𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇:

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She has covered them. That is the only word for it—covered. Claimed, mapped every inch with her mouth and her teeth until there was barely a patch of unmarked skin left on either one. She bites the swell of your left breast and surveys the damage with satisfied eyes before moving to the right, biting there too so it matches, like symmetry matters to her right now.

Wanda turns a page.

She's been exactly where she was when this started: propped against the headboard with her book open across her knees, one lamp on, completely undisturbed. Her magic has your wrists pinned on either side of your head, scarlet tendrils wrapped sure and immovable around each one. She didn't look up when she sent them. She hasn't looked up since.

Natasha pulls at your nipple with her teeth and you arch off the mattress with a cry.

"Hush now, darling," Wanda says, her voice soft and gentle, probably supposed to be calming.

Natasha isn't feeling as soft.

"Shut. Up." She growls it against your breast, directly at you, her eyes flicking up to yours for one searing second before she bites down again. "Stay fucking still."

You are not staying still. You physically cannot stay still, your whole body reacting to every press of her teeth before your brain has caught up. Natasha takes your squirming as a personal challenge. Her hands grip both your breasts at once, fingers digging in, squeezing hard enough that you feel it in your teeth, and she bites the underside of your left breast in a place she hasn't been yet. She is being thorough about this, you realized several minutes ago.

"She's not listening," Wanda observes. She sounds mildly entertained, turning another page.

"I know," Natasha growls, low and rough. She looks up at you from where her mouth is still pressed to your breast. "Little slut." Her thumb drags over your nipple, not gently. "Look at her, trying to grind against nothing. Fuckin' loves this."

She's not wrong and you all know it.

She licks a slow stripe across your chest, collarbone to collarbone, tasting the marks she's already made, and her hands move down to your waist before she drags her mouth down your sternum. She bites your stomach, moving lower. She has been working toward this for a while now and you can feel exactly how long in the accumulated ache of every mark she's left getting you here.

She bites your hip, then bites the other.

Her hands slide to your thighs and she wrenches them apart, her fingers pressing into the skin hard enough that you know they'll bruise, and she looks at what's between them with extreme satisfaction.

You are soaked. You are embarrassingly, obviously, completely soaked, and she can see it.

"Dripping," she growls. "Makin' a mess."

"She always does," Wanda says softly, it sounds like to herself, not looking up. "She can't help it. Our messy girl."

Natasha bites the inside of your thigh.

She holds the bite—teeth pressing in past the point of sharp into something that blooms hot and makes your hips try to move. It, of course, gets you absolutely nowhere because her hands are holding you exactly where she put you and Wanda's magic has your wrists. She releases the bite and runs her tongue over the mark, slow and wet, and then does the exact same thing to your other thigh.

You are saying please. You can hear yourself saying it, a continuous beg that you didn't decide to start. Natasha looks up at you from between your legs with wet eyes and a mouth that's already slick.

"Pathetic," she growls, watching your hips twitch uselessly against the air. "Can't even keep still when there's nowhere for you to go. Bet you'd hump my face if I let you, wouldn't you? Needy little thing."

"To be fair," Wanda says pleasantly, "you have been at this for quite a while, honey." She turns a page. "She's been very patient. Look at her clenching around nothing. It's almost sad."

Natasha makes a sound, her mouth finding the inside of your thigh again, higher this time, right at the crease, and she bites there suddenly. You cry out and pull against every restraint you have and get nowhere at all.

Then she licks a single long stripe up through your folds, the flat of her tongue dragging through exactly how wet you are, ending in a slow circle right at your clit.

Your whole body jolts. Her hands grip your thighs tighter, pulling them wider, and she does it again, and again, until she's not teasing anymore. Her tongue pushes inside you, fucking into you with the same relentless focus she gave your thighs, curling and dragging on every withdrawal, and the wet, obscene sound of it against how soaked you are fills the whole room—loud, filthy, impossible to ignore.

"Fuck, listen to that," Natasha murmurs.

Wanda hums in agreement.

"Mine," Natasha growls next, the word vibrating straight into you, and then her hands leave your thighs entirely, sliding up to grip your hips instead—both palms wide, fingers digging in—and she hauls you down into her mouth, holding you exactly where she wants you while her tongue works you open, grinding her face into you like she wants your slick smeared across her chin and doesn't care who sees it.

"Indeed," Wanda agrees, turning another page. She sounds fond. She sounds like she's discussing something obvious. And the fact that they are discussing you right over your head, without acknowledging you as part of the conversation, only makes your pussy clench around Natasha's tongue.

Natasha pulls back just enough to circle your clit with the tip of her tongue, watching you the whole time, her jaw tight with hunger and possession, plain and unhidden.

Your eyes go to Wanda. You don't mean to but you do. Wanda looks up at exactly that moment. Her dark eyes find yours over the top of her book and hold them for just one second, and then she looks back down and turns the page.

Natasha seals her mouth over your clit and sucks like she has a point to prove.

Your whole body goes rigid, the restraints at your wrists going taut as you strain against them, and she gives you all of it immediately, two fingers driving into your pussy the second her mouth locks around your clit, curling hard against the spot that makes your thighs shake, her grip on your hip brutal, pulling you into every thrust of her own hand like she's using you exactly how she wants.

"Taste so fucking good," she growls against you, not stopping. "My little slut." She sucks harder, fingers not slowing. "My pretty little whore. Could stay right here all night, just like this, and you'd let me, wouldn't you? You'd cum on my face as many times as I wanted."

You are going to die. That is a real possibility. Your thighs are shaking around her head and your hips are rolling into her mouth, every sound coming out of you obscene. Wanda has just reached the end of her chapter and is moving on to the next one.

"So good for us," Wanda murmurs, distantly. "Isn't she, Natasha? Look at her shaking. She's about to cum all over your mouth and she hasn't even asked permission."

Natasha groans against your clit in agreement and the vibration of it, combined with her fingers curling one more time, tips you over completely.

You cum hard—hard enough that your whole body locks, that your back arches off the mattress, that the sound you make is more of a sob than anything else—and Natasha does not stop. She works you through every wave with the same focused desperation she brought to all of it, her mouth not easing, her hands not releasing, taking every second of it until you're twitching, oversensitive, trying weakly to squirm away from a mouth that simply follows, that keeps licking through you slow and filthy even after you've got nothing left to give, until you're a whimpering, shuddering mess and she finally, finally lets up.

She stays pressed against you after, just breathing. Her mouth is still against your cunt, not moving now, her lips wet with you, her chin shining with it. It's like she needs a moment. Like this was as much for her as it was for you, which it absolutely was.

Then she drags herself back up your body.

She stops on the way, pressing her mouth to your hip. This one is not a bite, just a press of lips, reviewing the mark there. She does the same to your stomach, and then she's up and she's looking at your chest.

She is not satisfied.

You can see it. It's as clear as the bites on your body and the soaked patch on the bedsheets. She is looking at the marks going purple and red, and she is already thinking about what happens when they start to fade.

She nuzzles into your neck, kissing a trail up until she puts her mouth against your ear.

"When these go," she growls, teeth grazing your earlobe, "I'm putting new ones."

"Of course you will," Wanda says, turning a page, like this is simply the natural order of things, which it is. "And I'll help."

Natasha bites your shoulder again.