Female Fight Club

Around you, the city is a gray mouth held open by smoke. Night rain slicks the cracked asphalt and turns the gutters into thin rivers of ash. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, then abruptly cuts off like something reached up and pinched it shut.

The building ahead is a squat concrete block dressed up as a humanitarian front. The name on the sign is cheerful, rounded letters meant to reassure, RELIEF SERVICES, while the windows are blacked out and the corners are too sharp to belong to anything honest.

Inside, there are hostages.

Inside, there are armed men with cheap rifles and expensive confidence.

And inside, somewhere in the middle of all that human fear, is the reason SHIELD called in the Avengers in the first place an experimental power core stolen out of a secure lab, humming with the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms lift and your teeth ache.

You crouch behind the destroyed shell of a car, rain ticking softly on the roof above you. Your vest sits heavy over your chest, the ceramic plate reassuring in a way that feels almost superstitious. Your fingers are steady on your weapon. Your breathing is controlled.

You’ve been trained by the best.

And by her.

Wanda’s team doesn’t move like chaos; they move like a sentence written in sharp ink. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a job. Everyone knows the cost of getting sloppy.

There’s a shift to your right. A trainee, newer, younger, adjusts their grip too fast. Their shoulder jerks. Their eyes flick up and down the building like they’re trying to count threats by staring harder at them.

You catch it, because you always catch it. You do what you’ve been taught to do: you assess, you predict, you correct.

“Breathe,” you murmur, not into comms, just into the rain. “Slow.”

The trainee swallows and nods too hard.

Wanda’s voice returns, crisp and clean. “Natasha. East entry. Clint, overwatch. Steve, you’re with me on the front breach. Y/n--”

Your throat tightens a fraction. That pause before she says your name always does something to you, even when it shouldn’t.

“--you’re with the hostages,” Wanda finishes. “You prioritize them. You do not chase targets. You do not improvise.”

It’s direct. Commanding. Exact.

And underneath it, if you know her the way you do, there’s a second layer of meaning.

You come back.

You come back.

You come back.

Your lips part around a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding. “Copy. Hostages first.”

“Good girl,” Wanda says, so quietly you almost miss it under the rain and the comms hiss. The words hit the inside of your ribs like a thumb pressed to a bruise--firm, intimate, grounding.

Across the street, Steve gives a hand signal and the front line shifts. Natasha slides like a shadow along the east wall, so smooth she might as well be the night itself. Clint is already a silhouette somewhere high above, bow drawn, watching.

Yelena’s voice crackles into comms like she’s leaning too close to the mic. “I am in position. And if any of you die, I will be very annoyed.”

“Comforting,” Natasha replies without missing a beat.

“It is my love language,” Yelena says, and you hear the grin in her voice.

You almost smile. Almost. You don’t let yourself.

Wanda doesn’t banter. Not before a breach. Not when civilians are involved. Not when there’s too much that can go wrong.

She is, always, control.

That’s what SHIELD saw in her when they asked her to supervise training rotations. That’s why they paired her with you when you arrived, half-broken and too useful to ignore.

You weren’t born into this world.

You were dropped into it.

One day you were somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t have streetlights, didn’t have coffee, didn’t have the mundane, stupid comforts of Earth. Somewhere the sky was too close and the air tasted metallic and your power felt like a sickness trying to crawl out of your bones.

You survived.

You adapted.

SHIELD found you because something bright and wrong lit up their satellites. They brought you in with a soft voice and a hard hand. They called you an asset and smiled like it was kindness.

Wanda was the first person who didn’t talk to you like you were a weapon.

She talked to you like you were a person holding a weapon, and there is a difference so sharp it still cuts when you think about it.

She corrected your stance with two fingers at your elbow, not a shove.

She watched your breathing when your power spiked, not your hands.

She kept you in training longer than anyone thought necessary, because she refused to throw you into the field until you trusted your own body again.

And when you’d flinched once, once, at a sudden sound and everyone else had looked at you like you’d proven them right about you being unstable, Wanda had stepped closer, gaze steady, and said:

“Again.”

No pity. No fear. Just expectation.

You learned to meet it.

You learned to become someone she could trust.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, somewhere between her hands on your wrists adjusting a grip and her eyes on you during a sparring match like you were the only thing worth watching, something in her shifted.

It wasn’t obvious. Wanda is not obvious.

But you noticed.

Because you notice everything about her.

The way her gaze lingers a fraction too long on your mouth when you talk.

The way she says your name when she’s angry, like it’s a restraint.

The way she is harsher with everyone else, and softer with you in the small places she thinks no one can see.

In the field, she never touches the other trainees unless she has to.

With you, she’s always one step closer than necessary.

Always within reach.

Like she’s afraid the world will steal you if she doesn’t keep a hand on the thread.

“Breach in three,” Steve says on comms.

Wanda inhales.

You hear it.

Even over the line, even through the static, you hear the control in it.

Then: “Two.”

You shift your weight, muscles coiling. Your path is mapped, west hallway, down to the holding room. Wanda’s intel says the hostages are in the back, behind a metal door. Your job is to get to them, shield them, get them out.

“One.”

The front wall explodes inward with controlled force. Not Wanda’s magic, Steve’s charge, clean and brutal. Dust blooms into the rain like a gray flower.

The world lurches.

You move.

Everything becomes sound and motion and training.

You sprint, low, weapon up, eyes scanning. The air inside the building is warmer, stale, smelling of sweat and fear and old concrete. A man shouts in a language you don’t understand. Another one screams.

Gunfire erupts, sharp, fast, echoing off the narrow hallways.

Your heart doesn’t race it works. Steady. Efficient.

You take the west corridor, boots splashing through rainwater tracked in, and you are halfway down when the trainee behind you does exactly what Wanda told them not to do.

They improvise.

They break formation.

They push ahead, eager, trying to be heroic, trying to prove something.

You see it like a slow motion nightmare: their shoulder breaks into the open doorway on the left, their body exposed, their weapon angle wrong.

And from inside the room, a muzzle flashes.

Hostages.

The shooter isn’t aiming at the trainee.

He’s aiming past them.

At a woman crouched behind a table, hands over her head, eyes wide and wet in the dim.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You throw yourself into the line.

The impact is a sledgehammer to your chest.

Your vest catches the bullet, your plate does its job, so there’s no clean hole, no neat wound, no immediate red blooming through fabric.

Instead, the force drives into you like a car crash compressed into a single point.

Your ribs feel like they fold.

Your lungs forget how to be lungs.

You hit the floor hard enough that your vision whites out at the edges.

Sound becomes underwater.

You try to inhale and nothing happens.

Your body sucks at air like it’s never done it before, like the motion is unfamiliar, like you’re drowning in dry space.

A wet sound tears from your throat.

Blood spills into your mouth, hot and metallic, and you cough--instinctively, violently

and it sprays out in a dark arc across the concrete.

The smell is immediate.

Iron.

Panic.

You claw at your chest, fingers scrabbling over the vest like you can rip your way back to breathing if you just try hard enough.

The trainee screams your name.

You can’t answer.

Your world tunnels into the savage need for air.

Somewhere above you, Wanda’s voice slices through comms.

“Y/n?”

It’s not command.

It’s fear, sharpened into a single syllable.

You try to speak. You can’t. Blood bubbles at your lips instead.

Your hand lifts, weak, reaching for nothing.

“Y/n,” Wanda says again, and you hear her moving, fast, too fast. The air hums. The building itself seems to vibrate with the sudden flare of red.

Steve says something, your name, an order, but it’s swallowed by the roar in your ears.

Footsteps thunder.

And then Wanda is there.

She drops to her knees so hard the concrete should bruise her. Her hands are on you immediately, everywhere, too many points of contact, like she’s trying to anchor you to the world by force.

Her fingers find your jaw, tilt your face up. Her other hand grabs the front of your vest, yanks at the straps with violent precision.

“Look at me,” she says, breath trembling on the words. Wanda Maximoff’s breath does not tremble. She is the calm in the storm.

Except right now.

Right now her hands shake so slightly you feel it in the way her fingers press into your skin.

You try to open your eyes. Your lashes are wet, rain, tears, blood spray, you don’t know. Everything is blurry. Wanda’s face is a dark shape edged in red light.

You cough again.

Blood pours out, thick and relentless, and you make a horrible, choking sound because it’s blocking everything.

Wanda’s eyes widen, pupils blown.

“No,” she whispers, like she can refuse reality into changing.

Her magic flares, scarlet threads curling around your torso, probing, searching, trying to assess damage the way a medic would, except it’s Wanda so it’s like being touched from the inside.

You feel it catch on something, your ribs, your lungs, and her breath breaks.

“moye serdtse” she murmurs, voice cracking. Something soft and Sokovian, something that sounds like a prayer and a promise at once. “moya lyubov'… stay with me.”

You don’t understand the words, but you understand the tone.

You understand the way her thumbs stroke your cheeks like she’s trying to soothe you while you’re actively dying.

Your chest heaves. Your lungs flutter uselessly, bruised and flooding. The world tilts.

You can’t get enough air.

You can’t.

Your fingers curl into her sleeve like a child’s grip, desperate, begging.

Wanda makes a sound, small, broken, furious. Her gaze flicks once, sharp as a whip, toward the room where the shooter was.

There’s a man with a rifle staring in shock. There are hostages pressed into corners, crying.

And there--standing frozen in the doorway, pale as ash--there’s the trainee.

The one who moved wrong.

The one who made you throw your body into a bullet’s path.

Wanda’s face goes blank.

Not calm.

Blank.

It’s the expression she wears when she’s about to do something that can’t be undone.

Red light crawls up her fingers.

The air thickens.

The trainee whimpers.

“Wanda,” Steve says on comms, firm. “Stay with her. We’ve got--”

Wanda doesn’t answer.

Her gaze locks onto the trainee like a target.

And then Natasha is there too, because Natasha Romanoff misses nothing. She drops beside Wanda, one knee hitting the floor, and her hand clamps around Wanda’s wrist.

Hard.

“Maximoff,” Natasha says, low. “Eyes here.”

Wanda’s jaw flexes. Her nostrils flare. Her magic surges against Natasha’s grip like a living thing trying to lunge.

“You--” Wanda starts, and it’s not even aimed at Natasha. It’s aimed at the universe.

Natasha doesn’t let her finish.

“Later,” she says, like it’s a promise and a warning. “Right now, you keep her alive.”

Wanda’s eyes flick back to you.

The sight of your blood at your mouth, the way your chest won’t rise properly, the panic in your gaze, something in her fractures.

She leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. Her breath is ragged in your face.

“Breathe,” she says, voice shaking now. “Breathe for me, detka. Please.”

You try.

You cannot.

Your throat makes a horrible wet rasp.

You see it in Wanda’s eyes the moment she realizes the truth:

You aren’t just hurt.

You are going to suffocate.

Your airway is failing.

Your lungs are failing.

You are drowning in yourself.

“Nat,” Wanda whispers, and there is naked terror in it. “She--”

“I know,” Natasha says.

Yelena’s voice crackles through comms, suddenly sharp. “Why is everyone quiet? Who is bleeding? Is it you? If it is you, I will--”

“Shut up,” Natasha snaps, then immediately softens her tone like she remembers you can hear her. “Yelena. Med kit. Now. West corridor. Run.”

“I am running,” Yelena says indignantly, and you hear pounding footsteps in the background and the clink of something metal. “I am always running in this family.”

Wanda’s hands are still on you. She’s already ripping open the front of your vest. The straps tear. The plate shifts. Cold air hits your skin.

Your chest is already blooming with bruising, a dark, ugly spread under your collarbone. Wanda’s fingers trace it as if touching it gently might undo it.

She presses two fingers to your throat, checking.

Her magic pulses, probing deeper.

And then she goes still.

Her eyes flick up, meet Natasha’s.

A silent exchange passes between them, the kind only people who have seen too much can have.

Natasha’s voice is grim. “Airway’s going.”

You want to say something. Anything. You want to tell them you’re here, you’re trying, you’re not ready, your mind throws a thousand words at your tongue and none of them get past the blood.

Wanda cups your face with both hands now like she’s afraid your head will roll away if she lets go.

“Stay with me,” she repeats, and this time it’s not a command. It’s a plea. “Stay, stay, stay…”

Your vision swims.

The edges darken.

You hear comms like a distant radio in another room.

Steve barking orders. Gunfire. Hostages crying. The mission still happening around you while your whole world becomes the brutal, humiliating fact that you can’t breathe.

Wanda’s thumb presses at the corner of your mouth, wiping blood away with a tenderness that feels obscene in a battlefield.

“Please,” she whispers again, and you realize she’s crying, not openly, not dramatically, but there’s a wet shine gathering in her eyes that makes your chest ache even more than the injury.

Yelena skids into the hallway, breathless, and drops to her knees across from you.

She takes one look at your face, at the blood, the panic, the way your lips are starting to tinge wrong, and she loses her usual sharpness for a beat.

“Oh,” she says, very quietly. “Okay. This is bad.”

“Stop narrating,” Natasha mutters.

“I am not narrating. I am observing. There is difference.”

Yelena fumbles the med kit open, hands moving fast but not smooth. She’s excellent at violence. Comfort is… not her natural habitat.

“Hi,” Yelena says to you, and her voice does something awkward, tries to be warm, lands somewhere near blunt. “Do not die. It will upset Wanda and she will then kill everyone and I will have to clean up mess.”

You might laugh if you weren’t drowning.

Wanda glares at her without looking away from you. “Yelena.”

“What? I am soothing,” Yelena insists, offended. “This is soothing where I am from.”

“Not helping,” Natasha says.

Wanda’s magic pulses again, and you feel it coil around your throat. Not choking. Supporting. Trying to keep tissue open, trying to hold a pathway where your body is collapsing.

But magic can’t change blood flooding your airway fast enough.

Natasha’s eyes track your breathing, or lack of it, and her decision is immediate.

“There’s no time,” she says.

You hear the knife before you see it, the soft metallic whisper as she draws it from its sheath.

Your eyes widen.

Wanda’s head snaps up. “Natasha--”

Natasha doesn’t flinch. “Cric,” she says, like a code. “She’s obstructing. She’s going to suffocate.”

“No,” Wanda says, and you don’t know if she’s denying the plan or denying the reality.

Natasha’s gaze is steady. “Wanda. Hold her.”

Wanda’s face twists. Her hands tighten on your jaw like she’s holding you together by force of will. Her magic flares around you, red threads whipping, frantic.

“You are not cutting her,” Wanda hisses, voice low and feral.

Natasha leans closer, voice even lower. “Then watch her die.”

The words hit like a slap.

Wanda’s breath stutters.

Your chest convulses with another useless attempt at air. A wet gurgle tears out of you. Your vision spots.

Wanda makes a sound, raw, torn, and then she nods once, jerky, like it costs her everything.

“Do it,” she whispers.

And then, because Wanda Maximoff cannot help but be Wanda, she leans down and presses her forehead to yours, hands cradling your face so gently it hurts.

“Look at me,” she says, voice trembling like the edge of a breakdown. “Stay with me. I am here. I have you. I have you…”

Her words wrap around you like a blanket and a chain at once.

Natasha positions herself at your throat. Her movements are precise, practiced. She’s done this before. The fact makes something cold slide down your spine.

Your mind screams.

Your body tries to pull away.

But you can’t move. You’re too weak, too panicked, too trapped in the simple animal need for oxygen.

Wanda’s magic presses you down, not cruel, not painful, just… holding. Immobilizing. Protecting you from yourself.

“Detka,” Wanda whispers, and the pet name lands like a kiss on your forehead. “I am so sorry. I am so--”

The knife touches your skin.

Cold.

You choke on a sound that isn’t a word.

Pain flashes, white, brutal, immediate, as Natasha makes the incision. It’s sharp and clean and it tears a cry out of you so raw it doesn’t sound like you.

Wanda’s hands shake around your face. Her eyes are wide, wet, furious at the universe.

“Breathe,” she says, over and over, like a spell. “Breathe, breathe, breathe…”

Natasha works fast. The world is reduced to sensation: the sting at your throat, the pressure, the awful awareness of something opening where nothing should open.

And then air. Not perfect. Not gentle.

But air hits you like a miracle.

You suck it in through the new passage with a harsh, ugly gasp that makes your whole body spasm.

Your eyes roll back for a second.

You come back with a strangled sob.

Wanda’s face crumples.

She lets out a broken breath like she’s been holding her own lungs shut this entire time. Her forehead stays pressed to yours as if she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lifts it.

“That’s it,” Natasha says, steady. “Good. Good. She’s got air.”

Yelena swears softly in Russian--something that sounds like both relief and rage.

Wanda laughs once, a wet sound that isn’t humor. It’s hysteria brushing the edge of her control.

She kisses your temple--quick, fierce--before she seems to realize what she’s done.

Her eyes flick around.

The trainees nearby stare like they’ve just witnessed something sacred and terrifying.

Because they have.

Wanda Maximoff does not do tenderness in front of them.

She does not show weakness.

She does not kneel.

Except she is kneeling now, covered in your blood, hands cradling your face like you are the only living thing in the world.

Her voice drops, so low it’s almost not comms anymore--it’s just for you.

“My love,” she whispers in Sokovian, words trembling on her tongue. “My heart. Don’t you dare leave me.”

You can’t answer. You can’t speak around the tube and the pain and the shock.

But your hand moves, weak, trembling, and finds her wrist.

Your fingers close around her like a promise.

Wanda’s eyes snap to your hand.

She inhales sharply.

Her magic surges in response, filling the hallway with a low red glow that makes the concrete look like it’s bleeding too.

“Command,” Steve’s voice barks on comms. “We need evac on west--now. Hostages moving. Clint, cover. Natasha--”

“I’m here,” Natasha answers. “We’re stabilizing. She needs a bird.”

“On it,” Clint says. “Clear the roof.”

The mission continues, because it has to.

But Wanda doesn’t move.

Wanda’s world has narrowed to the pulse under your skin and the fact that you are still looking at her.

Still here.

Still breathing.

Even if it’s through a wound.

Yelena leans closer, awkwardly patting your shoulder like she’s trying to remember how humans work.

“You did very good,” she tells you, voice strained. “Very… heroic. Next time, do not be so heroic. It is very inconvenient.”

You manage a small, painful exhale that might be a laugh.

Wanda shoots Yelena a look that could kill.

Then Wanda’s gaze slides past you, past the blood, the shattered hallway, the hostages being guided out by Steve

to the trainee still standing frozen, shaking.

The one who caused this.

Wanda’s face changes again.

Her grief doesn’t vanish.

It weaponizes.

She lifts her head slowly, eyes locking on the trainee like a predator sighting prey.

The trainee flinches backward. “I--I didn’t-- I thought--”

Wanda rises in one smooth motion, still keeping one hand on you as if she refuses to break contact. Her magic coils around her arms in lazy, deadly ribbons.

Everyone in the hallway feels it.

The temperature dips.

Even Natasha’s posture shifts, ready, cautious.

Wanda speaks, and her voice is Supervisor Maximoff again--except now it’s laced with something ancient and cruel.

“You thought,” she repeats softly.

The trainee swallows. “I-- I was trying to help--”

Wanda steps closer.

Red light spills over the trainee’s face, painting them in the color of consequence.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Wanda says, tone calm in a way that makes your stomach turn. “You broke formation. You exposed civilians. You exposed her.”

The trainee’s eyes flick to you, wide, guilty, horrified.

Wanda follows the glance.

Her hand tightens on your shoulder, possessive even in your half-conscious state, like she’s claiming you with touch.

“She is not your lesson,” Wanda says.

The trainee’s lip trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--”

Wanda’s gaze sharpens. “Sorry does not reverse bruised lungs. Sorry does not refill blood. Sorry does not stop her from drowning.”

The trainee starts to cry.

Wanda doesn’t soften.

Natasha steps between them, voice low. “Wanda. Not now.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Move.”

Natasha doesn’t move.

Wanda’s magic flares.

Natasha’s hand goes toward her own weapon, not because she expects to use it on Wanda, because she expects to need it to stop Wanda from doing something irreversible.

And then you make a sound.

A wet, rasping inhale through the tube.

A small, broken noise of pain.

Wanda freezes like the sound has struck her physically.

Her head whips back to you.

Your eyes are open, barely, glassy, unfocused, but they’re on her.

There is fear in them.

Not of the injury.

Of her.

The realization hits Wanda like a punch.

Her jaw clenches. Her breath shudders.

She turns away from the trainee like ripping herself free of a temptation.

“Get them out,” she snaps at Natasha, at Steve, at everyone. “Now.”

Steve doesn’t argue. “Moving.”

The hallway becomes motion again, boots, voices, the shuffle of terrified civilians being guided toward the exit. The sound of rain grows louder as doors open.

Wanda drops back down beside you like gravity pulls her there.

She presses her palm to your sternum, gentle, careful, feeling the horrible instability under your skin. Her magic threads into your chest again, soothing bruised tissue as best as it can, trying to reduce swelling, trying to keep your lungs functioning.

Her eyes never leave your face.

“Stay with me,” she says again, quieter now, stripped down to truth. “Please. Please.”

You want to tell her you’re trying.

You want to tell her she’s scaring you and saving you at the same time.

You want to tell her you’ve never felt so held.

Your hand moves again, trembling, and you touch her cheek.

Your fingers smear blood on her skin.

Wanda closes her eyes for half a second like your touch is the only prayer she believes in.

She leans into your palm, breathing hard.

Then she kisses your fingers.

Right there, in the hallway, surrounded by team and trauma and rain.

A small, instinctive act.

Claiming.

Comforting.

Love slipping out despite her iron discipline.

Natasha watches it, expression unreadable.

Yelena’s brows rise in silent, startled recognition, like she’s seeing the shape of something she suspected but never had confirmed.

And the trainees, your team, stare like they’ve just learned what it means to be hers.

Because Wanda has favorites.

Everyone knows she’s harder on some trainees than others. That she demands more, pushes more, expects more.

But with you it has always been… different.

With the others, she says Again.

With you, she says Breathe.

With the others, she corrects mistakes like they’re technical.

With you, she watches your face like she’s reading your soul.

And now, with you bleeding and broken on the floor, Wanda isn’t a supervisor.

She’s a woman on her knees in the rain, desperate enough to bare her heart in front of everyone.

The evacuation bird whirs overhead before you see it, the deep thump-thump-thump of rotors slicing through wet air.

A rope ladder drops down through an opening in the roof.

Clint’s voice crackles through comms. “Roof is clear. Bring her up.”

Natasha moves first, helping position you carefully. Yelena secures the tube and stabilizes it with rough competence, grumbling under her breath.

Wanda’s hands are everywhere again, supporting your head, your shoulders, your ribs, touching you like she can’t bear not to.

Every movement makes pain flare in your chest. Your body shakes with it, weak, helpless.

Wanda’s face tightens.

“I’ve got you,” she says, and this time the words sound like a vow. “I have you.”

You cling to her sleeve again as they lift you, because you don’t know what else to do.

Because your body knows her.

The ladder is a blur of motion and rain and dizziness. Your vision smears. Your stomach lurches. The night air is cold, sharp, and it burns your new airway with each harsh inhale.

Wanda climbs beside you, one hand on you the whole way, magic subtly supporting your weight like invisible hands holding you up.

On the roof, the world opens into rain and rotor wind.

The quinjet door yawns like a mouth.

Inside, medics rush forward.

Wanda doesn’t let them take you immediately.

She stiffens the moment a gloved hand reaches for you.

“Wanda,” Natasha says sharply, right in her ear.

Wanda’s head snaps to her.

Natasha’s gaze is fierce. “Let them work.”

Wanda’s throat bobs.

She looks down at you, your blood on her hands, your eyes half-open, your breathing harsh and mechanical.

She looks like she might refuse.

Then you blink, slow, exhausted.

And your fingers twitch, still holding her.

Wanda exhales shakily.

“Okay,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”

She lets the medics move in, but she follows like a shadow, hovering so close she might as well be part of you.

They lay you on a stretcher. Straps tighten. A monitor beeps, fast and angry.

Your body shakes with cold and shock.

Wanda’s magic wraps around you like warmth, subtle enough that no one calls it out, but strong enough that you stop shivering quite so violently.

A medic peers at your throat, grim. “We need to get her to the Tower. Now.”

Clint’s voice crackles. “We’re wheels up.”

You feel the quinjet lift. Your stomach drops.

Wanda’s hand finds yours again and this time she laces your fingers together like she’s claiming you, holding you, keeping you tethered.

Her glove is wet with rain and blood.

Her grip is firm enough to hurt.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

She leans down close to your ear, voice low, trembling.

“You did not have permission,” she whispers, and there’s something sharp and possessive in it that makes your exhausted mind snag. “Do you understand me? You do not get to throw yourself in front of bullets. You do not get to leave me.”

Your eyes flutter.

You try to swallow. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Wanda’s thumb strokes your knuckles like she’s soothing a wild animal.

“I know,” she says, as if answering something you didn’t say. “I know you did it for them. I know you would do it again.”

Her breath catches.

“But you come back to me.”

The words are softer now.

Not command.

Need.

Her forehead lowers until it rests against your temple, careful of the tube.

For a moment, the quinjet noise fades behind the sheer intensity of her presence.

The smell of her, rain, smoke, something faintly sweet and human cuts through the blood taste.

You feel tears burn in your eyes, sudden and useless.

Wanda presses a kiss to your hairline.

Then another.

Then she whispers something in Sokovian, rapid and intimate--words you don’t understand but feel in your bones anyway.

A promise.

A prayer.

A threat to the universe itself.

Natasha watches from across the bay, arms crossed, expression hard.

But her eyes flick to Wanda’s face, just once, and there’s something like sympathy there.

Because Natasha knows what it looks like when love becomes a liability in the field.

And she knows Wanda is losing the war against it.

Yelena hovers awkwardly near your stretcher, then leans in as if she’s about to say something kind and immediately regrets it.

“I will… kill the trainee,” she offers instead, quietly.

Wanda’s head lifts.

Her eyes are bright with tears that never fell, full of a rage that is still there, still simmering, waiting.

“Touch them,” Wanda says, voice low as thunder, “and I will stop you.”

Yelena blinks, offended. “I am being helpful.”

“No,” Wanda says, and it’s terrifying because it’s calm. “You are being reckless.”

Yelena’s mouth twists. “Says you.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t leave Yelena. “I have reasons.”

Yelena glances at you, then back at Wanda, and her expression shifts into something quieter, something like understanding.

“Ah,” she says softly. “Yes. Reasons.”

Wanda turns back to you, and the whole world narrows again.

Her hand squeezes yours.

Her voice drops into that intimate frequency again, meant only for you.

“I am here,” she says. “You are not alone. You are not allowed to be alone.”

Your vision blurs.

The monitor beeps.

The quinjet hums.

And you float somewhere between pain and relief and the strange, aching fact that Wanda Maximoff is holding your hand like she might never let go again.

You want to tell her you can’t handle how much she cares.

You want to tell her you can.

You want to tell her you’re scared.

All that comes out is a wet, rasping exhale through the tube.

Wanda smiles, small, shaky, broken with relief.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”

The words wrap around you like warmth and possession.

Your eyes close.

Not because you’re giving up.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, your body believes, truly believes, that someone else will fight for your breath when you can’t.

The quinjet lands like a verdict.

The floor shudders under the skids, rotors still hammering the air, and the moment the rear hatch starts to drop, the med bay team is already moving, gloved hands, bright lights, a stretcher rolling forward like it has its own gravity.

You feel it before you see it: the Tower’s sterile cold reaching for you.

Your eyes flutter open at the first blast of white light. The quinjet’s dim interior gives way to the hangar’s harsh fluorescents, and everything becomes too sharp, every sound too close, every vibration too loud.

The stretcher jolts.

Pain spears through your chest, then blooms outward, a deep bruised agony that makes your vision pinch at the edges.

Your hand tightens, instinctively, desperately, around Wanda’s.

She’s there. Still there.

Still refusing to be anything but there.

“I’ve got her,” Wanda says immediately when a medic tries to step in between. Her voice is calm, controlled--so controlled it’s terrifying. “Move.”

“Ma’am,” a doctor says, already walking beside you, fingers checking the tube at your throat, reading your vitals off the portable monitor. “We need clearance. We need space.”

Wanda doesn’t give any.

She walks with the gurney as if she is part of it--one hand anchored to your wrist, the other hovering over your sternum like she can physically hold your lungs together if she tries hard enough.

The hangar doors slide open. Cold air knifes in. The corridor ahead is a tunnel of bright light and polished floors, and the sound of boots on metal becomes the sound of wheels on tile.

They rush you through the Tower like a storm with a purpose.

Your world is fragments.....

ceiling lights streaking overhead

voices calling numbers you don’t understand

gloved hands pulling at straps and fabric

the smell of antiseptic replacing smoke

your own breathing, ugly and mechanical through the new airway

Wanda’s fingers laced with yours like a vow

“BP dropping,” someone says.

“SpO2 is unstable.”

“Possible flail segment, contusion, internal bleed--get imaging now.”

“No,” the lead trauma surgeon snaps, scanning you once and deciding fast. “No time. Straight to OR.”

Wanda’s head whips toward him.

“We stabilize her first,” she says, like she’s used to the world obeying her. Like she’s used to being the final word.

The surgeon doesn’t even look impressed. He looks busy.

“We stabilize her in surgery,” he says. “That tube bought us minutes, not comfort. She needs a chest drain, possible thoracotomy, and we don’t do that in the hallway.”

Wanda’s grip tightens around your hand so hard your fingers ache.

Your gaze drifts to her face--blurred, trembling at the edges--but you see her eyes.

Green, bright, wet. Furious with fear.

The doors ahead are marked SURGICAL WING in big, block letters that look too clean for what they mean.

A nurse steps into Wanda’s path, palms out. “Only surgical staff beyond this point.”

Wanda doesn’t slow.

The nurse’s voice sharpens. “Ma’am.”

Wanda stops so abruptly the gurney nearly bumps her hip.

For half a second the air thickens, and you feel it--Wanda’s power rising like a wave beneath her skin. Scarlet threads gather at her fingertips, the room responding to her emotions the way it always does.

The nurse stiffens.

The surgeon finally looks up, eyes flicking to Wanda’s hands. “Maximoff--”

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “I’m going with her.”

“No,” the surgeon says. “You’re not.”

Wanda’s nostrils flare. Her jaw flexes. The red glow intensifies until the white walls around you seem faintly pink, like the Tower itself is blushing under pressure.

Your breathing rasps. Your vision dims.

Your fingers twitch in Wanda’s grip, weak, pleading.

Not for her to fight.

For her to stay.

Wanda looks down at you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy. Your lips are wrong-colored. Your chest rises unevenly under the torn vest and torn fabric, every breath a battle your body is losing more than winning.

And Wanda...Wanda can tear reality open, can bend minds and space, can rewrite the world into what she needs

but she cannot brute-force a surgical wing into letting her love you back to health.

Not without consequences.

Her expression fractures.

“Detka,” she whispers, the word spilling out like she didn’t mean to say it where anyone could hear. Her thumb strokes your knuckles, frantic-soft. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You try.

You barely manage it.

Wanda leans closer, mouth near your ear, voice trembling so quietly the doctors don’t hear the words, only the shape of them.

“Do not leave,” she says, and the plea is stripped bare. “Please.”

A tear finally escapes her lash line. It trails down her cheek, hot against the cold air.

Then her gaze flicks up, hardening, locking back into something like command.

She squeezes your hand once. Firm. Grounding.

“Stay,” she repeats, softer now. “I will be right here when you wake.”

It’s a promise, and something in her eyes dares the universe to break it.

The nurse steps forward again, gentler this time, like she recognizes the edge Wanda is standing on. “Ma’am. You can’t--”

Wanda’s fingers loosen around yours.

Not because she wants to.

Because she has to.

The separation is immediate and brutal.

Your hand falls back against the stretcher. The air where Wanda’s warmth was feels suddenly empty, too cold, too wide.

Your eyes flutter.

Panic spikes, sharp and animal.

Wanda reaches for you again on instinct

Natasha’s hand appears on Wanda’s forearm.

Not grabbing. Not restraining.

Anchoring.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Let them work.”

Wanda doesn’t look at Natasha.

Her eyes stay on you as the gurney rolls forward, wheels squeaking softly. The surgical doors swing open like a mouth.

You disappear through them.

And for a heartbeat--just one--Wanda looks like someone has ripped out her lungs and left her standing upright anyway.

The doors close.

The corridor falls into a sterile, horrible quiet.

Wanda stands there, hands still half-raised like she expects you to reappear any second.

Her palms are smeared with your blood.

Her clothes are damp with rain and battle.

Her breathing is ragged.

And then, with a slow turn of her head, she looks down the hall.

The trainee is there.

Hovering at the edge of the corridor like a child waiting outside a principal’s office. Eyes red. Face pale. Hands shaking.

The sight of them is a match struck in a room full of gas.

Wanda’s face goes blank again.

Natasha feels it--because Natasha always does--and her posture shifts subtly. Ready.

“Don’t,” Natasha says, calm. Warning.

Wanda’s voice is ice. “Where is Director Hill.”

Natasha blinks once. “On a secure floor. Why.”

Wanda turns fully, cloak of control snapping back over her like armor.

“Emergency leadership meeting,” she says, and the Tower seems to listen. “Now.”

A nearby agent hesitates. “Commander Maximoff, we--”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to him.

The agent’s mouth shuts.

Her voice remains quiet. “Notify Fury. Hill. Medical chief. Training oversight. Bring the trainee.”

The trainee flinches like they’ve been slapped. “Wanda, I--”

Wanda takes one step toward them.

One.

They stumble backward.

Natasha moves with her, matching her pace, voice low. “Wanda. She’s in surgery. This can wait.”

Wanda’s eyes flash--bright, feverish with fear and rage. “No.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “This is you trying to control something you can’t.”

Wanda’s lips peel back in something that isn’t a smile. “Yes.”

Then she turns and starts walking, fast and purposeful, boots striking tile like a countdown.

Natasha follows. Yelena appears around the corner, still in tactical gear, brows lifted.

“What is happening?” Yelena asks.

Wanda doesn’t slow. “Meeting.”

Yelena’s eyes widen a fraction. “Ah. Someone is in trouble.”

Natasha shoots her a look. “Not the time.”

“It is always time,” Yelena murmurs, then falls into step anyway, because whatever this is--whatever Wanda is about to do--you don’t leave a hurricane unattended.

They move through the Tower’s arteries--security doors opening at the sight of Wanda’s face, agents stepping aside with rigid respect, conversations dying mid-sentence as she passes.

The whole building feels it.

The Scarlet Witch walking with purpose.

Not floating. Not dramatic.

Just… inevitable.

They reach a conference room on an upper level--one of the ugly, functional ones with reinforced walls and a table too large for comfort. A screen on one end displays mission telemetry still live. A thin smell of coffee lingers from whoever was here before they got summoned.

Director Hill is already inside when Wanda arrives, tablet in hand, expression tight. Fury appears a moment later, coat open, eye sharp.

Two training supervisors, a medical chief, and a security lead file in behind them.

Everyone takes in Wanda at once.

The blood on her hands.

The rain in her hair.

The look in her eyes.

Hill’s voice is careful. “Maximoff--what happened.”

Wanda doesn’t sit.

She stands at the head of the table like it’s her throne and the world has forgotten that fact.

“She is in surgery,” Wanda says, and the words are flat, like she’s saying the sky is blue, except everyone in the room feels the weight of it.

Fury’s jaw tightens. “Status.”

Wanda’s fingers curl against the tabletop.

Her nails are short. Controlled.

But the wood beneath her palm creaks faintly.

“Blunt-force thoracic trauma,” Wanda says, voice precise. Clinical. Like she’s reciting a report. “Pulmonary contusion. Internal bleeding. Airway compromise.”

The medical chief nods grimly. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in the best hands.”

Wanda’s eyes snap to him. “She should not be in surgery.”

No one speaks.

Hill’s gaze flicks toward the trainee--who was brought in by an agent and is now standing near the door like they wish they could dissolve into the wall.

Hill’s voice is sharp now. “Was this a training failure.”

Wanda turns her head slowly.

Looks at the trainee.

The room goes colder.

“It was disobedience,” Wanda says. “It was ego. It was stupidity wearing a uniform.”

The trainee’s voice breaks. “I didn’t mean--”

Wanda’s hand lifts.

Not pointing. Not waving.

Just lifting.

The trainee’s mouth clamps shut like an invisible fist closed around their throat.

Yelena makes a small interested sound. Natasha’s posture tightens.

Fury’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t move. “Do you know what I told them before the breach?”

The trainee’s eyes glisten with tears. Their hands shake harder.

Wanda answers her own question. “I told them not to improvise. I told them to maintain formation. I told them their job was support, not heroics.”

Her voice rises--not louder, but sharper. Each word a blade placed carefully on the table.

“They disobeyed. They stepped into an open doorway, exposed civilians, and forced her-” Wanda’s breath catches on the pronoun like it cuts her throat. “--forced Y/n to take the line.”

Hill’s expression hardens. “Is that accurate.”

The trainee nods frantically, tears slipping down their face. “Yes--yes, ma’am. I-- I panicked. I thought I could--”

Wanda’s hand tightens on the table.

The lights flicker.

A pen on the far end rolls, then lifts an inch off the surface like the room itself is recoiling.

“You thought you could,” Wanda repeats, and her voice---God, her voice is so calm it becomes the most frightening thing in the room.

Natasha steps closer, low in Wanda’s ear. “Wanda. Don’t.”

Wanda turns, just enough that Natasha can see her face.

And it’s not rage alone.

It’s terror. It’s grief. It’s love with nowhere safe to go.

Wanda looks back at Hill and Fury.

“You put her on my team,” Wanda says. “You assigned her to my supervision because you knew she was different. You knew she was… vulnerable.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “Don’t do this, Maximoff.”

Wanda’s lips part in a humorless exhale. “Do what. Tell you the truth?”

Hill’s expression is brittle. “Wanda--”

Wanda cuts her off.

“No,” Wanda says, voice finally cracking with heat. “No. You will listen.”

The room stills.

Even Fury doesn’t interrupt.

Wanda steps away from the table and paces once--one tight loop like a caged animal trying to find the seam in the walls.

“She came to us from somewhere none of you can pronounce,” Wanda says, voice low and venomous. “She learned our language. Our procedures. Our rules. She put her fear in a box and labeled it ‘handle later’ because that is what you asked of her.”

Her throat works.

Her hands tremble for half a second.

She curls them into fists to hide it.

“And today,” Wanda continues, eyes bright, “she bled out on a concrete floor because someone decided protocol was optional.”

The trainee makes a small broken sound.

Wanda whips around. “Do you know what it sounded like.”

Silence.

Wanda takes a step toward the trainee.

The air vibrates.

Natasha moves with her, ready to intervene if Wanda goes too far.

Wanda’s voice drops to a whisper that carries anyway.

“Do you know what it sounded like when she couldn’t breathe.”

The trainee sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I swear--”

Wanda’s magic pulses out involuntarily, scarlet pressure that makes the trainee’s knees buckle.

They drop to the floor with a choked gasp, palms braced on the tile.

“Wanda,” Hill says sharply, taking a step forward.

Fury’s voice is iron. “Enough.”

Wanda’s head snaps toward them.

Her eyes are wild now.

“Enough?” she repeats, incredulous. “Enough is what you say when someone breaks a vase.”

She points at the trainee--one sharp motion.

“This,” Wanda says, voice shaking now with restrained fury, “is what you say when someone breaks a person.”

The lights flicker again. The screen behind Hill glitches for a second.

Yelena mutters, almost reverent, “Oh, this is good.”

Natasha shoots her a look that could cauterize steel.

Wanda inhales.

Her chest rises, falls.

She forces herself back into control like it’s a physical act.

Then she speaks again, colder.

“This trainee is removed from field operations effective immediately,” Wanda says. “They will not touch a weapon on a mission for the next six months. They will be reassigned to support and simulation only. They will retrain from day one under direct observation.”

Hill opens her mouth

Wanda cuts her off again, eyes flashing. “And they will apologize. To her. When she wakes up.”

Fury’s tone is clipped. “You don’t get to dictate punishment.”

Wanda’s smile is sharp. “Then you do it. Right now. Tell me what consequence exists in this building that equals the sound of her choking on blood.”

No one answers.

Because there isn’t one.

The medical chief clears his throat carefully. “Commander… the surgical team will update us soon. This--this meeting--”

Wanda’s head snaps toward him. “I called you because I want you to understand something.”

She steps closer to the table again, palms flattening against it, leaning forward like she’s about to bite the world.

“If she dies,” Wanda says, and her voice goes so quiet it chills the room, “you will not have a Scarlet Witch problem.”

Everyone stills.

Fury’s eye narrows to a lethal slit. “Maximoff.”

Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“You will have a Wanda Maximoff problem,” she corrects softly. “And I will not be reasonable.”

Natasha’s hand clamps onto Wanda’s shoulder--hard. Grounding. A warning only Wanda can feel.

“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

Wanda blinks once.

A tear slips down her cheek.

She doesn’t wipe it away.

“I don’t care,” Wanda whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t care about reasonable.”

Her eyes flick toward the closed door behind which your body is currently being cut open to keep you alive.

Her breath trembles again, and this time she doesn’t hide it.

“I told her to come back,” Wanda says, and the words are almost childlike in their rawness. “I promised her.”

The room shifts. Even Hill’s face softens for a fraction.

Fury’s expression stays hard, but his voice lowers. “Maximoff. Go to the waiting area. Let the doctors work.”

Wanda’s gaze snaps back, sharp. “No. I’m not leaving this floor.”

Hill exhales. “Wanda--”

Wanda turns, eyes cutting to the trainee one last time.

The trainee is still on the floor, shaking, tears dripping onto tile. Terrified. Guilty. Ruined.

Wanda’s voice is lethal calm.

“You will remember this for the rest of your life,” she says. “Because if she wakes up and asks me why she got hurt, I will tell her the truth.”

The trainee sobs harder.

Wanda looks back at leadership, and all softness drains from her face again.

“I am going to the surgical wing doors,” Wanda says. “I will wait where I can see her come back out.”

Fury’s jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”

Wanda’s eyes flash. “Watch me.”

And she turns on her heel.

Natasha follows immediately--because Natasha knows you don’t let Wanda Maximoff walk through a hallway like that alone. Yelena trails behind, strangely quiet now.

As Wanda strides out, the meeting room remains frozen for a beat.

Hill looks at Fury. “She’s in love with her.”

Fury’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

Hill’s voice is tight. “That’s a problem.”

Fury’s eye flicks toward the door Wanda left through, then toward the surgical wing down the hall as if he can see it through walls.

His voice is low.

“So is losing the girl.”

Wanda reaches the surgical doors and stops so abruptly it’s like she hits an invisible wall.

The corridor here is quieter. Cleaner. The air smells like antiseptic and cold metal.

A sign reads AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Wanda stands under it like a threat.

Her hands are still stained red.

Her breathing is too shallow.

Natasha stops beside her. Doesn’t speak. Just stands.

Yelena leans against the wall and folds her arms, eyes on Wanda like she’s watching a bomb and trying to guess when it will go off.

Minutes pass like hours.

Then the surgical doors swing open

and Wanda’s entire body snaps tight like a bowstring pulled to breaking.

A doctor steps out, mask lowered, eyes tired.

Wanda’s voice is barely a whisper.

“How is she.”

The doctor looks at her hands, at her face, at the blood, and seems to decide honesty is safer than soothing.

“She’s alive,” he says. “But it’s critical. We’re still working.”

Wanda’s knees almost buckle.

Natasha’s hand catches her elbow, subtle, quick, before she can fall.

Wanda doesn’t thank her.

She just stares at the doors like she could will them open.

Like she could climb inside and hold your lungs in place with her bare hands.

Her voice breaks, raw and quiet.

“Tell her,” Wanda whispers, eyes shining. “Tell her I’m here.”

The doctor nods once--because even if he doesn’t know how to handle gods and witches, he knows love when it’s bleeding in front of him.

“I will,” he says, and disappears back inside.

The doors swing shut again.

Wanda stands there, unmoving.

Waiting.

Breathing only because you are.

The minutes don’t pass like minutes.

They pass like punishment, each one stretched thin, each one sharp at the edges.

Wanda doesn’t sit.

Natasha tries once, quietly, to guide her toward the chairs in the corner of the corridor. Wanda doesn’t even look at them. It’s like the concept of resting has been deleted from her body.

She stands in front of the surgical doors the way she stood in front of you on the battlefield--like if she holds her ground hard enough, nothing gets through.

Not death.

Not bad news.

Not the universe.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles and then fades away. An intercom chirps and a voice calls a code you don’t understand.

Wanda understands nothing but the absence of you.

Her hands are still stained. Someone tried to offer wipes. She ignored them.

She keeps flexing her fingers like she can still feel your pulse in her palm.

Natasha leans on the wall beside her, arms crossed, eyes forward. The picture of calm--except every few minutes her gaze flicks to Wanda like she’s taking silent measurements: how close to the edge, how close to breaking, how close to burning the world down.

Yelena paces once, then stops, then paces again. Finally she mutters, “This is stupid. Humans are too fragile.”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

Wanda doesn’t move.

A nurse appears once, glances at Wanda’s face, and decides to walk the other way.

Time keeps dragging its nails down the corridor.

Wanda’s throat works around air that feels too thin. She stares at the surgical doors so hard it starts to feel like she’s trying to peel them open with her mind--not to invade, not to interfere, but to see you.

To confirm you’re real.

To confirm you didn’t evaporate into a nightmare the moment they took you away.

Her lips part on a whisper that is barely sound.

“Please.”

Natasha hears it anyway. Natasha always does.

“You did what you could,” Natasha says quietly.

Wanda’s eyes flick to her--bright, feverish. “I did not.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. “Wanda--”

“I should have been faster.” Wanda’s voice is flat, merciless. “I should have seen it before it happened.”

“You can’t predict every idiot move a trainee makes,” Natasha says, controlled.

Wanda’s expression twists--pain, rage, grief, all braided together. “I can. I should. That is my job.”

Natasha exhales through her nose. “Your job is not to carry every loss like it’s your fault.”

Wanda’s gaze cuts back to the doors. “It’s not a loss,” she says, like the word itself is poison. “Not yet.”

Another stretch of silence.

Then, soft footsteps.

A shift of air.

The surgical doors swing open.

Wanda’s body reacts before her mind does. Her shoulders lift like she’s bracing for impact. Her hands curl into fists. The red in her veins rises, instinctive--protective, vicious, ready.

A surgeon steps out.

Mask lowered. Face drawn with fatigue. A smear of something dark on his sleeve.

Wanda’s voice comes out wrong--too quiet, too raw.

“Tell me.”

The surgeon looks at her like he understands he’s holding a match over gasoline. He chooses his words carefully.

“She’s alive,” he says.

Wanda’s breath leaves her in a sound that is almost a sob, almost a laugh, almost a collapse.

Natasha’s hand clamps on Wanda’s arm, steadying her without comment.

The surgeon continues, tone clinical, because that’s what he has to do to stay upright in a world where people break.

“Vest did its job. But the blunt force--she took significant thoracic trauma. Multiple rib fractures, severe pulmonary contusion. We placed a chest tube and stabilized internal bleeding. The airway incision bought us the time we needed.”

Wanda listens like a statue.

Like if she moves, the words will change.

“She’s sedated,” the surgeon says. “She’ll be in the ICU. We’re keeping her on oxygen support. She’s going to be in pain when she wakes up.”

Wanda swallows. Her eyes are wet, but her expression is fierce. “Can I see her.”

The surgeon hesitates--because they always hesitate with Wanda. Because she’s power wrapped in human skin, and people are never sure where the line is.

“Briefly,” he says. “One at a time. No touching the airway site. Keep it calm.”

Wanda nods once. Sharp. Immediate. Like she’ll obey any rule on earth if it gets her to you.

The surgeon steps aside.

The doors open wider.

And Wanda moves.

Not fast.

Not like the battlefield.

She walks like someone approaching a chapel, like the air itself might shatter if she breathes too hard.

Natasha follows a step behind, then stops at the threshold when a nurse lifts a hand.

“Only one,” the nurse says gently, and her eyes flick to Wanda with something like reverence and caution.

Natasha pauses, then nods once. “I’ll be right here.”

Wanda doesn’t look back.

She steps through.

The ICU is dimmer than the hallway, blessedly so. The lights are low, the air cool, the sound softened, machines humming and beeping in steady patterns, like the room itself is designed to keep panic from taking root.

You’re there.

In the bed.

Too still.

Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp and tangled, a trace of dried blood near your mouth that someone tried to clean. Your chest rises and falls, shallow, assisted, stubborn.

There’s tape at your throat where the incision was. Tubing, oxygen, monitors.

A chest drain line curves from your side under the blanket.

Your hands are resting near your hips, palms slightly curled like you fell asleep mid-reach.

Wanda stops at the foot of the bed.

For a second she doesn’t move.

Like she can’t trust her legs to carry her closer.

Then she takes one slow step.

Another.

Her breathing catches on the sound of the monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Life, reduced to electricity and rhythm.

She comes to your bedside and just… stands there, staring, eyes dragging over every bandage and tube like she’s memorizing them, like she’s counting proof that you made it through something that should’ve taken you.

Her hands hover in the air, unsure where to go. Wanda Maximoff--who can grab the fabric of reality and pull--looks helpless for the first time in a way that is almost unbearable to witness.

Her lower lip trembles.

She clamps her jaw to stop it.

A soft sound escapes her anyway, a broken little exhale.

“Oh, detka…”

She reaches out--slow, careful, obeying the rules like they’re sacred--and cups your cheek with the backs of her fingers, barely there.

Not touching the tape. Not tugging anything. Just… reminding herself you’re warm.

Your skin is warm.

You’re warm.

Wanda’s eyes close for half a second, and when they open there’s a shine in them that isn’t just tears.

It’s relief so violent it looks like pain.

She leans down until her forehead rests against the edge of the mattress near your shoulder, careful, controlled.

Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“You scared me,” she says, and it’s not an accusation. It’s a confession. “You scared me so badly I couldn’t think.”

Her fingers tremble against your cheek. She presses a kiss there, gentle, almost nothing. A brush of lips like a vow sealed in secret.

Then another, to your temple.

She swallows hard.

“You did everything right,” she whispers, like she needs you to hear it even through sedation. “You did what I trained you to do. You protected them.”

Her breath hitches.

“And I am so…” Her voice cracks. She inhales, tries again. “I am so proud of you.”

A tear slips down and drops silently onto the blanket.

Wanda doesn’t wipe it away.

She straightens slowly, gaze sweeping your face again, and her expression shifts, softness giving way to something possessive and resolute, the same steel that kept her on her knees beside you in the hallway.

She leans closer, mouth near your ear.

“Listen to me,” she whispers, voice trembling with the weight of command and love tangled together. “You come back. You heal. You wake up and you look at me, and you let me--”

Her throat works.

She exhales shakily.

“--you let me take care of you.”

Wanda’s hand slides down to your fingers. She doesn’t lace them. She doesn’t squeeze too hard.

She just places her fingertips against yours, like she’s afraid too much pressure will shatter the moment.

“You are not leaving,” she says, voice low and certain like she’s speaking it into existence. “Not on my watch.”

The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

And Wanda stands there, breathing with you, eyes locked on your face as if she can will you awake through sheer devotion.

Outside the glass, you can faintly make out a dark shape, Natasha, waiting exactly where she promised, arms crossed, silent guard at the door.

Wanda doesn’t look away from you.

Not even once.

Because you’re here.

Because you made it.

Because for the first time since the bullet hit, the world feels like it’s stopped trying to steal you, and Wanda Maximoff, your supervisor, your shield, your secret, finally allows herself one fragile, trembling moment of peace.

Her whisper brushes your skin like a spell.

“I have you,” she says. “I have you.”

And she stays.

Right there.

It was a hard mission for Natasha.

No, it wasn’t just a hard mission; it’s been multiple. Over and over. Back to back.

She’s exhausted, and despite having just returned from one, she’s sure that tomorrow, she’ll be summoned for another. It seems like there’s just crisis after crisis these days. Infiltrate this organization, retrieve that intelligence data, handle and escort yet another asset across country lines… and do so through whatever means necessary.

She collapses onto the common room sofa, leaning back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

It’s late. No one else is up. She just needs one moment to…

Natasha’s disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Her eyes reopen tiredly to find you gazing at her, confused and concerned. Well, no one else was supposed to be up.

“Rough mission?” you ask her.

She sighs. She doesn’t want to get into it.

You understand her exhale; you don’t push. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just coming to grab a glass of water. I’ll be out of the space shortly.”

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, and she’s not sure she wants to—she’s had quite the past 72 hours—but it’s you, and she’ll always be soft for you. “Anything in particular keeping you up?” she questions.

You hum. “Not sure,” you reply, “Anxiety, probably. Stress, maybe.”

Natasha gets that. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.” You’re surprised at the offer—Natasha really looks like she’d prefer to be alone—but you accept anyway, unwilling to turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with some water before walking into the common room and settling on the couch beside the redhead, a comfortable amount of space between you two, perhaps a larger amount of space than usual for two friends.

Natasha’s not one for closeness, for intimacy, and she’s made that abundantly clear time and time again. It’s not uncomfortable, being this far from her, but you wonder what it would be like if she ever let you close the distance.

Her eyes fall closed once more, and silence blankets the both of you.

She looks so small right now. You want to offer something—anything—to comfort her, to soothe and alleviate whatever shadows from her mission may still be clinging to her.

But you don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk, and she’s always rejected physical contact before: Steve’s friendly pats on the back, Wanda’s hugs, your casual linking of arms as you walk side by side.

But tonight, she looks so small, so worn out. You can’t help but try, and you’re willing to admit that you could use some closeness as well.

“Do you maybe… want to come here?” you ask hesitantly, certain that she’s going to reject your offer, but your arms open to welcome her on the off chance she chooses to accept.

And although she doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even answer with certainty, to your shock, the redhead nods.

Maybe she senses that you need this, maybe it’s just for you, but she’s giving you it anyway.

It doesn’t take long.

Natasha’s head is pressed against your chest as she lets herself just be amazed by the steady sound of your heartbeat beneath her ear. Your arm is draped over her waist, keeping her flush against you, as you gently swipe your thumb back and forth across her hip. Your legs are tangled with hers as you two lounge together on the sofa, something on the TV playing quietly in the background, barely paid attention to by her in favor of reveling in your presence instead.

She’s trembling, everything within her at war. She’s never truly let herself get this near to someone else, and her instincts are both screaming at her to push you away and begging her to tug you even closer. Her nerves are on fire, every part of her body humming at the feeling of being in touch with another, and although lingering unease still swirls in her stomach, there’s also a sense of comfort that comes from being against you.

Everything is new, unfamiliar, and addicting.

She begins melting with each passing moment, relaxing into your hold, her tension unfurling as she surrenders to the sensation of just being held. Her own hands rise to settle around you, to grip at your shirt, the fabric clutched between her fingertips, and a soft sound escapes her, unbidden, as she nestles as if burrowing into your chest.

But it’s not enough. She needs to be closer.

So, Natasha situates herself more firmly against you, curling into you further, trying to gain even more physical contact. Her body moves without her thinking, acting on its own, shifting until she’s then fully on top of you, straddling you, her face soon back to being buried deeply into the crook of your neck, her nose nuzzling the curve of it, brushing the delicate skin there.

You suck in a surprised breath at the sudden change in positions, not having expected Natasha to make such a move. She’s been letting you take the lead, letting you guide her through all these new and hopefully gratifying feelings, but now, here she is, zero space between your hips and hers, her face tucked into you so close that you can feel every warm breath of hers on your throat.

Your hands instinctively grab onto her hips, trying to steady her, to settle her—you can feel the tremors in her body—and Natasha whimpers as the heat from your palms practically sears through her leggings.

You can sense the change, but you don’t understand it.

She grinds down lightly, testing without knowing it, and whimpers again at the ever so slight friction she receives. Her eyes flutter shut.

Your brows furrow at her neediness, but it’s not just neediness; it’s longing. Something is stirring within her, unlocking, making itself known, and you wonder…

You’re not sure you have a right to ask, not sure you have a right to know, but the way she’s acting right now—desperate, wanting, like she’s never felt the touch of someone who was touching her to simply worship her—makes you think. “Have you ever…” you trail off.

“What?” Natasha asks breathily, eyes opening to look at you, trying to focus on your face and your words despite her hips still lightly grinding into your own. She can’t stop them.

“Have you ever…” you try again before rephasing, “Has anyone ever made you come before?”

She stiffens in your arms, and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve made so much progress with her tonight, gotten her to open up to you, to trust you, to let you touch her. You don’t want that to go away, but she does try to pull away, to sit up and move out of your arms, to remove herself from the vulnerable position she’s put herself in.

Your grip on her tightens minutely, attempting to keep her close, fingers resuming trailing soothing patterns along her as if that will get her to stay despite your misstep.

Neither of you two speak. You’re too worried about ruining what was already a fragile moment, and Natasha, she’s embarrassed, ashamed, not sure what she’s supposed to say in the face of the question that she is taking as an accusation.

She’s Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, known for using her body to get what she needs, known for seduction and sex and lust from others, and yet here she is, about to admit that she’s never been touched in a way that’s fulfilled her before.

“No,” she finally murmurs, quietly, almost inaudible, “It’s always just been a job. It’s always just been about the other person. I’ve never-”

You’re still silent, letting the new knowledge of how Natasha’s only ever been used sink in. You remember how her body moved against your own of its own accord, remember the whimper she made in response to her grinding. She needs this. You make a decision.

“Let me do this for you,” you murmur, pulling her upwards onto your stomach instead of your hips, beginning to mouth gently at the curve of her neck. You can feel her body still rigid in your arms, and although you don’t know if you should, you decide to press your luck, your tongue slipping out to hotly slide along her jawline. “Let me show you what real pleasure is. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.” Your words are said against her skin, and it makes her shiver with want.

Natasha’s eyes drift shut again, and for a moment, just like earlier when you offered her your touch, you think that she’s going to decline, that she’s going to roughly shove herself off of you and tell you to fuck off and never talk to her again, but then she breathes out a small “please”, and it’s all the permission you need.

You can already feel her pulsing along the muscles of your abdomen, so you waste no time. Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of her pants and underwear, dipping themselves into her folds, just feeling her wetness, taking in her heat, and Natasha shudders. It’s not the first time she’s been touched there, but it’s the first time it hasn’t felt like it was for somebody else.

You watch her expression soften as she surrenders to the sensations, and you soften as well.

“I’m going to show you just how good it can feel, just how good you deserve to feel,” you whisper to her, and Natasha’s body yields further, falling limp against you as she prepares herself to simply let herself feel and enjoy it this time.

It’s not a mission, not an assignment, not something that has to be done. This is a choice that she gets to make for herself.

“Tell me what you want. Anything you want, it’s yours,” you tell her as you start to circle her clit, just light circles before pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves more firmly, drawing a long whine from the redhead.

You continue teasing her, moving down to her entrance to gather more of her slick before returning to her clit, tapping lightly, swiping across it, using your two fingers to brush and skim and stroke with varying pressures.

For a while, Natasha is speechless, driven into an overwhelmed quiet by your ministrations, but her body aches, her pussy aches, and she needs you to fill her.

“Inside,” she finally gasps out, hips starting to rock up to try and get your fingers to slip into her hole, to delve into her and explore.

You immediately comply, your fingers swiftly entering her. You want to give her whatever it is that she needs. Tonight’s about her.

Natasha’s eyes roll back. She’s felt something similar to this before, felt the fullness and the stretch, but her pussy has never wanted to hold someone within, her pussy has never been desperate for more, her pussy has never throbbed for another person.

You drag your fingers out only to shove them back in, curling them to try and find the spot that the redhead needs, and a whine escapes her again.

Your eyes snap up to look at her face when she makes the noise.

“Right there?” you ask softly, and she nods, her head bobbing up and down multiple times.

“Right there,” she affirms, tone hoarse, voice shaky. Her hips are rolling to meet your every thrust, her body lighting up under your touch. Her hands grip at your shoulders as if that will stabilize herself as you continue pumping into her, and despite her thoughts scattering as the world blurs around the edges, she can’t help but think about one thing: she wants to kiss you.

One of her hands moves to tangle in your hair, to try and draw you closer, to try and pull your head toward hers so she can at first graze her lips against yours. It’s not that she hasn’t kissed anyone—she has many times before—but tonight feels different, this feels different, you feel different.

You acquiesce for a moment, dipping yourself forward until you realize what her goal is, and then you’re pulling away. Although there’s a smile on your face, it’s resigned.

You think she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Natasha whines for a third time, but this time, it’s out of petulance at being rejected, and she tries to tug your face back to hers again.

You speed up your motions to distract her from her current fixation on your lips, and Natasha’s body arches as you succeed. Despite your movements being restricted by her leggings, you’re quickly taking her up to the edge that she’s always heard contains nothing but pleasure, the pressure building fast and hot inside of her.

And then… it releases. It’s nothing like she’s ever experienced before. She wasn’t aware it could feel like this.

Natasha’s reveling, savoring, basking in the feeling that follows an orgasm—a real orgasm—but… it wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an orgasm given to her by you.

She’s almost recovered after a minute or so, her chest still rising and falling unsteadily, her heartbeat still thumping rapidly in her chest, and she falls back onto her side on the sofa to look at you, her eyes soft. You look so beautiful in front of her. Her hand comes up to frame your face, and you lean into the touch, smiling at the affectionate gesture.

Now’s the moment, right? You didn’t kiss her during the act, but that didn’t mean anything. You were busy; you were preoccupied.

“Can I kiss you now?” Natasha asks hopefully, gaze not leaving your face.

Everything about this moment is tender, the haze of all that has transpired still hanging over the two of you and throughout the room… or maybe just over her.

You pull away from her hand, and your eyes turn… not guarded, but acceptant of the belief you already have.

When you respond, your tone is still gentle, so gentle, but it makes the redhead flinch anyway. “Natasha,” you murmur, and she knows you’re going to reject her again before you even continue. “You’ve never had this before, never felt like this before. I know you needed this, and I’m happy to have given it to you, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that you want me.”

Natasha’s heart breaks. After all this, you think she doesn’t want you?

When she doesn’t respond, you take her silence for confusion. “Don’t confuse your body’s need with what you want,” you explain more.

“No, no, that’s not-” Natasha breaks off, “I do want you. I do.”

You look at her with a mix of disbelief and sympathy, and it kills her. She doesn’t want your pity; she wants your trust.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone touch me?”

You open your mouth to respond, but she cuts you off.

“You think I would’ve let just anyone fuck me?”

“You’ve never-”

“It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been with someone like this before, I want you.”

“You’re just touch starved-” you protest.

“I’m able to tell the difference between touch starvation and feelings. You believe me. You have to believe me.”

She can tell by the look in your eyes that you don’t.

“Every other time, it’s always been for a job, with a goal in mind, but this time, it was a choice. I got to choose. Please don’t demean that; please don’t take that away from me.”

“Natasha,” you try one more time.

“After all that, don’t you… don’t you choose me too?”

You were on a redemption tour of sorts.

You wanted to be intentional with your family again. You needed to be.

Your kids were growing right before your eyes, and while you’d always been active and involved, that wasn’t necessarily what they appreciated most from you. Not really. Quality time had always been the thing that kept your family close. It was how you stayed in the know.

You’d always silently judged parents who didn’t know their teenager’s favorite music, best friend, or what they were nervous about lately. You’d scoff at the fathers at the firm who bragged about only paying a couple of hundred dollars in child support, like it was a badge of honor instead of embarrassment.

You weren’t that type of parent.

You never would be.

Today was about Paige.

Charlie had bragged endlessly about the basket she got when she first got her period. It had become somewhat of a tradition after Cara. But for Paige, you knew a basket alone wouldn’t really do it.

Which was how the two of you ended up at Off The Record, a small mom-and-pop record store tucked into the city, smelling of old paper sleeves and incense.

Paige was your youngest girl and, unsurprisingly, the most detached in a way. Independent. Reliable. Sometimes, too much so for a child who was only nine going on ten.

Sometimes you missed when she used to cling to your leg every waking second, wanting nothing except to be wherever you were.

Now she wandered.

Browsed.

Built little pieces of herself privately.

You looked over at her now as she stood at the counter, seriously explaining to the cashier what kind of music she liked while flipping through stacks of CDs. Paige was taller now. Long-legged and expressive with her hands when she got excited. Her hair was pulled into two pigtails that bounced every time she turned her head.

“…and my sister says Lauryn Hill changed her life,” Paige informed the poor cashier with complete seriousness. “So I probably need to hear that too.”

You smiled to yourself before looking away quickly, suddenly overwhelmed by how fast all of this was happening.

“Mom,” she called suddenly. “I’ve never listened to a full Mariah Carey album before, have I?”

“We’ve listened to some singles, but never a full album, no,” you shook your head.

Paige gasped softly like this was a genuine parental failure.

“So can I get that too?” she looked up at you with wide puppy eyes. “And maybe Taylor Swift? Oh, and Beyoncé. I’m old enough for her music now, right?”

“I’d say no, but I won’t deny you the queen,” you leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

Paige grinned triumphantly before immediately turning back toward the shelves.

“How much is all this going to cost me?” you muttered, finally glancing down at the price tag on a Michael Jackson Off the Wall vinyl nearby.

Your eyes widened. “Forty dollars for one record?”

Paige blinked innocently beside you. “You said whatever I wanted.”

“I always tend to eat my own words.” You mumbled. 

“You’re the best mom ever,” She bounced on her toes. 

You snorted softly under your breath, shaking your head as she carefully pulled another vinyl from the rack. Watching her here, excited, curious, growing into her own little person with opinions and taste and favorites, made something ache warmly in your chest.

This was what you’d been missing. 

The next stop was a boba tea shop. Boba was her new obsession, and though you weren’t a big fan, you wanted to indulge her. Paige amazed you in more ways than one. She and Charlie were little fashionistas in their own ways. While Charlie was more New York chic, Paige, meanwhile, took a softer approach. Vintage denim jackets. Colorful sneakers. Hair clips shaped like stars and butterflies. Though the purse she carried was no doubt her older sister’s. You wondered if Charlie even knew. 

You watched her now as she carefully stirred her drink with concentration, brows pinched. 

“What?” She looked up immediately, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you smiled into your own drink. “You’re just getting big.”

Paige groaned dramatically. “You say that every five minutes now.”

“Because every five minutes you grow another inch.”

“That’s not scientifically possible.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she slurped loudly from her straw. “I’m literally in advanced science.”

You laughed softly, leaning back into the booth.

Outside the window, people passed by without much thought, the city moving around the two of you like always. But for once, you didn’t feel rushed to catch up to it. Cincinnati was supposed to be slower than New York. It was supposed to be your break from the big life you left behind. 

Paige reached into the record bag again, peeking down at her choices for what had to be the tenth time already.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think this is my favorite day we’ve had in a while.”

“Yeah,” You nodded. “Me too.” 

Paige seemed to blush, then hid her curiosity by taking another sip of her drink. 

“You want to ask something?” You guessed. She seemed a bit surprised, but then rolled her eyes at herself. You’re her mom, of course, you could tell. 

“Do I look like her?” Paige asked, kicking her feet under the table. “My mommy. My birth mommy. Karen.” She felt the need to clarify. “Halmeoni always says I do, but I don’t know.”

You knew how important it was to answer truthfully. “Yes. You do.” You try to hide the sadness still in your voice. Thinking bout your best friend always brought a sense of melancholy. “You have her eyes, “ you continued. “Especially when you’re annoyed.”

Paige snorted softly.

“And your smile,” you added after a moment. A smile of your own spread wide across your face. “That little crooked thing you do when you’re trying not to laugh? That’s all her.”

Paige looked down into her drink, strangely shy now.

“She was really pretty,” she mumbled. “I mean, from all the pictures I have and the videos.” 

“She was,” you agreed instantly. “And loud. And dramatic. Like someone else I know.”

That earned you a laugh.

“She sounds fun.”

“She was,” you smiled softly. “She loved really hard, too. Especially you.”

The smile on Paige’s face faded into something smaller. More thoughtful.

“You think she’d like me?” she asked quietly. 

Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.

“Paige,” you reached across the table for her hand. “She would’ve been obsessed with you. She was obsessed with you. ”

Paige blinked quickly after that, looking away toward the window before you could fully catch her expression.

“And she didn’t die because she gave birth to me?” She asked. That question practically knocked the wind out of you. What was it with your kids and asking incredibly hard questions at random times?

But Paige was getting older now. Of course, the questions were changing too.

You squeezed her hand gently before answering.

“No, baby,” you said carefully. “No.”

Paige looked back at you immediately, searching your face to see if you were telling the truth or just trying to protect her feelings.

“Your mom got very sick after you were born,” you explained quietly. “And the doctors missed some things they shouldn’t have.”

Even now, years later, anger still flashed low in your chest when you thought about it too long.

“But you are not the reason she died.”

Paige’s eyes dropped again.

“Not even a little?”

“Not even a little,” you repeated firmly.

The boba straw bent between her fingers as she messed with it absentmindedly.

“I think about it sometimes,” she admitted. “Like… if she didn’t have me, she’d still be alive.”

You got up from your side of the booth before you could think twice about it, sliding in beside her instead.

“Oh, Paige,” you pulled her into your side immediately. “Listen to me.”

She curled into you without resistance, suddenly looking much younger than she had when walking through the record store earlier.

“Your life was never something bad that happened to her,” you murmured into her hair. “You were the best thing that happened to her. To all of us.”

Paige stayed quiet after that, small against your side as the city moved outside the window beside you.

“You really mean that?” she whispered eventually.

“With everything in me,” you answered.

“Sorry for making this sad,” She said. “I know that’s not how you want to spend your time off work.”

Your face softened immediately.

“Hey,” you reached up to move one of her pigtails from where it had fallen into her face. “This isn’t sad to me.”

She looked unconvinced.

“It’s important,” you corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

Paige picked at her straw. “I just don’t want you getting tired of me asking about her all the time. We don’t talk about her a lot anymore.”

“Oh, baby.” You pulled her closer again without hesitation. “I will talk about Karen with you for the rest of my life if that’s what you need.”

That seemed to hit her harder than expected. She blinked quickly, trying to keep herself together in the way your kids always did when emotions caught them off guard.

“You know what your mom used to say when she was pregnant with you?” you asked softly.

Paige shook her head against your shoulder.

“She said she hoped you’d be stubborn enough to survive this family.”

A tiny laugh escaped Paige before she could stop it.

“And look at you,” you kissed the top of her head. “Bossing me around in record stores and spending all my money.” 

“I’m glad you and Mama aren’t getting divorced,” She admitted. “We were really scared.”

“Me too,” you confessed. “Your Mama and I love each other and you guys too much.”

“Good,” Paige said. “Sometimes I miss it. Like when we first got here, and Cara was home. We would do all these things together.”

“Well, your birthday is next week, and I have it on record that we will all be together.” You promised. “Mama and I will try to make an effort to keep those family things going. Movie nights. Dinners. All those board games we have are collecting dust.”

“And Charlie hates me sometimes,”

You sighed softly through your nose.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” You nodded. “I’m not too happy with how that’s going between you two. I thought we solved it.”

“I guess,” Paige shrugged. “She acts like she doesn’t even want to be my sister sometimes.”

“You sound just like her with Cara,”

 Paige’s face twisted immediately. “That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

She groaned, already knowing where this was going.

“You and Charlie are a lot alike,” you continued. “Too alike sometimes. And when sisters start growing into different versions of themselves, there’s usually some bumping around.”

“She’s quitting ballet,” Paige frowned. “That’s something we always did together. I mean, I even joined because I wanted to be like her.”

You smiled at that. You remember Charlie being so excited to take her younger sister to school. 

Paige pushed her drink away.  “She’s changing,” she admitted quietly. “Everybody is.”

The honesty of it sat between you. You reached over, smoothing your hand over the top of her hair.

“Baby,” you said softly, “your sister growing up doesn’t mean she’s growing away from you.”

Paige looked unconvinced. “But things are different.”

“Yeah,” you nodded honestly. “They are.”

You looked out the window for a second before continuing.

“When Cara left for college, Charlie cried in her room for two days straight.”

Paige blinked. “Seriously?”

“She made Natasha drive her to campus three separate times in one month because she ‘forgot something.’”

“I did forget things,” Charlie had insisted every single time.

Paige smiled at the memory.

“Families change,” you continued quietly. “People get older. Interests change. Schedules change. But that doesn’t mean the love leaves with it.”

Paige rested her cheek against your shoulder then, quieter now.

“I don’t like it.”

“I know,” you kissed the top of her head. “Me neither sometimes. Neither do your siblings. But we’re working on it. Hey, ask her to help you with last minute things about your party. I bet she’ll answer.”

“That’s a good idea,” Paige nodded. “Can we go to one more place? The bakery on Scott?”

“Sure, we have time.”

“Great, I have ideas.” She said. You wondered what she was cooking up. 

—-----

It was a great day to be outside. For Natasha, this meant sitting on the sidelines, watching as Luke and James attempted to teach Max and Midnight new tricks. She sat stretched across one of the patio chairs with her bare feet tucked under her, a pen balanced between her teeth, and her yoga manuals spread out before her. Every few minutes, she would underline something, scribble in the margins, and then glance back out at the yard. 

“No, no, you have to say it with authority,” James snapped his fingers so Midnight would sit. 

“Midnight,” Luke squared his shoulders. He deepened his voice and said, “Roll over.”

The dog barked once and sprinted off in the opposite direction. 

Natasha smiled into her book. They’d be at this a little while longer. 

The backdoor slid open behind her.  Yelena stepped out carrying a bottle of water and one of Natasha’s protein bars she definitely hadn’t asked permission to take.

“You know,” she said as she settled into the chair beside her, “watching you become suburban has been one of the strangest experiences of my life.”

Natasha didn’t look up from her notes. “You say that every time you visit.”

“And every time it becomes more true.” Yelena gestured vaguely toward the yard. “You’re outside annotating yoga books while children train rescue dogs. You used to fall asleep in vents.”

“I’ve never fallen asleep in a vent,” Natasha scoffed. 

“Twice you did,” Yelena shrugged. “Once in Venice.”

“You and I remember that differently,” Natasha flipped through another page. “How long are you here for again?”

“Until Kate is done visiting with the Bartons,” Yelena tore open the packaging of the bar. She bit into it, her nose scrunching at the taste. “Tastes like chocolate chalk and ass.” She dropped it onto the table between them.

“You would know what that tastes like,” Natasha muttered without missing a beat. 

“You’re so funny,” She rolled her eyes.  “So,” She said casually. “I can’t help but notice your wife is not home,” Yelena looked around the yard. The boys were playing some kind of game of tug-of-war with the dogs and James’ t-shirt. “Again.”

“She’s with Paige,” Natasha closed the book against her knee. She looked at Yelena fully. 

“Funny, I didn’t see her kiss you goodbye this morning,” She said. 

“Why don’t you come out and say what you really want to know?” Natasha raised a brow. 

“No, ice cream together. No disgusting cuddling on the couch,” Yelena began to list off. “No displays of affection that make me want to hurl. I would say your marriage is in trouble.”

“You’d make a wonderful spy,” Natasha shook her head. She looked back into her chair. “My marriage is not in trouble.”

“But it’s not like normal? Tell me I’m wrong,” Yelena threw up her hands. 

“You’re not wrong,” Natasha sighed. “We’ve become disconnected. But we’re trying. Actually, we were supposed to have this talk with you together.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes.  “You think I couldn’t handle the truth.”

“I think you’re our child by proxy at this point,” Natasha shrugged. “You tend to dig your nose into our marriage anyway.”

"Hey, it's traumatic when you two stop flirting? The whole house becomes cold.”

Natasha laughed despite herself, shaking her head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am serious,” Yelena pointed at her. “You and Y/n are like… weirdly in love. It’s unsettling. So when that disappears everybody notices.”

That quieted Natasha a little. Her eyes drifted back toward the yard where Luke had now wrapped himself around Max like a backpack while James argued with him about “proper dog training techniques.

“It didn’t disappear,” Her voice was even softer now. “At least that’s what I keep telling myself. She’s been busy with work.” “So, it’s her fault?” Yelena tilted her head. 

“No,” Natasha denied. She fiddled with her hands. Very uncharacteristic. “I think it’s been building up for a while. Starting with me after that mission.”

“That was five years ago?” 

“She mentioned it in an argument,” Natasha nodded. “I mean, would you really expect your wife to get over saying you wanted to abandon her and the kids? Especially without telling them?”

“You did that?” Yelena gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I almost did,” Natasha said. “I wasn’t in the right headspace after that mission. Wanda had to step in and find me, but…there’s a reason I don’t like magic.” “But why didn’t you want to come home?”

“I didn’t feel like me anymore,” she admitted finally. Her fingers twisted together again. “And when I looked at them…” she swallowed. “I loved them so much it scared me.”

Yelena’s face softened immediately.

“I thought if I came home like that,” Natasha continued quietly, “I’d ruin everything.”

“But you still stayed,” Yelena pointed out gently.

Natasha looked back toward the house. Toward the kitchen windows. Toward the life inside it.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment.

A small, almost disbelieving smile crossed her face. “Because apparently I love my wife more than my own self-destruction.”

“And this now is payback?” “I think it was an indicator we needed counseling together,” Natasha breathed. “We still made time. We still had our moments, but we both got too busy. Too wrapped up in emotions and jobs and the kids.”

Yelena leaned further back in her chair, staring up at the sky dramatically. “This is all way too mature for me,” she declared. “I liked it better when relationship problems were just somebody cheating or getting arrested.”

Natasha snorted softly. “You’re thirty-four.”

“And still emotionally nineteen.”

“That explains a lot, actually.”

Yelena ignored her. “I just…” she sighed, glancing over again. “You two have always felt permanent to me.”

“You know what the weird part is?” Natasha asked after a moment.

“What?”

“I don’t think either of us realized how bad it got until we stopped touching each other.”

“No more couch cuddling?” Yelena grimaced. “Tragic.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it this time. “I’m serious,” she murmured. “We stopped reaching for each other.”

“When’s the last time you had sex?” Yelena asked. “Wait, too mature, again. Don’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Natasha laughed. Her sister was genuinely unbelievable at times. Though in her own head, she probably couldn’t tell her a date. There was still work to do. “I met this widow,” she changed the subject. “She has a kid, and she wants me to help her meet the kid.”

“Why you?”

“I asked the same thing…” Natasha exclaimed. She was happy for the topic change.

—-----

Paige stood right next to Charlie’s bedroom door for a long moment before finally knocking. She could hear music permeating through the door. It was slow and calm.  

“What?” Charlie called through the door. 

“It’s me,” Paige answered. 

“Go away,” Charlie said. 

Paige rolled her eyes. Typical. “I have something for you.”

“What kind of something?” 

“Open the door and see,” Paige knocked again. “I’m going to drop it.”

The door finally cracked open just enough for one suspicious eye to peek through. Charlie’s curls were piled messily on top of her head and she was sporting black eye liner and mascara. 

“You’re annoying,” she mumbled.

“And yet you opened the door.”

Charlie sighed dramatically before opening it wider. Paige stepped inside, balancing a box of macarons and two cups of matcha from the bakery. 

“I picked these up when I went out with mom,” Paige set them on the desk. “These are your favorite right?”

“They are,” Charlie’s eyes lit up. “So, did you do the whole period basket thing.”

“I got vinyls,” Paige shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Wait, that’s way cooler,” Charlie gasped.

“I know,” Paige grinned. 

 “I still think it’s weird you kept it a secret from everyone,” Charlie bit into a macaron with a frown. 

“It wasn’t really a secret,” Paige tilted her chin defensively. 

“Then what was it?” she asked. “I mean… weren’t you scared?”

Paige was quiet for a second longer than expected.

“A little,” she admitted eventually. “But mostly I just didn’t want everybody acting weird around me. I already knew what to do.”

“But you didn't come to me,” Charlie looked over at her. “We tell each other that stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Paige shrugged again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, okay,” Charlie let her have it. “Is that the only reason you came in here?”

“No,” Paige took another macaron for herself. “I wanted to talk about my birthday party. I was wondering if you could help me dye my hair.”

“You’re going to dye your hair?” Charlie’s mouth dropped. “Dude, moms will kill us both. You’re turning ten, not sixteen.”

“It wouldn’t be permanent or, like, my whole head,” Paige defended quickly. “Just maybe the front pieces. Or underneath.”

Charlie stared at her for another second before narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.

“…What color?”

Paige grinned immediately, knowing she’d won her over a little. “Maybe dark red?”

“Oh, that would eat,” Charlie admitted before catching herself. “Wait. No. I’m supposed to be responsible.”

“You literally have a Pinterest board called hair inspo.”

“That is private information.”

Paige laughed into her drink. 

Charlie watched her for a second after that. Really watched her.

“You’re getting big,” she mumbled.

Paige groaned loudly. “You sound like Mom.”

“Well, you are.” Charlie reached over, absentmindedly fixing one of Paige’s pigtails where it had started coming loose. “It’s weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“True.”

“Maybe we could do a little trim too. I’m good with scissors,” Charlie pretended to search for them. 

“No way,” Paige shook her head. 

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Charlie said. “But we have to ask Moms. I’m not getting grounded over this.”

“Fine,”

—----------------- —-----------------

The first thing Natasha noticed when she stepped into your shared shower was the delicate gold anklet wrapped around your left ankle. Tiny little charms glittered against damp skin every time the water hit it. It was new, and she wanted to question where you got it from, but it seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

You were carefully scrubbing around it as you hummed softly to yourself, completely unaware she’d followed you in.

For a second, Natasha just watched.

The steam curled around you, your braids pinned messily up away from your face, one of her oversized shirts abandoned somewhere on the bathroom floor outside the glass doors.

“Can I join you?” She asked, finally.

You jumped slightly, hand flying to your chest as she stepped inside anyway.

“Natasha!” you laughed breathlessly. “You scared me.”

“Mhm.” Her hands settled automatically at your waist once she was close enough. “That was the goal.” She didn’t mind the hot water splashing against her back.

You rolled your eyes, though the smile stayed as warm water splashed against both of you now.

Natasha’s eyes drifted downward again.

“When did you get this?” she asked quietly, kneeling so that her thumb brushed against the anklet.

You looked down like you’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh,” you smiled softly. “A few weeks ago. I picked it out when I went shopping.”

Natasha hummed at that, still tracing absent patterns against your ankle underwater.

You tilted your head slightly at her silence.

“What?” you asked softly.

Natasha just shook her head once before leaning down to kiss your calf.

“Nothing,” she murmured against damp skin. “You’re just pretty.”

“Just pretty?” You pulled her into your arms. The steam made your cheeks flush, or maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the feel of her bare skin against yours. “Nat, you’ve called me a lot of things over the years. Just pretty feels like an insult.”

A slow smile spread across her face. She reached up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Alright then. You’re devastatingly beautiful. You’re the kind of beautiful that makes people forget their own names. Better?”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your lip. “Hmm. Getting warmer.”

Natasha laughed, a real, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the glass walls. She pulled you closer, water streaming between your bodies. “Fine. You’re so beautiful it physically hurts me sometimes. There. Are we done rating my compliments now?”

“Depends,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss her jawline. “Are you trying to get lucky?" It sounded sexier in your head, and you both knew it, sharing a smile between the two of you. "It's been too long."

"Eight months," She said, closing her eyes after a particularly hard nip at her throat. "But who's counting?"

"Is that why you came in here?" You questioned. "To talk about my anklet and how pretty I am?"

"No. I came in here to see how long it would take to get you on your knees." Her response was quick, and you shivered despite the steam.

"It's a shame. You beat me to it." You whispered.

The water continued its steady rhythm against your skin, but Natasha’s focus was solely on the way your body moved against hers. She let out a shaky breath as your fingers traced the line of her collarbone, down between her breasts.

She bit her lip. This was what she had been wanting for so long. "I need..." The redhead started.

"I know, baby," you murmured against her skin. "I know."

Her hands tangled in your braids, gently guiding you back to her lips. The kiss started slow, a gentle exploration, but it quickly deepened into something more desperate. Months of unspoken tension, of carefully maintained distance, melted away under the hot spray of the shower.

Your hands roamed her body with a confidence that made her tremble. You knew every sensitive spot, every place that made her gasp into your mouth. When your thumb brushed against her nipple, toying with the jewelry piercing both ends, she arched into your touch with a soft cry.

"I've missed this," she whispered against your lips. "I've missed you. I wanted it to be more special for us. Dinner. Candles." Her speech was broken by pants as your other hand traveled lower, tracing patterns on her stomach.

"We can have dinner tomorrow," you murmured, nipping at her earlobe. "Or I could make you wait."

"You could," She nodded. "I came in here to be with you. Not for sex."

"Hmm," You nodded. Natasha pulled back slightly, her green eyes dark with desire and something deeper. That unwavering devotion that had defined your relationship from the beginning. She watched you for a moment, her expression uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"You still want me, right? Even after everything? After my stupid pride and the distance and..." Her words faltered as your fingers continued their torturously slow descent.

"Every day," you said simply, and it was the truest thing you had ever spoken. "Even when I was angry with you, I still wanted you."

That was all the encouragement she needed. Natasha surged forward, pressing you against the tiled wall of the shower as the water cascaded over both of you. Her kisses grew more demanding, her hands exploring every curve of your body.

"I love you," she gasped between kisses. "I never stopped. Not for a second."

Your response was lost in a moan as her teeth found your shoulder, biting gently before soothing the skin with her tongue. Your fingers finally reached where she wanted them most, and Natasha's knees nearly buckled at the contact.

You found her clit with ease, circling slowly at first, building tension with each pass. Natasha's head fell back against the tiles, water streaming down her face and neck as she surrendered to the pleasure you were giving her.

"Fuck," she whispered.

The water began to cool as you brought her closer to the edge. Your other hand came up to cup her breast, thumb and forefinger rolling her pierced nipple between them. Natasha's hands gripped your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as her hips began to move against your hand.

"Look at me," You commanded softly.

Natasha's eyes fluttered open, locking with yours. The intensity of her gaze nearly undid you. In that moment, there was no distance, no months of separation, no stubborn pride. There were only the two of you.

"I love you too," you murmured, and with those words, you increased the pressure, your fingers moving faster as she cried out your name.

Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body trembling against yours as she gasped for breath. You held her through it, your movements gentling as she came down from her high.

Natasha slumped against you, her face buried in the crook of your neck as her breathing gradually returned to normal.

"Wow," she finally managed, a weak laugh escaping her lips. "Just... wow."

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Yeah."

The water was definitely cold now, but neither of you seemed to notice or care.

"I came in here innocently at first," She spoke against your skin. "Just wanted to be with you."

"I know, Tasha," You kissed the top of her head. "Get out. I'll be there in a minute."

She pulled back reluctantly, her eyes searching yours. "Don't be long."

"I won't."

As Natasha stepped out of the shower, you watched her grab a towel, her movements slightly unsteady. She caught your eye before wrapping the towel around herself, and the look she gave you was full of promise for what the rest of the night might hold.

You finished washing up quickly, your mind racing. Eight months. Eight months of distance, of carefully constructed schedules, of avoiding the one person you needed most. And all it took to break through everything was one innocent question about an anklet.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped securely around your body, you found Natasha perched on the edge of the bed. She hadn't bothered dressing, just holding the towel around herself as she watched you approach.

"I was thinking," she said as you stopped in front of her.

"About?" You asked, reaching out to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. You stood between her legs, caressing her face.

"About how long it's been since we had a vacation," She said, tracing the back of your thigh with the tip of her fingers.

"Hmm."

"I booked us something for the week after Paige's birthday. Paris."

Your eyes widened. "Natasha—"

"Don't," She interrupted. "No excuses. Just say yes."

You studied her face, seeing the determination in her green eyes. "What about the kids"

"My parents can handle things for a week," She said dismissively. "And I've already cleared it with Yelena to help."

You laughed softly. "Of course you have."

"So?" Her fingers stilled on your leg. "Is that a yes?"

You leaned down, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. "Yes," you whispered against her mouth. "That's a yes."

Natasha's relief was palpable, her whole body relaxing as she deepened the kiss. When you finally pulled apart, she was smiling, a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes.

"I was worried you'd say no," she admitted.

"After what just happened in the shower?" You teased. "I'd say yes to just about anything you asked right now."

Her grin widened. "Good to know. You don't think it was too soon?"

"I think it was too quick," You clarified at her eyebrow arch. "I meant I want us to have the opportunity to go all night." You lowered your head to her neck. "Too soon isn't a thing for us after almost two decades in. That's our problem, we're working off what we think should happen or schedules and everything else. If I wanted to eat your pussy in the parking garage of the therapist's office, I would." You paused. "Don't get any ideas."

She laughed. "Noted. No parking garage cunnilingus." Her hands slid up your back, tracing the line of your spine. "But the bed is fair game?"

You hummed, leaning in to nip at her jawline. "The bed is very fair game."

Natasha's response was to capture your lips again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. Her hands roamed your body, mapping familiar territory. You responded in kind, your own hands exploring as you slowly backed her toward the center of the bed.

When the back of her knees hit the mattress again, Natasha fell back with a soft gasp, pulling you down with her. The towels between you felt like an unnecessary barrier, and she wasted no time in remedying that. She flipped the two of you, effectively pinning you.

"Much better," she murmured against your skin as she finally got you naked beneath her.

You laughed, arching into her touch as her mouth found your throat. "I agree."

Natasha took her time rediscovering your body, her lips and hands tracing every curve, every dip, every scar she already knew by heart. It was both familiar and new, like coming home after a long absence.

When her mouth finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, your fingers tangling in her damp hair. She teased with practiced skill, knowing exactly how to drive you wild with minimal effort.

"Natasha," you breathed, your hips rising to meet hers.

She lifted her head, her green eyes dark with desire. "I want to taste you," she said, her voice husky with need.

Instead of waiting for a response, she began her descent, pressing kisses along your stomach, dipping her tongue into your navel, smiling against your skin when you squirmed. By the time she settled between your thighs, you were already panting with anticipation.

She paused, looking up at you from between your legs. The intensity in her gaze made your breath catch.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered, and this time, the compliment felt like a revelation.

Then she leaned in, and all coherent thought ceased to exist.

The first stroke of her tongue against your clit sent a jolt of electricity through your body. Eight months of pent-up desire melted away in an instant. Natasha had always known exactly how to touch you, how to read your responses, how to push you to the brink and then pull you back, drawing out the pleasure until you were begging for release.

"Babe, we didn't lock the door." You didn't even know why the thought crossed your mind when she was tongue deep inside you.

"Then I'd guess you better be quiet so the kids don't come in," She mumbled without breaking her rhythm.

You rolled your eyes at her cockiness but didn't protest again, lost in the sensation of her tongue exploring your folds. Your hands found her hair again, guiding her as she built a rhythm that had your hips moving against her face.

When she added two fingers, curling them perfectly to hit that spot deep inside, you couldn't suppress the cry that escaped your lips. Natasha smirked against you, clearly pleased with herself as she increased her pace, her tongue working in tandem with her fingers to push you higher and higher.

The tension coiled in your stomach, tighter and tighter, until finally it snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your back arched off the bed as you called out her name, your fingers tightening in her hair as your body convulsed with the force of your orgasm.

Natasha stayed with you through it all, her movements gentling as you came down from your high. When your breathing finally returned to normal, she placed one final kiss on your sensitive flesh before crawling back up to lie beside you.

You turned to face her, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "Wow," you whispered, echoing her earlier sentiment.

She chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "I thought we could be spontaneous for a change."

"So you came in from your little yoga reading session and thought, damn, I wanna fuck my wife?" You teased.

"Not exactly," She rolled onto her side to fully face you. "I wanted to talk to you about the trip, and then I saw your tits." She shrugged.

You let out a laugh, the sound filling the quiet room. "Always so romantic, Romanoff."

Natasha's smile softened, her fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "I want you again," she admitted quietly. "If you're up for it."

You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

"It's been eight months," she reminded you. "I have a lot of lost time to make up for."

The thought of another round sent a fresh wave of desire through you. You leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. "I'm always up for anything with you," you murmured against her lips.

Natasha responded by deepening the kiss, her body pressing closer to yours as one of her hands slid down to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened under her touch. You arched into her, wanting more, needing more.

When her other hand slipped between your legs, you gasped into her mouth. She wasted no time, finding you already wet and ready for her. Her fingers explored with familiar confidence, stroking, teasing, building that fire in your belly all over again.

"I missed this," she whispered, her lips trailing along your jawline. "I missed being inside you."

"Then stop talking," you breathed, hooking your leg over her hip to give her better access. "And fuck me."

Natasha's response was to enter you with two fingers, slow and deliberate, drawing a moan from your lips. She set a languid pace at first, her thumb finding your clit as she moved within you. The familiar stretch, the perfect angle, it all came rushing back like second nature.

You met her gaze, seeing the raw emotion in her green eyes. Eight months of distance, of carefully maintaining space, all melting away with each thrust of her fingers. You reached up, caressing her face.

"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily now.

"I love you too," she replied, her movements gaining speed as her own arousal grew. "So much."

You could feel her need pressing against your thigh, and it spurred you on. You rolled your hips, meeting each thrust, encouraging her to take you harder, faster. Natasha obliged, her fingers moving deeper, her thumb working your clit with skilled precision.

The second orgasm built more slowly but was no less intense. When it finally washed over you, you cried out her name, your body trembling with release. Natasha didn't stop, continuing to move within you, drawing out your pleasure until you were completely spent.

Only then did she withdraw, gathering you in her arms as you both caught your breath. The room was quiet except for your ragged breathing, the cool air from the open window doing little to cool your heated skin.

"I think we're going to need two weeks in Paris," you finally spoke.

It’s initially just black, darkness surrounding her, Natasha simply reveling in everything happening to her… until a sudden, sharp stinging is felt on the inside of her thigh, your hand coming down and making firm contact with the plushness there. Her eyes shoot open, a cry of surprise escaping her mouth that progresses into a high-pitched whine when the first thing she sees is herself reflected back at her in the mirror.

God, she looks absolutely pathetic right now—fucked out in a way she’s not used to seeing, never having been forced to watch herself before—and she closes her eyes again in an attempt to avoid the sight.

“Eyes open,” you tell her, “Eyes on you, unless… you want me to stop?” It’s teasing. You know very well what the answer to that question is, how much she currently needs you to keep going, for the pleasure you’re providing her with to keep sparking under her skin and firing up and down her spine until it settles back in her core.

But still, despite her desperation, she doesn’t reply to you.

“Use your words, Natasha,” you demand, punctuating your sentence by bucking your hips up to push into her a few times.

Your actions don’t make it any easier, and you smirk as she moans, loud and uncontrolled, echoing through the room and off the walls in the way that means she’s close. You’re lucky that Tony soundproofed your quarters after the first time your and Natasha’s romps were heard throughout the night, keeping the other Avengers awake with sounds that they never wanted to become familiar with in the first place.

“No, please, please don’t stop. I’m so close. Please,” Natasha then begs, her hips rolling with urgency, her body eager for you to keep relentlessly pounding into her, eager for the heat that being so completely filled by you brings about, for the ache from deep within her that only you can soothe to lessen.

“Already?” you ask even though you’re well aware of how near she is to tipping, how near the redhead is to falling into sweet oblivion. You know the signs of Natasha’s pleasure better than she does, able to recognize every expression that twists her face, able to decipher every jerk and jolt of her body, well acquainted with every potential reaction you could receive whenever you’re fucking her.

She just nods her head, struggling to find her voice. There’s too much input, too many sensations for her to process all at once.

“I said ‘words’,” you remind her, and you decide to let up, transitioning from harsh thrusts to languid ones in order to help her answer.

It doesn’t work.

“Can’t-” She almost doesn’t get the word out. “Fuck, can’t, can’t- so close, can’t, fuck-”

You hum, the noise more mocking than understanding. “Let me help then,” you murmur, reaching your hand toward the bedside table, grabbing at the vibrator you had left there beforehand. You switch it on, and the low buzzing that begins to fill the room makes a soft, helpless noise leave Natasha as she realizes just what’s coming.

You slowly skim the vibrator along her inner thigh, dragging it lightly across the sensitive skin there, a trail of goosebumps following the path it takes. It feels like it’s miles away from where she’s throbbing for it, so her back arches and her hips buck up in impatience, trying to make contact with the toy. She lets out an unfiltered whine as the strap shifts and reangles itself inside of her, falling forward, her hands landing on your knees.

She tries to catch her breath, but you don’t allow her to.

It’s at the lowest setting, but that doesn’t mean that the vibrator’s first touch against her clit doesn’t cause her eyes to roll back in her head, her hands quickly moving from your knees to scrabble at the sheets, grabbing hold of them and crushing them between her fingers. “Fuck!” she exclaims, startled by the suddenness. Her entire being is feverish, overheated, hypersensitive. There’s both satisfaction as the vibrations finally rack through her frame but also a burning need for more.

“Keep moving,” you demand when you notice her motions falter, when she starts to let the vibrator do all the work for her.

With difficulty, she begins pushing herself up before dropping herself down, resuming burying your strap deeply within her sopping hole. Her breasts jump with every movement as she continues to impale herself on the silicone, riding you like you requested, her fingers clutching at the sheets as she rocks weakly, overcome by the feelings that make her body twitch and writhe on top of you.

“That’s a girl,” you praise, “Bouncing so sweetly on my cock. Do you see yourself? Taking me so well?”

Natasha nods, her ability to speak having been stripped away by the almost unbearable sensation of you—the one hand holding her hip feeling like a brand, your strap stretching her cunt out deliciously, the vibrator pressed firmly to her clit to the point where she doesn’t know if it’s making everything better or worse at this point.

Her eyes are half-lidded, her mouth parted with irregular breaths as she takes in the sight of herself in the mirror again. She can see every piece of her—or perhaps pieces, as it feels like you’ve torn her apart bit by bit and left her scattered around the room—laid bare before her. Her skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat, her chest flushed a bright pink as she clearly becomes fatigued from all the exertion, but she stays determined, nonetheless. She can easily make out the sticky mess between her legs in the reflection; she watches how the silicone shaft glistens with her juices every time she raises her hips up and comes off its length slightly before sinking back down.

And she begins working faster, harder, grinding in needy, clumsy circles, as if seeing herself only furthers the fire she has building inside. Her dignity was abandoned somewhere along the way, and she can’t bring herself to care when you’re stuffing her full like only you ever can.

You notice her gaze drop to where you’re both connected, staring fixatedly at how the strap rhythmically plunges in and out of her hole, slick noises mixing with her moans.

“Just look at you,” you say, “You’re dripping, soaked. This pretty pussy was just begging to be fucked like this, wasn’t it?”

Natasha warms at the vulgar way you’re talking about her, blushing at your tone, at your words, but her body betrays her, and she clenches down on the silicone unconsciously.

A coy smile appears on your face at her bashfulness, at how she tries to hide just how much she’s enjoying everything. You can’t help but tease her further. “Say it,” you request.

When she doesn’t answer, shaking her head, too embarrassed to do so, you repeat yourself.

It’s a command this time—you’re no longer asking—and she knows that, so she takes a breath in preparation to echo the crude words back at you, but you don’t give her enough time, turning the vibrator up to the highest setting, the touch causing her entire being to thrum.

Natasha jumps as the sudden increase, the switch from the soft and steady vibrations to the severe ones jarring, you giving her no warning or chance to adjust. “My pussy was begging for it!” she cries out, “Fuck! It was begging! I’m begging!”

You hum again in satisfaction when she finally gets the words out. “That’s right,” you agree, “And begging girls don’t get to come.” You turn the vibrator back down, a chuckle leaving you when you see how her eyes widen in desperation. She’s trembling with the need to finally make it over the edge you’re keeping her on; you’ve been tormenting her by dangling her release just out of reach.

“No,” she pleads, “No, please, I’m good. I’m good. I’m not begging, I’m good.”

You just shake your head, tutting. “You just said you were begging,” you remind her.

Natasha whines. It’s true. She is begging, but she’s willing to say whatever it takes right now for you to let her to come.

“I’m good,” she tries to convince you again.

You then shush her, taking pity on the redhead that’s currently been reduced to a simple, babbling mess on your lap.

“I know you are,” you reassure softly, “My good girl, always my good girl.” And then you turn the toy back up, letting the vibrations resume their assault on her sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that you know will send her careening in just moments.

When she feels the intensity spike, Natasha stops remembering how to hold herself together; she doesn’t want to hold herself together. She’s falling with no desire to catch herself as everything overloads her system and takes her apart. Her release crashes through her and makes her forget how to breathe altogether, both her inhales and exhales stuttering to a stop in her chest before she remembers that she actually does need oxygen.

It’s the best form of torture when you continue to hold the vibrator directly against her clit, not giving her any respite, and her body shakes and shudders as the onslaught remains rushing through her.

“Wait, no more,” she chokes out, “Can’t- no more.”

“Someone just told me she wanted this. Now you’re saying that your greedy little cunt can’t take it?”

“No- no,” Natasha keeps protesting as you don’t let up, “S’too much-”

“You can do it,” you encourage, knowing her limits, knowing when to push and when to pull away, and right now, despite her objections, there’s no way Natasha truly wants you to ease up. She craves another climax; her body craves another climax. It’s blatantly telling you so as her hips still rock back and forth on your strap, as her walls clamp down tightly on the silicone as if trying to milk every drop of pleasure from you that she possibly can.

You start moving with her, hard and forceful snaps of your hips into her squelching cunt as the vibrator still buzzes against her causing her to gasp at the dual sensations.

A moan catches in her throat, her breath hitching, overstimulation warring with the euphoria that always follows an orgasm given to her by you. She goes to protest again but is abruptly stopped when you shove two fingers into her open mouth, effectively cutting the redhead off, preventing her from voicing anything further.

“Hush,” you murmur, your voice just a soft whisper against the shell of her ear, the brush of your lips along her skin making her shiver. Her tongue instinctively swirls around your digits before sucking on them gently, soaking them with her saliva, a trail of it beginning to dribble out the side of her mouth.

“There you go,” you praise, “Just stay quiet and let me play with you.”

This time, Natasha complies, focusing now on you in her mouth, on the weight of your fingers on her tongue, trying to distract herself from the unrelenting pressure of the vibrator and the wet slide of the strap inside her.

She can tell she’s quickly approaching another peak, and she wants to tell you, to warn you, but with your fingers pushed to the back of her throat, all she can do is whimper around them.

Fortunately for her, she doesn’t need to say anything. You can see it clear as day on her face in the mirror, see it in the way her head is lolling from side to side against your shoulder as her back leans heavily against your front. The vibrator is still at the highest setting, persistent and ruthless in its stimulation, and Natasha, even though she was just overwhelmed with ecstasy, is back to feeling starving for more, hips still working.

“One more,” you tell her before asking a question even though you know she can’t respond with your fingers caressing her tongue: “You can give me one more, can’t you? Just one more?”

She groans, eyes fluttering shut, trying to nod as she continues to suck and lick at your skin.

“Then come for me again,” you command, “I want you to come again all over my cock.”

Those words are all it takes, Natasha never able to disobey you, and she’s thrown into yet another climax after only just having recovered from the first, a loud, keening sound getting ripped from deep within her chest. She’s engulfed by it, drowning in it, the entire room feeling as though it’s spinning as she becomes dizzy with pleasure, unable to find her equilibrium through the vibrations that you still haven’t yet turned down. The only thing holding her together right now, the only thing grounding her, is the feeling of you, stable behind her.

After a few seconds of tension, of her muscles pulled taut, she drops limply against you, hips finally going still, too exhausted to keep moving. You gently pull the vibrator away from the apex of her thighs, switching it off, the sensations still there but now dulled to residual, phantom tingles that spread from her core outward to the rest of her body in waves.

You let her settle, Natasha very obviously spent, unable to take any more for the time being, and she curls into you, the strap still buried between her legs as she shifts to press her face into the crook of your neck.

You brush a light kiss to the crown of her head. “Is it safe to assume you can’t handle another?” you ask playfully.