ev (lizzie’s ver.)

Breaking through Wanda’s walls wasn’t easy for most of the Avengers. The only people she really listened to were Steve, Clint, her brother when she was in a good mood, Natasha, and you. 

On account of you saving her twin’s life, she felt as though she owed it to you to be kind. Even if you were Tony Stark’s child.  

Right now, you were soaking up her “kindness”. It was difficult to reject her when it meant kissing your lips raw in the center of your bed and feeling you up without allowing you to take off a single piece of clothing. She was such a tease.  

You pull away from her lips, eyes pleading with her. “Need you Wands, please?”  

Your witch sits upright with her weight settled on your middle. She pushes her hair behind her ears before patting your cheeks. You enjoyed the coolness of her rings against your heated skin. 

“Can’t, detka. Weren’t you the one who wanted to beat Sam to the living room?”  

“He’s probably been waiting there since lunch or something. You know how serious he is about watching Top Gun. Please, Wanda?” You pouted and her hands go from playfully tapping your cheeks to squishing them now. 

She loved how silly you looked beneath her. She leans down and leaves a peck on your forcefully puckered lips, not allowing you to deepen it. You whine, frustrated by the way she fanned the flames of your desire, not truly fueling it.  

Wanda's smiles down at you condescendingly. “So needy, are you not?”  

“Just for you.” You reach for one of her hands, bringing it just below your chest to fiddle with her rings. You feel her body relax further.

“Mmm. Show me?” Wanda's eyes flash red and you feel a rush of warmth spread throughout your body.  

Wanda was intimidating. Her power brought the energy she carried to a different level. And when crimson crept into her stare, all you could do was fall weak before her. It had always been this way.

“You want me to beg, witchy? Or do I need to shove your hand in my pants for you to understand how much you turn me on?” Still, you weren’t ready to fold for her just yet.  

“I want you to ride my thigh until you come. Pants stay on. That way, I feel you soak through them, detka. I’ll make sure you beg for me anyway, don’t you worry.” One of her hands began to trace your bra through your shirt as she speaks, leaving goosebumps wherever her fingers fell.

Unfortunately for you, Wanda would never allow you to think you had any power over her in such a moment. You relinquished it the instant her accent grew thicker, her words weighed down by her hunger for you.  

She begins to climb off your hips, moving to sit up against your headboard. Her legs spread wide enough for you to encase one of her thighs with your own. She pats her lap and waits patiently, eyeing you as you start to rise from your place beside her.  

You settle yourself atop her carefully, and she grins, flexing her thigh as your core rests inches above her knee. You gasp and nearly fall into her. She’s quick to hold you steady, hands clutching your hips firmly, heat in her gaze, and seconds away from gloating about how easy it was to get you here.  

But of course, neither of you could have a moment of true peace in this tower.  

Rapid knocks rattle your door as a familiar, irritating, voice sounds out. “Sestra!” His call for Wanda is long and drawn out, stupidly jolly and almost melodic as his first hammers against the wood. “I know you’re in there!”  

You throw yourself to the side, flopping back onto the space beside her as you roll your eyes.  

Wanda exhales sharply and fixes her hair with slightly shaking hands before she gets up, straightens out her skirt, pulls up her knee high socks, and makes her way across the room.  

“You never remind me to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. tell everyone we’re asleep.” You complain quietly.  

“You really think that would matter to him?”  She whispers back harshly.

“Oh, sestra!” You could only imagine the grin spread across his face. 

Wanda pulls open the door, her features drawing out her irritation.  

“What?” Pietro ignores her short tone and leans against the door frame.  

“Everyone is waiting on you two. The bird and the spy lady are arranging a vote between Top Gun and Die Some Other Day.” 

"It's Die Another Day, man." You threw your head back and groaned dramatically.

When those two went head-to-head on movie night, it was the worst. After two years of choosing this as a team building activity, you’re sure you’ve watched either movie at least a dozen times each. None of the Avengers took to exploring film outside their comfort zones, and you were about to add a spin the wheel feature to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s system if you had to endure torture like this again. 

“Sam and Natasha, Pietro.” His sister reminds him, sighing as she watches him shrug. To him, it was enough that you knew exactly who he was talking about. 

“I’m going to kill both of them. Seriously.” Maybe you could make it board game night instead if you cried.  

Pietro looked between the two of you before his stare lingered on your crumpled comforter.

“Why are you in her room?” The question was abrupt, giving neither of you a chance to respond with practiced ease. 

The both of you stumbled over your words, searching for a plausible excuse. It’s not like Pietro was stupid, it had to be believable. You see his brows begin to furrow the longer the two of you took to come up with something. 

“She wanted to paint my nails before our press conference tomorrow. Told her no.” You chuckle nervously and hold your hands up, making sure he catches the chipping paint and dry cuticles.  

“Obviously. I don’t think my sister could fix that. You need professional help.” Pietro speeds to your side and grabs one of your hands for a closer look. You snatch it away and grumble at him. Your fists clench as you bring them down to your sides.  

“Says you and your bone-dry bleach job.” 

Wanda sees Pietro gear up to argue back and intervenes quickly, her arms stretched out towards you two.

“Alright! Both of you, calm down. You, didn’t you say they were waiting for us?”  In a flash, Pietro's standing back in front of her, eager to get going now.

“I wanted to walk with you.” Wanda’s features soften at that. You understood. It was kinda sweet how the two of them rarely went anywhere without the other.

“Give me some time. I have to change, Pietro.” She raises her finger at him as she passes. She gives you a brief look over the shoulder before walking towards the door and down the hall to her own room.  

You found yourself lucky her twin had arrived when he did. Otherwise, it’d be a bit difficult to explain why the crotch of your jeans were soaked through, and Wanda’s thigh was glistening. 

Out of the three of you, you were the first to change and head downstairs to sit around waiting with the rest of the team. You played with the string of your sweatpants as you watched Sam and Natasha go back and forth about movie night. Bruce read through his lab notes beside you.  

Weirdly, your father was nowhere to be seen. Usually, he’d have already staked his claim on the couch and snuck a disk into the player while no one was looking, easily seizing the spot of first film of the night.

“We should just let one of the twins pick our movie tonight. Whatever they pick won’t be something we’ve watched a hundred times over.” You spoke up, tired of their arguing. 

“Yeah, guys. I don’t think I wanna watch the two of you fight for an hour and a half over which movie to watch after Sam loses the vote.” Bruce agreed with you, his voice calm and clearly avoiding a fight.  

“How do you know I wasn’t going to win?”  

Bruce deadpans. “We’ve watched Top Gun eleven times. At least the franchise Natasha chose has twice the number of movies. Yours doesn’t even have a sequel yet.”  

“Fine. We defer to Speedrunner then. I refuse to watch some cheesy romcom.” 

Before any of you could respond, your father makes his grand entrance. He struts into the living room with purpose and an accusation.  

“Romanoff. Just the spider I’m looking for. Where’s my Metallica shirt? Cough it up.”  

“Why’d you assume I’m the one who took it? It’s probably with your kid.” Natasha stands up from her place in front of the bookshelf.  

Her picks were always on the bottom level. 

“Just ransacked her closet. Found twenty-three articles of clothing that belong to me. Metallica shirt? Nowhere to be found. You’re my only suspect, sticky fingers.”  

"You ransacked my closet?" You went unaddressed.

“Tony, I borrowed your jacket like one time.” He eyes her. “Okay, I kept it for two months and stole your blow dryer on Wednesday. That’s hardly enough to make you think I crept into your room just to take some dumb band-tee.” 

He blinks rapidly at that. “You stole my blow dryer?”  

“It has that rotating brush I needed. Pepper never taught you how to share?”  

Sam laughed loudly at the reveal. “That’s what was happening? I was wondering why you started looking like Farrah Fawcett was the centerpiece of your mood board.” 

“Oh, shut up Wilson.” 

“Look, Carmen Sandiego, if I find my shirt—and my hair dryer—back in their rightful place by noon tomorrow then I’ll look the other way. Otherwise, Salem’s getting the boot.”  

“You can’t kick my cat out over some stupid shirt.”  

As if understanding the threat, you hear a quiet meow from across the room. Liho was hidden somewhere, possibly behind the recliner or under a side table.  

You watch the two of them squabble a little longer. Truthfully, you did jack his closet for that shirt. But you now had no idea where it went. Last you’d seen it, it was stranded somewhere on your floor before your date with Wanda. But you wanted to see how far the two of them would take this before you owned up to it.  

Then your girlfriend walked into the living room, innocent as ever, and your heart dropped into your ass. You were both so over. You closed your eyes and nodded solemnly, accepting your fate.  

“Uh...Tony?” Bruce was the first one to notice. His finger points in Wanda’s direction.  

“Don’t interrupt me, sweet pea. Romanoff hasn’t—” Your dad does a double take.  

His voice falls short at the sight of Wanda. The witch wore dark grey leggings under an oversized band tee. The very band tee he’d ravaged the tower for. She stopped in the entryway, a puzzled expression taking over as she took in the living room’s silence. Pietro isn't far behind her, zooming into the center of the room with an oblivious smile.

“You were saying, Stark?” Natasha sported a smug smirk, her eyebrows raised towards you as she looked to the brunette and back.  

Wanda’s tone held a bit of trepidation as she questioned the room. “What?”  

“Guess we know where your shirt went, Tony.” Bruce chuckles falteringly, eyes darting between your father, your girlfriend, and you.  

Wanda stood uncomfortably, fingers playing with the rings littering her fingers as she came to understand what the rest of the room now knew. If she’d been aware the t-shirt actually belonged to the most exasperating billionaire she knew, there was no doubt she would’ve set it on fire before pulling it over her head. Wanda would’ve later convinced you it was lost in the wash if need be.  

“Clint owes me so much money.” When you hear Nat whisper, amusement coloring her tone as she observed Wanda’s face grow increasingly flushed. 

“I thought we agreed on action for movie night, not a telenovela. But hey, I’m not complaining.” Sam shrugs and slumps back into the couch cushions, growing comfortable as he watches the scene unfold.  

“Sam, I swear to god I’ll rewire Red Wing to self-destruct every time a corny-ass comment comes out your mouth, if you don’t shut up!” You fuss, glaring in his direction. 

“Why am I the only one being threatened?” He asks. His question goes ignored as your dad finally speaks up.  

“Kid, since when?” You recognize the look in your father’s eyes and turn away.  

“Five months.” While you knew it’d hurt him to be blindsided like this, your connection with Wanda was still sensitive. Given the nature of his relationship with the twins, there would have been no right way to tell him, or Pietro, the truth.  

He looked at the Sokovian girl, still frozen at the living room entrance. “The safehouse in Guyana?” Wanda nodded in response.  

Her heart was beating out of her chest, she didn’t have to hone in to feel how erratic your energy was. And even if she tried, she’d never be able to hold onto a single one of the thoughts racing through your mind. Your mind was loud, hers too, as you waited for him to say something else.  

“Are you sure she hasn’t got you under some evil love spell?” He tried to joke, but you could see how the comment hit Wanda from across the room.

“Dad, she’s my girlfriend. Can we just talk about this later?” You tried to keep your voice even as you spoke, wanting to leave enough of a warning without being malicious. 

“Wanda, she is telling the truth?” If possible, you felt even more nervous about Pietro’s reaction than your father’s.  

He was everything to Wanda. If he didn’t approve, what would come of your relationship? Sure, you saved his life, but she was his little sister.  

“Pietro…I was going to tell you. There was just never the right time.” Pietro nodded thoughtfully, taking it all in.  

You watch the twins fall into a daze. A part of your brain monitors their changing expressions as you begin to pick the skin off the side of your left thumb. You knew they were communicating in their own way when Wanda glared his way and Pietro’s lips twitched slightly at the sight.

The living room kept its silence throughout. Natasha and Bruce hadn’t moved an inch since they’d last spoken.  

You knew the two of you were extremely lucky half the team was out on missions. It’d be at least three more days before the mood lightened up and everyone in the tower was teasing the two of you. For now, you could both deal with a little mouth and awkward silences from these few. You just knew Bruce would make some one-off comment about it in the lab and leave it at that. Once the rest of them grew comfortable with the idea of you two dating, it would be never ending snark and teasing. 

Unbelievably, you almost couldn't wait for that moment.

The tension was broken when Sam, munching on his popcorn, became loud enough to be disturbing. You eyed him seriously and went to say something when Wanda snapped out of her daze and marched your way.  

“You.” She grabs your hand. “Are coming with me. Now.” Her face was burning red.  

The embarrassment wasn’t a usual sight for you. You tried to bask in it, knowing the fun wouldn’t last for long once you were alone together, but honestly, you were afraid of the conversation that'd come behind closed doors.

You let Wanda drag you to her bedroom. Once inside, she locks the door and commands F.R.I.D.A.Y. to soundproof the space. She leans her head against the door as you sit stiffly on the edge of her bed.  

“We’ve been so careful.” She mumbles. You bite your lip at her words, feeling guilty she’d been put on the spot like that.  

“Are you mad at me?”  

“Oh, draga. Never. This wasn’t your fault.” She pushes herself away from the door and crosses the room to you.  You let out a long breath of relief and lick your lips.

When she makes it to you, Wanda’s hands cradle your face gently. Her thumbs smooth over the ends of your brow bones before coming to sit in the hollows of your cheeks. They rub there in small circles as she leans down to kiss your forehead.  

“But you do understand what this means for you at the end of the night, don’t you?” 

Wanda eyes glowed with barely restrained chaos, irises a deep and spellbinding red that made you gulp. At a loss for words, you could only nod meekly. You knew she'd take the chance to remind you that embarrassment was fleeting, but her control over you was not.

“Good, draga. Now sit back while I choose a show for us.”  Satisfied, Wanda lets go of you and grabs the remote on her nightstand. 

“You always get to pick!”  

“Right, and why do you think that is?” She tries you and you let her have it, knowing the banter would lead to nowhere—well maybe foreplay.  

“Whatever.” You pouted, crossing your arms as you sat up against her headboard.  

“Charmed is way better than whatever stupid Western Pietro was going to pick out anyways.”  

“Hey! That’s my brother-in-law you’re talking about.” Wanda rolls her eyes at you but there's no hiding the blush coloring her cheeks.

“Shut up, Stark.”  

“Make me.” You challenge.  

Chaos magic begins to wind around her fingers as she turns your way. “You know what being bold gets you, detka. And it’s not a reward.”  

It’s no secret that Natasha likes you… or at least, it’s no secret to everyone but you.

Tony is constantly rolling his eyes, Steve is always hiding a knowing smile when you innocently dismiss Natasha’s flirting, Wanda is endeared but growing exhausted, Clint keeps poking fun at you in ways that you never seem to understand, and Bruce just chuckles as he watches quietly from the sidelines.

You’ve been called it all: young, unaware, inexperienced, oblivious. It’s a running joke with the team now regarding your obliviousness to all of the large, loud, and very obvious blaring red signs that unmistakably point to Natasha Romanoff having heart eyes for you.

It’s not your fault. Not really. You’ve never been in a true relationship before—you’ve only been on a handful of dates in total, none of which went well—and the team learns to the full extent your inexperience goes on a random team bonding night.

Tony makes multiple trips from the kitchen to the common room, preparing everyone for what’s to come. Cups, ice, mixers, and alcohol… necessities, in his opinion.

“Alright, guys, drinking game,” he announces, voice firm, no room for objections, “What are we feeling? Truth or Dare? Spin the Bottle? Never Have I Ever?”

There are a few murmured protests anyway, the team clearly tired of his arguably concerning desire to bring alcohol into everything.

“Do we have to?” Natasha asks flatly, boredly.

“It’s a teambuilding exercise,” he retorts, waving a hand vaguely, “For boosting morale or, I don’t know, whatever.”

Spin the Bottle quickly gets voted out, and although it’s a close call between the other two, Never Have I Ever wins in the end.

And Clint starts off strong, jumping right into it. “Never have I ever joined the mile high club.” His eyes deliberately flit to Tony as if daring the billionaire to try and avoid drinking.

Tony isn’t fazed as he hears the prompt, as he notices Clint’s look, and he takes a large first gulp of his beverage, unashamedly admitting to his history of airborne debauchery.

“God, Tony,” Clint says, laughing, “I hope it was at least on one of your private jets.”

Tony simply smirks over the rim of his glass, neither confirming nor denying, and Clint fakes a gag at the nonanswer.

Wanda speaks then, keeping the game moving along. “Never have I ever had sex in public.”

More than just Tony’s drink is sipped with that one.

“Never have I ever had a one-night stand,” Bruce chimes in next.

Almost everyone takes a drink, all except Bruce… and you.

“Never have I ever lied about an orgasm.”

Natasha definitely drinks for that one.

The game continues, laughter and teasing comments getting thrown all around, but at a certain point, everyone else’s cups are at least halfway empty—Tony’s is almost completely empty—and Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes in the sight of yours: perfectly full, condensation forming on the glass, clearly untouched.

She glances over at you.

You’re not looking back at her, too engrossed in the game, in the fun of the night, in the entertainment happening around you.

She clears her throat then, drawing everyone’s attention her way. “Never have I ever had sex,” she says plainly, eyes still staring your way.

“What? Natasha, that’s too eas-” Tony starts, but she shoots him a look that gets him to shut his mouth before returning to you. No one understands her prompt of choice, but they play along anyway, every single one of them confusedly taking a small sip of their drink.

Every single one of them… except you.

She moves to something marginally more innocent. “Never have I ever gotten to second base.”

You still don’t drink.

The team turns to watch you along with Natasha now, finally catching on to what she’s doing.

“Never have I ever been kissed,” she tries again.

Your drink remains situated on the table, and you’ve fully noticed her attention, her pointed prompts. You give her a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you mutter good-naturedly, shaking your head, chuckling lightly to yourself at her figuring it out, “You got me. I’ve never been kissed. So what?”

Natasha’s eyebrows raise, and the resounding reactions from everyone else are a mix of shock, disbelief, surprise, and perhaps even concerned alarm from Tony. They begin talking over each other.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re fucking with us.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s no way.”

Despite the comments—you’ve heard them all before—you remain casual about the whole reveal, not at all bothered by the reactions you’re receiving or the fact that you’ve never had your first kiss. You shrug dismissively. “It just hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s silence as the rest of the team stares dumbly at you. They knew that you were mostly a stranger to romantic things, knew that you’d never had a real relationship with someone before, but this? This is newfound knowledge. No wonder all of Natasha’s attempts at flirting with you have been overlooked. You’re not just inexperienced; you’re inexperienced.

Tony breaks the quiet, blunt as ever, offering what he thinks is a simple solution… and if it means you kiss a certain redhead that’s been pining for you at the same time? Well, win-win. “You know what? Why don’t you just let one of us do it? Get it over with. I’m sure someone here is willing to kiss you.” He isn’t subtle with the way his eyes sweep across the others before landing and staying firmly planted on Natasha.

Wanda, although doing her best, is also not subtle, her gaze flicking back and forth between you and the Natasha, trying her best to communicate that now is the chance.

Clint is laughing, Bruce is smirking, and Steve is shaking his head at the antics unfolding before him. Everyone is in on something you don’t know of, but like usual, you’re blissfully unaware of the nonverbal conversation that is happening between your teammates around you.

After some more silent and not so discreet prompting from the others, Natasha takes a deep breath, forcing nonchalance into her voice and demeanor. “I guess I could do it,” she volunteers. Her attempt at acting casual is transparent to everyone else but you. “I mean, I probably am the best kisser here.” She tries to sweeten the deal.

No one refutes her statement. They all know it’s true.

But still…

“No, it’s okay. I’m good,” you answer her, giving the redhead a small, grateful smile, touched by the offer but unwilling, nonetheless. Your ideas surrounding your first kiss are more than just whatever tonight is. Then, you address the entire team: “But on that fun note, it’s getting late, so I’m going to bed. Goodnight, everyone. Drink some water.” Your last words are aimed at Tony.

You stand, grabbing your still full cup, and head to the kitchen to pour its wasted contents down the drain, placing the now empty glass in the sink and exiting the room, a handful of bewildered goodnights tossed out behind you as you go.

The confusion from everyone is palpable once you’ve disappeared.

And Natasha is almost… offended. You rejected her so easily, so effortlessly. You didn’t even seem to consider kissing her.

All eyes snap to her when you’re gone, everyone blatantly staring at the expression on her face as she tries to recover from your rejection.

“What just happened?” Natasha asks out loud.

“You, Natasha Romanoff, just got rejected,” Tony laughs, snarky and teasing as ever, “For probably the first time, I’m guessing.”

Natasha pauses. “That… wasn’t a legitimate rejection, right?”

“No, no, that definitely was,” Tony replies, “She literally said ‘nope’ and then left.”

“Tony,” Wanda hisses, trying to get him to be quiet, wanting to soften the blow for the redhead who is still clearly trying to understand everything that just occurred.

Natasha’s attention moves to Wanda now, wanting a second opinion. “Wanda?”

Wanda grimaces but answers honestly. “I mean… it wasn’t not a rejection”

Natasha lets out a loud groan at that, having been, albeit uselessly, hoping for another answer. “Fuck.”

“You know, I always thought that she was just extremely oblivious, but maybe she just doesn’t like you but doesn’t know how to turn you down,” Tony can’t help but continue.

“Tony!” Wanda exclaims again as Natasha groans another time.

Steve interjects before Tony can rub more salt in the wound like he is most likely planning to, the billionaire still smiling gleefully as if finding the whole situation beyond amusing. “Or maybe she just didn’t like the circumstances. I say give it one more good shot. Make it known that you like her, that you want to actually kiss her, that it isn’t just some silly drunken shenanigan to you.”

“I like Steve’s idea,” Clint comments, and Wanda nods her head in agreement.

“That’s just because none of you want to hear that-” Tony begins.

“Tony, enough,” Wanda grits out, “Get out. Go to bed. Go anywhere else. Just… shoo.”

Tony rolls his eyes but acquiesces, getting up and bidding everyone a goodnight before heading to his quarters for the evening.

Everyone else stands to file out of the room as well, sending Natasha a mix of sympathetic, encouraging, and pitying glances as they leave, Wanda’s hand making its way to Natasha’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture before she also walks away.

Natasha remains seated on the common room couch for a while after everyone’s exit, wallowing, lamenting, wondering what the absolute fuck happened tonight. She’s slouched against the cushion, her head flopped back and her eyes closed as she replays the look on your face as you rejected her, as she hears your little nonchalant “I’m good” on repeat in her mind.

It’s silent, the rest of the team already asleep by now for the night. Whether or not that’s a good thing as she’s left alone with her thoughts, she’s not sure, but she appreciates the peace and quiet anyway.

After some time, she sighs and reluctantly pries herself up off the sofa to return to her own quarters, shoulders slumped in discouragement as she goes.

She passes by your door on the way to hers and pauses right outside. The light is on, visible from under the door, and there’s quiet movement coming from within.

You’re still up.

God, Natasha isn’t sure her heart can handle any additional rejection from you tonight, but she finds herself knocking anyway. She needs to know.

Your door opens quickly and you peek out, head tilting in a silent question. “You’re still up?” you ask her.

The redhead doesn’t answer for a few moments, just looking at you. She doesn’t want to lie, but she doesn’t feel like she can tell you exactly what’s on her mind and preventing her from sleeping right now either. “Yeah,” she eventually says, and then a fake smirk appears on her face, “Just still trying to wrap my head around your rejection. It’s going to keep me up all night.” It comes out as a joke.

You hum, smiling at her words, taking her sarcasm in stride.

And then it’s silent.

And Natasha feels like the air is buzzing from all the things unspoken on her part, from all the confusion and uncertainty and discomfort that she’s experiencing by just standing here in your doorway. She wonders if you can feel it too.

“So, am I just that unattractive to you?” She breaks the quiet. Another joke.

That gets her a small laugh this time. “You and the word ‘unattractive’ have never been in the same sentence,” you respond.

That should make her feel better, but… “That wasn’t an answer,” Natasha points out.

“Do you really need one?”

There’s silence again as she considers what to say.

When she speaks up, it’s soft, confused, vulnerable, all smirks and sarcasm and pretenses gone. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?” she asks, looking away as she talks.

You frown slightly at the shift in her behavior, her playful remarks and teasing from before now nowhere to be found, replaced with something that seems fragile, imploring.

Your words come out a murmur, trying to explain yourself, to soothe. “It’s nothing personal, Natasha. I just want my first kiss to be special. That’s all.”

“What would make it special?”

“Just… with the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?” Natasha presses.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you muse, pausing for a moment to genuinely consider your answer to the question, “I guess someone sweet and considerate…”

Natasha remembers how just this morning she brewed an extra serving of coffee so that you’d wake up to a fresh pot.

“…someone who makes me laugh…”

Natasha remembers how just a few days ago you two were laughing until you both couldn’t breathe at some inside joke that would be too complicated to explain to anyone else.

“…someone who’s there for me.”

Natasha remembers how just last week she stayed up with you through the night when you needed someone to help chase the nightmares away.

Her. You’re describing her, and you don’t even know it.

How can she get you to see?

“Anything else? Hair color? Eye color?”

“Wow, you want specifics,” you joke, still not understanding.

Natasha could curse your obliviousness right now, and her tone turns more deliberate, still gentle but with a push. “What about martial arts abilities? Any history as an assassin? Or, you know, superhero status?”

You glance up at her, meeting her green eyes with your own.

And then you remember how the pot of coffee was already ready for you just this morning.

And then you remember the inside joke that Steve found the two of you laughing and clutching your sides at just a few days ago.

And then you remember the nightmares Natasha swore she’d stay up to keep you safe from just last week.

“Oh,” you breathe out slowly.

Natasha nods, hope returning as she sees realization start to wash over you.

“So, the right person…” she prompts.

“Yeah…” you murmur back, knowing what she means this time, what she’s meant all this time.

“Does that mean I can I kiss you now?” she asks softly.

“Is this still about the game? I don’t want a pity kiss.”

“It was never about the game. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed, but I have the biggest crush on you.”

“You do?”

Natasha says your name, fondly, tiredly. “I’m completely smitten with you.”

“I never even knew.”

“I know you never knew. You’re the most oblivious person on the team, the most oblivious person on the planet. I’ve been flirting with you for months.”

You shake your head in disbelief, trying to come to terms with the fact that Natasha’s romantic pursuit of you has apparently always gone right over your head.

“So, can I kiss you?” Natasha asks again.

You nod, and then she’s moving in, giving you just the slowest and gentlest press of her lips to yours, your eyes closing immediately in response to the touch.

She pulls back after only a brief moment, not wanting to overwhelm you since it's your first kiss, but it still leaves you feeling dazed, lightheaded, your mouth parted with little puffs of breath as your eyes flutter open to gaze at her. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest, and your face is flushed from just that.

You wanted your first kiss to be special, and you succeeded.

“Was that… okay?” Natasha asks, taking in your slightly stunned expression.

You nod again, struggling to find your voice at first, and when you do, it’s barely there, breathy and shaky. “Can we- can we do that again?” It comes out like a plea, as if there’s a chance Natasha might need convincing.

“You’re foul.”

Sunlight streams in through the blinds. Natasha’s almost certain the bluebirds she’s already gotten rid of once are back outside the window as what sounds like fresh babies chirp incessantly for food — or whatever it is newborn birds need. The heat is thick. Heavy. Without even stepping outside, both women can tell that the day ahead of them, and you if you ever wake up, is going to be a scorcher. A nightmare. The mirage that glimmers across the grass reminds Natasha of Ohio for a moment as her eyes catch the rustling tree branches the right way; the wrong way. Her head hurts too bad on its own to recall those long years spent in Ohio after Alexei and Melina had adopted Yelena. She looks away, jaw clenched, eyes tired as she forgoes a mask to conceal her exhaustion.

Wanda doesn’t know how you’re sleeping through the birds chirping as she steps out of the en-suite bathroom, skin clammy, glistening. She’d woken up to the bluebirds chirping thirty minutes after five, annoyed and disgruntled as she pulled the covers to her chest in dismay, twisting onto her side that faces the door and praying to a god she hadn’t believed in for decades that the change in direction would muffle the volume. It didn’t. But, she was thankful for her self control when it came to drinking when she heard the shower water running as she sat up enough to rub the boogers out of her eyes, admitting defeat against the birds ten minutes later when sleep still hadn’t reclaimed her. There was a time in her life she would have done heinous things for baby birds nesting in her windowsills to be her hardest problem in life, but it still was not the morning she wanted any reality checks; no matter how gentle.

Wanda’s emerald eyes had been on you for the majority of the party, watching carefully as you swam and splashed around. Something had changed in her after she lost Pietro. She didn’t take so kindly to preventable tragedies happening within her realm of control anymore, and watching for signs that you were drowning was well within her wheelhouse. Naturally, she hadn’t had the time to notice how Maria and Natasha had been going toe-to-toe for hours beneath the unforgiving sun, or how Pepper kept bringing the brunette cold beers while she stood in front of the grill, sweating bullets with a spatula in her dominant hand naturally. Natasha could hold her liquor, but she’d severely over estimated the condition of her body that had gone out of practice since their college days. The running shower water that lured Wanda out of bed fifteen minutes to six told her as much.

Steam travels out of the bathroom visibly as it catches the daylight, evidence of how hot Natasha had turned the water while she stood beneath the steady stream, willing the pressure and temperature to wash away her headache and nausea. Both of their faces are flush, pink and dewy as they breathe lighter now that the air's thinner, but Wanda’s nose scowls, her upper lip wrinkling as she attempts to swat Natasha with the white towel that had been in her hair but misses by an inch.

“My father only had two daughters. One of us had to be the son.” Natasha shrugs with cheeky indifference. Wanda rolls her eyes, huffing as she sets a course for the walk-in closet across the roof, the door still left slightly ajar from Natasha’s rustling around yesterday morning. “It wasn’t even that bad.” She defends, already dressed in clothes she doesn’t mind sweating in or getting dirty, heading the opposite direction toward the dresser. “You put my lighter back the last time you finished your pack of Camels, right?” The indifference continues, her voice gruff, only stretching as far as it needs to for Wanda to hear her as she rummages.

“If it wasn’t that bad you wouldn’t have waited until you were halfway out of the room to let it rip.” Wanda grumbles as she drops her towel, ignoring the need for underwear as she settles on a pair of shorts that accommodate her pink skin comfortably. Even with the sunscreen she’d applied, her skin was fair, thin. She and Natasha burned easily. “What?!”

“Nevermind, it’s right here.” Natasha’s voice sounds farther away now, muffled.

Wanda isn’t concerned about whatever it is her girlfriends doing, or what she’s looking for. Instead, she ties her hair back with a damp hair tie from her wrist— because she forgot to take it off before stepping in the shower — and sighs in relief when it's lifted fully off her neck. She never has been quite able to stomach the sensation of wet hair on her skin. Her shirt decision was easy enough. She’d been thinking about how comfortable these shorts would feel on her waist and crisped skin for hours, but deciding on a shirt was proving difficult.

Her breasts bounce as she steps around the closet, looking at all of her tops, and then yours, before she decides on raiding Natasha’s miniscule section. The Russian doesn’t need much, nor does she possess much, but the few cable knit sweaters, and back-up black t-shirts are fitted as nicely as they can be in the corner. Her nipples are pink though spotted with darker patches around her areolas, and they pebble in the cold air as the heat from her shower expires beneath the air conditioning. She’s unaffected by the cold no matter how unrelentingly it laps at her bones, standing with precision in front of Natasha’s small section, shoulders pulled back, relaxed, posture perfect. The limited selection reminds her of her fathers small closet back in Sokovia, before the bombs took him, her mother, and Pietro. It had always led her to making an easy decision back then, but now she takes advantage of the needlessness to pick, standing in front of the few hangers that all bare variants of the same simple thing. The cold reminds her of Sokovia too. Of the winters that her father could barely work long enough hours through to afford the bags of coal sold for furnaces and fireplaces at the Cathedral at the end of the week. Sometimes, even with the privilege and the change that is so evident around her now, Wanda finds pieces of the past still tenderly at her scarred fingertips.

Her selection is simple and predictable when she finally stumbles out of the closet. Her shorts are swallowed whole by the black t-shirt forgoing any words or graphics, the mid-points of her thighs tickled by the worn cotton that swishes and sways with every step. Natasha expected the choice. Wanda had worn the same post pool party outfit for over a decade, but the brunette still chokes on her inhale as her eyes flicker to find the soft footsteps she hears.

Natasha sits on the singular chair in the corner beside the windows. She’d thought it was stupid to only get one when they’d been furnishing the house years ago, but having only one chair has led the three of you to some rather colorful situations — and scenes. Her thoughts flash between every one of those moments as she racks her eyes up Wanda’s frame from the crème crushed velvet, starting from her knocky ankles, watching how her calves twitch with chills, seeing how the fabric of her t-shirt caves around her belly where she’s mindlessly toned, how her nipples poke at the fabric, how her jaw twitches with indifference as she cocks her head to the side—

“You’ve seen me in this shirt a few hundred times. You’ve had it since Clint puked on your shirt at the cabins in Colorado.” That vacation trip was easily twelve years ago,maybe even thirteen, but both Natasha and Wanda remember it fondly like it was only yesterday. What Natasha does not remember so fondly, was the emergency trip to Walmart they took because Clint Barton didn’t know how to hold his lukewarm fireball.

“And you look hotter in it every time you put it on.” Natasha doesn’t try to recover; too tired, too drained, too proud of the dynamic she’s built-up again between herself and Wanda to waste a single moment on saving her pride this morning. Maybe later, maybe tomorrow. Now she’s just glad to have her back. To have this moment. “Shit! Yebat'” (Fuck). She jumps out of her skin nearly, burning ash falling onto her milky thigh unsuspectingly.

“Mozhet byt', tebe stoit obratit' vnimaniye.” (Maybe you should pay attention). Wanda scoffs, shaking her head, beyond amused as Natasha batted the fallen ash off of her already scarred thigh. They’ll treat it properly later she’s sure, but for now it’s the least of either of their concerns.

Natasha, only collecting herself in light of finding a morsel of opportunity, looks up with a smug smirk, raising the joint to her lips tantalizingly, “Mozhet, tebe stoit zastavit' menya?” (Maybe you should make me). She sings with suave, pulling in a large inhale that flares her perfect nostrils.

Wanda’s eyes darken, she steps forward, seconds away from taking the low dangling bait, “Monkey-Monkey.” Your little voice croaks, the bedsheets rustling beneath your weight as you frantically scramble to find your beloved stuffed friend that’s uncomfortably pinned beneath your ribcage. You find him before it catches up to you that you don’t feel good, a reflexive gag crawling up your throat as you sit up straight in bed. “Mama!” You wail the moment your eyes fall upon the Sokovian standing in front of Natasha. You don’t know what you want her to do, you don’t know what she can do, but you decide you need her the second you see her.

Wanda smirks, a cynical gleam in her eyes as she stalks closer to Natasha, deciding that if you were going to throw up, you would have the moment you started gagging and wailing. You can wait a moment if it means reminding Natasha of the place she agreed to take occasionally.

Wanda taps the brunette's wrist in the same fashion that you had last night when whining for her beer. It stills now as Wanda doesn’t spare her assertion of pressure. She smirks when more ash falls from the joint at the quake, Natasha’s eyes squinting as she bites her lip, forcing back a moan as she falls into a headspace she's been learning to love since Wanda let her back into her life. She submits now. She likes it too. But that doesn’t mean she makes it easy when the time comes for Wanda to cash in and take the reins.

“Mm.” Wanda hums blissfully as she leans forward, pressing her hidden cleavage into Natasha’s face as she takes a deep drag of the joint, wishing away the soft thud in her head and exhaustion in her bones with each pull. Natasha’s never wished to own more revealing t-shirts more than she does right now.

Your whining and whimpering in the center of the California King is delicious background noise. Wanda doesn’t so much as choke or splutter as she exhales through her nose, “Since you want me to make you pay attention so much; new rules,” Wanda hints at the conversation she’d had with Natasha yesterday morning before either one of them had gotten the day started. She’d told her explicitly that she wasn’t to make you cum without permission, nor was Natasha permitted to fuck around and get her fingers wet again. “You sit here smoking that hangover away and watch as I take care of our girl.”

Natasha almost wishes all that loomed in the air was not being able to dip her fingers into your soaking wet cunt. Her own core pulses at the proposition Wanda delivers, her head bobbing in acceptance as she takes in the alternative meaning of her girlfriend's speech. You don’t need to know what they’re conversing and whispering about in the corner. You’re far too little to be involved in such big girl conversations, Natasha would tell you if you stopped whimpering for just one moment, if her head were clear enough to get the words off her tongue in time.

“Deal?” Wanda questions, letting mischief dance behind her eyes as she unmakes Natasha farther.

If there’s one thing the Russian refuses to do, it’s back down. Natasha takes another drag from her joint, taps the burning ash off into the ashtray she’s pulled out of the tin box Wanda makes her keep in the very bottom drawer of the dresser, and nods her head. “Deal.”

“If you cave before I give you the signal you’re doing the dishes for a week.” Wanda smirks over her shoulder as she finally makes her way toward you, her head spinning just the lightest bit at the presence of weed in her system that’s still lacking food and coffee. It had been a slow morning, a long shower. She’s not complaining, but she is aware of how her stomach begins to cramp pleadingly. “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.” It’s an automatic switch. One minute she’s up-tight, calculated, looking at Natasha with a glare sharper than knives that have killed men, and the next she drips with softness that sticks to her fingers like honey. Her tone is even, controlled, but so warm as it washes against you finally, her attention fully bestowed upon you and your delicate features.

You’re sitting up in the middle of the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. One hand holds Monkey-Monkey’s ear as he sits on your lap, the other reaches for her with fingers that tremble out of either anxiety, or fear. You’ve never received the effects of a hangover well, especially never in this state. Wanda can’t tell what your ailment is right now, what the root of your fussing is really about, but she knows the stuffed animal you hold possessively is at least half of the concern already. The pinkness of your cheeks and against the bridge of your nose is adorable. You appear radiantly endearing as you reach harder for Wanda, whining louder.

“Now, my sweet little sun knows to use her big girl words when she wants something from her Mama, doesn’t she?” Wanda tuts, sitting on the edge of the bed and grabbing your hand that waves in the air. She pulls it down into her lap, smoothing the pad of her thumb across your knuckles as she looks at you. “What are the tears for already? My pretty girl just opened her eyes, we can’t be this sad already.” She fusses over you affectionately, lifting her other hand to your face to cup your cheeks and brush your tears away. You learn into her touch, eyes fluttering closed, siphoning every sensation you can register until it's gone. You whine when it leaves, when she takes her hand off of your left cheek and doesn’t move it to your right fast enough. Wanda laughs, enthralled by the simpleness of your focus right now. “So dramatic, little one. So whiny. Mama’s not going anywhere, I’m right here. I’ve got you.” She finishes wiping your cheeks dry, but having learned you’re not in the headspace to spare physical connection, she keeps her hand on your cheek, looking at you like you’d hung the stars for her. “What are these big ole tears for, huh? Tell Mama, sunshine.”

“Hurt.” There’s a slight slur to your single word that has Wanda smiling regardless of if she understands your point. She smooths her thumb over your cheek again, nodding with the utmost interest as she keeps her eyes on yours.

“You're hurt?” Her eyes do an instinctive once over of your still partially concealed frame. The blankets bunch around your waist, the pajama top she’d stripped you out of last night is crumbled between the pillows. Your burn is bad, noticeable, but Wanda doesn’t think it's enough to warrant these sobs. She can gather that your head hurts. The way you sway is indicative of a girl that barely knows which way is left and which is right, but your eyebrows don’t furrow the way they do when you’re focusing on a pain in your head. It’s not that and she’s run out of context clues. “Where does it hurt, sweet girl? Where can Mama make better for you?”

Your head shakes frantically. Her palm pulls away from your features preemptively. You explode into sobs again, face reddening as frustration and upset works you up. Natasha wants to speak up from the chair. She wants to remind Wanda that when you’re like this, when you’re working on healing something that never got the chance to grow when it should’ve, you equate every injury and visible damage as reflecting pain; hurt. She wants so badly to wipe your tears and usher Monkey-Monkey back downstairs to her makeshift gurney in the kitchen, but she has orders — pride — and nobody’s told her to speak, let alone leave the chair her blunt fingernails curl into as she savors her joint.

“No!” You shout, pulling your hand out of Wanda’s, letting it slam against the bed as you sob without restraint for the second time in two days. For a moment, Wanda wonders how long you’ve needed this for. Now isn’t the time to ask, or question. “No!” You repeat, sounding softer, desperate. You want her to understand, you want to be able to articulate it, but there’s something that blocks your thoughts, your ability to speak or formulate sentences. It’s kind, an almost magical essence that makes you believe that sometimes, other people can figure out your problems for you, sometimes, it’s okay to let yourself be difficult.

“Hey now, we don’t raise our voice at Mama. I can see that you’re frustrated, my love, but I can’t help if I don’t know what's wrong.” Wanda puts you back into her hands, She reclaims your face with passion, emerald eyes burning with affection as she looks at you with all the love in her body. You preen at the contact, red-rimmed eyes puffy and sensitive. “Someone’s small.” She notes obviously, but the confirmation that someone sees you, recognizes you — chooses just to accept you, strikes your soul.

You whine, embarrassment crawling up your neck. Your hazy eyes blink, your slurred together sounds still cute as they coat the air alongside Natasha’s smog from the corner. “Someone.” You hum, mimicking her, clinging onto her words like they’re a prophecy for your life bestowed upon you by a god, or goddess.

“Someone;” Wanda chortles, amusement claiming her features as she leans her face closer to yours and scrunches her nose deliciously. “You.” She pokes the burnt tip of your nose, laughing softly when you go cross-eyed to see the source of pressure you feel, following her finger like she’s giving an eye exam or sobriety test.

“Hurt.” You frown again, raising your beloved stuffed animal up to Wanda’s line of sight almost desperately.

Recognition washes across her features like a tidal wave, sympathy twinging her emerald eyes something lighter as she cups her palms to better fit your cheeks. “Daddy’s going to stitch him up, remember? He’s going to be just fine in a little while.” She smooths down the wild flyaways around your face, tucking the baby hairs long enough to reach behind your ears.

You shudder at the sensation, chills running up your body. “Now.” You frown, expression sobering as you level your stare with Wanda’s, dropping Monkey-Monkey back into your lap as you fight the feeling of spiders on your skin.

Wanda laughs at your sweet persistence, shaking her head as she guides you to lay back in the unmade, messy bed instead. Your braid sprawls across Natasha’s pile of pillows, slightly damp, coming undone at parts. Wanda was planning on doing the laundry anyway. She pays no mind for how you soak the wrinkled cases.

“Now? But what if Mommy had other plans?” Her fingers trace coyly up your forearms. The ache in your core reappears, butterflies in your belly like they’d never left from last night. With lidded eyes your stare traces the movement of her fingers. They’re nimble, kind of knobby around her knuckles that protrude against her skin. There’s a stealth to them that's almost professional, almost calculated, but it all blurs when you take in how she twitches with an almost witch-like energy. “What if Mommy wanted to finally take care of that ache in your belly, hm? What if Mommy wanted to finally touch this little pussy like she means it? Do you still want to rush downstairs, sunshine? Or should we stay up here just a little longer?” You’d been watching her fingers so carefully. You swore you had been. Wanda could see through the haze in your eyes enough to tell you weren’t seeing anything but whatever was going on in that pretty little head of yours.

Your hips cant wildly when her finger trails between your legs, perfectly atop of your pulsating, pebbled clit that strains against the shorts Wanda had dressed you in the night before. She doesn’t comment on the wetness that soaks the fabric. Not yet. She doesn’t want to interrupt the way you moan with need, your back arching off the mattress as your tiny fists grab at the sheets. Your head nods. Despite all that your body does to convey its inability to respond, your head bobs with the only evidence of acceptance you’re able to give Wanda as you look at her spread out on your back, half undressed, kissed by the sun and hungover, with stars in your eyes.

Wanda hums, pressing on your weeping entrance now. “Always so quick to agree with Mommy. So eager.” She teases, voice dripping with honey, tickling your skin like lace. “I love it, sweet girl. I adore it. I crave it.” Her mutual desire is punctuated by the intrusion of her finger in your cunt. Just one. The same one that had traced you like a painting and prodded at you like prey pressed into your weeping entrance and curved upward against your g-spot with perfect precision. You’d been with her long enough. She didn’t need to guess to find her way around your body. It had been hers in every way for a long, long time. “It’s so mean teasing you so much, isn’t it? Getting you all worked up and leaving you there all day. That’s no way to treat such a little girl, now is it?” Wanda preens, pouting at you so coercively.

Pathetic, desperate babbles fall off your lips as your fingers curl tighter into the bedsheets, your hips wild, uncontrolled, untamed. Another finger pokes at your entrance. The one within your walls disappears. Two take its place.

A guttural moan falls off your tongue as you drop your head into the pillows, no longer able to look at Wanda through thick, tear-soaked lashes. Natasha watches you like a hawk. Her not-all-blue, not-all-green stare attempting to memorize every freckle, stretch mark, tan line in sight. The majority of your lower half is concealed by the crumpled blankets and Wanda’s looming frame. Your thighs are spread to accommodate the position she takes up overtop of you, but your shorts cover your ass, and Wanda’s wrist hides the fraction of your pussy that she’s pulled out to work over.

Your breasts spill sideways just slightly, nipples ever so uneven as your lungs expand and deflate rapidly, sporadically. Wanda looks so soft perched on the side of the California King, haphazardly leaning her weight on one locked, extended arm, while the works your pussy open, but the way she doesn’t even fully crane to dominate you yet turns Natasha on more than you’re aware of. Natasha’s not even sure you realize she’s not in bed too as she raises the joint to her lips again, desperate to conceal the moan that crawls up her throat at the sight of Wanda slipping a third finger into your core and adding her thumb to the rotation with a sickening half-circle motion.

What she doesn’t attempt to conceal is the arousal that begins to dampen her boxers as she adjusts her position in the chair by the window, thrusting her pelvis upward and spreading her thighs wide enough to invite a particular Sokovians stare toward the hottest part of her body. The burn in Natasha’s pants outweighs the warmth of her sunburn. She’s certain that if Wanda were to touch her, to slip her hand down her boxers and use your wetness as lubrication to cup her own core, she’d hiss at the heat.

For now, Wanda’s gaze doesn’t drift from you. Natasha tries not to be all that affected by the blatant disregard to her presence as she taps the ash off the end, keeping her composure if only barely.

“No, it’s not. Mommy knows. Mommy knows that. But, can I tell you a secret, sunshine? Can Mommy tell you something naughty?” Wanda looks down at you with the sweetest, most inviting smile as she overwhelms your already scrambled brain with words that you can barely make sense of, but know are meant to tease you. Your mouth opens wider, your tongue laps at your teeth, at your lips. A string of saliva escapes as you look at her blindly, dumbly, a hungover hue of green accompanying your endearing pink tint. “It’s so fun being mean to you. It’s so fun riling you up, and getting under your skin, and deciding when you get to cum. It’s such a sight to have you like this afterward. To see you writhing, gasping, just twitching with pleasure and need. To feel you clenching on my fingers, struggling for breath beneath my lips, sweating… oh, sunshine, Mamochke tak nravitsya byt' s toboy zloy.” (Mommy loves being mean to you so much).

Wanda gets away from herself as she slowly situates her body overtop of yours on the bed. Natasha’s barely holding it together as Wanda’s frame makes you look so small. Her movements pulled the blankets farther off your body, sure, but her new position conceals you almost entirely, mere fragments of your quivering frame visible at varying moments. Wanda’s not even big, not even that buff, not like her; Natasha thinks, but still you look so tiny all sprawled out in the bed beneath her.

“So sweet, sunshine. You’re so sweet for me. Clenching so nicely around my fingers, babbling so prettily for me to hear, shaking so, so desperately. Oh, are you close, malen'koye solntse? (Little sun). Are you already ready to cum like a good little girl on Mommy’s fingers? I won’t stop you, I won’t stop you. Not this time, baby. Not this time. Mommy’s not gonna stop, so you might as well just let go, angel. Just let go for me, cum for Mommy.” Wanda’s never been a woman known for her patience. What she wants to happen, she makes happen. She doesn’t take no for an answer.

Your hips are too inviting. Too intoxicating as they thrash upward. “I’m sorry, baby. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Mommy’s sorry.” Wanda pulls her fingers away at the last moment, her emerald eyes pitch black with lust as she rips the shorts off your body with an animalistic urge, diving face first into your core with a feverish urge that swallows the whines and sobs that fall from your lips and replaces them with moans and cries. Her tongue laps at the mess her fingers created for only a second before she plunges three fingers back into your core and takes interest in your tongue, feeling every fold of skin that molds and wrinkles beneath her pressure.

Natasha loses all composure in a moment. She groans as she watches Wanda ravage you, keeping her hand out of her pants if only to make the Sokovian fix her issue the moment she finds enough leverage to regain control.

“Mmm. Come on, sweet girl. Please.” Wanda’s losing grasp of her own control, but the vibrations of her plea against your oversensitive clit is enough to send you catapulting off the cliff of euphoria into her mouth.

“Fucking hell.” Natasha all but hisses as she watches you squirt, gushing in spurts around Wanda’s fingers all over her mouth and chin. The bedsheets soak almost comedically slow. Natasha’s almost certain she watches your wetness pearl on the cotton before it absorbs, a darkened patch beneath you that really is akin to an accident now.

Wanda groans against your core, taken aback, damp from the crown of her head to her shoulders as she presses her face farther into your core, the suction of her lips sending a fourth and final spurt into the air and sprinkling over her head and your thighs. If you were trembling before, your body is an earthquake now. Your hands that had tangled into her hair push desperately at her head now, your eyes just the slightest bit clearer as your wide stare begs for mercy.

Natasha can see the tone of the scene changing like the inks drying on a page before her eyes. She’s off the chair in a second, orders out the window as Wanda pulls her mouth off of your cunt and goes to work in aiding the shift in headspace nobody had accounted for. Neither of them expected you to squirt. They’d gotten you to before, sure. But it wasn’t on either one of their minds this morning, right now.

“The yellow one.” Wanda mutters without looking as Natasha stumbles through the bedroom on a mission to find their designated aftercare towels. She takes a drag of the joint that's dwindling shorter by the moment, adjusting her boxers with an awkward step forward as she silently nods to her girlfriends request.

She’s already thinking about the next time they can try out prolonged edging and denial by the time she reaches your bedside with the yellow towel Wanda requested and two tablets of Advil. Wanda’s sitting with you against her chest perched up on the headboard, the blankets kicked off both of your body’s as pearls of sweat bead off your skin. Wanda’s undone your braid and her own hair already, and her thumbs cleaned up the drool around your chin.

Wanda reaches for the water on the nightstand preemptively when Natasha extends her outstretched hand to you, two circular red pills being offered with shared sympathy. You huff, shaking your head as you bat her hand away, reaching for the one that holds her joint between her middle and pointer finger and the corner of the towel between the pad of her thumb and index finger.

Natasha rolls her eyes fondly, leaning closer to feed you the joint like a princess, smirking down at you with amusement as she watches you try to settle in the haze that settles almost immediately.

“All I’m good for around here is cleaning you ladies up and getting you high, huh?” Natasha laughs softly as she pulls the joint away, insisting you chase it with the pills now as Wanda takes the towel, wasting no time in wiping down the insides of your sensitive thighs. Natasha’s expression softens when you twitch at the gentle pressure, overstimulated beyond just orgasmic euphoria. They’d put you through a lot in the last day and a half. More than they’d been expecting to even. “Why don’t you and Wands go hop in the shower and clean up a little, hm? I know you’re not the biggest fan of dutch braids, but if you let her braid your hair instead, there’s a good chance I can have Monkey-Monkey all stitched up and fixed by the time you’re ready for some lunch.” She eases you gently into a soft headspace as Wanda finishes up between your legs, tapping your thigh in encouragement to Natasha’s idea when she’s done.

“How does that sound, malen'koye solntse?” (Little sun?) Wanda hums, though there’s not much choice in the offer. You know that, recognize that, but you don’t mind it anyway. Nodding your head and wiggling your body out of bed if only in hopes of the shower water washing away a fraction of your hangover.

“Pink string this time.” You tell Natasha solemnly as you hand over the stuffed monkey. She smiles softly, fondly, taking him into her hold with care.

“Of course, sunshine.” She leans forward to kiss the top of your head just once before she sends you off into the bathroom with Wanda, descending the stairs with a heart fuller than it had been when she’d ascended them last.

-

You’re feeling just the slightest bit more awake and alert as you step down the stairs with Wanda. Your skin glows with an oily sheen as sunlight hits it from the kitchen windows, your face just slightly darker too.

Natasha’s sitting at the counter with a peanut butter sandwich and a jar of pickles, Monkey-Monkey at her side as she seemingly texts someone back. She glances up when she hears your footsteps, turning her screen off to give you her full attention as you approach.

She picks up the jar of pickles as she wraps an arm around your waist, humming at how warm you still feel from the shower, and how soft your skin is as you hug her wearing a thin little tank top and short shorts. Your nose crinkles as you watch her take a sip.

“Open your mouth.” She tells you without hesitation the moment she swallows her mouthful. Your eyebrows furrow, but you comply, still slightly swimming in a sea of submission, still wanting to listen to her. She tips the jar back into your mouth, giggling slightly when you grimace at the salty flavor. “It helps with hangovers.” She tells you after the fact, and Wanda only rolls her eyes as she changes the topic to your beloved friend on the counter.

“Look who's all patched up.” She hums, and Natasha sets the jar down just in time to pick him up and hand him over to you, grinning from ear to ear as she points out the slightest details of pink she’d left visible between Monkey-Monkey’s matted fur.

“Can barely even tell, but I left a little visible just so you knew I used the pink string like you said.” Natasha smiles, and while there’s not much in her words, there’s so much in her actions and her starry eyes as she looks at you with the type of silence that writes eulogies.

“Thank you.” Your voice is soft, a gentle whisper as you take him into your hands again and look your arms around her neck, cuddling in close as you catch the scent of weed and peanuts on her collar.