. The slow, deliberate worship was rapidly giving way to a raw, desperate need. Her pace quickened, her thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. “I want to feel you come for me. I want to hear you scream my name when you do.”

“Yes,” Wanda whimpered, her head thrashing against the pillows. “Please…”

The soft red mist was no longer soft. It was a swirling vortex around them, a visible manifestation of the energy they were building. It clung to Natasha’s skin, warm and electric, sinking into her pores. She felt Wanda’s magic mixing with her own sweat, her own need, until she couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. They were becoming one thing in a storm of their own making.

Natasha could feel Wanda’s climax building, a familiar, exquisite tension coiling deep in her lover's belly. At the same time, her own release was a rushing tide, pulling her under. She drove into Wanda faster, chasing the peak, their bodies slapping together in a frantic, primal rhythm.

“Wanda, look at me,” Natasha ordered, her voice strained.

Wanda’s hazy eyes found hers again, and in them, Natasha saw her own wild reflection.

“Come with me, my love” Natasha pleaded, her last coherent thought before she was lost to sensation. 

She drove down one final time, deep and full, and the world exploded.

Wanda screamed her name, a high, keening sound of pure ecstasy as her inner muscles clamped down on Natasha in wave after powerful wave. Natasha roared, her own climax crashing over her a second later, a white-hot flood of release that stole the air from her lungs and the strength from her bones. The red mist around them flared into a brilliant, blinding nova of light, then vanished, leaving only the two of them, shuddering and slick with sweat in the dim lamplight.

Natasha collapsed onto Wanda, her forehead resting on Wanda’s shoulder, her entire body trembling with the aftershocks. She was utterly spent, but it was a glorious, fulfilling emptiness. She could feel Wanda’s heart hammering against her own, their ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room.

For a long time, they just lay there, tangled together, their bodies still intimately joined. Natasha pressed soft, exhausted kisses into the curve of Wanda’s neck.

“Did I make it up to you?” Natasha finally whispered, her voice rough.

Wanda’s arms, which had been clinging to her back, tightened their embrace. She let out a weak, breathless laugh that was the most beautiful sound Natasha had ever heard.

“Natasha,” Wanda murmured, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “You could have woken me up by burning toast, and it would have been enough.” She shifted slightly, her lips finding Natasha’s ear. “But this… this was better.”

Natasha smiled against her skin, a true, bone-deep smile of contentment. She shifted her weight off Wanda but didn’t pull away, instead settling beside her, pulling Wanda’s back against her chest and wrapping her arms firmly around her.

“I’m not letting go,” Natasha whispered, fulfilling her promise.

“Good,” Wanda sighed, already drifting back to sleep in the safety of her lover's arms. “Don’t.”

Chapter Text

The problem with the Avengers Tower was its distinct lack of truly private spaces. Every room was wired, every common area was, well, common . For months, Natasha and Wanda had navigated this domestic minefield with the skill of seasoned operatives, turning stolen moments into a clandestine art form. A lingering touch in a crowded elevator, a shared glance over Stark’s blustering during a debrief, a soft knock on a bedroom door long after the Tower had fallen silent. It was a secret woven into the fabric of their daily lives, a silent, thrilling agreement that what they had was theirs and theirs alone.

It was easier that way. Simpler. No questions from Steve, no teasing from Sam, and dear god, no insufferable, smug pronouncements from Tony. Their relationship was a quiet, warm fire they tended to in secret, and they weren’t ready to let the whole world use it to roast marshmallows.

The slip-up happened on a Tuesday. A painfully ordinary, boringly domestic Tuesday.

The communal kitchen was supposedly empty. Training was over, missions were nil, and most of the team was scattered to their own corners of the building. Wanda was standing at the counter, a mischievous smile on her face as she wordlessly coaxed coffee beans to grind themselves and hot water to pour into a French press. A soft, scarlet wisp of energy curled around her fingertips, her own personal brand of magic infusing the mundane task with a little bit of wonder.

Natasha, leaning against the doorframe and watching her, felt that familiar, powerful pull in her chest. She was a woman who dealt in absolutes, in hard facts and cold steel, but the sight of Wanda making coffee with a sprinkle of chaos magic made her entire worldview feel soft and pliable.

She pushed off the doorframe, her footsteps silent on the polished floor. Wanda didn't turn around, but the smile on her face widened. “Staring is rude, you know.”

“I’m not staring,” Natasha murmured, coming to a stop directly behind her. She wrapped her arms around Wanda’s waist, pulling her back against her chest and nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “I’m appreciating. It’s different.”

Wanda leaned back into the embrace with a soft sigh, her head tipping to the side to grant Natasha better access. “Appreciating what? My superior coffee-making skills?”

“Among other things,” Natasha whispered, pressing a soft kiss just below Wanda’s ear. Wanda shivered, the little red wisp of magic around the coffee press flaring brightly for a second before sputtering out.

“Tasha…” Wanda breathed, turning in her arms to face her. “Someone could walk in.”

“Let them,” Natasha said, her voice a low growl of affection. She cupped Wanda’s face, her thumb stroking her cheek. “I can’t help it. You’re just… standing there. Existing. It’s incredibly distracting.”

Wanda’s laugh was a soft, musical sound that Natasha wanted to bottle up and keep forever. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” Natasha corrected, before closing the small distance between them.

The kiss was gentle at first, a simple reunion. But it quickly deepened, charged with all the unspoken words and stolen moments of the past few months. Natasha backed Wanda up against the counter, her hands tangling in Wanda’s soft hair while Wanda’s arms wrapped around her neck, pulling her closer. The half-made coffee was completely forgotten. The world shrank to the two of them, to the feeling of their lips moving together, to the quiet, happy hum in Natasha’s heart.

They were so lost in their private world that they didn't hear the elevator ding. They didn't hear the footsteps. They didn't hear the argument.

“…and I’m just saying, if you recalibrate the guidance system with a non-Newtonian fluid dynamics model, you’d get at least a twelve percent increase in…”

“Tony, for the last time, you can’t fill the Quinjet’s landing gear with cornstarch and water…”

“Language, Steve. And it’s not cornstarch, it’s a proprietary polymer. Sam, back me up here…”

“Don’t drag me into your science fight. I’m just here for snacks.”

Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and Sam Wilson rounded the corner into the kitchen, mid-bicker. And then, all at once, they stopped.

The silence was absolute. It was so sudden and so profound that it was louder than their argument had been.

It was this silence that finally pierced Natasha and Wanda’s bubble. They pulled apart, but didn’t spring away from each other. Natasha turned her head slowly, still holding Wanda’s waist. Wanda, whose face was already flushed from the kiss, turned a shade of crimson that nearly matched her magic.

The three men stood frozen in a perfect tableau of shock. Steve’s jaw was slightly slack, his eyes wide with a sort of paternal, deer-in-the-headlights horror. He looked like he wanted to cover his own eyes. Sam’s mouth was open, his hand hovering mid-air as if he’d been about to gesture, and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated, ‘well-I’ll-be-damned’ disbelief.

And Tony… Tony’s face went through a rapid series of micro-expressions: surprise, confusion, calculation, and finally, the slow-dawning, catastrophic glee of a man who had just won a bet he didn’t even know he’d made.

He was the first to speak, breaking the sacred silence. He slowly raised a finger, pointing at the two women.

“HA!” he yelled, triumphant. “PAY UP, ROGERS! I KNEW IT!”

Steve flinched, turning an impressive shade of pink himself. “Tony! We didn’t- I didn’t bet on…” He looked from Natasha’s thunderous expression to Wanda’s mortified one and back again, wringing his hands. “Oh, dear. We were just, uh… we were looking for the… coffee. Filters. We’ll just go.”

Sam just shook his head slowly, a grin finally breaking across his face. “Man,” he said, looking at Natasha. “You work fast, Romanoff. I respect it. But also, really? In the main kitchen?”

Natasha ignored them all. She gave Wanda’s waist a reassuring squeeze before letting go and taking a half-step forward, fixing the trio with a glare so cold it could have flash-froze the coffee. Her voice, when she spoke, was dangerously calm.

“Is there a problem?”

Wanda, taking her cue from Natasha’s utter lack of panic, straightened up. She crossed her arms, and the French press on the counter behind her began to bubble ominously, the dark liquid swirling without any physical agitation.

The combination of Natasha’s death glare and Wanda’s casually threatening coffee maker was incredibly effective.

“Nope! No problem here!” Tony said quickly, putting his hands up in surrender, though he couldn't wipe the delighted smirk off his face. “Not a single problem. Just three guys, looking for filters. Which we’ve just remembered are on a completely different floor. A floor very far away from this one. Let’s go, team.”

He practically shoved Steve and Sam back towards the elevator, the three of them walking away without turning their backs, as if retreating from a pair of velociraptors.

The moment the elevator doors slid shut, the tension in the kitchen vanished. Wanda dropped her head onto Natasha’s shoulder, a muffled sound escaping her. For a second, Natasha thought she was crying, but then she realized Wanda was shaking with suppressed laughter. A slow smile spread across Natasha’s own face.

“So much for secret,” Wanda giggled into her shoulder.

Natasha wrapped her arms around her again, holding her tight. “Yeah, well,” she said, pressing a kiss to the top of Wanda’s head. “It was bound to happen. At least it was funny.”

Wanda looked up, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Tony is never going to let us hear the end of this.”

“No,” Natasha agreed, her smile turning wicked. “But that’s what training sessions are for.”

(...)

The unspoken agreement of secrecy lasted for approximately seventy-two hours after The Great Kitchen Incident of Tuesday. Once Tony Stark had something, he never let it go. He paraded his victory lap around the Tower, humming "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" whenever Natasha and Wanda entered a room together and loudly asking FRIDAY to "dim the lights and play some Barry White" in the middle of team briefings.

But the teasing was one thing. The noise was another.

Now that the secret was out, the need for silence was gone. The quiet, desperate moments in locked rooms were replaced by something far more honest, more liberated. And, as it turned out, much, much louder. Doors were no longer just closed; they were slammed shut with giddy urgency. Whispers were replaced with laughter, and soft sighs with unabashed, joyful cries. Their passion was no longer a flickering candle; it was a bonfire, and the rest of the Avengers were getting smoke in their eyes.

The breaking point came on a Friday morning. The team was gathered in the main conference room, ostensibly to discuss supply chain logistics for their next off-world jaunt. The real agenda, however, was written on their faces.

Clint looked haunted, nursing a giant mug of coffee like it was a holy relic. Sam was smirking, but his eyes were bloodshot. Steve was valiantly trying to focus on the presentation on the main screen, his jaw tight with secondhand embarrassment.

Natasha and Wanda strode in last, looking disgustingly radiant. They were bright-eyed, sharing a small, private smile, and practically glowing with that infuriating energy of the well and truly satisfied.

Tony, who had been uncharacteristically silent, slammed his hand down on the table, making everyone jump.

“RIGHT! THAT’S IT!” he declared, pointing an accusatory finger at the couple. “Conference adjourned. New topic of discussion: Operation Acoustic Serenity.”

Natasha raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Having trouble sleeping, Stark?”

Clint muttered into his mug, “Trouble? I thought someone was trying to assemble IKEA furniture with a jackhammer next to my bed last night. There were… rhythmic bangs.”

“I thought it was a firefight,” Sam added, leaning back in his chair. “I almost suited up. Heard someone screaming ‘Oh, God!’ and figured Thor had brought another space monster home.”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached out and laced her fingers with Natasha’s on the table, a silent act of solidarity.

“We’re happy for you, we really are,” Steve said, ever the diplomat, looking anywhere but at them. “It’s just… the walls in the residential wing are, ah, not as thick as one might hope.”

Tony clapped his hands together. “Precisely, Capsicle! Which is why I, as your benevolent landlord and resident genius, have taken it upon myself to solve this crisis of nocturnal cacophony.” He swiped a hand through the air, and a holographic blueprint materialized over the table. It showed the floor plans for Natasha’s and Wanda’s adjoining rooms.

“As of 0900 hours this morning,” Tony announced with the flair of a game show host, “a team of Stark Industries’ finest are installing a complete overhaul of your living quarters. I’m talking triple-paned acoustic glass, reinforced walls injected with a proprietary sound-dampening polymer foam, and vibranium-laced insulation panels. Your rooms will essentially be two cozy, sexy little Faraday cages. Nothing gets in, and more importantly,” he stared pointedly at them, “ nothing gets out.”

Natasha remained impassive, her expression unreadable. She squeezed Wanda’s hand, then leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Tony?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “I’m doing it because if I have to listen to one more headboard slam against a shared wall, I’m going to have FRIDAY start live-streaming the audio to the comms system as a ‘team-building exercise’.”

Wanda, who had been silent, finally spoke, her voice deceptively sweet. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Tony.” As she spoke, the lights in the conference room flickered violently, and Tony’s holographic display dissolved into a shower of glitching pixels. He yelped and shook his hand as if he’d been shocked.

Natasha’s lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. “So you’re soundproofing our rooms,” she stated, less a question and more a confirmation. “For us.”

“For us ,” Tony corrected, rubbing his tingling hand. “So we can sleep. And work. And not have to picture… well, you know.”

Natasha leaned back in her chair, a slow, wicked smile finally breaking across her face. She looked at Wanda, whose blush had been replaced by a matching look of pure mischief.

“Fair enough,” Natasha said, her voice full of unspoken promises. “Let us know when they’re done.”

Later that evening, Natasha stood with Wanda in the doorway of her newly upgraded room. It looked the same, but it felt different. The air was still, heavy with a profound silence. Wanda closed the door, and the click of the latch was a dull, muted thud. The usual hum of the Tower was gone. They were in their own private universe.

Wanda turned, wrapping her arms around Natasha’s neck, a playful glint in her eyes. “So,” she whispered, the sound startlingly clear in the quiet. “A cozy, sexy little Faraday cage, huh?”

Natasha grinned, her hands finding Wanda’s waist and pulling her flush against her. “That’s what he said.” She leaned in, her lips brushing against Wanda’s ear.

“I guess we should probably test it out,” she murmured, her voice a low rumble. “You know… for science. We wouldn’t want Tony’s hard work to go to waste.”

Wanda’s answering laugh was unrestrained, joyful, and wonderfully, gloriously loud. And this time, no one else could hear it at all.

“So,” Natasha murmured against Wanda’s lips, her voice a low, rumbling promise. “Total silence.”

“A blank canvas,” Wanda breathed back, a wicked little smile playing on her mouth. “What kind of noise should we make first?”

Natasha chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. She began to walk Wanda backward toward the bed, never breaking their connection. “I have a few ideas.” Her fingers went to the buttons of Wanda’s shirt, undoing them one by one with agonizing slowness. “I was thinking we start with a baseline test.”

“A baseline?” Wanda asked, her breath hitching as Natasha’s knuckles brushed the bare skin of her stomach.

Natasha kissed Wanda, her lips sliding against hers in something that felt like a choreographed dance, rehearsed for months. But this time it was slow, deep, and utterly confident. It was a kiss that owned the space, that knew it had all the time in the world. Natasha’s hands tangled in Wanda’s hair, tilting her head back, while Wanda’s arms wrapped around Natasha’s neck, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Mmm,” Natasha confirmed, as she pulled away, slightly breathless, pushing the open shirt off Wanda’s shoulders. “A simple moan. Maybe a gasp. Let’s see how the room handles the appetizer before we move on to the main course.” She knelt, her hands gliding down to the waistband of Wanda’s jeans. She unfastened them and slid them down her legs, her gaze locked on Wanda’s face the entire time.

Wanda stood before her in nothing but a simple lace bra and panties, looking like a goddess carved from moonlight. A soft, scarlet glow began to emanate from her palms, bathing them in a sensual, otherworldly light.

“I don’t know if I can start small,” Wanda whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

“That’s alright,” Natasha said, rising to her feet. She pressed Wanda back onto the bed, her body following to hover over her. “I’ll just have to be persuasive.”

She leaned down, her lips bypassing Wanda’s and tracing a hot path down her throat, over her collarbone. “Let’s test the bedframe, shall we?” she whispered against Wanda’s skin. She rocked her hips forward just once, a deliberate, grinding motion that made the bed let out a loud, protesting creak.

Wanda gasped, her back arching.

“There it is,” Natasha praised, her voice a velvety purr in the silence. “Test number one, a success.” She moved lower, her mouth closing over the peak of Wanda’s breast through the lace. She suckled gently, and Wanda cried out, a sharp, lovely sound. “Test number two. Excellent data.”

She stripped the remaining lace from Wanda’s body until she was completely bare, stretched out on the sheets and bathed in the glow of her own magic. Natasha looked down at her, her eyes dark with a possessive, adoring fire.

“Now for the real experiment,” Natasha said, moving between Wanda’s thighs. “I want you to scream for me, Wanda. I want you to be so loud you think you could shatter the windows. Let’s see if Tony really is as good as he says he is.”

“Tasha…” Wanda pleaded, her hands fisting in the sheets.

Natasha’s mouth descended, and the world dissolved. She worshipped Wanda with a focused intensity that bordered on reverence. Her tongue was deft and sure, her lips firm. She learned her body all over again in this new, silent world. She felt the moment Wanda’s control began to slip, the tremors that started in her thighs.

“That’s it, my love,” Natasha murmured against her, not letting up for a second. “Don’t hold back. No one can hear you. Let go for me. Be loud.”

Natasha's tongue returned to Wanda's core, relentless, insatiable. She gripped Wanda's thighs, her fingertips digging into the skin in a vain attempt to keep her in place, but Wanda's hips were already desperately seeking more. Natasha smiled against the wet folds, her tongue moving from Wanda's tight entrance to her clit, lingering there as two fingers slid inside her.

Wanda moaned loudly, her hips rocking against Natasha's face and hand, the fingers inside her taking her to paradise, and when Natasha curled her fingers, hitting that spot, Wanda saw stars. When her climax hit, she screamed. It was a raw, unrestrained sound of pure, soul-shattering pleasure, the kind of sound they had always been forced to stifle with pillows and bitten lips. Her magic exploded from her, a swirling vortex of scarlet light that filled the room, harmless but brilliant.

Natasha held her through it, listening to every beautiful, broken cry until the last shudder had passed. She moved up to lie beside her, kissing her sweat-slick temple.

“Well,” Natasha said, her voice breathless. “I think we can confirm the soundproofing works.”

Wanda let out a weak, breathless laugh. She turned, her eyes hazy with pleasure. She kissed Natasha slowly, both of them moaning at the taste of Wanda in their mouths. Her hand slid down Natasha's side, her fingers feathering until they reached her breasts.

"Wanda," Natasha moaned, her body instinctively leaning closer to her girlfriend's touch.

"I want to feel you," Wanda whispered against Natasha's lips, capturing them in a slow but teasing kiss.

Her fingers brushed against Natasha's nipple before she lightly squeezed her breast in her hand, then tugged lightly on it, making Natasha moan loudly.

"Fuck, Wanda."

"This is it, my love, my turn to make sure the new soundproofing system works."

Natasha laughed, a rare sound, usually reserved for Wanda. Caused by Wanda.

“I want to hear you, too,” she said, her voice a sultry purr. She straddled Natasha’s hips, the scarlet magic still clinging to her skin like liquid silk. "You know how much I love hearing you cum for me."

She kissed Natasha once more before beginning to trail kisses down her body, her tongue and lips trailing from her jaw to her throat, and then taking her breast in her mouth, her tongue flickering against the nipple and then giving equal attention to the other before continuing her path downward.

The entire time, Wanda's eyes remained locked on Natasha's, her lips curling into a smile with her girlfriend's every expression. Wanda licked her way down to Natasha's navel, her hands gliding over the skin with a reverence only those in love could understand. When her hand reached the scar on Natasha's stomach, Wanda stopped her descent to place a lingering kiss there, her eyes never leaving Natasha's, and then she resumed her descent until she reached her wet center.

She licked Natasha's wet folds before sliding her tongue inside. She smiled against the wet folds and redoubled her efforts, moaning when she felt Natasha's hands in her hair, holding her in place as her girlfriend's hips rocked.

Wanda knew it wouldn't be long before Natasha came, but she had something else in mind. Reluctantly, she pulled away, earning a disapproving groan from Natasha and an adorable expression of disbelief.

"Easy, my love," Wanda smiled, moving upward again. "I have something in mind for us," she whispered, her lips brushing Natasha's as she settled between her girlfriend's legs.

Natasha's eyes flashed with recognition, and a mischievous smile spread across her lips, but it quickly turned into a moan when she felt Wanda's soaked core against her own.

Wanda didn't start slow. She met Natasha’s hungry gaze and began to ride her with a powerful, steady rhythm, taking them both high and fast. Their wet centers sliding against each other, eliciting moans and gasps from both of them.

“Louder,” Wanda commanded, a fierce smile on her face. “I want to hear it.”

Natasha reached up, her hands gripping Wanda’s hips, pulling her down harder, meeting her thrust for thrust. “Wanda!” she gasped, her own control snapping.

This was what freedom felt like. It was the slam of their bodies together, the squeak of the bedframe, the uninhibited cries that filled their private world. It was a chaotic, glorious symphony of pleasure.

“Right there,” Natasha growled, her head thrown back. “God, yes, don’t stop.”

“Never,” Wanda promised, leaning down to capture her mouth in a searing kiss as their pace became a frantic, desperate race to the edge.

They came together, a simultaneous explosion of sound and sensation. Natasha’s guttural roar was swallowed by Wanda’s ecstatic scream, their names shouted into the perfect, unbreachable silence of the room. The red light of Wanda’s magic pulsed, bathing them in its brilliant glow before fading, leaving them tangled and panting in the dark.

For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Natasha lay with Wanda collapsed on top of her, her arms wrapped tightly around her lover's trembling body.

She pressed a kiss into Wanda’s damp hair.

“Okay,” Natasha finally managed to say, her voice wrecked. “It works.”

Wanda just hummed in agreement, her face tucked into Natasha’s neck, a sleepy, satisfied smile on her face. In their soundproof cage, they had finally found their sanctuary.

Chapter Text

The waterfront estate glittered under the weight of its own opulence, a sprawling monument to excess perched on the edge of the bay. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the ballroom, their glow bouncing off polished marble floors and the sequined gowns of the elite. The air was thick with the scent of overpriced perfume, roasted pheasant, and the faint tang of saltwater drifting in from the open terrace doors. The gala was a sensory overload, a perfect cover for the kind of deal Adrian Toomes was here to make; a deal the team was determined to dismantle.

On paper, the mission was insultingly simple: infiltrate the masquerade gala, identify Toomes’ buyer, record the transaction, and shut it down without causing a scene. But the reality was messier, as it always was when the team was involved. The ballroom buzzed with a thousand conversations, the clink of champagne flutes, and the occasional burst of laughter that sounded just a little too forced. The team was scattered across the room, each playing their part in the carefully choreographed chaos.

The ballroom was a sea of glittering masks and velvet finery, a swirling galaxy of champagne flutes and hushed, important whispers. An orchestra played a sweeping waltz from a gilded balcony, the music draping itself over the opulent scene like a silk sheet. It was the perfect hunting ground.

“Eyes up, team,” Steve’s voice murmured in their ears, crisp and professional through the comms. He was somewhere near the grand staircase, a stoic statue in a simple, elegant domino mask. “Toomes is here. FRIDAY confirmed his biometric signature when he arrived. We just need to find him and identify the buyer.”

“Copy that, Cap,” Sam’s voice crackled back. He was posted by the long French doors leading to the gardens. “I’ve got a whole lot of rich people looking rich. No obvious high-tech arms dealers yet.”

Tony, naturally, was holding court by the champagne fountain, his mask an absurdly intricate piece of brushed gold that probably had its own operating system. “Relax, Wilson. You can’t rush artistry. Or illegal weapons transactions. They require a certain… ambiance.”

“Visual on Toomes,” Clint’s voice crackled, dry and staticky in their earpieces. He was perched somewhere in the rafters with the other cater-waiters, a perfect vantage point. “He’s by the ridiculous ice sculpture of a swan. Looks nervous.”

“Copy that,” Steve replied, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his fancy suit. “Tony, can you get closer?”

“Can I get closer?” Tony scoffed, swirling a glass of champagne. “Please, I am the party. Watch and learn, old man.”

Natasha wasn’t listening. Her focus was entirely on the woman beside her. Wanda was a vision of sin and shadow in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to her curves. Her mask was black lace, delicate and ornate, hiding her eyes but not the mischievous smile playing on her lips. Natasha, in a stark black dress with a thigh-high slit and a severe, spider-like mask, couldn’t seem to keep her hands to herself. Her fingers were linked with Wanda’s, her thumb stroking slow, hypnotic circles over Wanda’s knuckles.

“Are you scanning the crowd?” Wanda whispered, her voice a low hum that vibrated straight through Natasha’s hand.

“Diligently,” Natasha murmured back, her eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep of Wanda from head to toe. “And the view is spectacular.”

Wanda squeezed her hand, a soft blush rising on her cheeks that was, thankfully, hidden by her mask.

“I’m picking up elevated heart rates,” came Tony’s voice, dripping with sarcasm. “Right in your corner of the room. Are you two creating a localized emotional event, or did you spot the bad guy?”

“We’re maintaining our cover, Stark,” Natasha replied coolly, her free hand coming up to adjust a stray curl of Wanda’s hair, her fingers lingering on the soft skin of her neck. “We’re a couple, deeply in love, with eyes only for each other. It’s the perfect disguise.”

An audible, long-suffering sigh echoed through the comms. It was Sam. “Your ‘cover’ looks an awful lot like what you do back at the Tower when you think no one’s looking.”

Before Natasha could offer a suitably sharp retort, the waltz swelled. Wanda looked at her, her eyes sparkling behind the lace. “We can’t be a couple with eyes only for each other if we’re just standing here,” she pointed out.

Natasha was “adjusting” Wanda’s velvet mask. Her fingers lingered, tracing the curve of Wanda’s cheekbone, her thumb stroking softly just below her eye.

“Your mask was crooked,” Natasha murmured, her voice a low purr meant only for Wanda, but her mic picked it up for the whole team to enjoy.

“Was it?” Wanda breathed, her eyes sparkling. She leaned in, her lips ghosting near Natasha’s ear. “Or did you just want an excuse to touch me?” A faint wisp of scarlet magic, invisible to the crowd, snaked out and chilled the champagne flute in Natasha’s hand to a perfect, frosty temperature.

“Can you two stop flirting over the open comms?” Sam’s voice cut in, full of exasperation. He was trying to look inconspicuous while charming a senator’s aide. “Some of us are trying to overthrow a black-market arms dealer here.”

Natasha ignored him. She picked up a miniature quiche from a passing tray. “You haven’t eaten,” she said to Wanda, her expression one of mock seriousness. She brought the pastry to Wanda’s lips. Wanda took a delicate bite, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second too long.

“Oh, for the love of…” Tony groaned into the comm. “Are you feeding her? We’re on a mission, not a honeymoon.”

“An excellent tactical observation,” Natasha agreed solemnly. She led Wanda toward the dance floor, her hand sliding from Wanda’s to rest possessively on the small of her back. As they moved into the swirling crowd, Natasha leaned in, her lips brushing Wanda’s ear. “Besides, I’m getting tired of sharing you with them.”

The joke, however, was lost on Clint, who was perched somewhere in the rafters, a silent observer. “That’s it,” his voice snapped, devoid of all patience. “I’m tapping out. Can you two PLEASE focus on the mission and leave whatever this is you’re doing for later, when you’re locked in your room?”

A wicked smile touched Natasha’s lips. She met Wanda’s gaze over the top of her mask, a silent, shared laugh passing between them. Then, she pulled Wanda fully into her arms as the dance began.

For them, the music was a pretense. The crowd was a blur. The mission was a distant thought. The dance was a conversation held in the language their bodies knew best. Natasha’s hand was a firm, guiding pressure on Wanda’s back, her other hand holding Wanda’s as if she never intended to let go. For Wanda, it was the eye of the storm, a pocket of perfect, dizzying calm with Natasha as her anchor. The world could burn down around them, and as long as they were like this, it wouldn’t matter. She rested her head against Natasha’s shoulder, a soft, contented sigh escaping her.

It was a perfect moment. And that’s when Natasha saw it.

A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a predatory wolf mask. He wasn't looking at them, he was looking at Wanda. His gaze was a physical thing, a hungry, possessive stare that roamed over Wanda’s body as if he were taking her measurements.

Natasha’s entire posture changed. She went from pliant lover to coiled viper in a nanosecond. Her body went rigid, her hand tightening on Wanda’s waist.

“What is it?” Wanda murmured, feeling the shift instantly.

“Our dance is over,” Natasha said, her voice a low growl. She didn’t wait for a reply, spinning Wanda off the dance floor and pulling her with startling force toward the shadowed edge of the room. She found a secluded alcove, hidden behind a ridiculously large marble statue of some forgotten Greek god, and pushed Wanda into the darkness.

“Natasha, what–?”

Natasha pressed her flush against the cool marble wall, her body caging Wanda’s in. “The wolf,” Natasha snarled, her hand coming up to cup Wanda’s jaw, her thumb brushing her cheek. “He looked at you. He looked at you like you were his for the taking.”

A slow, delighted smile spread across Wanda’s face. She leaned into Natasha’s touch, her own hands coming up to rest on Natasha’s shoulders. “Oh,” she purred, her eyes glittering in the dim light. “Were you jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous,” Natasha lied, her eyes burning. “I get possessive.”

“Good,” Wanda breathed, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. She leaned in, her lips a hair's breadth from Natasha’s. “Because I have no interest in being taken. I’m already owned.”

The words shattered the last of Natasha’s restraint. She crushed her mouth to Wanda’s, the kiss a raw, desperate mix of anger and desire. It was a brand, a statement, a searing reminder of exactly who Wanda belonged to. Wanda melted into her, her arms wrapping around Natasha’s neck, pulling her closer, a soft moan of surrender and victory vibrating from her chest.

“Tasha, we’re working…” Wanda moaned as Natasha’s lips descended down her throat. 

"We have time," Natasha whispered against Wanda's skin, one of her hands sliding down her thighs. "You could at least wear a dress with a slit, right?" Natasha grumbled.

Tony’s voice was a annoyed hiss in the comm. “Are you KIDDING me? Right now? Of all the…”

“Uh, guys?” Steve’s voice, now laced with awkwardness. “Not to interrupt the… vigorous cover maintenance… but Natasha, your alcove gives you a perfect view of the east balcony. Toomes is there-”

But he was cut off by Clint. Clint, who had been their staunchest supporter. Clint, who was their best friend. Clint, who had finally, completely, run out of patience.

His voice was flat, deadpan, and echoed the exhaustion of a thousand tired fathers.

“Hey. Romanoff. Maximoff,” he said, his voice cutting through the channel like a thrown knife. “Can you two please focus on the mission and leave whatever this is that you’re doing for later, when you’re locked in your soundproof room? We’ve got a live arms deal happening ten feet from your love nest.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

In the alcove, Natasha pulled back. There wasn’t a hint of shame on her face, only pure, unadulterated amusement. She looked at Wanda, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing, and gave her a look that said, he has a point.

She pecked Wanda’s lips one last time. “Don’t finish that thought,” she whispered. “We’ll pick it up later.”

Then, she clicked her comm. Her voice was all business, as if the last five minutes had never happened.

“Apologies, Barton. We were creating a diversion.” She peered through the leaves of the fern. 

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes instantly cataloging the scene on the balcony. There he was. Adrian Toomes, wolf mask now hanging from his hand, talking animatedly to a woman in a silver fox mask.

She pressed one last, hard kiss to Wanda’s lips. “Duty calls,” she whispered, a promise of continuation in her eyes. She straightened her dress and stepped out of the alcove, once again the perfect, composed agent. She tapped her comm. “Target acquired. Moving in.”

Wanda remained in the shadows of the alcove, a predator in her own right. From her vantage point, she had a perfect view of the balcony where Toomes and his foxy buyer were finalizing their deal. She also had a perfect view of the three beefy security guards trying to look inconspicuous nearby. It was laughably easy.

She lifted a hand, her fingers splayed, and let her power bleed into the air. It wasn't a storm, not this time. It was a whisper, a fog. Three shimmering, almost invisible tendrils of scarlet mist detached from her fingertips, slithering like smoke through the throngs of oblivious party-goers. One by one, they reached their targets. The first guard, who was reaching for a canapé, suddenly paused, his eyes glazing over as he leaned against a pillar and slid into a boneless, drunken-looking slump. The second guard’s head simply dropped to his chest as if he’d been overcome by a sudden, intense wave of boredom. The third, standing nearest the balcony doors, just smiled vaguely and closed his eyes, out cold before he even knew what was happening.

“Guards are sleeping on the job,” Wanda murmured into her comm, a smug little smile on her face. “The stage is yours.”

That was the only cue Natasha needed. She emerged from the adjacent shadow, a black wraith moving with lethal purpose. Tony fell into step beside her, adjusting his cufflinks. They looked like any other pair of powerful guests about to interrupt a business rival.

“Adrian Toomes,” Tony said, his voice cheerful and utterly devoid of warmth. “Fancy seeing you here. I love what you’ve done with your face. Oh, wait, that’s just a mask.”

Toomes spun around, his face paling. The buyer, the woman in the silver fox mask, instinctively took a step back, her hand darting into her clutch.

Big mistake.

Natasha moved so fast she was a blur. She crossed the space in two silent strides. Her hand shot out, not for Toomes, but for the woman. She grabbed the buyer’s wrist, twisting it with a sickening crack of bone. The small, high-tech pistol clattered to the marble floor. As the woman crumpled with a silent scream, Natasha pivoted. Before Tony could do anything, Toomes had just enough time to raise his fists before Natasha’s leg swept out, hooking behind his knee and sending him crashing backward. She was on him in an instant, her knee pressing into his throat, one hand expertly patting him down for weapons.

The entire exchange took less than five seconds. It wasn’t a fight; it was a deletion.

From her hiding spot, Wanda felt a familiar, coiling heat low in her belly. Her breath hitched. There was nothing, nothing, in the world hotter than watching Natasha work. The sheer, brutal efficiency of her violence, the deadly grace in her every movement; it was the most potent aphrodisiac imaginable.

“Falcon, you have incoming,” Natasha said into her comm, her voice perfectly calm as she hauled Toomes to his feet. Tony did the same with the whimpering buyer.

“And you two are taking a little flight,” Tony chirped, pushing the woman toward the balcony railing.

With a coordinated, unceremonious heave-ho, they tossed both villain and client over the edge. For a split second, they plummeted toward the manicured gardens below, before the dark, winged shape of the Falcon swooped in from beneath, grabbing them in a tangle of grappling lines and soaring silently away into the night.

“Well,” Tony said, dusting off his hands. “That was tidy. I'm always happy when I don't have to do anything and just play the billionaire," He said, rolling his eyes. "Good job, Romanoff," he said, handing her a glass of champagne.

Natasha accepted the glass and downed the entire contents in one gulp. Her eyes met Wanda's, who was approaching from her hiding spot, and she extended her hand, her fingers intertwining with Wanda's with the ease and familiarity of someone who had been doing this every day for months.

Steve and Clint had already vanished, melting back into the crowd and toward the exits. 

(...)

Aboard the Quinjet, the atmosphere was relaxed. Toomes and his buyer were securely trussed up in the back, watched over by a stoic Steve. Clint was piloting, and Tony was already pulling up data on his holographic gauntlet.

Natasha had settled into one of the passenger seats, and before anyone could even suggest a debrief, Wanda had slipped right onto her lap, curling into her embrace as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and for them, it was. She wrapped her arms around Natasha’s neck, burying her face in the crook of her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her skin and perfume.

Natasha’s arms circled her waist, holding her securely. Her fingers began to trace lazy patterns on the exposed skin of Wanda’s back, just above the line of her crimson dress. They were in their own bubble, a silent, private world.

Steve cleared his throat, holding a StarkPad. “Okay, decent work, everyone. The buyer was Silvija Sablinova, freelance broker. Toomes was selling her a new line of miniaturized anti-gravity projectors. According to FRIDAY…”

His voice faded into the background for Natasha and Wanda.

“That was impressive,” Wanda whispered, her breath hot against Natasha’s neck. “The way you took her down.”

Natasha’s fingers paused their stroking, then squeezed Wanda’s hip gently. “Just doing my job,” she murmured back, her lips brushing Wanda’s temple. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Very much,” Wanda confirmed, a shiver running through her. She tilted her head back, her eyes locking with Natasha’s. The look that passed between them was electric, full of the promises made in the alcove and the certainty of their fulfillment.

“...and that’s when Sam swooped in,” Steve continued, completely oblivious. “Flawless execution, Sam.”

“I do what I can,” Sam’s voice replied from the front. “Would have been easier if our primary assets hadn’t been playing tonsil hockey in the corner for twenty minutes.”

Wanda’s head was resting on Natasha’s shoulder, her eyes closed, while Natasha idly played with her fingers, tracing patterns over her knuckles. They were back in their bubble, a silent, two-person island in a sea of annoyed superheroes.

Tony smirked. “Well, that was an operational success, except for the part where we almost missed our chance thanks to Romeo and Juliet over there.”

Natasha just looked at him, not dignifying him with a response.

“You know,” Sam chimed in, leaning forward. “I think we need to establish some new ground rules. Like, maybe a one-kiss-per-mission limit?”

“That seems unfair,” Wanda murmured, her voice sleepy. “It was a very long mission.”

Steve, ever the peacemaker, sighed. “Your synergy is undeniable, and your takedown was flawless. We just need to trust that you’re engaged, even when it looks like you’re… not.” He looked pained even saying it.

It was Clint who summed it all up. He was slumped in a chair now, having put the ship on autopilot, looking a decade older than when they’d left. “Engaged? Steve, they’re engaged. I don’t mean on the mission.” He pointed a weary finger at them. “You two are a walking, talking rom-com montage that occasionally stops to break bones. It’s exhausting. And disgusting. And if you weren’t so good at the bone-breaking part, I’d eject you both right now.”

Natasha finally opened her eyes. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. She looked at Clint, then at the others. She arched an eyebrow at Clint almost as if to say "don't make me call Laura," and then looked at Tony meaningfully, and he just held up his hands in surrender. Then she leaned over and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to Wanda’s temple, a final, perfect act of defiance.

A collective groan echoed through the jet.

(...)

Back at the Tower, the prisoners were handed off, and the team dispersed with tired nods and mumbled goodnights. Tony, Sam, and Clint made a beeline for the bar. Steve headed for the gym to work off his secondhand frustration.

Natasha and Wanda walked down the quiet residential hallway, their footsteps in sync. The silence was comfortable, familiar. When they reached Natasha’s door, she unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing the heavy, sound-dampened room within.

She stepped aside, holding the door for Wanda. As Wanda passed her, Natasha’s hand found the small of her back, just as it had in the alcove. A jolt, familiar and electric, passed between them.

Natasha closed the door, the latch clicking with a dull, satisfying thud that sealed them off from the world. The Tower, the team, the mission: it all faded away.

She walked up behind Wanda, wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her back against her chest. She nuzzled into her hair, inhaling her scent.

“Now,” Natasha whispered, her voice a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through Wanda’s entire body. “I believe I told you not to finish a thought.”

Wanda tilted her head back, a slow, languid smile gracing her lips. “You did.”

“Remind me what it was.”

Wanda turned in her arms, a slow, deliberate movement that brought them chest to chest. Her eyes, dark and knowing, held Natasha’s. A sly, beautiful smile touched her lips.

“My thought?” she whispered, her voice a velvety tease. “I was thinking about how much I enjoy it when you get jealous.” She raised a hand to cup Natasha’s jaw, her thumb stroking the sharp line of it. “That look in your eye when you pulled us out from that dance floor… it’s my favorite.”

A low growl rumbled in Natasha’s chest. She leaned in, capturing Wanda’s lower lip between her own for a moment before releasing it. “Is that so?” she murmured, her own smile turning predatory. “You like it when I’m possessive?”

“I like knowing I’m yours,” Wanda corrected, her voice dropping, losing its playful edge and taking on a raw, vulnerable sincerity. “So completely that you can’t stand anyone else even looking.”

“Good,” Natasha rasped, her control fraying. That confession, so open and trusting, was the only permission she needed. “Because no one else is looking. It’s just me.”

She backed Wanda toward the bed, her movements fluid and certain. She didn't break eye contact as she slowly slid Wanda's dress off her body, letting it slide down her skin until it pooled at her feet. "So beautiful." Natasha whispered, looking at Wanda, naked, before her.

"Is that so?" Wanda said, her voice hoarse. "You didn't see the way that woman was looking at you while you danced with me." Her hands were on Natasha's face, caressing her cheek. "But I did." The jealousy in Wanda's voice matched Natasha's earlier one. 

“I was creating a diversion,” Natasha said, her voice dropping lower as she knelt in front of Wanda, pressing her face on her thighs, her hands slowly caressing the skin, her lips following up high. “But the real distraction was you. Standing there, in that dress, looking like you owned the entire world.” She looked up, her gaze burning. “But you don’t. You own mine. And I own yours.”

Wanda shivered, standing before her in nothing but shadow and the faint, pulsing scarlet light that had begun to bleed from her fingertips. “Show me,” she whispered, the words both a plea and a command. “Remind me who I belong to.”

Natasha rose, pressing Wanda onto the bed and following her down, caging her with her body. Without taking her eyes off Wanda, Natasha kissed her throat, her tongue sliding between the valley of her breasts before taking a nipple between her lips, her tongue flickering over it until it hardened, and then she gave equal attention to the other before continuing her descent down Wanda's body. “I’m going to do more than remind you,” she promised, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of Wanda’s inner thigh. “I’m going to brand it onto your soul.”

Her tongue traced a hot, wet path upward, and Wanda gasped, her fingers tangling in the sheets. Natasha was relentless, mapping every inch of her with a possessive, devouring hunger. She found her center and settled in, her name a constant, whispered prayer against Wanda’s slick flesh.

“Tell me you’re mine, Wanda,” she demanded between ministrations.

“Yours,” Wanda sobbed out, her back arching off the bed. “Tasha… please…”

“Please what?” Natasha taunted softly, her lips and tongue working their merciless magic. “Want me to stop?”

“Never,” Wanda cried.She cried out Natasha’s name, a high, keening sound of pure bliss that would have echoed down the halls on any other floor. Here, in their sanctuary, it was just for Natasha. A wave of red energy pulsed from her, washing over the room in a silent, vibrant flash.

Natasha’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile against Wanda’s skin. “Never,” she echoed, the word a purr of satisfaction. “Good answer.”

She took the word as a challenge, a green light. Her pace quickened, her tongue moving in ruthless, knowing circles while her thumb pressed down on the exquisitely sensitive bud of Wanda’s clit. The combination was devastating. Wanda’s hips began to move in a frantic, bucking rhythm, chasing the pleasure, trying to meet the relentless assault. She was on a razor’s edge, a breath away from shattering. Her entire body tensed, her toes curled, a sob of impending release building in her chest.

And then, it was gone.

Natasha pulled away completely. The sudden, shocking absence of her touch was a physical blow. Wanda cried out, a raw, frustrated sound of pure agony, her body still trembling on the precipice. She fell back against the sheets, panting, a string of incoherent pleas falling from her lips.

“Shhh, my love,” Natasha soothed, her voice a stark contrast to the beautiful torment she’d just inflicted. She moved up Wanda’s body, her hands stroking down her sides, her thumbs brushing the crests of her hips. She loomed over her, her face illuminated by the soft, disappointed glow of Wanda’s waning magic. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Wanda forced her heavy eyelids open. Natasha’s gaze was pure adoration, a worshipful fire that burned away the frustration and left only a deep, aching need. “Look at you,” Natasha whispered, her voice thick with awe. “So beautiful when you’re coming apart for me. So responsive. Did you know your magic flares brightest right before you come?”

Wanda nodded, her chest rising and falling, her whole body trembling, asking for more. Needing more. 

Natasha leaned down and kissed her, a deep, soul-stealing kiss. She let Wanda taste herself, taste the proof of her own undoing. “You are exquisite,” she murmured against her lips. “And you are all mine. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Wanda breathed, her hands coming up to fist in Natasha’s hair, pulling her down for another kiss, desperate and needy.

Natasha returned the kiss for a moment before pulling back, that sinful smile returning. “Good. Because we’re not done.”

She moved back down, her mouth reclaiming its prize with a renewed vigor. This time, there was no gentle exploration. Natasha knew the map by heart, and she went straight for the capital. Her tongue was a merciless weapon, but now she added her fingers to the assault. One slipped inside, then two, stretching Wanda, filling her, moving in a perfect counter-rhythm to the slick, frantic work of her mouth.

It was too much. Wanda’s senses overloaded. She was drowning in pleasure, her body no longer her own. It belonged to Natasha, an instrument she was playing with masterful, cruel precision. The scarlet mist in the room was no longer a soft glow; it was a swirling, crackling vortex, a hurricane of pure sensation. It wrapped around Natasha’s wrists, caressing the arms that were bringing Wanda such sweet agony.

“Tasha!” Wanda screamed, her back bowing off the bed at an impossible angle. This time there was no edge, no brink. There was only the fall. “I’m– I’m–!”

“I know,” Natasha grunted, her own movements becoming rougher, faster, driving Wanda over. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, Wanda. Come for me.”

The command shattered the last of her control. A raw, guttural scream was torn from Wanda’s throat, her own name a shredded prayer on Natasha’s lips. The world dissolved into a blinding flash of scarlet light as her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, soul-shaking cataclysm that went on and on. Her body convulsed around Natasha’s fingers, every muscle clenching, every nerve ending firing at once.

Natasha held her through it, her mouth never leaving her, swallowing Wanda’s cries and tasting her release. Only when the last shudder had wracked Wanda’s frame and the magical storm had receded to a gentle, pulsing glow did she finally move.

She slid up Wanda’s slick body and collapsed beside her, pulling the trembling witch into her arms. She wrapped her up completely, tangling their legs together, holding her as if she could absorb the aftershocks. She kissed Wanda’s sweat-damp temple, her cheekbone, her lips.

Wanda was boneless, pliant, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She looked up at Natasha, her eyes hazy with pleasure and adoration.

Natasha smiled, a soft, deeply satisfied expression. She brushed a stray strand of hair from Wanda’s face, her thumb caressing her cheek.

“Mine,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question or a demand. It was a statement of a fundamental, unshakeable truth. And Wanda’s exhausted, happy sigh was all the answer she needed.

For a long time, the only movement was the slow rise and fall of their chests. Natasha held Wanda, her body a warm, solid cage of contentment. She was the victor, the sated predator, and Wanda was her prize, pliant and boneless in her arms.

But then, something shifted.

It began as a subtle hum, a change in the energy of the room. The soft, ambient red glow that clung to the corners of the ceiling began to brighten, to coalesce. Wanda stirred in Natasha’s arms, not with the languid stretch of a sated lover, but with a slow, deliberate gathering of strength. The orgasm hadn’t just depleted her; it had supercharged her, filling her reserves with a humming, potent energy that now demanded release.

She lifted her head, her eyes, no longer hazy, meeting Natasha’s. They were dark, ancient, and full of a terrifying, beautiful purpose. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, a mirror of the one Natasha had worn moments before.

“My turn,” Wanda whispered, the words vibrating with contained power.

Before Natasha could even process the shift, Wanda moved. With a fluid, hypnotic grace that defied the exhaustion that should have claimed her, she rolled, reversing their positions in one seamless motion. Now it was Wanda who loomed over her, her dark hair curtaining her face, her body a perfect silhouette against the pulsing scarlet light. Natasha found herself pressed into the mattress, not by force, but by the sheer, sudden weight of Wanda’s intent.

Natasha’s instinct was to fight, to flip them back, to reclaim control. But she stilled, intrigued. Her lips curved into a curious, arrogant smirk. “Oh? And what do you think you’re going to do?”

Wanda didn’t answer with words. She leaned down, her mouth claiming Natasha’s in a kiss that was the polar opposite of the ones before. It wasn’t conquering or possessive. It was reverent. It was worship. Her lips were soft, her tongue a gentle explorer mapping the seam of Natasha’s mouth before slipping inside, not to plunder, but to praise.

As she kissed her, Wanda’s magic answered the unspoken call. The scarlet mist flowed from her fingertips, not as a storm, but as a caress. It slithered down Natasha’s body like warm silk, a second touch that traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her waist, the faint, silvery lines of old scars on her stomach. Natasha gasped into the kiss. The magic didn't just touch her skin; it seeped into her, warming her from the inside out, making every nerve ending stand at attention.

Wanda broke the kiss and began her descent. Her mouth followed the path her magic had blazed. She kissed the scars on Natasha’s abdomen, her tongue flicking over them, honoring the history written on Natasha’s skin. She moved lower, her lips and her magic working in tandem, a dual assault of heat and sensation.

“Wanda…” Natasha breathed, her smug confidence beginning to fray. Her fingers twitched, wanting to tangle in Wanda’s hair, to control, to guide.

“Shhh,” Wanda murmured against her skin, her voice a low, hypnotic thrum. “Let me have you. Let me thank you.”

Wanda’s hands came to rest on Natasha’s hips, holding her in place as her mouth finally reached its destination. Natasha’s breath hitched, her body going rigid with anticipation.

What Wanda did next was not a seduction; it was a symphony. Her mouth was divine, her tongue masterful, but it was the magic that tipped Natasha into a new realm of sensation. As Wanda’s tongue flicked against her clit, a tendril of scarlet energy wrapped around her other side, a ghostly tongue mimicking the real one. Another wisp of magic slid between her legs, teasing her entrance, while Wanda’s own fingers slipped inside her, stretching her, filling her. Natasha was being touched everywhere at once, from all sides, by both flesh and energy.

She was surrounded. Overwhelmed. Drowning.

A choked, unfamiliar sound was torn from Natasha’s throat. Her control, the iron fortress she had spent a lifetime building, was being dismantled brick by brick. Her hips, which she had tried to keep still, began to lift off the bed, a desperate, silent plea.

Wanda felt the shift, the moment the mighty Black Widow began to break. She pressed her advantage. Her mouth became more demanding, her fingers faster, her magic more insistent. She watched Natasha’s face, saw her eyes roll back, her jaw go slack. She was a vision of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“That’s it, my love,” Wanda whispered, her breath hot against Natasha’s slick flesh. “Come undone for me. Show me how much you love it.”

The words, the worship, the all-encompassing pleasure—it was too much. Natasha’s back arched violently, a raw, guttural cry ripping through the room, a sound of absolute surrender she had made for no one else. Her orgasm was a lightning strike, a system failure, a complete and total loss of control that left her shuddering, gasping, and utterly broken in the most beautiful way.

Wanda rode out the aftershocks, her mouth and hands gentle now, soothing her descent. When the last tremor faded, she flowed back up Natasha’s body and gathered her into her arms. She settled onto the pillows, pulling Natasha’s head onto her chest, her fingers stroking through her sweat-damp red hair.

Natasha was limp, her breathing ragged, her face buried against the soft skin of Wanda’s breast. She was utterly sated, completely owned.

Wanda pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a soft smile on her lips as she looked at the woman she had so thoroughly unmade.

“Mine,” she whispered into the quiet of the room, echoing Natasha’s words, and the steady, contented beat of Natasha’s heart against her chest was the only reply she needed.

Chapter Text

The bass from Tony’s ridiculously expensive sound system was a phantom heartbeat thrumming through the polished floor of the communal level, up through the soles of Wanda’s boots, and straight into her body. Avenger's parties were a unique brand of chaos; part PR event, part high-stakes drinking game, and mostly Tony’s excuse to show off his latest playlist. 

Across the crowded room, Wanda watched Natasha lean against the bar, a crystalline glass of what looked like very expensive vodka held loosely in her fingers. She was a slash of black against the glittering New York skyline, laughing at something Clint was saying, her head tilted just so.

A familiar, frustrating ache bloomed in Wanda's chest. It was a constant thrum beneath the surface of their every interaction, this magnetic pull towards the spy that she could never, ever act on. It was in the way their hands brushed when passing a file, the lingering eye contact across the training mats, the soft smiles that were reserved only for each other. 

The entire team saw it, their knowing looks and not-so-subtle comments a constant source of mortification. Sam had once clapped her on the back and said, “Just ask her to spar, Maximoff. And for god’s sake, use your words,” before dodging a hex with a laugh. Useless. They were both so useless.

Tonight, however, was different. Maybe it was the third glass of champagne, a sweet, bubbly poison that had gone straight to her head, or maybe it was the way Natasha’s green eyes kept finding hers across the room, a silent, smoldering question in their depths. Fueled by liquid courage, Wanda pushed off the wall she’d been occupying and started weaving through the crowd.

She found her opening when Clint was pulled away by Laura, leaving Natasha momentarily alone. Wanda slid into the empty space beside her, her hip bumping Natasha’s. “Romanoff. Trying to drink Stark out of his own liquor supply?”

Natasha turned, and the full force of her smile hit Wanda like a blow. It was slow, predatory, and meant only for her. “Maximoff. I was wondering when you’d get tired of being a wallflower. And for the record,” she purred, taking a sip of her own drink, “Tony’s liquor supply is infinite. I’ve tested the theory.”

The air between them crackled, charged with everything left unsaid for months. The party noise faded into a dull roar. It was just the two of them, caught in a bubble of their own making.

“Tired of watching you have all the fun,” Wanda admitted, her voice lower than she intended. She reached past Natasha, her fingers brushing the bare skin of her arm as she grabbed a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. “Care to help me test another theory?”

Natasha’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something hot and dangerous in their green depths. “Which one is that?”

“That you can’t handle your tequila,” Wanda said, pouring two generous shots. She slid one across the bar.

A low chuckle escaped Natasha’s lips. “Oh, you’re going to regret that.”

They didn’t stop at one. Or two. With every shot, the space between them shrank. A hand on a lower back, fingers tracing the line of a collarbone, whispers that were too intimate for a public space. 

They were dancing at some point, a slow, swaying thing that had nothing to do with the pulsing beat of the music. Wanda’s head was on Natasha’s shoulder, her senses filled with the scent of her perfume; something like leather and bergamot and pure, unadulterated danger.

“You’re a menace, Maximoff,” Natasha murmured into her hair, her lips brushing the shell of Wanda’s ear. A shiver traced its way down Wanda’s spine.

“Takes one to know one,” Wanda breathed back, tilting her head to look up at her. They were so close. So, so close. She could see the flecks of gold in Natasha’s eyes, feel the warmth of her breath on her lips. The world narrowed to this single, perfect, agonizing moment.

Someone - it sounded like Tony - wolf-whistled from across the room. “Get a room, you two! Or don’t, the ratings are through the roof!”

The bubble popped. But instead of pulling away in embarrassment, a fierce possessiveness flared in Natasha’s eyes. Her grip on Wanda’s waist tightened. “You know what? I think we will.”

Before Wanda could process it, Natasha’s hand was wrapped around her wrist, and she was being pulled, dragged with a purpose that left no room for argument. They navigated the throng of bodies, a blur of motion and a single point of searing contact. Natasha didn’t stop at the elevator. 

She pulled Wanda into a small service corridor that smelled faintly of cleaning supplies, and slammed her back against the wall. The impact jarred a gasp from Wanda’s lips, which was immediately swallowed by Natasha’s mouth crashing down on hers.

It was everything. It was brutal and desperate, a collision of pent-up frustration and explosive need. It wasn't gentle or tentative; it was a dam breaking. 

Natasha’s hands were in her hair, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss until Wanda’s thoughts shattered into a million sparkling pieces. 

Wanda’s own hands came up to fist in the front of Natasha’s shirt, pulling her impossibly closer, trying to crawl inside her skin.

It was all teeth and tongue and the sharp, delicious taste of tequila. A low groan rumbled in Natasha’s chest, and she broke the kiss only to press her lips to Wanda’s jaw, her neck, the wildly fluttering pulse point at its base.

“Natasha,” Wanda gasped, her head falling back against the cool metal wall.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Natasha growled against her skin, her voice thick with a raw emotion Wanda had never heard from her before. She pulled back just enough to meet Wanda’s gaze, her own eyes blown wide, her lips swollen and red. “So long, moya vedmochka.” My little witch.

The endearment, whispered in the dark, was Wanda’s undoing. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper.

A wicked, triumphant smile touched Natasha’s lips. “Not a chance.”

The next thing Wanda knew, they were stumbling out of the corridor, through a private elevator, and down a hallway that was both familiar and hazy. It was a chaotic journey of tangled limbs and frantic, stolen kisses, of fumbling with a keycard and a door being kicked shut.

The world dissolved into a flurry of sensation. The softness of a mattress, the rasp of a zipper, the whisper-soft touch of skin against skin. It was frantic and desperate, then slow and reverent, a conversation held in a language their bodies had known long before their minds were willing to admit it.

(...)

Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, sliced through a gap in the blackout curtains. Wanda groaned, a dull throbbing starting behind her eyes. Her mouth felt like a desert, and her memories of the night were a chaotic, blurry montage of music, tequila, and a searing, overwhelming heat. She shifted, and the scent of leather and bergamot filled her senses.

Her eyes snapped open.

This wasn't her room. The sheets were a dark, charcoal grey silk, not her familiar plum cotton. And the arm draped possessively over her waist, the warm body spooned against her back, was most definitely not a pillow.

Slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement would shatter the moment, Wanda turned her head.

Natasha was asleep beside her, her iconic red hair a fiery halo against the pillow. Her face, so often a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, was soft and unguarded in sleep. Her breathing was a quiet, steady rhythm against Wanda’s back.

A hysterical giggle threatened to bubble up her throat. Oh, god. They’d actually done it.

As if sensing her frantic thoughts, Natasha stirred. Her green eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep for a moment before they focused on Wanda. There was no panic, no regret. Just a slow, sleepy smile that made Wanda’s heart do a complicated little flip.

“Morning, Maximoff,” Natasha rasped, her voice a low, gravelly purr. She tightened her arm, pulling Wanda even closer until there was no space left between them at all. “Regrets?”

Wanda looked at the woman she had been hopelessly, uselessly in love with for months, now tangled up with her in bed, looking at her like she was the only person in the world. The hangover, the lingering fear, it all melted away, replaced by a warm, glowing certainty.

She leaned in and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to Natasha’s lips. “Only that we waited so long.”

Chapter Text

It began, as most illnesses do, with denial.

Natasha Romanoff woke up feeling like she had swallowed a handful of hot gravel. Her head throbbed in a dull, insistent rhythm against her skull, and a leaden exhaustion weighed down her limbs. She swung her legs out of bed, a reflexive act of defiance against the weakness trying to claim her. She was the Black Widow. She didn't get sick. Sickness was a luxury she’d never been afforded.

A wave of dizziness washed over her as she stood, and she had to brace herself against the dresser, her knuckles white.

“Natasha?”

Wanda’s voice was a soft, concerned murmur from the bed. She was already propped up on one elbow, her brow furrowed, her gaze missing nothing. In the low light of dawn, her eyes seemed to hold a faint, inner luminescence.

“I’m fine,” Natasha rasped. The sound that came out was a pathetic, scratchy thing that was a betrayal to the lie. She cleared her throat, wincing. “Just need some water.”

“No,” Wanda said. It wasn’t a command, but a statement of absolute fact. She slid out of bed, her movements fluid and silent, and crossed the room to stand in front of Natasha. She didn’t touch her, not yet. Instead, she raised a hand, her slender fingers hovering an inch from Natasha’s forehead. A faint wisp of scarlet energy, like heat haze, shimmered in the space between them. Wanda’s expression tightened.

“You’re burning. Your fever is 102.4.” She dropped her hand, her gaze softening with worry. “You are not fine. You are going back to bed.”

Natasha opened her mouth to argue—a lifetime of training screaming at her not to show weakness, not to surrender—but the look in Wanda’s eyes stopped her. It was a look of such profound, unyielding care that it disarmed Natasha more effectively than any weapon. Arguing felt pointless. More than that, it felt churlish. With a weary, frustrated sigh, she allowed Wanda to guide her back to the plush mattress.

As soon as Natasha was settled under the duvet, Wanda became a whirlwind of quiet, focused efficiency. A glass of water floated from the bedside table to hover gently beside Natasha’s lips.

“Drink,” Wanda instructed softly.

Natasha obeyed, the cool water a small blessing on her raw throat.

“I will make you soup,” Wanda announced, already turning towards the door. “My mother’s recipe. It is good for fevers. And do not,” she added, pausing in the doorway to fix Natasha with a look that was equal parts loving and threatening, “even think about getting up.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Natasha alone in the quiet of their room. She sank back against the pillows, feeling the fight drain out of her. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was letting someone else take charge. She hated it. And, to her profound confusion, a small, traitorous part of her was deeply, utterly relieved.

Wanda returned twenty minutes later bearing a tray. On it was a steaming bowl of rich, fragrant broth filled with vegetables and noodles, a small pot of tea, and a little dish containing two pills. She set it down on the nightstand.

“I have told FRIDAY you are on medical leave,” Wanda said as she fluffed Natasha’s pillows. “All calls and alerts are being routed to me. Your only job today is to rest.”

She helped Natasha sit up, her hands gentle but firm. Natasha felt a fresh wave of irritation at her own weakness, but it was quickly swamped by the sheer warmth radiating from Wanda. Not just physical warmth, but an aura of pure, protective love.

“My throat hurts,” Natasha mumbled, the complaint slipping out before she could stop it.

Wanda smiled a small, sad smile. She reached out and placed two cool fingers against the side of Natasha’s neck. A gentle, soothing cold seeped into Natasha’s skin, not the biting chill of an ice pack, but a soft, magical coolness that seemed to go deep into the muscle and tissue. The relief was instantaneous, and Natasha let out an involuntary sigh, her head lolling to the side to give Wanda better access.

“I know, moya zvezdochka,” Wanda whispered, her accent thick and soothing. “I will take care of you. Just let me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes affectionately at the nickname. If anyone dared call her that, she would vehemently deny it, but Wanda had this power over her; she could disarm all Natasha's defenses to the point where she could even use those nicknames without her protesting.

(...)

The news of Natasha Romanoff’s incapacitation spread through the Tower with the speed of gossip at a royal court. Not because it was dire, but because it was so utterly unheard of.

Steve was the first to appear, his brow furrowed in deep concern. He knocked softly on the bedroom door, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers. Colorful and cheerful.

Wanda appeared a moment later, opening the door and stepping out to talk to him in the hallway. "She's sleeping," she whispered, accepting the flowers with a grateful smile.

"Does she need anything?" Steve asked in a low, concerned tone. "Is there anything I can do? I can run and get medicine, soup ingredients, or whatever you need."

"I have everything under control, Steve," Wanda assured him, her voice soft. "But thank you."

"If you need anything, just call me, okay?" Steve gave Wanda a gentle squeeze before turning and making his way down the hallway.

Later, Tony breezed by, not even bothering to knock. He simply had FRIDAY announce his presence.

“Hey, Little Witch,” he called through the door. “Heard Romanoff is down for the count. Tell her I’m magnanimously granting her three paid sick days. Any more than that and I’ll have to dock her pay for excessive fragility.”

“She can hear you, Tony,” Wanda’s voice replied, laced with amusement.

From within the room, a weak but venomous voice croaked, “I will still kill you in your sleep.”

“See? She’s fine!” Tony declared to the empty hallway before sauntering off.

Throughout the day, Wanda was a constant, soothing presence. She read to Natasha from a worn Russian poetry book, her voice a low, melodic hum that did more to ease Natasha’s headache than any medicine. When a coughing fit wracked Natasha’s body, Wanda was there, rubbing her back and offering a spoonful of honey-infused tea that she’d coaxed Bruce into analyzing and confirming was, in fact, the perfect remedy for a sore throat.

The true test came in the evening. Natasha’s fever had climbed again, leaving her restless and miserable, tangled in sweat-dampened sheets. She was irritable and sullen, snapping at Wanda for fussing too much, then immediately looking regretful.

“I need a shower,” Natasha finally grumbled, trying to push herself up. “I feel disgusting.”

“Okay,” Wanda said simply. She didn’t argue or coddle. She just helped Natasha to her feet, her small frame a sturdy anchor for Natasha’s unsteady one.

In the cavernous, slate-tiled bathroom, Wanda started the water, letting steam fill the space. She didn’t ask if Natasha needed help. She simply began unbuttoning Natasha’s damp pajama shirt with practiced, gentle hands. For a moment, Natasha’s instinct was to recoil, to insist she could do it herself. But she was so tired, and the fever had stolen her strength. Instead, she let Wanda undress her, her movements clumsy as she stepped out of her clothes.

Wanda guided her under the warm spray of the shower. The water was a balm on Natasha’s aching muscles. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the water sluice over her.

She felt Wanda’s hands on her shoulders, impossibly gentle. Wanda began to wash her hair, her fingers massaging Natasha’s scalp with a tenderness that felt almost holy. She worked the shampoo into a lather, her touch slow and deliberate, before rinsing it away just as carefully. She washed the sweat and sickness from Natasha’s body with a soft cloth, her movements reverent and clinical all at once. There was nothing sexual about the moment, but it was one of the most intimate experiences of Natasha’s life. It was an act of pure service, of unvarnished devotion.

When she was clean, Wanda wrapped her in the fluffiest towel imaginable, one that had been warmed by a subtle swirl of scarlet energy. She dried Natasha’s skin with the same painstaking care, before helping her into a clean, soft set of pajamas.

Back in bed, tucked under fresh, cool sheets, Natasha felt a fragile sense of peace settle over her for the first time all day. The fever was still there, a low thrum beneath her skin, but the misery had receded. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Natasha’s forehead, her magic a cool, comforting weight.

“Better?” Wanda whispered.

Natasha’s eyes were heavy. She reached out, her fingers weakly curling around Wanda’s wrist. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Wanda brought Natasha’s hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I know.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “There is nothing I would not do for you, Natasha. Sick or strong. It does not matter. You just have to let me.”

For the second time that day, Natasha surrendered. She closed her eyes, her grip on Wanda’s wrist her only anchor in the hazy sea of fever. “Okay,” she breathed. And for the first time since the illness took hold, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

(...)

The peace was fragile, a thin sheet of ice over a churning, dark ocean. It shattered just before 3 AM.

Natasha began to shake. It wasn't a shiver from the cold; it was a violent, uncontrollable tremor that ran through her entire being. Wanda was awake in an instant, her hand flying to Natasha’s forehead. The heat was terrifying. It wasn’t a fever; it was a furnace.

“Natasha?” Wanda’s voice was sharp with a sudden, cold dread.

Natasha’s eyes were open but unfocused, glazed with delirium. She was looking past Wanda, at a shadow in the corner of the room. A guttural sound, a word in Russian, tore from her raw throat. “Krasnaya…” The Red Room. She was back in the place of her nightmares.

“No, no, no, Natasha, look at me,” Wanda pleaded, her hands cupping Natasha’s face, trying to draw her back. “You are here. You are safe.”

But Natasha was already lost, mumbling incoherently, her body slick with a terrifying sweat. Wanda didn’t need her powers to know this was bad. She raised a trembling hand, and a diagnostic shimmer of scarlet light confirmed her terror. 105.1°F and climbing.

Panic, stark and absolute, seized her. The elevator was too slow. Calling for help was too slow. Every second felt like a lifetime stolen from Natasha.

With a cry that was part fury, part terror, Wanda made a decision. She threw back the covers, her movements economical and fierce. She scooped Natasha into her arms. Natasha was dead weight, limp and unresponsive, her head lolling back against Wanda’s shoulder. The sight of her, so utterly helpless, so completely at the mercy of the inferno inside her, broke something in Wanda. The soft, gentle caregiver vanished, replaced by a force of nature.

She didn't run. She flew.

A maelstrom of scarlet energy blasted the bedroom door open, ripping it from its hinges. Wanda didn't spare it a glance. Cradling Natasha tightly against her chest, she shot through the darkened, silent corridors of the residential floor like a comet. The air crackled around them, the red glow of her power the only light, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. She was a blur of motion and desperate love, whispering frantic reassurances in Sokovian against Natasha’s fever-hot temple.

“Derzhis', moya lyubov'. Ya s toboy.” Hold on, my love. I’m with you.

FRIDAY, sensing the medical emergency and Wanda’s uncontrolled flight path, had already sounded the alarm. As Wanda burst into the pristine, brightly lit medical wing, the doors sliding open just milliseconds before she would have torn through them, Bruce Banner and Dr. Helen Cho were already there. Bruce was on striped pajama pants and a ratty university t-shirt, his hair a mess, but his eyes were sharp and focused. Helen was already pulling on a pair of gloves, her face a mask of calm competence.

“On the bio-bed, now!” Helen commanded, pointing.

Wanda’s flight came to an abrupt halt. She hesitated for a split second, a primal reluctance to release her precious cargo.

“Wanda, we need to get her temperature down. Let us help,” Bruce said gently, his voice calm despite the flashing red alerts on the monitors behind him.

That broke the spell. Wanda carefully, tenderly, placed Natasha down on the bed. The moment Natasha was out of her arms, a team of medical drones and the Cradle’s own scanners descended, their lights playing over Natasha’s still form. Numbers and readings flashed across the main screen, all of them critical.

Bruce and Helen were a whirlwind of activity, administering a rapid cooling agent, hooking up IVs, their voices a low, urgent exchange of medical terminology. Wanda could only stand back, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the red glow around them flickering like a dying candle. She felt useless. She felt terrified.

(...)

Hours later, they were back in their room. Natasha was stable, sleeping a true, medically induced sleep. Her fever had broken, settling at a manageable 101°F. An IV drip stand stood silent sentinel by the bed, a concession Helen had made after Wanda had refused to leave Natasha’s side in the medbay.

Wanda hadn't moved. She sat on the mattress on her side of the bed. Motionless except for her fingers gliding so gently through Natasha's hair that it was barely noticeable. She watched her girlfriend's breathing closely, the slow rise and fall of her chest indicating that, for now, everything was under control.

Even with all that power within her, capable of bending realities, Wanda had never felt so powerless. Her girlfriend, her world, was sick, and her magic wouldn't cure her. She was at the mercy of time and human medicine.

The terror had receded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a grim, unwavering vigilance.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled the curtains, pulling Wanda out of her whirlwind of thoughts.

Pietro was there, standing in the middle of the room. He wore sweatpants and a tank top, his silver hair slightly damp with sweat. He looked from Wanda’s pale, strained face to Natasha’s sleeping form.

He was holding a small, brown glass bottle and a blister pack of pills.

“Sestra?” Sister? His voice was unusually soft.

Wanda didn’t look away from Natasha. “Ya v poryadke.” I’m fine.

Pietro knew better. He walked over and placed the medicine on the nightstand. “Banner brewed up a new batch of cough syrup. Said it’s stronger. And these are for when the fever tries to come back.” He placed a hand on his sister's shoulder, his touch surprisingly grounding. “You need to rest, Wanda. You look like a ghost.”

“I will rest when she is well,” Wanda replied, her voice flat.

Pietro sighed, his gaze full of a shared history of loss and fear. He understood this desperate need to keep watch. He squeezed her shoulder once more. “She is strong, Wanda. And she has you. There is no safer place for her to be.”

He was gone in another whisper of wind, leaving the door to swing gently in his wake. Wanda looked at the medicine he’d brought, a tangible piece of the team’s support. But her eyes quickly returned to Natasha’s face. Pietro was right. Natasha was safe. Wanda would burn the world to the ground before she allowed her to be anything else.

(...)

The turning point was not a dramatic surge of health, but a profound quiet. Wanda, who had finally succumbed to exhaustion in the early hours of the morning, awoke with a jolt, her head snapping up from where it had been resting on her folded arms on the edge of the mattress. For a moment, the same icy panic gripped her.

But the room was different. The air no longer felt thin and brittle with tension. Natasha’s breathing wasn’t the shallow, labored gasp of the previous night; it was a deep, even rhythm. Wanda looked at her face. The frantic, haunted look was gone from behind her closed eyelids. Her features were relaxed, peaceful.

As if sensing her gaze, Natasha’s eyes fluttered open. They weren't glazed or unfocused. They were clear. Piercing green and achingly familiar. They found Wanda’s face, and for a long moment, she just looked.

Then, her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. Her voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of its usual strength, but it was hers.

“You look terrible,” Natasha rasped.

Tears sprang to Wanda’s eyes, hot and immediate. It wasn’t a sob of grief, but a single, silent tear of overwhelming relief that traced a path down her cheek. She let out a shaky laugh. “So do you.”

She gently placed her hand on Natasha’s forehead. The raging heat was gone. She was still warm, but it was the warmth of a lingering fever, not a consuming fire. Natasha leaned into the touch, her eyes closing with a sigh of contentment. The crisis had passed. The storm had broken.

The collective exhale from the rest of the Avengers was practically a gale-force wind. It wasn’t just that their friend was out of danger. It was that the ambient, terrifying crackle of Wanda’s power, which had kept the entire residential floor feeling like the air before a lightning strike, had dissipated.

Steve arrived that morning with a tray laden not with questionable flowers, but with fresh-squeezed orange juice and toast cut into neat, non-threatening triangles. He saw Wanda sitting on the bed, helping Natasha take a sip of juice, and the rigid, soldierly tension in his shoulders melted away.

“Good to have you back, Nat,” he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. Then he looked at Wanda, who was smiling, a true, brilliant smile that reached her eyes. “Good to have you both back.”

Tony’s relief was, as always, filtered through a thick layer of snark. He didn’t visit in person, but a crate of eye-wateringly expensive chocolate was delivered to their door. The attached card, written in Tony’s familiar scrawl, read: For services rendered in not unmaking the fabric of reality. P.S. The door is coming out of your joint expense account.

Over the next few days, Natasha’s recovery was slow but steady. The fever faded completely, leaving a profound weakness in its wake. But her appetite returned, and with it, her spirit. She spent most of her time propped up in bed, reading, sleeping, and dryly critiquing Wanda’s endless supply of restorative soups.

“Is this the fifth bowl of borscht this week?” Natasha asked, her voice stronger now, but her tone playful. She eyed the steaming bowl Wanda placed in front of her. “Are you trying to cure me or turn me into a root vegetable?”

Wanda just laughed, a sound Natasha realized she hadn’t truly heard in days. “It is good for you. Eat.” She sat beside her, content to just watch as Natasha, with only a little grumbling, obeyed. The fear was gone, replaced by the simple, profound joy of being a caregiver, not a warden against death.

That evening, the room was quiet. Natasha was sitting up against the headboard, a book resting forgotten in her lap. Wanda was curled at the foot of the bed, mending the bedroom door’s splintered frame with lazy swirls of scarlet energy.

“They were scared of you, you know,” Natasha said softly.

Wanda didn’t look up from her work. “I know. I could feel it. They were trying to hide it, but it was… loud.”

“It wasn’t just for me,” Natasha continued, her gaze steady. “They were scared of what you would do if I… didn’t get better.”

The red energy flickered for a second. Wanda fell silent, the memory of that blind, consuming panic still raw. “I do not know what I would have done,” she whispered honestly, finally meeting Natasha’s eyes. “I only knew that I would not let the world exist without you in it.”

Natasha’s expression softened. She held out a hand. “Come here.”

Wanda uncurled herself and moved up the bed, letting Natasha pull her into a gentle embrace. Natasha was still weak, but her arms around Wanda were a firm, grounding pressure. She rested her chin on top of Wanda’s head, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.

“Next time,” Natasha murmured into her hair, her voice rumbling with a hint of its old, wry humor, “try the elevator first. I’d hate for Tony to bill us for a new door.”

Wanda tilted her head back, a real, relieved smile gracing her lips. “The door was in my way.”

“I know,” Natasha said, her own smile finally reaching her eyes. She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Wanda’s forehead—a kiss of gratitude, of promise, and of a love that had walked through fire and come out stronger on the other side. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Chapter Text

The top floor of Avengers Tower was unrecognizable. It had been transformed into a child’s fantasy of a Halloween wonderland, a chaotic explosion of orange and purple streamers, fake spiderwebs thick enough to trip a demigod, and pumpkins carved with expressions ranging from goofy to genuinely menacing (the latter were courtesy of Bucky, who had a surprisingly artistic and macabre touch). The air smelled of sugar, cinnamon, and the faint, electric tang of Wanda’s magic keeping a dozen jack-o'-lanterns from becoming a legitimate fire hazard.

It was Tony’s idea, of course. A grand, publicity-friendly gesture under the guise of an “Avengers Halloween Charity Bash.” The money was secondary; Tony could fund a hundred orphanages with the change he found in his sofa cushions. The point was awareness, community engagement, and an excuse for him to debut his latest suit of armor, which he’d modified to look like a friendly, cartoonish ghost that dispensed candy from its palms. He was currently losing an argument with a tiny, nine-year-old girl dressed as Shuri, who was insisting his repulsor-to-candy conversion ratio was “wildly inefficient.”

Wanda, dressed as a celestial sorceress in a gown of midnight blue sprinkled with shimmering stars, watched the chaos with a fond smile. Her powers were on gentle patrol, subtly nudging airborne plastic bats away from people’s heads and preventing a toddler dressed as the Hulk from actually smashing a priceless vase. Everyone was playing their part beautifully.

Steve, in a comically shiny suit of knight’s armor, was patiently allowing a swarm of children to climb him like a jungle gym. Clint, as Robin Hood, was running a suction-cup archery range, loudly proclaiming every child who hit the target a “better shot than Legolas.” Even Bucky, who had reluctantly agreed to dress as the Wolfman, had been cornered by a fearless little girl dressed as a fairy princess. She was patting his vibranium arm and ordering him to “sit,” which he did, looking utterly bewildered as she placed a sticker of a rainbow on his metal bicep.

But Wanda’s eyes, as always, kept seeking out one person.

Natasha had eschewed anything cute or fantastical. She was a pirate captain, complete with a leather coat, a tricorn hat perched jauntily on her red hair, and a foam cutlass tucked into her belt. She wasn't manning a booth or putting on a show. She was simply moving through the crowd, a silent, watchful guardian of the chaos. And she was magnetic.

Wanda watched as a small boy, no older than five, began to cry. His cheap Iron Man helmet had cracked, a plastic hinge giving way. He stood in the middle of the swirling party, a tiny island of heartbroken sobs. Before anyone else could react, Natasha was there. She didn't stoop or crouch. She knelt, putting herself fully on his level, her knee on the polished floor.

“Report, soldier,” she said, her voice low and serious, utterly devoid of condescending baby-talk. “What’s the situation?”

The boy sniffled, holding up the broken helmet. “It’s… it’s broken.”

“Equipment failure in the field,” Natasha nodded gravely, examining the damage with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. “Catastrophic. We can’t have your identity compromised.” Her eyes, sparkling with amusement only Wanda could detect, met the boy’s. “But a good agent always has a contingency.”

With a flourish, she untied the rich, scarlet sash from her pirate costume. With deft, practiced movements, she threaded it through the helmet, creating a makeshift strap that held it together. She gently placed it back on the boy’s head.

“Field-expedient repair complete,” she announced. “Now, I have a new mission for you. That bowl of candy over there,” she pointed with her chin, “is under threat from sugar pirates. I need a hero to guard it. Think you’re up to it, Iron Man?”

The boy’s tears were forgotten. His posture straightened, and he nodded with the solemnity of a child given the most important job in the world. He ran off to his new post, a loyal soldier for his pirate captain.

Wanda felt it then, a feeling so warm and overwhelming it was like the sun blooming in her chest. She had seen Natasha command rooms full of world leaders. She had watched her face down alien armies without a flicker of fear. But this—this quiet act of respect, this effortless translation of her own deadly seriousness into a language a child could understand and be empowered by—was somehow more breathtaking than any feat of espionage or combat. It was a glimpse of the woman she could have been, the mother she might have been, if the world had been kinder.

Later, during a visit to the pediatric wing of a nearby hospital, the feeling only intensified. The atmosphere there was hushed, the smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. Natasha was quieter here. She sat on the edge of a bed where a pale little girl with no hair was listlessly watching cartoons.

Natasha didn’t talk about being an Avenger. She simply pointed at the screen. “I think the coyote is going about this all wrong,” she said, as if sharing a state secret. “His reliance on complex, mail-order technology is his undoing. He needs to simplify. Focus on fundamentals. Traps. Snares. Low-tech solutions.”

The girl giggled, a small, fragile sound. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Natasha said with utter confidence. “Amateurs strategize. Professionals talk logistics.”

She spent twenty minutes breaking down the tactical failures of Wile E. Coyote, and by the end of it, the girl was laughing, her tired eyes bright with a life that hadn't been there before.

That night, back in the quiet of their room, Wanda watched Natasha remove her pirate hat and run a hand through her hair.

“You were incredible today,” Wanda said, her voice soft.

Natasha shrugged, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Tony likes a good photo op. And the kids were sweet.”

“It wasn’t that,” Wanda said, stepping closer. She took Natasha’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “It was you. The way you see them. You don’t see them as small, or fragile. You see them as people. You give them… respect.” She looked into Natasha’s surprised green eyes. “I see you save the world all the time. But today… I saw you heal a little piece of it.”

Wanda leaned in, her heart so full she felt it might burst. “I didn’t think it was possible,” she whispered against Natasha’s lips, “but I think I fell in love with you ten times over today.”

Natasha’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. The kiss that followed wasn’t fiery or desperate. It was soft, and certain, and tasted faintly of gratitude, and the lingering sweetness of Halloween candy.

(...)

The sun streamed into the common floor, illuminating a scene of quiet devastation. Glitter, a fine multi-colored dust, coated nearly every surface, shimmering mockingly in the morning light. A deflated Mylar balloon shaped like a ghost drifted sadly along the ceiling. The air was thick with the lingering scent of popcorn and a phantom sweetness that felt like it could give you a cavity just by breathing.

Steve, already dressed in sweats and a ridiculously wholesome Henley, was methodically picking up stray plastic spiders from the floor and dropping them into a bin. He looked as weary as a man who’d just fought a battle, which, in a way, he had.

On the largest sofa, Tony Stark was sprawled dramatically, one arm thrown over his eyes. He was still in the silk pajama bottoms he’d changed into after shedding his candy-dispensing armor.

“FRIDAY,” he groaned, his voice muffled. “New Tower protocol. Any event involving more than ten children under the age of twelve requires a mandatory two-day recovery period and a full-body scan for embedded, sticky substances. My blood has been replaced with high-fructose corn syrup.”

From the kitchen island, Bucky grunted in what might have been agreement. He was nursing a mug of black coffee, his gaze fixed on his left arm. He was meticulously, and unsuccessfully, trying to peel off the rainbow sticker the tiny fairy princess had gifted him. It was fused to the vibranium with the supernatural strength only cheap adhesive possesses.

“It adds character,” Steve said without looking up. “Brings out the color of your eyes.”

Bucky shot him a glare that could curdle milk.

The elevator doors slid open, and Wanda and Natasha entered, looking far more put-together than anyone else. They moved with the easy, synchronized grace of people who had woken up in the same bed. Natasha was holding two mugs of coffee, and she passed one to Wanda as they surveyed the glittery carnage.

Wanda’s gaze drifted from the scene to Natasha’s face. The memory of the previous day was so vivid, so warm. She saw Natasha kneeling to fix the little boy’s helmet, heard her serious, respectful voice debating cartoon tactics with the sick girl. That woman, the secret, gentle heart of the Black Widow, was standing right beside her, a small, amused smile playing on her lips as she watched Bucky lose his one-man war against the sticker.

“Morning,” Clint Barton croaked, shuffling in from the hallway. He walked like a man twice his age, rubbing the small of his back. “I think a six-year-old dressed as Captain Marvel used my spine as a ladder. I feel… disassembled.” He flopped into an armchair, wincing.

Natasha’s smile widened. She took a sip of her coffee. “You’re getting old, Barton.”

“I’m not old,” he grumbled. “I’m just not designed to be a human jungle gym. You seemed to have a good time, Pirate Queen. Didn’t see you getting climbed on.”

“It’s about projecting an aura of authority,” Natasha said dryly. “Amateurs get climbed. Professionals command respect.”

Wanda laughed, a soft, happy sound. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing Natasha’s cheekbone. “You have glitter on your face,” she said, her voice low and intimate, meant only for the two of them.

Natasha’s eyes met hers, the green sparkling more than any sequin. “I think I’ll be finding glitter in my tactical gear for the next six months.”

“It looks good on you,” Wanda whispered, her thumb stroking the spot she’d just cleared. “Like starlight.”

The look Natasha gave her was soft and full of a private understanding. It was a silent conversation in the middle of a crowded room, a continuation of the night before.

“Starlight?” Clint piped up, having overheard. “I’ve got a whole galaxy of something purple and sticky in my quiver. I think it’s melted gummy worm. That’s not nearly as poetic.”

Tony groaned from the couch, not moving. “Someone, please, make him stop talking.”

Natasha didn’t take her eyes off Wanda. She gave her a slow, knowing smile, a private acknowledgment of Wanda’s whispered affection. It was a promise that even here, in the messy, chaotic morning-after, surrounded by their noisy, dysfunctional family, the starlight was theirs alone.

Chapter Text

It was one of those nights. The kind that settles in after a long, grueling training session where every muscle aches and the thought of cooking a meal feels like a Herculean task. They were sprawled on the couch, tangled together, when the craving hit. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a primal, undeniable need.

“I want fries,” Wanda announced, her voice muffled by Natasha’s shoulder. “The bad kind. Salty and greasy and probably made of questionable materials.”

Natasha, who had been half-asleep, cracked open an eye. “And a burger?”

“And a burger,” Wanda confirmed with a solemn nod. “And a milkshake that’s 90% sugar.”

Ten minutes later, Natasha was expertly maneuvering her black Corvette – a car far too sleek for its current mission – into the brightly lit, slightly sticky lane of a drive-thru.

“Welcome to Burger Blast, can I take your order?” a tinny, staticky voice crackled from the speaker.

Natasha leaned toward the mic, her voice crisp and clear. “One double bacon cheeseburger, plain. One large fry. One chocolate milkshake.” She paused. “Wanda?”

Wanda leaned across the console, her chin resting on Natasha’s shoulder. “Hi! Can I please get the Spicy Chicken Sandwich, but with no pickles, please? And no lettuce. Just the chicken and the bun and the spicy sauce. And a vanilla milkshake?”

“No pickles, no lettuce. Got it,” the speaker chirped back.

They collected their food from a pimply teenager who stared for a beat too long at the driver of the ridiculously expensive car before handing over a grease-spotted paper sack of promised delights. The drive back to the Tower was filled with the glorious, intoxicating scent of fried potatoes. Wanda, unable to resist, immediately began poaching fries from the bag, occasionally offering one to Natasha, who accepted it without taking her eyes off the road.

They burst into their kitchen, hungry and giddy. Natasha laid out the food like a banquet, unwrapping her burger while Wanda eagerly opened the box containing her chicken sandwich.

And then, silence.

Wanda stared down at her sandwich. Nestled between the bun and the crispy chicken patty were three offensively green, crinkle-cut pickle slices. A bed of wilted lettuce lay beneath them like a sad, soggy funeral shroud.

“Oh,” Wanda said, her voice small.

Natasha’s head snapped up. She looked from Wanda’s face to the sandwich and back again. A dangerous stillness fell over her. The easy, relaxed posture was gone, replaced by the coiled tension of a predator.

“What is that?” Natasha’s voice was unnervingly calm.

“It’s fine,” Wanda said quickly, already reaching to dissect the sandwich. “They just made a mistake. I’ll just… pick them off. It’s no big deal, Nat, really.”

Natasha placed her hand over Wanda’s, stopping her. Her eyes were chips of green ice. “You asked for no pickles.”

“I know, but-”

“You specified no pickles and no lettuce.”

“Yes, but it’s fine, I don’t want to go all the way back…”

But Natasha was no longer listening. She was already moving. She snatched the offending sandwich box, grabbed her car keys from the bowl by the door, and turned.

“This,” she said, her voice low and laced with the kind of lethal seriousness she usually reserved for mission briefings, “is an unacceptable failure of execution. They will correct it.”

“Natasha, wait!” Wanda called out, a laugh bubbling up in her throat despite herself. “It’s just a sandwich! It’s okay!”

The door clicked shut behind her. Wanda was left alone in the kitchen, staring at her vanilla milkshake. She shook her head, a wide, utterly besotted smile spreading across her face. She was in love with a complete and utter psychopath.

Thirty minutes later, Natasha returned. She strode into the kitchen and placed a brand new, pristine paper bag on the counter with the quiet finality of a successfully completed mission. She pulled out a fresh chicken sandwich box and opened it for Wanda’s inspection. It was perfect. Just chicken, bun, and sauce. Behind it, she produced not one, but two apple pies.

“The manager sends his apologies,” Natasha stated, her face completely deadpan. “He assured me their internal protocols will be reviewed.”

Wanda burst out laughing, pulling Natasha into her arms. “You’re insane. You know that, right? What did you do to him?”

Natasha wrapped her arms around Wanda’s waist, a flicker of a smile finally touching her lips. “I simply expressed my dissatisfaction with the quality of their service.”

“You threatened him, didn’t you?” Wanda giggled, kissing her soundly.

“I strongly implied that attention to detail is a virtue worth cultivating,” Natasha corrected, her eyes twinkling. She leaned in, her lips brushing against Wanda’s ear. “No one messes up your order, moya lyubov. Not on my watch.”

Wanda melted against her, her heart doing a ridiculous flutter-kick in her chest. For the rest of the world, Natasha Romanoff was a spy, an assassin, a hero. For Wanda, she was the beautiful, terrifying woman who would go to war with a fast-food chain to protect her from unwanted pickles. And it was, quite possibly, the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday. A gloriously mundane, blessedly mission-free Tuesday. Rain pattered against the panoramic windows of the common area, washing the city clean and creating a cozy, insular world just for them.

Wanda was curled on the overstuffed armchair in the corner of the living room, lost in a thick, leather-bound book of old Sokovian fairytales. She was wearing one of Natasha’s old, worn-out SHIELD sweatshirts and a pair of fuzzy socks. 

The air was still and quiet, filled only with the soft rustle of turning pages and the gentle drumming of the rain. It was perfect.

Natasha had been in the Tower’s private gym for the past hour, a fact Wanda was grateful for. Not because she wanted Natasha gone, but because post-workout Natasha was a specific and wonderful phenomenon. 

She’d come back flushed and pliant, her muscles loose, her guard down, and she would melt into Wanda’s arms like warm wax.

Wanda heard the soft padding of footsteps. She didn’t look up from her book, a small smile playing on her lips in anticipation. She waited for the familiar weight of Natasha leaning over the back of her chair, for the soft kiss to her temple.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she heard a soft thud as a gym bag was dropped, followed by a faint, almost inaudible humming. Wanda’s brow furrowed. She marked her page and peeked over the top of her book.

Natasha was in the open-plan kitchen area, her back to Wanda. She had her hair piled in a messy, precarious bun, with little damp strands clinging to her neck. 

She was still in her workout clothes: a dark red tank top damp with sweat and black leggings. She had opened the refrigerator, and was staring into its brightly lit depths, one hand on her hip, completely oblivious to Wanda’s gaze.

And she was dancing.

It wasn’t the elegant, fluid grace of a trained ballerina. It wasn’t the deadly, economic movement of the Black Widow. It was a tiny, ridiculous, side-to-side shuffle. A little shoulder shimmy. A slight bob of the head. She was grooving, completely lost in her own little world, to a song that was only playing in her head.

Wanda felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest and quickly suppressed it, pressing her lips together. She sank lower in her chair, a silent observer to this secret, one-woman party.

Natasha finally selected her prize – a carton of orange juice – and, instead of just closing the door, she used her hip to swing it shut, adding a little spin to the movement. The spin was… not graceful. 

She was slightly off-balance, stumbling a half-step and catching herself on the counter. She didn’t seem fazed. She just unscrewed the cap and, after a quick glance around the empty room, brought the carton directly to her lips, taking a long, satisfying swig.

A drop of orange juice escaped, tracing a tiny, glistening path down her chin. Without missing a beat, she wiped it away with the back of her hand, her little shuffle-dance never ceasing.

Wanda’s heart did something painful and wonderful in her chest.

This was THE Black Widow. The woman who could walk into a room and assess every threat, every exit, every weakness in under three seconds. The woman who had stared down gods and monsters without flinching. The woman whose name was a whisper of fear and awe in the darkest corners of the world.

And here she was, in their kitchen, dancing badly, chugging orange juice straight from the carton, her hair a disaster, a small smudge of dust on her cheek she didn’t know was there. She was goofy. She was unguarded. She was entirely, completely, breathtakingly real.

All the moments of their life together flashed through Wanda’s mind; the fierce kisses in the heat of battle, the gentle hands tending to her wounds, the shared nightmares chased away by a warm embrace, the quiet mornings spent just like this. All of it, the terror and the beauty, the sacred and the profane, it all culminated in this. This stupid, perfect, private moment.

A slow smile spread across Wanda’s face, so full of love it felt like it might crack her open. The thought arrived not as a whisper, but as a lightning bolt of absolute certainty, a truth that settled into the very marrow of her bones.

My God, she thought, her eyes tracing the line of Natasha’s shoulders as she did another little shimmy. I’m going to marry this dumbass someday.

It wasn’t a hope. It wasn’t a dream. It was a fact. Like gravity, or the turning of the earth. She was going to spend the rest of her life watching this incredible, ridiculous woman dance in the kitchen.

Right then, Natasha, perhaps sensing she was being watched, turned her head. Her eyes widened as she saw Wanda peeking over the armchair, a wide, fond smile plastered on her face. 

Natasha froze mid-shuffle, the orange juice carton still clutched in her hand. A deep, furious blush crept up her neck, painting her cheeks a shade that almost matched her tank top. She looked utterly mortified.

Wanda didn’t laugh. She just unfolded herself from the chair and walked slowly toward the kitchen. She took the orange juice from Natasha’s frozen hand, screwed the cap back on, and placed it on the counter. 

Then she stepped into Natasha's space, wrapped her arms around her neck, and pulled her close.

“What was that song you were dancing to?” Wanda murmured against her lips.

“I wasn’t dancing,” Natasha mumbled, her face buried in Wanda’s shoulder, her voice thick with embarrassment.

“Of course you weren’t,” Wanda said, her voice laced with a love so potent it was practically a physical force. She kissed her, a deep, slow kiss that tasted faintly of orange juice and promised a lifetime of rainy Tuesdays. “It was beautiful.”