sunschay

[sunschay]

Needy

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Outside the city murmured softly; distant cars, the occasional honk, the hum of a streetlamp buzzing through the half-open window. But inside, the only sound was Natasha’s low, slurred voice and the gentle creak of the mattress as she flopped dramatically onto it.

“Y’know…” She mumbled, face half-buried in a pillow, red hair splayed in wild waves around her. “You’re so pretty. Like… really pretty.”

Y/N laughed softly, kneeling beside the bed as she pulled off Natasha’s boots, one at a time.

“You said that in the elevator. And the lobby. And the car.”

“Did I?” Nat lifted her head just barely, squinting like the room was spinning.“Well. Still true. Too true. Not fair.”

“You’re very drunk.”

“Pff.” Natasha made a dismissive sound and flopped onto her back with a groan.

“You always take care of me. I like it when you do that.” Her voice softened.“Feels safe.”

Y/N’s hands slowed where they were tugging off Nat’s jacket, her heart giving the smallest twist.

“Yeah?” She murmured.

“Mhm. Like…” Natasha blinked at the ceiling. “Like I don’t have to be the scary Black Widow with the knives. Just yours.”

Y/N helped her sit up, easing the heavy leather coat from her shoulders. Natasha leaned against her, warm and pliant and soft in a way she rarely let herself be.

Once they were both settled under the sheets, Natasha curled close, tangling their legs together. Her fingers traced idle lines up Y/N’s arm, clumsy and aimless but tender.

“You smell good.” She whispered, voice a little hoarse. “I missed your bed. Missed you.”

“You’re clingy when you’re drunk.”

“I’m clingy when I’m sober too.” Natasha grinned, breath catching. “You just pretend not to notice.”

Y/N hummed, gently brushing hair away from her flushed face.

“That’s because I like it.”

A beat passed. Then,

“I want you.” Nat whispered, her voice smaller now. “Right now. Please.”

Y/N tensed slightly.

“Nat…”

“I want you.” She repeated, more desperate this time, pressing her lips to Y/N’s jaw. “Just wanna feel you. Need it.”

“You’re drunk.” Y/N said gently. “We can’t. Not like this.”

But Natasha let out a soft, frustrated whine and climbed into Y/N’s lap like she needed it, like her body couldn’t take another second of distance. Her knees pressed to either side of Y/N’s hips, and she settled there, hovering only for a breath before easing down, pressing her thigh between Y/N’s.

“Please.” She breathed out, voice cracking, hips already shifting. “Just this. Just… let me. Please, need you so bad, baby.”

Y/N didn’t touch her, didn’t even move at first. She just watched, breath caught in her throat, as Natasha started to rock. Slow at first, like her body was feeling out the motion, the rhythm. Her shorts dragged over Y/N’s bare thigh with every little roll of her hips, and she shivered at the friction.

A soft, breathy moan slipped from Natasha’s lips. Then another.

“Fuck, baby… feels good… feels so good.”

“Natasha—”

“I know, I know.” She gasped, nails curling into Y/N’s shoulders.

“You’re being good. You’re always good. But I need you, I can’t-” She cut herself off with another whimper, this one rougher, more desperate. “Let me, just let me feel close.”

She whimpered again, burying her face in Y/N’s shoulder, hips moving with more need, dragging herself against her thigh like she was burning from the inside out.

“Look at you.” Y/N murmured, watching her. “Such a mess already, baby.”

Natasha let out a whiny moan, fingers digging into Y/N’s shoulders.

“Y/N, please.” She whispered, voice shaking. “Just need you. Please, please, I need it so bad…”

“I know.” Y/N whispered, still not moving, still just letting her do it. “I know, baby. You’re so needy.”

“I am.” Natasha breathed. “I’m so fucking needy. You make me like this. Please please please, let me cum just like this, I just need your thigh.” Natasha choked out.

“Needy baby.” Y/N whispered, finally placing her hands gently on Nat’s hips; not pulling, not pushing, just holding. Just guiding.

Nat moaned, louder now, more open, as her hips stuttered forward.

“Oh god, right there. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” She cried, breath catching between soft gasps and trembling sighs. Her whole body moved in sync with Y/N’s steady grip, chasing the friction with a feverish need.

Y/N’s touch stayed firm but gentle, just enough to steady her.

“That’s it. Take it, baby. Take what you need. Just like that.”

Natasha whimpered again, more breath than voice.

“I missed this. Missed your hands. Your skin. I think about you at night, fuck, I get so wet just thinking about your thigh between mine, just like this.”

Y/N swallowed hard, jaw tense, but kept her voice soft.

“You’re dripping for me, princess.” Y/N whispered, voice still calm, still gentle, but laced with heat. “You’re soaking through your shorts. Just from this?”

Natasha whimpered, face flushed, tears threatening the corners of her eyes.

“I can’t help it. You’re so warm, and you smell so good, and I missed you, and I— fuck, Y/N, I’m so close.” Natasha blabbered.

Y/N held her steady, voice like a tether.

“I know you can’t help it, I know, baby.

“I’m close.“ Nat sobbed, hips jerking slightly. “Please. I wanna cum Let me… let me.”

“You’ve got it, my love.” Y/N breathed.

“I’ve got you. Cum for me. Make a mess on my thigh, needy girl.”

That sent her over the edge.

Natasha let out a ragged moan, high and shaking, her body freezing in place for a second as she came, shuddering, stuttering, grinding desperately against Y/N like she didn’t want the feeling to stop. Her hands clutched Y/N’s shirt in fists, her breath catching over and over in her throat as her orgasm hit hard and deep, like it had been waiting all week to break through her.

When she finally stilled, chest heaving, she collapsed into Y/N, clinging tighter.

Y/N held her close, one hand stroking her spine, the other still resting at her hip. Not pulling. Not asking for more. Just there.

“You’re okay, baby. Relax for me.” She whispered. “You did so good.”

“Promise?” Nat breathed, still trembling a little.

“I promise.” Y/N said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Go to sleep, baby.”

And Natasha did, still curled in her lap, flushed and wrecked and safe in her arms.

[sunschay]

𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝐻𝑖𝑡

pairing: wanda maximoff x gn!reader

summary: You and Wanda hotbox a car, then fuck.

content warnings: reader has a penis, drinking, smoking weed, car sex, blowjob, handjob, unprotected sex, restraints, creampie, putting out a joint on skin

word count: 4.2k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

A/N: shout out to Rae for helping me understand what it feels like to be high ily pooks @wndaswife ♡

“Hey.”

You look around, squinting against the flashing lights. The basement smells like old beer, and there’s something suspiciously sticky on the bottom of your shoe. Wanda is shouldering her way through the crowd, her eyes locked on you. 

“This frat is totally lame, babe,” you say, raising your voice slightly so she can hear you. You reach out, pulling her in by the waist, your back resting against the wall. It’s slightly cold, but you don’t mind. The air feels stale, the warmth from the multitude of bodies packed into the basement making your skin damp with sweat.

Wanda rolls her eyes, finishing the rest of her beer before chucking it into the crowd. You don’t see it land, distracted by her hands on your shoulders. She’s feeling you up, running her fingers over your muscles for a moment before leaning in, her chest pressing against yours while her lips tickle your ear. 

“Wanna get out of here and smoke?”

You chuckle, nodding as she pulls back, her eyes glinting under her thick eyeliner. One of her rings catches on the fabric of your shirt as she pulls away, your hand finding hers and leading her toward the exit. 

Wanda’s car isn’t hard to find, the slightly chipped red paint standing out as you open the door for her. It isn’t much, but it was her brother’s car before he went overseas in the Army, and Wanda takes good enough care of it. She never lets you drive it, though. 

“The usual spot?” You ask, pulling out some rolling paper and your bag of weed. You double-check your pockets, finding two lighters and pulling them out. 

“Yeah,” Wanda says, her hand resting on the back of your headrest before she pulls out of the parking spot. It’s hot, and you make sure to return her smirk, adjusting how you’re sitting when her hand drops to your thigh. 

“And, you’re good to drive?”

Wanda rolls her eyes, giving you a look. “I had like, half a beer. Don’t worry so much. I saw the way you shotgunned with that one blonde guy, if anyone should be worried about how much alcohol they’ve drank, it’s you.”

Holding up your hands in mock surrender, you shake your head. “I don’t even know who that was, but who am I to pass up a free beer?”

You would start rolling a joint, but Wanda isn’t the calmest driver. She has one foot up on the seat, her fingers cranking up the music, metal blaring and reverberating around your skull. You lurch forward as she slams on the brakes, swearing under her breath as a car cuts her off, merging at the last second to exit the highway. 

“Fuckin idiot,” she glares, one hand running through her hair as the road stretches out. It’s late, with barely any other cars in sight. 

The hand on your thigh moves slightly, dragging up further as Wanda drives. You can feel your head pounding slightly, the alcohol making its way through your system, and your ears still ringing from the loud music that had bounced around the walls of the basement. 

Gravel sounds out under the tires, a sign that you’re close to the usual smoke spot. It’s secluded, with a great view of the city. Thick trees tower around you, and when Wanda kills the engine, the only sound is the occasional cricket or bird call. 

“Give me one,” Wanda says, her fingers grabbing a rolling paper before you can respond. 

“Damn,” You mutter, opening the baggie full of weed. The scent hits you, and you breathe in deeply. “You’re needy tonight.”

“Fuck off,” Wanda rolls her eyes, glancing at your crotch. “If anyone’s needy, it’s you.”

Smirking, you roll your hips for a moment, your bulge noticeable. “Guilty as charged, can you blame me? Your ass and legs look great in those jeans.”

Wanda scoffs, but you see the pleased blush she wears. You shake some weed out on your rolling paper before handing her the baggie, your gaze lingering on her focused expression as she does the same. Your fingers move, muscle memory taking over as you roll the joint, stuffing some more weed into it with the end of a pen. You offer it to Wanda, and don’t try to hide the way your bulge grows when her fingers brush yours. 

“Lighter, baby?”

You hand it over, licking the end of your paper as you finish rolling your joint. Wanda lights the end of hers, sucking in deeply before turning to you and exhaling, a lazy grin spreading on her face. 

“That good, huh?” You ask, taking the lighter and lighting your own joint. You suck in a breath, loving the slight burn at the back of your throat.

Wanda hums, dropping her head back until it hits the headrest of her seat, blowing smoke toward the ceiling slowly. You watch her do a couple of tricks, her grin spreading wider with each minute that passes. You adjust your hips again, spreading your legs further and getting comfortable, watching Wanda grow hazier as more smoke fills the car. 

“Are you feeling anything?” You ask, inhaling deeply as Wanda lets out a satisfied sigh. 

“Not yet, but it shouldn’t take long,” she responds, flicking ash into the metal tin that sits between you two. “We’re gonna be stoned soon with the way we’re hotboxing this shit.”

You don’t respond to that, feeling a warm fuzziness grow within your chest. Your limbs begin to relax, your lips tingling slightly. Catching a glimpse of yourself through the haze, you stare at your reflection in the side mirror. Part of you is aware of your hair loosely hanging over your forehead, Wanda’s hand resting on your thigh as she stretches out, and the joint feeling warm between your fingers. 

“Take another hit, baby,” Wanda murmurs, her voice low and soothing, her fingers finding the knob of the CD player and turning the volume lower until the music is no longer jarring. Your eyes roam around the car briefly, your chest feeling warm as you smile lazily. Wanda’s fingers are cool as they touch your hand, bringing the joint to your lips. 

The bass flowing through the car fills you, your heart thumping to the beat as you take another hit. Wanda fiddles with her phone, her auburn hair glowing slightly before she turns her screen brightness down. 

You can’t quite remember how you got in the car, or what you were doing earlier that night. It doesn’t matter. Wanda is here, and her green eyes are warm and big and looking right at you, her fingers reaching for your lap as low jazz fills the space. Your reflection is back in the side mirror, your face flushed as Wanda’s fingers brush your bulge again while grabbing a rolling paper. 

“Baby, where’s the weed?”

You chuckle. Wanda is asking where the weed is. It’s right here, silly. It’s… it’s-

Wait. Where is the weed?

“Fuck, um,” you mumble, your body weightless as you lean forward. When did your seat recline? You search around, your fingers brushing Wanda’s as she leans toward you. She’s giggling, her hair smelling like vanilla as she leans into you. Her breath is warm, her lips are soft, and her hands are all over you. They wrap around your waist and skate over your thighs, your fingers finally feeling the plastic baggie on the floor near your boots as her lips suck gently on your neck. 

“Found it.”

“Hm?” Wanda’s voice is all around you, her body practically on top of yours as she leans further into your space. She smells delicious, your skin aflame where her fingertips drag over it, lifting your shirt slightly to stroke your hips. 

“The weed,” you say, your voice somehow sounding both miles away and eerily omnipresent. You hold up the bag, smiling at Wanda’s hand quickly grabbing it. 

You pull out two more rolling papers, Wanda having dropped hers somewhere on the floor, and the silence stretches comfortably as you both focus on the task in front of you. It’s soothing to roll the joint, your fingers moving with practiced ease before you twist the end, your hand moving to Wanda’s thigh where the lighter rests. 

Smoke swirls lazily around you, the car reeking of weed. You find it comforting, the layers of jazz music blending and mixing together into a single endless stream as it flows through your consciousness. 

Wanda hums slightly as she finishes her joint, letting you take the lighter from her lap before she looks over at you. Moving slowly, she somehow manages to move from the driver's seat to your lap, straddling you and pulling the lever to recline the seat fully back.

“Get comfortable,” Wanda murmurs, stealing the lighter from your slack fingers and chuckling at your open-mouthed expression. 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. It’s not a giggle, it’s a laugh. Definitely not a giggle. God, it’s just so funny, the way she- wait. What was funny?

Wanda is inhaling, her lips wrapped around the end of her lit joint, the flame casting sharp shadows on her face. Her irises glow for a brief moment as the reflection dances in her glassy eyes before she flicks the lighter off with a practiced motion of her thumb. You think it’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.

Smoke is blown softly into your face, and you eagerly sit up, your muscles flexing as you grab her around the waist. “Do it again,” you beg, and part your lips. 

You long to feel her soft lips on yours, and you feel your cock throb hotly when Wanda grips your jaw with one hand, the other bringing the joint to her smirking lips. Everything else fades, the jazz music dulling and the city view out the window dimming as you focus on her. You breathe in when she does, releasing your breath quickly in anticipation. 

Those wonderful lips meet yours, and it feels like absolute heaven. Wanda breathes out, smoke and vanilla mixing as they fill your mouth and nostrils, every single sense of yours surrounded by her. You inhale carefully, breathing in her very essence as you feel your lungs burn slightly, the weed making your head spin pleasantly. 

“Good job, pet,” Wanda murmurs, kissing you fiercely. She bites into your lip, and you moan lowly as you exhale, smoke expelling from your lungs and joining the swirling mist in the air of her car.

She moves her hips, subtly grinding down on your lap. You feel yourself ache, your hips moving up to meet hers as you moan into her mouth. It’s over far too soon, the pressure building as she continues to move her hips, her lips detaching from yours as she leans back, arching her back and grinding harder. 

“Want something, baby?” Wanda asks, one hand bringing the joint to her lips while the other tangles with your hair and shoves your head back into the seat. 

“More,” you say, your voice breathy and echoing. Your head is fuzzy, your limbs weightless as your thumbs stroke her hips. 

Wanda leans down, the change in position pressing her hips firmly against your cock as it strains in your boxers. It feels trapped beneath your pants, but you make no move to release yourself. That’s Wanda’s decision. 

More smoke is inhaled directly into your mouth, and you eagerly suck it in. Wanda’s lips are all over you, sealed around your lips as she exhales fully, her fingers closing your mouth and forcing you to inhale. She kisses down your neck as you do, your throat bobbing as you fight a cough. Her lips feel like fire, her tongue dragging over your skin for a moment before she sucks gently near your collarbone.

“Fuck,” you whisper, watching the smoke escape from your lips as you speak, curling around Wanda’s hair when she sits back up. The joint is pressed into your fingers, the lit end casting shadows on Wanda’s face as she watches you place it between your lips. 

“Take a deep breath, baby,” Wanda whispers, her eyes intent. She looks almost hungry, and her hips shift on top of you when you nod obediently, filling your lungs with smoke. Strong fingers pinch your nose, Wanda licking her lips before speaking. “Hold it.”

You feel lightheaded, your limbs heavy and your chest warm. The warm tingly feeling spreads up to your shoulders and down your arms, your head fully relaxing on the seat as you lean back. Everything is comfortable, Wanda’s vanilla perfume mixing with the heavenly scent of weed, her figure slightly fuzzy as you peer through the haze of smoke. 

Wanda moves again, taking the joint from between your lips and letting go of your nose. “Breathe it out,” she murmurs, holding the burning joint away from her hair as she leans down to kiss you, eagerly inhaling the smoke you expel from your lungs. 

Time turns a bit fluid after that, the sensation of overwhelming warmth taking over you as Wanda sits on your lap, her hands mindlessly running over your torso. Her fingernails scrape down your chest, her palms warm as she feels your abs, one hand holding the joint to her lips. 

You find the joint pressed between your lips, the faint taste of Wanda’s vanilla lip gloss coating your tongue as you suck in. The smoke tastes more burnt than usual, the heat hitting your face as you realize the joint is almost out. 

“Another?” You look up at Wanda with wide eyes, feeling the muscles beneath your eyes contracting slightly as you squint against your will. She chuckles, the sound reverberating around the car before she grinds the end of the joint against the metal ashtray.

“No baby,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss you. “I want to suck on something else.”

“What-” You’re cut off when Wanda grinds her hips down harshly, reminding you of the aching hardness between your thighs. “Oh,” you say, a bit stupidly. 

The words feel weird on your tongue, your mouth not moving properly. So, you decide to do something else with your mouth instead, attaching it to Wanda’s neck and sucking. Her moans sound out, adding to the layers of fuzz building in your head while the blood in your body rushes down to your throbbing cock, her hips providing delicious friction as she grinds on your lap. 

You hear metal clinking, the sound cutting through the soft jazz and smoke, but you don’t have time to think about it before Wanda is grabbing your hands and wrapping something around them. The material bites into your skin slightly, and you let out a chuckle when Wanda finishes restraining you. 

“The seatbelt, really?”

Wanda smirks at you, pulling your hands above your head and attaching your seatbelt-wrapped wrists to the headrest. You’re not sure how she’s managed to effectively restrain you with the seatbelt strap, but when you test the restraints, you’re surprised at the limited movements you can make. 

The weight on your lap disappears, Wanda’s body shifting. You lazily look down, your muscles loose and movements slow. Somehow, your seat is shifted back until Wanda is able to fit herself on the floor, kneeling while she leans over your lap. 

Sharp teeth bite at your stomach, each jolt of pain sending heat directly to the tip of your cock. You can see it visibly straining through your pants, but Wanda makes no move to undo your zipper, her lips turned up into a smirk while she pulls your shirt up and begins leaving hickeys all over your hips and waist. 

“Fuck, baby,” you groan, throwing your head back and shifting your hips, rutting upward in search of any friction. Wanda carefully avoids your bulge, chuckling against your skin while her hands move to gently grab your chest. 

Your nipples stand at attention, pleasure blooming as the sensations cut through the haze in your mind. The only things you feel are Wanda’s teeth and hands, the rest of your body feeling disconnected as desperation fills you. 

“You’re so hot,” Wanda drawls, looking up at you with glassy eyes. Jazz fills your mind as blood rushes through your ears, your heartbeat loud as it pounds furiously in your chest. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

Her hands are warm, smoke shifting lazily through the air when she moves. Your pants are pulled down, a groan clawing its way out of your chest when you finally spring free, your cock pulsing at the thought of stimulation. You shift your hips again, seeing the dark look in Wanda’s eyes as she licks her lips before kissing your tip. 

“Fuck.”

You barely have any time to think before Wanda’s tongue is circling your tip, the stimulation teasing while you try to fuck further into her mouth. Hands grip your hips, pinning you to the seat, your face flushed as your head spins. 

Wanda loves how pathetic you look. Your head is thrown back, your eyes glassy and your pupils blown. You’re whining slightly, the sound wrapping around her head and sending pleasure shooting through her body. She loves how your body looks when you arch your back, your muscles trembling from the effort of chasing your pleasure. 

She wants you, her mouth feeling empty all of a sudden. With one last breath, Wanda seals her lips around the tip of your cock and sucks. 

You let out a loud moan, your hips jerking at the sensation. Wanda wastes no time, one hand gently fondling your balls while she takes you further in her mouth inch by inch. Her tongue works the underside of your shaft, licking your balls once she finally has your whole length in her mouth. 

Choking slightly as your tip hits the back of her throat, Wanda bobs back up, her tongue relentless as she licks the sensitive spot just under your tip. She bobs her head, taking your whole length in her mouth again, her cheeks hollowing while she sucks, swallowing around your length as it buries itself in her throat. 

“Yeah baby, just like that. Sucking my fucking dick so good.” You moan, pleasure filling you. Every sensation is heightened, the sound of Wanda sucking your cock filling the car as smoke swirls around her. You feel her moan, the vibrations causing your balls to tighten for a moment while your tip throbs at the back of her throat. 

Spit coats your length, smearing on her chin and dribbling out while she bobs her head up and down, your orgasm approaching. It’s filthy, her hand glistening when she wraps it around the base of your cock, stroking you slowly while she sucks. 

“I’m gonna cum.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Wanda growls, releasing the tip of your cock with a popping sound, panting as she takes you in. Her hand works your length, moving quicker while her other hand tightens around your balls. 

You whimper. “Baby, please.”

“I’m not done with you yet.” Wanda releases your cock, your length throbbing and twitching as it slaps onto your stomach. You can feel the combined juices of your precum and her spit as it smears over your lower stomach, your dick twitching every so often while you watch Wanda fumble with the clasp of her jeans. 

“Let’s smoke another joint while you fuck yourself with my cock,” you say, the idea popping into your mind. You speak the words quickly, your thoughts quieting again before you forget what you’ve spoken. Wanda’s eyes light up, and she leans over to kiss you solidly before grabbing the baggie of weed from the floor. 

Wanda moves quickly, her pants discarded as she straddles your hips, teasing the tip of your cock. She doesn’t move yet, just lets her juices run down the length of your shaft, your tip slightly pressing into her eager heat. 

A rolling paper is set out on your stomach, your abs flexing while you try to remain still. Wanda is focused, grinding on your tip with a teasing smile on her lips while her fingers move quickly. She rolls the joint in record speed, and before you know it she’s lighting the end and sucking in a full breath while sinking down on your length. 

You’re in heaven. 

Smoke fills the air again, the haze swirling about as Wanda lets out a low moan. She doesn’t move for a few seconds, her pussy walls clenching around you as she closes her eyes. Leaning back, she grabs one of your knees to support herself while bringing the joint to her lips again.

Then, she starts to move. 

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, your cock throbbing hotly as she lifts her hips only to sink back down. She grinds on you as she does so, her clit hitting the base of your cock perfectly with each movement of her hips. You can feel her arousal as she fucks herself, her juices coating your cock as she easily takes your whole length. 

Heat and pleasure fill you, Wanda’s hands grabbing your shoulders as she changes positions, fucking herself harder. It’s addicting, the sound of her moaning in your ear and the burn of smoke when she places the lit joint between your lips. Her fingers dig into your muscles, her hips trembling as she chases her orgasm. 

You can’t help but fuck up into her, loving the sound of your hips meeting hers while you thrust roughly. Her breaths are ragged, a low moan sounding out when you breathe in smoke, exhaling around the joint as you hold it between your lips. 

Everything is fuzzy. You feel a burning need in your stomach, warmth spreading throughout your whole body. Wanda is everywhere, her hands tangled in your hair, her lips on your skin and her pussy gripping you like she needs you to survive. One of her hands reaches down to rub her clit, and you take one last drag of the joint before she grabs it between nimble fingers and breathes deeply. 

“Gonna cum, baby,” she mutters, blowing smoke directly into your face. 

You nod, moaning low as her movements become erratic. She reaches down, her eyes glinting as she forces the joint between your lips. It’s almost out, the lit end flickering dimly as you breathe in, feeling your skin start to tingle. 

“Cum inside me,” Wanda whispers, smiling darkly at you as your cock throbs violently inside her at the words, her hand hovering over your chest. The lit end of the joint is hot and close to your skin, your heart racing as you begin to understand what her next move is.

“Hurt me,” you moan, your voice pleading as you continue to thrust up into her. Her hand moves quickly over her clit, her walls squeezing you as she begins to fall over the edge. Your skin burns, the lit end of the joint extinguishing on your chest as Wanda grinds it into you, her pupils blown while she moans. 

Her orgasm seems to last forever, a whispered command for you to cum sending you over the edge as pain and pleasure mix together. Your whole body seizes, your balls tightening as Wanda’s walls grip your cock, your hot cum spurting inside her. You feel nothing but warmth and pleasure, the slight burn on your chest amplifying every sensation as your head spins, Wanda’s tongue soothing the mark while she drops the joint in the ashtray.

“Good job, pet,” she murmurs, moving her hips as she fucks herself slowly on your length. Your cum seeps out of her, dripping onto you and smearing on your stomach. Wanda trembles, slowing completely before finally stopping, your cock buried deep inside her. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, every muscle in your body relaxing as your orgasm fades. You can feel your cock twitching, her warm walls gently squeezing you and keeping you hard. Your hands are released, Wanda’s lips kissing your wrists where the seatbelt dug into your skin. 

“I love seeing you like this,” she mumbles. 

You nod, knowing exactly what she means. Wanda loves control, and you love giving it to her. She craves being in charge of your pleasure, and you find it incredibly arousing to give your choice in the matter up to her. 

Wanda moves slowly, putting another rolling paper on your slightly damp stomach, your chest heaving from your orgasm. You don’t say anything, enjoying her presence as she prepares another joint. The smell wraps around you, vanilla mixing in the air as the haze lazily swirls about, jazz playing softly as you feel your cock start to harden again with each subtle shift of Wanda’s hips. It’s obscene, the way your cum and her arousal drip out of her, coating your length. 

You can’t focus on anything, your head fuzzy and warm as you feel your high pleasantly fill your body. Wanda lights the joint, the smell of freshly burning weed adding to the layers of sensations already present in the car. 

“Let’s finish this,” Wanda smirks, sucking more smoke into her lungs before placing the joint between your slack lips. You obey, taking a long, deep breath as her eyes darken at your submission. “I want you nice and pliant for me before we go again.”

Well, you certainly weren’t going to complain about that.

---

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[sunschay]

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands.  Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low,  the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her -  intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

-

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda  -  it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows  -  and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window  -  because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second  -  two, maybe  -  before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed  -  and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought  -  at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words  -  it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl  -  except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike  -  fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable  -  or unwilling  -  to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan  -  long and breathless  -  as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you  -  only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask  -  what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest  -  but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

[sunschay]

The Devil Within || Natasha Romanoff

You thought you knew her, she enjoyed your presence, found comfort in your acid jokes at work and you even got on well. Until you simply disappeared for years. Natasha never stopped looking for you, she just didn't know that she'd find a bloodthirsty, impetuous killer in who she once thought was her friend.

Based on some of the events of Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Gender neutral Reader

Warnings: Gore, extreme violence, the reader is an enhanced super soldier controlled by Hydra, a bit angsty.

Word count: 1k

Roosevelt Bridge, Washington D.C. || 2014

The roaring sound of the car's engines begins; the heat outside makes your skin sweat and burn beneath your suit. The man beside you doesn't say a word, and he never does, so he remains silent. His hair is dark brown, unlike the shade of his blue eyes, and he uses the bionic metal arm with the red star on top to slam the vehicle to a stop. He says nothing, and gets out of the car, waits for you to do the same, and then grabs his weapon, watching as you approach the edge of the bridge.

You subtly raise your arm and extend your elbow behind your body, watching as an armored SHIELD SUV drives down the road, allowing you to see who is inside.

Sitwell, Jasper. Undercover. Passing on and on information he shouldn't have. His shiny bald head gleams in the sun, and you notice he's handcuffed, seemingly tense, his shoulders hunched. There are two other people in the SUV: a tall, strong blond man and a short, red-haired woman with bright green eyes. You don't bother to ask who they are.

Your finger presses the trigger and the projectile fires, hitting one of the SUV's front tires from a considerable distance. "GET OUT NOW!" a female voice shouts, and the car flips, skidding until it crashes into a concrete median. The shots ricochet off the asphalt as Natasha pulls Steve out.

A figure descends from the bridge. It lands with military precision, its dark suit reinforced with plates, Kevlar shoulder pads, and a metal mask covering half its face. On its right arm, an armored prosthetic with black carvings and faded symbols. A large, matte black mechanical arm stands out. Instead of the red star, there are black claw marks burned into the metal alloy—symbolizing the beast you've become. Small injectors along the forearm release microdoses of stabilizing drugs implanted by HYDRA. The mechanical arm itself is more disfigured, with exposed parts showing wiring, as if it had been constantly modified and patched. The HYDRA symbol is hidden inside the collar, embroidered — only visible if it is turned over.

The weaponry is basic but precise: two retractable blades at the wrists.

Automatic pistols integrated into the hips.

A small, retractable shield strapped to the back—black, circular, made with SHIELD technology, corrupted and modified by HYDRA.

It's the Forgotten Soldier.

Across the bridge, another figure leaps out, slightly shorter, but wearing the same dark, reinforced suit, a large rifle in his hands, and a mask covering his face. The same metal arm.

The Winter Soldier.

Steve feels a tension settle in his shoulders, though he doesn't know why, since he apparently doesn't know the man. Or so he believes. Natasha pulls him across the bridge, knowing full well what's about to happen.

She stands there, waiting for you to know exactly who she is. Not the Black Widow. Not the SHIELD agent, the assassin. Natasha Romanoff. The woman who conquered your nights before you disappeared completely into the shadows. She stands out in her black jacket and red hair sliding over her shoulders, and her green eyes shine with hope as they meet the black expanse of yours.

Without a word, you attack. Natasha tries to distract you, but you recognize her before the first punch.

“No, it can’t be you…” She whispers, swallowing hard.

You breathe, it's cold and slow, and your system captures her.

REGISTER NAME: Romanoff. THREAT LEVEL: Alpha.

On the other side, Steve fights the other soldier. He's impetuous, lightning-fast, and calculating, landing blow after blow even if he doesn't connect, barely letting Rogers breathe without a surprise punch. There's something about him that makes Steve freeze at times, and he knows perfectly well there's something wrong with it.

“Y/n.” She murmurs and takes two steps down. “Y/n Alder. Look at me. It’s Natasha… from SHIELD.”

You lunge with brutal force. She dodges, rolls, and the two of you engage in a fierce, brutal combat—quick strikes, kicks, elbows. Natasha tries to hit your vulnerable spots, but you're faster, more vicious. Natasha now knows what it's like to fear someone she once considered a friend. Someone who knew her every weakness in secret, in silence. But she knows you're there somewhere.

During the fight, she tries to touch you on the right side of your face, below the mask. You hesitate for a split second. She sees.

Natasha blocks a punch, “They erased you… but you knew me, Y/n. Mission to Latvia, 2009. You laughed. You felt.”

You push Natasha against a car. She groans in pain. You raise the mechanical arm to crush her.

“I remember what you said that night, when you thought you were going to die,” Natasha says, her eyes welling up. “If you're the one who closes my eyes, I'll be in complete and eternal peace.”

You freeze.

The metal arm trembles slightly in the air. Your breathing quickens. Something in your expression changes. A small twitch in the corner of your eye. A flash: the memory of her laughing in the rain, hands covered in blood, both of you lying on the concrete floor in Riga, 2009. A violent but simple mission, Fury summoned you. You ended up in the crossfire, two shots to the lower back, spilling blood into a huge puddle.

“Nat!” Steve’s voice echoes in the background, but she barely moves, unable to take her eyes off you.

Steve kicks the soldier and gets headbutted, staggering back. The man does a backflip and ends up knocking off his own mask, revealing his face. Rogers freezes. That dark hair, dull blue eyes, sparse beard and expressionless, glassy gaze. It's him. “Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The Winter Soldier asks before attacking him again.

Across from you, Natasha leans in, her fingertips brushing against your jaw. It's something that excites you, but also leaves you in a frenzied shock.

“Riga…” The whisper comes out of your mouth, inevitable, husky and low.

“You’re there. I know you are.” Natasha accuses, her lip half-split.

But a distant bang (an explosion on the bridge) wakes you up. Your programming returns. Your eyes go cold again.

You don't kill her.

You just push her hard against the car, temporarily incapacitating her—no serious injuries—and disappear into the smoke. Along with the Winter Soldier.

RIGA, LATVIA, EUROPE. || 2009

Your head turns toward the tanks approaching the area, noticing that the situation is under control as the terrorists are captured. "This is Agent Alder speaking. It appears the situation has been neutralized, Fury," you say through your device, feeling your forehead sweat and your blood run cold.

“Everyone on the ground now!” You hear the general shout and look down, noticing the blood pooling in your lower back, noticing two bullet holes. “And I think I've been hit.” You grunt, crawling behind a wrecked car.

“Alder? We're going to need backup, Fury!” Natasha's voice echoes from the other side and you turn your head, seeing her approach and then crouch down.

“Okay, what’s worse, hypothermia from the rain or bleeding to death without having had a last beer?” You ask, earning a serious look from her who just took off a piece of her own suit, pressing it on your wounds.

“You won’t die, not with me here. I promise that,” she says, and you laugh lightly. “You can’t promise that, Romanoff.”

"Reinforcements, Fury, Alder has been shot twice, bleeding could be fatal! I won't let you die!" She grabs you by the collar, looking at you more closely.

You lose yourself in her green eyes. It's intense, making you lose yourself in their green immensity. Natasha looks back at you, her lips almost brushing yours, and you laugh, smiling beyond the immense pain you feel. “If you're the one who closes my eyes, I'll be in eternal and complete peace.”

“That’ll have to wait. We still need one last beer,” she whispered, her eyes flicking between your lips, and stepped away as reinforcements arrived, helping you into the helicopter.

WASHINGTON D.C, PRESENT DAY.

Natasha moans softly in pain as she feels Steve help her clean the wounds on her shoulder, and she bites her lower lip, her eyes staring into a fixed point in the distance. She found you, just not in the way she wanted. And that, that definitely didn't feel like you. But it was you.

“Your thoughts are loud. Will you tell me what you’re thinking?” He asks, discarding the blood-and-alcohol-stained paper.

“And you will?” She asks back and he sighs in defeat.

"I thought I knew him. Bucky was a... friend of mine. The best friend I ever had. We did everything together, he defended me from the bad guys who made fun of my weight or my former physical weakness when we were younger. He simply disappeared after one last mission in the '40s. I thought he was dead," he said, and Natasha nodded.

“He's the Winter Soldier. The guy who shot me in Iran to try to kill the engineer I was with,” Natasha stated, then sighed. “He did it.”

“I still can’t believe he would do something like that. Bucky was my friend,” Steve whispers, wiping his hands and placing a bandage over Widow’s shoulder.

“I know. Y/n was too,” she says, then looks away, tense. “And they’re here, and they almost killed us.”

"There's a motive for all of this. We're going to undo this line of evil Hydra is creating. Sitwell's gone, we need to move on, see what Bucky and Y/n's next move is," he said, looking at her. "Nat?"

“What?” She hummed, her eyes welling up.

“Let’s get them back,” he said, smiling weakly, and she nodded. “We will.”

[sunschay]

my breastfeeding kink is going crazy with this singular picture

[sunschay]

Below the Belt (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Summary: You've been working with retired MMA fighter turned trainer Natasha Romanoff for months. When one errant punch leaves your mouth bleeding, things take an... interesting turn.

Words: 2667

Warnings: SMUT, mild, vv mild, violence because you're training for MMA. Language. More SMUT.

A/N: I love MMA fighting but know bare minimum about it so...

-X-

The gym stunk of sweat and adrenaline when the practice bell rang for the final time of the night. You could taste copper on your tongue, sharp and pointed as it slicked over the muscle and reddened your mouth guard. Your lip was split from a nasty elbow Natasha had cracked clean across your face in a brutal clinch drill. Not intentional, not really, but she didn’t apologize.

She never did.

The old lights above buzzed incessantly, casting everything in a dull golden glow that made your bruises seem deeper and your shadow longer across the mat. The place had been cleaned out earlier by Sam, who had closed up to give you two the floor. He was well aware of how intense your training sessions with Natasha could be.

Natasha stood across from you in the makeshift Octagon, chest rising and falling steadily as sweat dripped down her collarbone in rivulets to the neckline of her tank top. Her gloves hung loose at her sides, her brow raised as a ghost of a smirk tugged at her lips.

“You drop your guard again like that and I’m going to split more than just your lip next time,” she said pointedly, her voice low and rough from yelling drills over the last hour.

“I think you just enjoy making me bleed,” you chuckled, licking over the weeping wound as you smirked back.

Her eyes didn’t leave yours once, watching the droplet of crimson bubble up from the cut as you breathed through the familiar sting. It was controlled—unreadable—but charged as hell. The kind of stare that felt like she was peeling back layers of you that only she could see.

Stepping closer to you, she reached up and gripped your chin with her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes darted to your lip, lingering, before flickering back up to yours.

“Hold still,” she murmured, pulling the mouthguard from your teeth without asking and tossed it aside. Dropping her glove, she carefully wiped the blood from your mouth with the edge of her hand wrap, leaving a pink smear across the gauze—though if she noticed, it wasn’t apparent as her eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You’ve been slow all week. Something on your mind?” she asked quietly.

She was close now—too close. You could feel her breath on your jaw, could smell the clean sweat and citrus of her body spray. You could hear the steady pound of a heart in your ears but you didn’t know if it was hers or yours.

“You wanna keep playing like a big dog? You’ve got to stop freezing every time I get close,” she murmured, lips ghosting over your chin teasingly.

“I can’t help it,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly, mouth a mere inch from hers. “Every time you get close, I forget how to breathe.”

There was a beat of silence, only the heavy sound of her breathing mingling with yours, before—

“Fuck.”

Her lips collided with yours hard. No warning, no hesitation as her hands found your jaw, her tongue running along the split in your lip like it was her prize to claim. And as she sucked your bottom lip into her mouth for a moment, only to soothe it roughly with her tongue, you knew this wasn’t about training.

Not anymore.

Moaning into the harsh treatment, your fingers sunk into her locks as you dragged her closer. A quiet but guttural groan escaped the back of her throat, the noise burning away every ounce of composure either of you pretended to carry in that moment.

Her hands slid down from your jaw, bracing at your sides as she pushed you back—step by step—until your spine met the padded wall of the training cage, the metal rattling faintly behind you.

"You like the pain, huh?" she breathed against your lips, biting the edge of your bottom one, pointedly scraping over the split. Her voice was deeper now, soaked in something darker… need, frustration, maybe months of watching you move and not being able to touch. “Do you take the hits just to feel something? Or do you take them so you feel me touching you?”

She didn’t wait for a response as her mouth found your throat, tongue tracing along the prominent vein there before biting down; not enough to break skin but enough to bruise. To leave her mark on your skin as she sucked, branding you like it was her right.

Both hands bared now, she slid one under the hem of your tank top, fingers splayed out across your ribs as she finally let herself feel you. Feel what she’d been denying herself for so long. Mapping you like a territory she’d long studied but never dared to venture.

“You ever fuck someone on a mat?” she rasped in your ear, her nails digging into your skin.

Her thigh pressed up between your legs, pinning you there and grinding slow. Her breath hitched—just slightly—when she felt how hot you already were through your shorts, the thin material already clinging.

Her eyes searched yours, something vicious and wanting behind them. “Tell me to stop and I will… or you’re not leaving this octagon.”

Head falling back against the metal, a broken moan cracked from your throat. “Fuck, Natasha, please,” you panted, arching into her touch. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for months.”

Slotting your leg between her thighs, your hands fell to her hips for a moment, encouraging the filthiest fucking grind of your life as you felt the drenched fabric sliding along the line of your muscle. Her arousal was painting you through the damn shorts and it was the hottest fucking thing you’d ever experienced in your life.

Her mouth collided with yours again, this time messier, hotter, all tongue and teeth and bruised-lip hunger. She moaned into the kiss—shamelessly. Her fingers fisted in your tank as her hips rolled down over your thigh, chasing friction like she couldn’t help herself. It wasn't the kind of moment that let either of you pretend anymore.

This was obsession unleashed.

"You wanted me?” she gasped against your jaw, dragging her teeth along it before biting the underside, sharp enough to leave a mark. “You think I didn’t fucking notice?”

Her hands were everywhere—tugging your tank up and over your head with a growl, baring your chest to the gym’s low, golden light. She sucked in a breath, palms grazing your skin like it was something sacred.

“Jesus…”

She kissed down the center of your sternum, tongue flicking low, slow, teasing.

“I should’ve fucked you the night you broke Harper’s nose. You walked out of that ring with blood on your face and that smug little grin—” Her lips found your nipple, teeth sharp as she nipped. Sucked. Teased. “—and I knew.”

She rocked harder against your thigh, fingers sliding to your spine as her nails bit into your flesh like she needed more. More pressure. More you.

“Fucking take me already,” she rasped, the command breaking with need.

A noise that bordered on a growl escaped your throat as you carefully maneuvered her down, pinning her to the mat. Her breath left in a choked gasp as her back touched the soft padding, the thud echoing off the walls. Her eyes flew wide, chest heaving, but her eyes were dark.

Hungry and burning as she stared up at you.

Your hands were everywhere, yanking off her tank top before snagging into the top of her shorts as you threw them aside like they were the most offensive garments you’d ever had the displeasure of touching. Her hands gripped at the mat as your mouth traced her neck, then her collarbone, before descending on her chest like you were starving. Mouth closing around one nipple, she arched into your touch, her curses a string of Russian you couldn’t understand and didn’t care to in that moment. Her fingers tangled in your hair, grip so tight it burned against your scalp but it only served to steal a desperate, ragged moan from your throat.

She writhed beneath you, hips twitching every time your fingers skimmed the edge of her soaked panties, breath hitching with each teasing pass. The muscles in her abdomen clenched as your palms flattened against her waist, tracing every line carved by years of brutal training.

Her thighs parted instinctively when your hands dipped lower, panties clinging to soaked heat. She lifted her hips—submitting, no trace of control left in her posture—and gasped your name like it meant something dangerous.

“Fuck, don’t stop. Please…”

Trailing kisses down her torso, over her toned stomach, your tongue dipped into her naval as you worked down until your mouth was pressed against her aching pussy, only the thin barrier of her panties separating you from your prize as you tongued her swollen clit through the damn near sheer black lace.

Natasha’s hips jerked beneath you, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Her thighs clenched around your shoulders, trembling with the strain of holding back—of not bucking, not clawing at you like an animal. But she failed.

Gloriously.

“Fuck—” Her voice cracked, head thrashing against the mat as your mouth worked her through the lace. The dampness was obscene—her arousal soaking the fabric so thoroughly it stuck to her, molding to every twitch, every pulse of need beneath it.

And you didn’t give her relief.

You played with her.

Your lips moved slowly, deliberately, mouthing at her clit through the veil of her panties, tongue rolling in wet, lazy circles that made her whimper like she’d never been touched this way. Her hands clawed at the mat, then at your shoulders, nails dragging desperate lines down your back.

“Take them off,” she begged, her voice fraying at the edges, pride long gone. “Please, take them the fuck off—I need—” Her breath hitched again as you sucked against the fabric, drawing another strangled moan from her chest. “I need you.”

She arched, completely undone beneath you, every inch of her sculpted body twitching under your tongue. And still, she gave you that look: eyes dark, feral, the same fighter who taught you how to drop someone with one strike.

Only now she was spread beneath you, begging for mercy.

"Fuck, baby—" her voice dropped to a ragged whisper, lashes fluttering. "Rip ‘em. I don’t care. I just want you inside."

You almost tore the fabric from her body and the moment your mouth met her bare, aching clit, Natasha shattered.

A scream, raw and breathless tore from her throat as her back arched off the mat, muscles coiling like a live wire beneath you. Her thighs clamped around your head, heels digging into the mat for leverage, as if grounding herself against the sheer, searing pleasure flooding her body.

“Fucking—God—” she gasped, voice breaking entirely, hands flying to your hair with a brutal grip that threaded into the strands like she was drowning and you were the only thing giving her air.

Your tongue was relentless. Wet, hot flicks—sharp and fast—alternating with the slow drag of your mouth sealing over her clit, sucking, teasing, devouring her. She writhed beneath you, sweat slicking her skin as your name tumbled from her lips in staccato moans, each one more desperate than the last.

"You’re gonna make me come—" she choked, fingers tugging, hips grinding helplessly against your face. "I—I can’t—"

But she did, the sound of her moans almost bleeding into a scream.

The orgasm tore through her like a strike, legs convulsing, her cry cracking the air as she clung to you, thighs shaking, the muscles in her abdomen clenching so tight it made her breath stutter. But even in release, she was a fucking sight—glistening with sweat, mouth parted, hair wild across the mat. Her body quaked beneath you, fingers so tight in your hair that you wondered, briefly, if you’d come to find random strands of it on the mat later.

When her hips finally dropped, spent and twitching, she looked down at you with a dazed kind of awe. A crooked smile tugged at her lips, and her voice was hoarse. "Jesus fucking Christ... What are you?"

Her hands finally slid down, fingers curling beneath your chin to pull you up, her mouth already chasing yours again, desperate to taste what you’d stolen from her. Whatever this was—whatever it would become—you knew that you’d never be able to walk away from this beautiful, broken creature…

And you’d never want to.

You kissed her deeply, tongue gliding along hers languidly as your hand replaced where your mouth had just been, two fingers easing into her cunt as you swallowed her gasp. The noise that escaped her mouth was unholy as your fingers sank inside her—hot and dripping with every thrust. Her entire body jolted like you’d flipped a switch, hips bucking into every movement shamelessly.

“Fuck, god… yes…” she whimpered against your lips, her cries vibrating into your chest like a beacon. Her arms circled your shoulders, nails dragging down your back as she clung to you, thighs trembling as you curled your fingers just right.

She was soaked, your fingers sliding deep with a wet, obscene sound that only spurred her on. Every curl of them inside her made her moan louder, less controlled. You could feel her clenching already, her body raw and over-sensitive, still twitching from the orgasm you’d wrung out of her.

"Harder," she breathed, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking. "Fuck me harder, baby. I want to feel you for days."

And so you did—driving your fingers deeper, harder, your palm grinding into her clit as she cried out, nails digging into your shoulders with every ragged thrust. Her back bowed off the mat again, sweat dripping down the dip of her spine, breathless curses spilling out in Russian and English alike.

“Fuck—detka—I’m close again—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

Her legs wrapped around your waist, locking you there, holding you in her as her cunt clenched tight around your fingers, dripping onto the mat below. She was shaking violently, every muscle straining, every nerve lit with white-hot tension.

And then—

Her second orgasm ripped through her like an unending fire, body locking up with a ragged scream as she came all over your hand, thighs quivering, mouth open in a silent cry as her whole form spasmed beneath you.

You kissed her softly, coaxing out every last drop of the aftershocks before stilling your hand, though your fingers remained. Still but there.

Natasha melted into the kiss, her mouth slow and searching now, lips brushing yours with the tenderness of someone trying to memorize the shape of something they'd never let themselves believe they could have.

Her body trembled against you—raw and boneless, every inch of her still humming with ecstasy. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she clung tighter, fingers threading into the back of your neck like you were something precious.

And her eyes, when they opened, were nothing short of wrecked.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” she whispered, her voice cracked and thick with emotion. Her hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing just below your eye as she held you there, gaze locked. “You’re not supposed to feel like that.”

She shifted, just barely, pressing her forehead to yours.

“I’ve trained you for months,” she breathed. “Watched every inch of you move, bleed, win, lose… but this—” Her voice faltered, just slightly. “This wasn’t in the plan.”

Outside, the city murmured like it always did—distant sirens, the hum of streetlights, the echo of late-night traffic. But in that gym, on that mat, in the lull between want and aftermath, Natasha Romanoff held you like you were the only fucking thing left in the world that mattered.

[sunschay]

Wolf!Natasha nuzzles and snuggles with Y/N

Y/N: someone’s needy tonight

Natasha: you love it and you know it

Y/N: is this because of the new hybrids showing up at the sanctuary? Are you marking me with your pheromones again?

Natasha: you’re mine and I’m not sharing!

Y/N: yes baby

Y/N kisses her forehead…

Natasha’s tail wags happily…

[sunschay]

Bedtime || WandaNat

You couldn’t accept failure. “People die all the time” was the phrase that haunted you the most and you hated it deeply. So, to drown your own frustrations and pain, you drowned it all in drink, as always. Luckily, your friends were there to help you.

Pairing: WandaNat x GN! Reader.

Warnings: Abuse of alcohol, inappropriate language.

Word count: 3k

The lights flashed above your half-closed eyelids. Yellow, blue, red… orange, maybe? You couldn’t keep track of so many colors due to the alcohol consuming your veins, but it wasn’t like it was a big deal. People celebrated around you, drinking, smiling, laughing together while you didn't even know which bar this was. You had had a bad night, the mission you had been on earlier had left more dead than saved from a terrorist attack in Ohio. You hated it, this feeling deep inside you that you could have done something more for the world, but that once again, you had failed.

Your best way to try to forget everything was always drinking. The death of your parents, the discovery that you had been captured by Hydra to become some kind of enhanced robot.

All the things that affected you in some way turned into a simple American glass of rum, whiskey, vodka or any other drink nearby. It was an insatiable habit, as deep as an endless vicious circle in which you sank every time you got closer to the edge.

Having innocent blood on your hands made you sick. It made you even sicker to feel like you could have done more, to carry a guilt you could never completely shake.

When you were first recruited by the Avengers, something that only happened thanks to Steve Rogers and Wanda Maximoff, Cap always saw potential in you. Wanda sensed your sense of justice, your fickle fight to save lives and try to pull the world out of ruins that could crush you if you wanted to. You didn't save the people you loved from death, no matter how hard you tried, so the only thing left for you was to do something that would serve as knowledge for the world.

You also had your dark side, your fits of rage were almost uncontrollable in battle, but even so, it usually fueled you to do the best you could for people.

You saw that in Steve too. He was a moral, upright man who would do anything to make everything and everyone in harmony, at least for a while. As for Wanda… Wanda was a witch. That meant she could come and go from your mind whenever she wanted, she could feel all your emotions and feelings without even trying. She was fascinating, but mysterious, like you were in the beginning, and something about her drew you to her. You became friends, if that's the word, and she became familiar with your story.

“One more round please.” You asked the bartender absentmindedly, unable to even think about what the total bill would be.

You had been drinking for over an hour. This even surprised you because you should already be lying somewhere, unconscious on some dark and empty road.

“Y/n.” A male voice, firm and yet calm, approached from behind your bench.

You didn’t need to look up to recognize the blond hair parted slightly to the sides or the wall of muscle that was Steve. He pulled off the top of his mask and sat down next to you, his eyes roaming over you, down to the shards of glass stuck in your knuckles and the bruises on your long arms. He wasn’t surprised, you fought until your last breath, until failure, but he didn’t want you to kill yourself if it meant he could keep you safe.

“We could have done better.” You replied simply, grabbing the two glasses of drink and drinking one at a time, barely caring about the feeling of the alcohol cutting your throat.

“We did well, we did it well. Sometimes I really wanted to save everyone. Believe me, it’s true, but it’s not always possible, and there’s no reason to blame yourself if you went to your limit to make everything work out.” He replied, wanting you to put down the drink as soon as possible.

“But it didn’t work, did it? So many dead, so many homes destroyed. That reminds me of something, Rogers.” You whispered to him, watching his broad shoulders tense before he turned and grabbed his phone, texting someone. “What are you doing now?”

“The girls will take care of you from here. Alcohol won’t bring those people back.” He replied firmly, standing up and then leaving.

You rolled your eyes slowly, looking at the empty glasses and tried to get up, but ended up stumbling back down and falling back onto the stool. It was too many rounds to get out of there alone. The hours passed painfully, your vision blurred each time the alcohol consumed more of your blood and you felt your head spinning when the bartender approached.

“Would you like the bill, my friend?” He asked you and you just waved your hand, taking your wallet out of your pocket. “Just a minute, mate.”

The young man nodded and you started looking for some bills inside your wallet, pretending you weren't terrified by the various final numbers of the bill on the paper in front of you. Footsteps started approaching and you felt your wallet being stolen from your hands, a mixture of lavender, cinnamon, two different faint perfumes and a bit of gasoline invaded your senses, making you turn your head awkwardly.

“Here you go. Thank you.” A familiar, soft accent drifted behind you, and you saw someone handing the bills to the young bartender.

“We got you. Let’s go.” You felt two people pull you to your feet, resting your arms around their necks as you heard the bartender let out an awkward ‘thank you!’ in the distance.

You looked around drunkenly, finding a familiar face beside you. She was wearing a jacket, something like a tank top, also black. Pants. Boots. Her hair was different this time, maybe she cut it? You didn't know, but Natasha knew how much you blamed yourself, how inadequate you felt for not being able to solve everything all the time. Natasha was holding you firmly against her shoulder, trying to support you there, although the difference in strength and size was clear. Her greenish eyes looked back at you, apparently serious and filled with concern, and you only looked away when you felt Wanda calmly push you into a car. Wanda was wearing a wine-colored jacket and a very dark blue blouse underneath, her boots were very high. Her eyes were surrounded by some dark glow, you couldn't describe it due to the level of alcohol trying at all costs to steal your reasoning. Natasha and you were similar, in terms of your distant and mostly insensitive personality, and in your constant ability to last hours in a fight against each other.

Natasha however, was not like Wanda, she didn't know how to mask her blatant interest in you. The way she looked at you, how she was always somehow close to you, the way she always wanted to know where you were, when, where, with whom.

She always made the excuse that you were all a team, even then. And she always acted the same way with Wanda. Which seemed like an alibi to her.

“Fasten your seatbelt.” You heard Wanda say, sitting next to you as Natasha began to drive the vehicle.

“Next stop… strip club then?” You smiled wildly, fingers struggling with your seatbelt.

“Next stop… Compound. So, bed, it’s time for you to sleep, Y/n.” Natasha rolled her eyes, staring in the rearview mirror as Wanda helped you with your seatbelt.

“Wow, I’m a kid again and now I’m going to be put to bed to sleep. What else is missing, my pacifier?” You pouted, earning an inevitable smile from Wanda and then a serious look.

“Maybe a few spankings?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her focus on the road ahead.

“Wow, do you think I can’t take a beating? I think you better not trust that woman, Wands, she could kill us right now.” You whispered in Wanda’s ear who rolled her eyes and looked out the window.

“She’ll definitely throw you out of this moving car if you keep pissing her off, that’s all I have to say.” Maximoff shrugged and you shivered as you felt Natasha accelerate the car hard.

With that in mind, you kept your mouth shut the rest of the way to the Compound. Natasha looked at you a few (several) times in the rearview mirror, it was as if she wanted to make sure that you weren't going to do something stupid or throw up in her car. Meanwhile, Wanda removed the tiny strands of hair that were sticking to your sweaty forehead so that they wouldn't obstruct your vision or bother you, and she did seem tender and calm. You wondered why Steve hadn't done it himself, it must have been because maybe (very obviously) he knew that keeping you alone with the two most attractive women on earth made you uneasy and intimidated.

“Let’s go.” Natasha stopped the car, parking it quickly and got out of the car, opening the door towards where you and Wanda were.

“I can walk, right?” You smiled smugly, seeing Natasha make a scolding expression.

One of your feet was thrown out of the car and you stepped onto the damp ground, taking a few steps before falling face down on the ground. Yeah, you definitely couldn't walk on your own. A breathless groan left your mouth and you wiped the dirt and grass off your forehead, feeling Wanda's arms help you up.

“Imagine, you’re always so independent even when you’re drunk.” Natasha yawned behind you, grabbing your arm.

“You know I do, dear.” You laughed weakly, walking with the support of the two to the entrance of the Compound and passed through the gate, noticing the silent and very deserted first floor.

“If they throw up in the living room I just cleaned, consider their lives doomed.” Tony rolled his eyes as you walked in with Natasha and Wanda, and you fell back into an armchair.

“Someone needs to help them take a shower.” Natasha crossed her arms with a sigh, the idea making her mentally blush.

“You guys better not drag me into this.” Clint rolled his eyes, jumping up onto the couch and Tony nodded. “Yeah, I don’t want to be part of that terrifying scene either.”

“Girls, I appreciate you being cooperative. Just don’t let them go around naked, we’re all wide awake.” Steve said, even getting a chuckle from Vision.

“Great, we’ve become babysitters for a fully functioning, grown adult.” Wanda sighed, biting her lower lip.

“No one will see me naked. Forget it.” You grunted, awkwardly getting up from the couch and running with as much enhanced speed as you had to the other hallway, but fell and hit a wall.

“This looks more like a murder scene.” Natasha huffed, pulling you into the first bathroom she found with Wanda and then locking the door.

“I think you better not leave me naked.” You grumbled, your heavy, stuttering voice filling the bathroom as Wanda sat you down on a random bench.

“You should thank us, if it were up to others to bathe you, they would hang you upside down and dunk you in the water.” Natasha grumbled, pulling your shirt up.

“But you guys are so adorable, wow.” You replied, watching her throw your shirt somewhere and you blushed slightly.

This was really happening. You were going to get naked in front of your two friends, if you could call it that. They were going to give you a bath without even having any other kind of intimacy with you beforehand. I mean, that was already pretty... advanced. But you were drunk and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and you should trust them, right?

“I… I think I need a bucket.” You coughed, covering your mouth with your hand and Natasha pulled away, grabbing the first thing that resembled a bucket, an abandoned pot under the sink. She threw some cleaning supplies out of it, leaving it free for you.

You grabbed the object and started to vomit, feeling your stomach violently expel what you had eaten in a whole day from the drink of the last few hours. Wanda covered her mouth and nose with one hand, but pressed your hair away from your face, carefully so that you wouldn't get any more dirty. Your stomach didn't stop until it was completely clear, and you gasped, your head falling back against the cold wall.

“I think you understand now that there are no benefits to getting so drunk on alcohol.” She whispered, carefully watching you as you let it all out.

“Forgetting is a benefit. Forgetting everything.” You mumbled, pressing your head against the cold wall and pushing the pot away, watching Natasha pick it up and start washing all that stinky dirt away.

“No more wasted conversation.” Natasha approached you, turned on the cold water under your head and brought her hands to your pants, bending down to remove the fabric along with all the rest of your clothes.

You moved your irises until you found Natasha's, who after undressing you completely, couldn't stop her eyes from being taken over by dark, dilated pupils. She knew you were looking, but she couldn't help but notice every detail of your body, every tiny scar, every bruise. And now you were naked in front of her and Wanda. She felt enchanted, as Wanda probably did. The greenish irises were mesmerized, astonished by such a wealth of perfect details, by the sculpture of your body. Wanda swallowed dryly, feigning naturalness as she gently rubbed a sponge with soft foam on your aching and bruised shoulders.

“If I hurt you, you can let me know.” Wanda said, breaking the slight silence that had formed and you barely moved your lips, allowing her to continue.

Natasha remained hidden in her silence, watching as Wanda removed the dirt and dust from her body, rubbing as carefully as possible on some bruises and cuts caused by today's mission. You kept your eyes on Natasha, you knew she was restless, thoughtful perhaps. But you also felt her gaze on you, on your face, your eyes, your collarbone, the bones of your shoulders, on every possible detail of your body. Yes, Natasha Romanoff really didn't know how to be discreet. You wondered what would happen if it were just her and you there, with the exception of Wanda.

“Let me get that bitter taste out of your mouth.” She whispered, grabbing a toothbrush with some toothpaste on it and leaning down close to your face.

You parted your lips slightly, feeling her brush your teeth carefully, so slowly that it could make you forget that you were naked in between them. Natasha leaned down a little more, and you tried not to look down but it was too late, you could tell that she was wearing a tank top without a bra. Suddenly, the drink had already fixed your vision suddenly. You were a pervert. But so was she. Fair enough.

“Wash your mouth out.” She instructed you, walking away with the toothbrush and you filled your mouth with water, yawning before spitting it all out.

“You’re quite an obedient baby, aren’t you?” Wanda teased, gently tugging your ear and you rolled your eyes.

“Sometimes, apparently, they are. Can you grab a towel and some clothes?” Natasha asked, turning off the shower and sighing when she saw that her shirt was wet. “Sure.”

“And my hair that you wet, young lady. Are you forgetting that?” You joked, seeing the ironic smile appear on Natasha’s lips, who calmly approached you again.

Natasha turned on the shower again, grabbing a bottle of shampoo and dispersing it on her fingers. She entered her fingers into your scalp, starting to wash slowly, trying to ignore that she was literally between your legs, so close that she could feel your now cool breath near her neck. The foam spread all over your hair and you brushed your hand against some of it, passing it on her nose.

“Goofy. You find this funny, huh?” She shook her head, lifting her hand and running it over your cheek, smearing foam on you. “I find this funny? I think you’re confusing me.”

Natasha frowned and shook her head, pulling yours forward slightly to remove all the excess shampoo. Her fingers were soothing, as peaceful as walking on clouds. And she didn't take her eyes off you. She opened another bottle and spread something on her fingers, then ruffled it through your hair and you felt the soft, cool texture, it was cozy. Natasha leaned in close, her nails scraping over the back of your neck as her breath covered yours, your faces closer than ever.

You didn't move an inch to get away from her, you couldn't even think straight. The mixture of alcohol floating in your blood and the confusion of events left you in an abyss of doubts. But you didn't need to reason or think too much now, not even Natasha. She brushed her lips over yours, a sure hand resting firmly on the back of your neck and the touch of her lips were like igniting a sensation you had never felt before.

“Towels, clothes. I don’t think anything’s missing. Or is it?” Wanda absently walked through the bathroom door once more, causing Natasha to pull away from you and subtly rub her fingers through your hair, removing the cream as calmly as possible.

“No Wanda, I appreciate it. That should be enough.” Natasha replied with a smile, as convincing as possible.

You both hoped that Wanda hadn't seen anything, but by heavens, she was the Scarlet Witch. That was enough to know that, if she hadn't noticed what you and Natasha were doing, she could tell by the rapid heartbeats of both of you, the goosebumps on your skin in contrast, waiting for another touch. Wanda was smarter than that to know that it was impossible for someone to fool her like that, but she would pretend to be stupid just to see how much you two would fall for it.

Natasha was, however, frustrated. She didn't want to be interrupted, of course not. If it hadn't happened, she would be all over you, kissing you like never before because an opportunity like this doesn't come so easily to her.

“You’ll sleep with us tonight, just in case something happens and you’re out of our reach-” Wanda shrugged her shoulders as Natasha rubbed the towel on your head slowly, trying to dry your wet hair.

You didn't even know they slept together until now. Or maybe you were just too drunk and tipsy to remember that detail.

“You guys are great babysitters, but I can take care of myself. Thank you.” You blew a kiss in the air.

You fixed the towel on top of your hair, forgetting to get another towel from Wanda and walked out of the bathroom. Completely naked, without clothes, with nothing to cover yourself! You whistled along the way, feeling a little better now that you had expelled more than ninety percent of the alcohol from your body, but still with a heavy head and blurred vision, and then you were pulled at the end of the hallway, grumbling when you felt a firm hand on your ear.

“I said I was fine, Grandma.” You grumbled as Natasha dragged you to the room she shared with Wanda, covering you as much as possible before anyone in the group saw you naked around the compound.

“If you call me grandma again I’ll make you swallow this towel.” She whispered and you laughed lightly, rubbing the towel. “Wow, Nat, you’re kind of a brute.”

“Y/n, please get dressed, it’s late at night and we can’t wake up the others anymore.” Wanda asked, leaving a change of clothes next to the bed.

“Okay.” You sighed, rubbing the towel over the rest of your body.

Natasha and Wanda exchanged a quick, brief glance. They understood each other, but they couldn't do anything about it, not when you were still half drunk and fragile. They could feel the heat emanating from your body, they couldn't even stop admiring the way you leaned forward and how your body only stood out more with a bunch of bruises covering it, the way you looked great even after having vomited probably half a bottle of pure alcohol. You were magnificent, mesmerizing, extremely fascinating and neither Wanda nor Natasha would dare to deny that.

Their skins burned for something, even anything, a touch, a slightest glance, a kiss. Natasha didn't feel perverted or anything like that, because she had the right to look and admire every part of your body like Wanda, looking wasn't wrong, was it? But she had to admit that the fact that she was on fire, restless, needy and with her breathing irregular was solely due to you and your natural effect of making her that way. Wanda felt the same way, with her hands restless, trembling, her teeth biting her lips every second, her body sensitive to the air environment (and to you being there for the first time), everything made her intimidated if it was about you.

“Okay. What’s up now?” You asked, finally dressed from head to toe, which you both mentally thanked for keeping so many dirty thoughts at bay at the same time.

“You can lie between us.” Wanda said the first thing that came to mind, quickly joining her bed with Natasha’s with her powers and Romanoff thanked her silently.

“Don’t think we’re stupid, the door is locked. So lie down and go to sleep.” Natasha said, glancing at the bed before entering her closet.

“Was she always this bossy?” You huffed, throwing yourself onto one of the beds and felt Wanda gently cover you with the blankets.

“Only when she’s right. Bedtime, Y/n. Sweet dreams.” Maximoff smiled and leaned down, giving you a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. And then she kissed you right on the lips. Which left you blushing and speechless.

“Good evening.” Natasha reappeared, a wine-colored blouse covering her, probably because the other one was damp.

You looked to both sides, seeing that you were still lying in between them. Natasha leaned over, turning off the lamp and leaving the room in deep darkness, and you sighed, feeling her head rest on your shoulder for a moment. Great, you were lying with your two friends. Wait, friends lie together in the same bed after kissing?

[sunschay]

This puppy ​​expression on Bucky's face is my 13th reason

[sunschay]

when they serve bisexual realness

[sunschay]

Cool Off

Natasha Romanoff x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: A hot-headed, cocky pyrokinetic Avenger struggles to control their powers—and the growing tension with Natasha Romanoff.

You weren’t born a hero. Hell, you’re still not sure you want to be one. But somewhere between the burning buildings and the broken bones, you became something they couldn’t ignore.

Your powers showed up early—violent, untamed, and triggered by rage. One minute you were a kid being cornered by people who thought they could hurt you, the next you were standing in the middle of an inferno, untouched, heart pounding, hands still glowing. You didn’t cry. You didn’t apologize. You liked the power.

As you grew, so did the fire. So did the attitude. You learned to own it—your temper, your heat, the way flames lick at your skin like they know you. People called you dangerous, reckless, impulsive. You called it survival. Eventually, you stopped flinching when they whispered “monster.” You started smirking instead.

Now you’re the walking wildfire of the team—hot-headed, loud-mouthed, and impossible to ignore. You talk big because you can back it up. No one wants to spar with you in the training room. You’ve melted more than one combat dummy and set off multiple fire alarms just breathing too hard.

And yeah, you’re cocky. Arrogant, even. But beneath the fire and the biting sarcasm, there’s something else. A need to protect. A need to matter. You’ll never admit it out loud, but these people—this dysfunctional team of weirdos and warriors—they’re the closest thing you’ve ever had to a family.

You’d burn the world down for them.

All they had to do was light the match.

Being part of the Avengers means being part of a dysfunctional family—emphasis on dysfunction. You’re the chaos in the calm, the match everyone forgot was lit until the whole room’s up in smoke. The team keeps calling you a “loose cannon”, which is ironic considering you’re also the one they call when things go really sideways.

You get on everyone’s nerves, but they’d be lying if they said they didn’t love you.

Steve tries to keep you in check. Keyword: tries. He’s constantly telling you to “watch your temper” or “think before you act,” and you just grin and ask if he wants you to knit a sweater and write in cursive next. He lectures, you roast him, but there’s a weird father-figure comfort in the way he never gives up on you—even when you’re blowing holes through the training room walls.

Sam? He’s your sparring partner and your verbal sparring partner. The two of you bicker like siblings on a long car ride. You steal his food, call him Birdbrain, and he threatens to throw you off the Quinjet every time. But if anyone outside the team ever looked at you the wrong way, Sam would be the first to step between you and danger

Clint is your partner-in-crime. You once dared him to shoot an arrow through a flaming hoop you made mid-air. He did it. You high-fived. Nat screamed. It was a great day.

Bruce is wary of you. Understandably. He says you “remind him of a bad day.” But he respects your strength and sometimes lets you hang around when he’s working in the lab. You don’t push him, and in return, he gives you space when the fire under your skin starts burning too hot.

Wanda gets it. She sees the fire in your head as well as the one in your fists. You two share a quiet understanding beneath all the sarcasm. She’s the one who talks you down when your temper edges toward dangerous. You never admit it out loud, but sometimes when the nightmares come, it’s her voice that helps you breathe.

Tony loves the fire. It’s entertaining to him, he can’t comprehend how dangerous it is to fuel. Always matching your sarcastic remarks or commenting on the guests that leave your room. Sometimes you think he lives to see you react—burn.

And then there’s Natasha.

Your dynamic with Natasha is… complicated.

From day one, the two of you clashed. She’s ice; you’re fire. She’s calculated; you’re impulsive. She walks into a room and sizes it up like a chessboard. You? You kick the door open and set the board on fire just to see how the pieces scatter.

She says you’re a headache. You call her uptight. She rolls her eyes when you flirt, and you flirt harder. It’s almost a game now—this push and pull, this unspoken dare between you.

You call her Natty, just to get under her skin. You wink at her in briefings, lean too close when you’re teasing, whisper “You love me, admit it,” like it’s a joke. She scoffs, mutters something sharp, and walks away before anyone sees the corner of her mouth twitching up.

But beneath her cold exterior and your loud bravado, there’s something simmering—something that neither of you touches directly. You feel it when her eyes linger too long after a mission, when she patches you up in silence and her fingers hover just a second longer than they need to. You feel it in the rare moments she lets you see behind her walls, and it terrifies you more than any fire ever could.

She gets on your nerves. You get under her skin. And yet, when everything’s falling apart, she’s the one you find standing beside you—silent, steady, and always watching your back.

Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s danger. Maybe it’s both.

But whatever it is, it burns.

———

You weren’t exactly recruited—you were contained.

After your powers triggered a four-alarm inferno in downtown Berlin during a run-in with a mercenary crew, SHIELD made a call. Fury showed up, grim as ever, and gave you two options: be a weapon for someone else, or learn how to control your fire with people who won’t flinch when you burn.

You chose the Avengers.

It’s been six months. Six long months of testing your limits, pissing off Rogers, burning through reinforced training mats, and learning that your powers don’t just react to anger—they thrive in it.

And Tony? God, Tony’s made it his life mission to poke the metaphorical bear.

———

You’re in the hangar, fresh out of a debrief that felt more like a public execution. Tony wouldn’t shut up about the “scorch marks” you left on the Quinjet floor, and Fury went off about “restraint, discipline, collateral damage, Wildfire, damn it!”

Your fists are clenched. Smoke rises off your skin in thin wisps, heat radiating off you in thick waves. The air itself wavers around you.

Everyone else had the sense to leave, but Natasha?

She leans against a crate a few feet away, arms crossed, like she’s watching a particularly unimpressive fireworks display.

“You done throwing your tantrum?” she asks, arching a brow.

You whip around. “Back off, Romanoff.”

“Original,” she mutters. “You burn a hole in the floor again and Fury’s going to tan your ass.”

“I said back off,” you growl, eyes flickering orange. The fire is crawling up your arms now, licking your shoulders. You’re shaking. The control you’ve spent months building is crumbling fast.

Natasha doesn’t move.

“Breathe,” she says, quietly now. “Unless you want to turn this place into a kiln.”

“Don’t pretend you care,” you snap, voice cracked with heat. “You’re just waiting for me to slip up so you can say I told you so.”

“Oh yeah,” she says dryly, pushing off the crate and walking toward you, unbothered by the scorched floor or the way your body temperature is climbing. “I live for watching your emotional meltdowns. Better than Netflix.”

You laugh once, sharp and bitter. “God, you’re such a—”

But then she’s closer. Her voice drops, no longer playful, but not unkind either.

“Look. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re about to come apart. To be the weapon everyone expects to misfire.”

Her eyes search yours—calm, sharp, unsettlingly gentle.

“You don’t have to prove anything. Not to Stark. Not to Fury. And sure as hell not to me.”

Your breath hitches. The fire falters, sputters, confused. You blink and realize you’ve been trembling. Not with rage. With fear.

You don’t even notice your knees give out until she catches you.

Not gently, but not coldly either—just… present. Strong. Real. Her arms steady you, her touch cooler than your skin, grounding like ice on a burn.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, your voice cracking.

“No, you’re boiling over.” She smirks faintly. “Shocking, I know.”

You snort, half-laughing through a breathless exhale. “You really know how to comfort someone.”

“It’s a talent,” she says. “Now come on. Let’s get you cooled off before you burn off your eyebrows again.”

You look at her—really look. And in her expression, under the teasing and the sarcasm, there’s something soft. Something vulnerable. Something that mirrors the mess inside you.

You’ve always flirted with her, joked and prodded and pushed—but this is the first time it feels dangerously real

And maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one who’s afraid of what happens if that fire ever turns inward—if the two of you stop fighting it.

You’re still shaking, the fire inside you reduced to embers that stubbornly cling to your skin like static. Natasha doesn’t say much as she guides you through the compound—hand on your arm, firm and warm, a silent anchor.

You expect her to take you to medical, or maybe one of the training rooms. But instead, she wordlessly leads you down the hall toward the Avengers’ private lap pool, tucked away behind reinforced glass and sterile white tile.

She flicks the lights on. They hum softly as the water glows a cool, blue-green.

“Strip,” she says, already kicking off her boots.

You blink. “Wow. Should’ve lost control sooner.”

She glares. “Don’t flatter yourself, Wildfire. You’re a human flamethrower and you need to cool off.”

Still, there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth—half-smirk, half-internal war. You mutter something about bossy redheads and peel off your shirt. Your skin’s flushed, your chest still rising too fast. The moment your feet touch the water, your body sighs—like the fire inside you exhales all at once.

Natasha doesn’t cannonball or dive. Of course not. She slips into the water like it’s part of her, all grace and calculated movements. She ends up floating beside you, eyes half-lidded, arms spread over the surface like she’s waiting for the silence to say what neither of you has.

“So,” she finally says, voice softer than you expect, “you wanna tell me what that was about?”

You shrug, eyes trained on the pool tiles. “Tony pushed. Fury barked. I snapped. What else is new?”

“That’s not all of it.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’ve spent most of my life being afraid of what I am. People flinch when they look at me. I get too angry and I become this… thing.” You swallow. “And part of me likes it. The heat, the power. It scares me, and I think it scares them too. I’m not like you, Nat. I can’t hide what I am.”

She watches you for a long moment before speaking.

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to be turned into something you didn’t ask to be?” Her voice is low. “I spent years being shaped into a weapon. Made to bury who I was. Smile when ordered. Kill when told.”

You turn your head, meet her eyes. She’s close now—close enough to feel the ripple of her breath across the water.

“I see the way you fight it,” she continues. “The way you laugh and push people away before they can do it first. It’s not just heat you’re holding back.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet. But something softens in you.

“I didn’t think you noticed,” you finally say.

Natasha tilts her head. “I notice everything.”

You chuckle under your breath. “Of course you do.”

There’s a long pause. The water moves between you in gentle waves.

Then you say it, quieter than anything you’ve said during your time with the team.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

She blinks. That cool composure falters for half a second—cracked, not shattered. She glances away like the admission struck something unguarded in her.

“That’s dangerous talk,” she says, voice a little too even. “Especially from someone who lights up like a damn matchstick.”

You smirk. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

Silence again. This time, heavier. More charged.

She shifts closer, and now you’re inches apart—warmth meeting warmth, though the pool should be cooling you both. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just once, before she glances away, guarded again.

“You don’t scare me,” she murmurs.

You blink. “Why not?”

She looks at you, expression unreadable. “Because I’ve danced with fire before.”

Your breath hitches. But neither of you leans in. Not yet.

Instead, you float there in the quiet tension—words unspoken, feelings barely contained—letting the water carry what the fire left behind.

For once, you don’t feel like you’re about to burn the world down.

You just feel seen. The silence between you stretches on, taut and electric.

She’s still watching you from beneath those long lashes, eyes dark in the soft shimmer of the pool lights. That unreadable expression—cool, controlled, calculating—is starting to crack. You see it in the way her fingers twitch in the water, in how her mouth parts like she wants to say something but won’t.

You move first.

Not because you’re bold—but because you’re done pretending.

Your hand brushes her arm under the water. Testing. She doesn’t move.

Then you shift closer, and your voice is nothing but a whisper:

“Say something, Romanoff.”

She meets your eyes. Her voice is low, rough. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I say what I want to say…” Her pupils flare with something raw. “I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You inhale sharply. “Then don’t stop.”

And just like that, the match ignites.

She surges forward, closing the space between you with a force you don’t expect—but crave. Her hand grips the back of your neck, the other splashing up water as it finds your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. And then—

She kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s not hesitant.

It’s devastating.

Mouths colliding in a desperate tangle of months of tension and biting sarcasm and flirtation that meant too much. Her lips are hot against yours, her body pressed to yours like she’s trying to erase the space that ever existed between you.

You groan into her mouth, hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against you in the water. She lets you. She wants it. You can feel the shiver roll through her as your fingers splay across the small of her back.

Her legs wrap around you before you even register it, and the heat between you has nothing to do with your powers now. Your heart is pounding. You feel like you’re burning alive again, but this time it’s not dangerous—it’s hers.

When she finally pulls back, your foreheads rest together, breath ragged, water rippling wildly around you both.

You whisper, “So, uh… that was…”

“Shut up,” she breathes, lips brushing yours again.

And then she kisses you again—slower this time, but no less intense. A confession written in the way she leans into you. A vow hidden in the way her thumb traces your cheek under the water.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like a weapon.

You just feel wanted.

And when she finally whispers your name against your lips like it’s a secret—barely audible, almost reverent—you realize you’re already undone.

[sunschay]

I Want You To Stay

Summary:   A game of truth or dare at one of Tonys parties finally has Y/n and Natasha falling into bed together, but is it in the way they both want? 

Warnings: Reader has a penis, jealousy, sexual content(lapdance, oral, vaginal sex) 

Word count:  6326                Nat Masterlist    Marvel Masterlist

You’d been to plenty of Tonys parties already but this was one of the few times where it was just the team and not some sort of gala or fundraising event. It was so much much more laidback and fun. Though you did have to admit you missed not being able to see Natasha in a dress.

She still looked great tonight, her tight jeans hugged her curves just right as her black leather jacket covered her top half. Her fiery hair was in a neat braid and you wanted to know what it would be like to undo it and run your fingers through her hair.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by Bucky as he takes a seat next to you and hands you a drink. “Thanks”

“No problem. So…” he says, taking a swig of his beer, “When are you going to talk to her?”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at him, “Talk to who?”

“Nat” he simply states

“I talk to Nat all the time.” you offer, causing him to roll his eyes

Continuar lendo

[sunschay]

An Unwanted Guest || Natasha Romanoff x Male Reader

You return home after two years serving in the American army, having been forced by your father to enlist. But you didn't expect to have another stepmother in such a short space of time.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: Inappropriate language, swearing, sexual tension, age gap (Reader is 21, Nat is 42, she's a milf ugh), Bruce is a terrible and disrespectful husband. *

Also, this is not fully proofread yet, so it may contain some minor spelling errors.*

Word count: 10k

You wake up to the sound of banging pots and pans and a loud bell ringing in the back of the dormitory. It must be about five in the morning, but that's the time everyone here is obliged to wake up anyway, as early as possible. Sleep isn't important, but your work and your duties? Without a shadow of a doubt. You hear the recruits getting up from their bunks and putting on their uniforms, berets, boots and belts before retiring to the mess hall. You get dressed as well, brush your teeth and splash cold water on your face and almost jump with fright when you turn around and see a man standing in front of you.

“Private Banner. There's new mail for you at the post office outside the base.” Sam Wilson says, almost like a robot, the dark circles around his eyes giving away his bad sleep during the night.

“Thanks, Wilson.” You press your lips together and nod, retreating to the cafeteria.

It's an ordinary cafeteria, at least 30 to 40 square meters, with 25 tables and chairs scattered around. The canteen is a rather small kitchen that houses large pots and pans, two built-in stoves with four burners each and a huge fridge taking up almost half the space. The soldiers form a queue with trays everywhere to eat.

“Combatant Banner, how's your day going? There are three letters and correspondence from Mr. Banner waiting for you.” Your most familiar and talkative friend, Steven Rogers, greets you with the same smile as every day.

“Hey mate! Thanks for that, really. How's your day going?” You reply and give him a brief hug. “Good so far, no women around unfortunately.”

Steve is a good man, he's also an excellent and extremely competent soldier, unfortunately life (in this case, the top lieutenants) has placed him as a letter carrier indefinitely supposedly because Rogers doesn't reach the level of skill and strength as other recruits. But he's still a nice guy with his straight-edged blond hair, his friendly smile, his blue eyes and his pumped-up muscles.

“Thanks for this, Steve. I bet my old man is just asking me how things are going. He should know by now that I'm coming home tomorrow.” You snort and pick up the thick envelopes, seeing that the other letters are from your 13-year-old brother, Derek.

It was probably one of his drawings that he's always sent you since you joined the army.

“I hear you've got a new hot stepmother- I say, I hear you've got a new stepmother, comrade. You know, Derek tells me everything. I love that kid.” He gives you a nervous wink and you choke on air.

“Stepmother!? Wait, bloody hell! That's the fourth woman my old man's taken in two whole years.” You shake your head in disbelief.

“Come on, Y/n. He's single and still a bit young, a man should celebrate his freedom as he sees fit. But sometimes, with a new woman comes new problems.” Steve laughs lightly, finding your nervous expression amusing.

“The thing is, he's been having fun with several women for a long time, Steve, and he always gets into trouble with all of them because he doesn't know how to deal with break-ups. I bet she's a bitter old woman with a bunch of kids. Thanks, man, I'll have to accept another little woman wanting to boss me around anyway. See you in the cafeteria.” You roll your eyes and say goodbye to Steve with a high five.

After picking up the tray, you sit down and start opening the cards, barely touching the food in front of you. As soon as you finish opening the first letter, a long sigh leaves your lips before you start reading.

"Hey, my firstborn, how are things going over there? If I remember correctly, you're just finishing your service and will be going home soon. Derek misses you, I helped him send you his many drawings of dinosaurs and of you painted next to him in a soldier's uniform. He can't stop talking about you. I've also heard that you're as strong as a big Nutcracker doll. That's my boy. On the other hand, I imagine that Rogers has already told you everything. Son, yes, I'm in a relationship with another woman. Natasha is the most incredible and fascinating woman I've ever seen, and it's the best thing that could have happened in my life, I think you'll like her. We can't wait to see you, firstborn, come home soon."

Running your hands through your hair, you let out a heavy, tired sigh, taking a few bites of the not-so-juicy apple on the tray and looking at the mashed potatoes mixed into a soup with a strange texture. The food isn't always the best, but there's nothing to complain about, at least you have something to eat.

“I told you, new stepmother, new problems.” Rogers giggles as he enters the cafeteria and then laughs when he sees your frown.

“At least I hope this one doesn't try to burn our house down.” You say with a frustrated half-smile, eating with some effort.

“Relax, she must be a good woman.” Steve places the tray on the table, looking away for a moment.

You continue eating and frown when you see that he's practically drooling, staring in the opposite direction. Your head turns slowly and you see Second Lieutenant Stark and Agent Carter enter the cafeteria, walking together as they talk. She's pretty, with short brown hair, light eyes, a light button on her lips and a military uniform, wearing high boots. Agent Carter is actually the first General of the United States Women's Army, so basically, she's a well-known woman around here and sometimes makes a visit to the men's military base to do "research", evaluations and things like that.

“I'm going to have to get a bigger bucket if you keep drooling over her like this.” You smile, feeling Steve throw a stuffed potato at you.

“Ew, I wasn't even looking like that. Mind your own business.” He scolds you, fiddling awkwardly with his food.

“Oh, the one who spoke is no longer here.” You laugh and finish eating, getting up when the lieutenant calls you to run around the courtyard.

This time, you wake up before the bell rings and the noisy pots start banging to wake up the rest of the soldiers. Today is "vacation" day, if you can call it that. You're coming home after two years away. Finally. You'll be able to sleep when you want, when you want, drink, do all the rebellious shit you share with Steve. As you enter the bathroom, you pick up a razor and fit a new blade into the razor, washing your face with warm water and spreading shaving foam over your face as you shave. After removing the loose hairs from your face, you wash it thoroughly and face the new pencil moustache covering your skin, all the rest of your skin shaved and clean.

“It's not so bad.” You whisper, running your fingers over the moustache.

As soon as you've finished the rest of your hygiene, you pick up your farewell uniform, putting on your camouflage collarless shirt, pants and boots. You run your fingers through your black hair and comb it gently until it's neatly aligned, then you put your beret on your head. When you return, the dormitories are already empty and the commanders take the rest of the conscript soldiers outside to catch the bus home. You wouldn't take a bus home if Bruce came to pick you up, but with a brainless father like him, it wasn't good to risk being late. You stand in the queue and immediately feel someone tugging your ears back slightly, turning to see Steve right behind you.

“Hey, buddy, you look like you've just stepped off a modeling cover. If I were a woman, I'd be wet just looking at that moustache.” Rogers jokes and you roll your eyes, joining in.

“Yeah, and you look like a nomad with that much beard, the girls will love that.” You put your hands behind your back and he sighs. “I wish.”

“Private Y/n Chase Banner, 21 years old, British, sergeant correspondent. You may board.” The man hands back your papers.

“Sometimes I forget you're British. It's a bit ironic, you don't even like a cup of tea.” Steve says, straining his accent and making you laugh. “Why tea when we have whisky and beer in America?”

Steve laughs and takes the documents out of his pocket, handing them to the driver. Quickly all the soldiers board and you press your head against the hard seat, looking out of the window as the base slowly moves away and the bus accelerates. You hear Steve chattering non-stop next to you about Agent Carter, saying how divine and beautiful she was, and saying how much he wished he had a chance with her. The trip from Kentucky to Washington DC would take at least 8 hours and something more, it was still early in the morning and you'd be arriving in the afternoon or even evening, so you just answered Steve with nods and brief 'um, yeahs' as you drifted off to sleep.

“Hey, buddy, this isn't bedtime! Wake up!” Steve shook you, making you jump in your seat slightly.

Your fingers rubbed your eyes and you shook your head, gradually adjusting your vision. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, delivering a warm and muggy evening, the clouds gradually disappearing as the larger group of soldiers began to get off the bus at the Washington terminal. Steve laughed as he commented on your sleepy face and you grabbed your backpack, following him off the bus. It was clear that Bruce hadn't made any effort to come and see you in Kentucky, so it annoyed and irritated you at the same time, but there was no point in wasting time with your grumpy old dad.

“You're coming to dinner with me. That's not a request.” She joked with him as they started walking together.

Your house wasn't three blocks away, it wasn't that far, so it would be nice to walk.

“If it's to meet your hot stepmother, I'm always up for it.” He said and you punched him in the bicep.

“How do you know she's hot and not some old lady with a herniated disc who's obsessed with plants?” You opened a packet of mints, handing him another.

“Derek told me she's not old. And I know Mr. Banner doesn't date old ladies. Come on, Y/n, it's only been three times.” He replies, making you let out a laugh.

“Three times describes my father's character very well, Steve. Well, let's face it, there are a lot of hot old ladies out there.” You blink, feeling his critical gaze on your back.

“You're a fucking pervert. I didn't know you liked old ladies, man.” He laughs, pushing you slightly.

“I didn't say I liked old women! I'm just saying that there are some older women, in their forties and fifties, who are hot, depending on the individual. There was a friend of my father's, I think her name was Wanda, something like that, and she was in her late thirties or early forties. She looked like she was in her twenties, I swear to you, she was crazy as hell! Of course, not all women get to that age looking good, it's a question of grooming and vanity, you know.” You explained, kicking a few stones along the way.

“To me, that's like saying: 'I'm definitely into fucking an older woman's brains out', there's no limit to that, bro, you're an adult and single.” He winks and you laugh out loud. “Wait, why do I feel like something happened between you and this Wanda?”

“She gave me head in the bathroom at her nephew's birthday party. If that answers your question.” You smile mischievously and Steve shakes you like he's made a great discovery. “I knew it, you tricksome pervert! If she really is that hot, then I understand you.”

“You say that as if Carter wasn't a little older than you." Your eyes narrow and he shrugs.

“That's another matter, Banner.” He smiles smugly.

As soon as the two of you arrive, you stop to look around the house. It looks the same, but at the same time it looks like a different house. As if you didn't belong here. The house is still surrounded by orchids and tulips that you planted years ago in memory of your mother, something you did every year to remember well what she liked to do when she was alive. The house had worn-out paintwork, ajar windows and a tall lawn, which made you wonder if Bruce was so useless as not to mow a simple garden lawn. You walked up to the front door and knocked lightly against it, hearing some loud voices talking from inside.

“Just a minute!” A female voice shouted from inside and you slowly turned to face Steve, who had a small smile on his lips. “Time to meet Mom, Banner.”

You rolled your eyes deeply and tried to ignore him, scratching your moustache nervously as footsteps approached the door.

When the door opened, the first thing that came into your mind was that Steve was probably right. She wasn't old at all. Or she was Bruce's own age and she was fucking well preserved, which you thought, fuck, that's got to be it. The vision lit up before you, with a redhead opening the door of your own house with sweet wavy red hair down to her shoulders, big curious green eyes analyzing you as if she already knew who you were before you even said a word, her face as delicate as pieces of porcelain, her nose turned up and the most beautiful lips you could find. She was much shorter than you and than Steve, which meant that you had to look up to meet your eyes and that you had to move your head down to see her.

A black dress falls over her body with delicacy and a deafening elegance. There are a few buttons from the opening, which shows a little of her pale neck, to the middle of her waist, which has a belt around it. It's a simple garment. But it doesn't exude any kind of vulgarity, although this woman... she exudes lust through her eyes. She has slight expression marks under her eyes, almost imperceptible, but which give away the fact that she is much older than you. And she hasn't even said a word to you. A pearly necklace is around that elegant slender neck and you hold your breath, locking your jaw before you speak.

“May I ask who you are?” Your whisper is precise and firm, and you can see out of the corner of your eye that her cheeks are flushing.

“Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. You must be Y/n. I'm your father's wife.” She answers you just as firmly, although her nervousness shows through a little and Steve's eyes widen behind you.

You would never have thought that your father would get married so quickly, even if it was his way of getting into bed with any woman for one night and then telling you that he was in a relationship with her. But he had married her! That was too much.

“It's me, yes.” That's the only answer that came out of his mouth and Natasha seemed to swallow with some bewilderment.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Romanoff. I'm Y/n's friend, Steve Rogers. I hope you don't mind my presence, it may have been a little unexpected.” Steve greets her with a light handshake.

“It would never be a bother to receive you, please, the house is more yours than mine.” She smiles and turns to you.

Without a word, you lean in as Steve pulls away from her hand. Her nails are painted a bright red, which contrasts with her red hair. Your hand brushes against hers, which makes Natasha almost gasp and electricity runs through her body when your hand gently squeezes hers. Without further words or affirmations, this is much more than Natasha would have expected to feel. You raise your head and she quickly moves to the side, making room for you and Steve to enter.

You won't admit it, but you're fascinated by Natasha's beauty. You also know now that you were wrong to think that she was older than Bruce, he only went out a few times with some noble ladies full of money with arrogance stamped on their faces.

“Y/n!” A weak, childish voice shouts at you, and you laugh as you feel little arms go around your legs. “Hey, big boy.”

You greet Derek, feeling him cling to your neck and hug you tightly, as if he hasn't seen you for decades. Well, he hadn't seen you in almost three years, so it made perfect sense.

“Doesn't anyone miss me?” Steve mocked. “Stevie!”

You laugh and let them talk, quickly answering a few of Derek's questions before seeing Bruce off down the stairs. He's got his black hair tangled and all out of order, his glasses are crooked on his face and he's wearing a white coat, with a scruffy beard. He looks a mess, with dark circles under his eyes and a breath of something like campari. You look him up and down with judgment and press your hand on the strap of your backpack.

“Hey, big boy.” He approaches you and gives you a firm hug.

“Hey, old man. I thought you'd see me at the Fort.” You say, frowning with annoyance masked as irritation.

“Well, you're already a big man, Y/n. Not to mention I was looking after your brother, he needs to brush his teeth and do his homework.” He says, turning away and fixing his glasses.

“Of course, you're always worried about my brother stinking of pure alcohol.” You say firmly, your jaw locking with some force.

“Is that any way to talk to me, kid?” He looks at you, slowly approaching as Natasha comes back into the room.

“Oh, I believe you're both hungry. I'm making an apple pie before dinner, love, can you help me?” She grasps Bruce's shoulders, who turns away from you. “Of course, darling.”

Your eyes roll back and Natasha gives you a look as if she's analyzing you. It's a fact that, although much older, Bruce is shorter than you, and his bone structure is even smaller, as if you were the older one here. You cross your arms earnestly, feeling the tension start in your broad shoulders and work its way down your burly biceps. Yes, you really have become an even bigger man than your father and Natasha seems to be looking at this before turning her face away and entering the kitchen.

“Hey, man. Relax, let's just enjoy the night.” Steve grabs your arm, visibly tense, and pulls you over to the sofa.

You sit down with him, try to relax but it's almost unavoidable. Bruce Banner has always been the kind of guy who is a compulsive alcoholic. He goes to support groups every weekend to try to get some support from other people who suffer from the same problem, but he keeps drinking as if he depended on it. He wasn't exactly a friendly father to you, it's as if he was always there but absent. He didn't teach you how to shave, so you learned on your own – with support from Steve who has a great dad – he didn't teach you how to pick up girls or how to flirt or how to drive, let alone how to listen when you had any doubts. He's like a ghost who breathes, eats and sleeps. But he's never really there for his children.

That's probably why your mother divorced him in your teens before that accident. Bruce is a difficult person to deal with, something you clearly took from him, but you're completely different. You're a good man, you're there for Derek, you're good with children, you're civilized, patient – when you want to be – and you're everything your father would like you to be.

“Look, I drew a picture of my school friends, Uncle Stevie and Y/n/n!” He says, handing you a drawing.

In it, Derek is drawn wearing the same blue sweatpants and plaid shirt at the actual moment. His hair is messy and slightly disheveled, his round glasses are crooked and you straighten them on his pale face, seeing that there is a blond boy next to him and a girl in a pink dress with long red hair.

“Who's that, little guy?” You ask as you stroke his hair.

“That's my friend, Emily!” He says between jumps and Steve looks at you with a smile. “Friend, huh?”

“Do you fancy her, mate? It's okay to talk to us, it's boy talk here, we won't judge you.” You ask and then smile, listening to Steve chatter something. “Fancy? Is that any way to say you're into a girl? You Brits are funny.”

“Give it a rest, Steve, it's noble English. You can talk to me, mate." You stroke Derek's hair and he laughs nervously.

“I think so... Dad says that when you like a girl a lot, you start admiring her, praising all her tastes, her hair, her expressions and everything about her, I see Emily like that. But I'm afraid she likes another boy.” He closes his expression into a sad little beak and you lift him onto your lap.

“Listen, you're a young boy. You're handsome, you've got nice hair like the bloke here.” You look at Steve who starts bragging and you interrupt him. “Maybe Emily is your first love, but you're still very young, you've got a lot to live up to. You've got to finish school, get a good job, make new friends, find a hobby, something you enjoy doing. Life isn't just about girls or love, it's about you and how you want to live it. And if Emily ever lets you down with another bloke, send her home to the grumpy toad.”

“What's the Grumpy Toad's house?” Steve blinks in confusion and you lean in to whisper. “A polite way of telling someone to fuck off. He can't swear because he's still a polite little boy.”

“You're unpredictable.” Steve laughs, disbelieving what he's heard.

The conversation between the two of you continues between laughter and irresponsible advice from Steve, who makes you laugh every second at the absurdities he tells you about past relationships, and from Derek, who starts showing you a folder full of his drawings. Lovely doodles. Natasha enters the room after a while, pressed between the doorway and shyly clears her throat.

“Hi guys, I don't mean to interrupt, but dinner's ready.” She says and you stand up, ruffling Derek's hair. “Go brush your teeth, kid. Girls don't like guys with breath.”

Derek mumbles something but climbs the stairs to the bathroom, determined to follow any of your advice, because you're the oldest and he sees tremendous wisdom in you. When you enter the kitchen, you sit down and Steve sits right next to you at the square table, and Bruce is there, scribbling something down. Always working, never with time for his children. Or too drunk to care.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He says, and barely blinks as Natasha places a plate of food in front of him.

“No problem, my love.” She says and her gaze settles on Natasha, who moves gracefully.

Is it wrong to be completely attracted to an older, more experienced woman who is unfortunately your new stepmother? Most likely, but you can't help it. Everything about Natasha is too sexy. Her light-lipped smile, her curves, which even covered by that very covered dress, manage to be somewhat naked. Her legs, the way her knees bend to grab something from the tallest cupboards in the kitchen. You can imagine the way her knees can bend in front of you... and fuck. Stop it, you tell yourself.

“How was your time serving, Y/n?” She asks you, and seems to be talking, or trying to.

“Same as always.” Your answer comes, it's short, but not rude, just disinterested.

The best thing is to look like you're disinterested in her. Not out of rudeness or rebelliousness. But because you feel the adrenaline in your veins that tells you it's dangerous to be so enamored of your stepmother, knowing that this is also something immoral and incorrect. You don't want to lose control.

“Men giving orders. Proud men doing what they want to do. Discipline masquerading as arrogance.” You prolong your answer, and you don't expect Natasha to understand, after all she is a woman and has never been in need of serving her country.

Natasha, on the other hand, is struggling to stay focused on getting more plates and cutlery to distribute to you and Steve during dinner. She's fascinated. Shocked. Silently drawn to you. The difference between you and Bruce is glaring. While he seems sloppy and uncivilized, you speak so calmly and politely that you don't even sound like his son. You're both very similar in appearance, hair, face, expressions, eyes a little, but the difference in size from your father to you is absurd. You're like a wall of muscle compared to him, who clearly makes sense as a fatally alcoholic and careless man.

She rubs her thighs discreetly as she places a plate in front of you and fork and knife on either side of the embroidered plate, hoping you haven't noticed her indecent act, but you're even watching the way her throat moves when she breathes. She feels impure, filthy. She shouldn't look at her husband's son as prey, as if she had never seen such a beautiful and majestic man, a man who, as soon as he entered the house for the first time, left her breathless.

No, you were younger. Perhaps more naive, too young. And you were her husband's son. Her stepson.

“If I may ask, does that make you uncomfortable? Taking orders?” She asks, placing her plate and cutlery in front of Steve.

You lick your lips slowly. Natasha stares at you. She likes that. An act so simple and ordinary that it made her almost drool all over that table. She was a depraved and incorrect woman at that moment. Natasha loses herself in you at that moment. The intense green gaze flees from your calm lips to your drawn jaw, sculpted beyond her comprehension. Your eyes are wild yet calm, they exude...a hard life. A life full of challenges. They're dominant and Natasha doesn't like the way they intimidate her without you even realizing it. But that's you, a mystery to her, silent and solid. A black ocean with no comprehensible answers.

“I only do what I'm asked. It's my job.” Her whisper comes, quiet, yet icy.

“A man who works without complaining becomes a good worker. I think that's what I taught you.” Bruce speaks for the first time, taking a bite of his food.

In front of you, the smell of food fills your stomach and you barely notice Natasha serving you as you are busy facing even the worst fears of her soul. Your hands move nimbly and you cut off a piece of meat, putting it in your mouth and chewing slowly. It takes her a few seconds to realize it's a stew and the salty broth with potatoes, carrots and peas melts in her mouth perfectly.

“First of all, you cook perfectly well, that's great, Natasha.” You say as she sits down to eat and you see her pale cheeks develop a slight blush. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

No one had talked about her food in a long time, not even your father.

“Secondly,” You take a few more mouthfuls, managing to eat half the stew in minutes, and then look at Banner with a certain disgust. “Is that why you sent me to the army? To teach me your own kind of passivity?”

“You seem to like offending me sometimes, kid.” He laughs dryly, helping Derek to sit down and assemble his plate. “What's wrong with being passive?”

“Nothing, nothing wrong with it. Except that whenever someone confronts you, all you know how to do is roll over and show your belly like a puppy.” You cluck your tongue, listening to Bruce grumble.

“I think we'd better calm down a bit here-” Steve begins, still starting to eat when you cut him off. “No, I won't calm down.”

“I sent you to the army to control your rebelliousness and lack of control!” Bruce replies, starting to get upset.

“My rebelliousness? Don't fuck with me, Bruce.” You spat, completely disbelieving that you had heard such a thing.

“You've always acted in a problematic way, breaking laws, coming home late without giving explanations, disrespecting your own father! What did you want me to do? Shake your hair and tell you how to act, as if you were actually going to listen to me?” He shouted back, pointing a finger at you.

“You never cared about me yourself. You send me to the army to control me by saying I'm a rebel and all that shit and now you treat me like some fucking bum you don't even know. You sit on your ass here all the time, you only go out to work or to drink like you always have, you think you're an example of something?” Your hand hits the table and Steve gets up next to you, trying to stop anything worse from happening.

“You shut up when I talk to you, kid!” He growls and Natasha grabs him by the shoulders. “Bruce, please, let's put this aside. Derek's here, sweetheart.”

“Enough, please, let's calm down, man.” Steve puts his hand on your arm, suddenly getting serious.

Your chest is rising and falling through the camouflage uniform, hitting your ribcage with some violence. Natasha is frightened, even though she tries not to show it, it's quite transparent. She's heard Bruce's stories about you, that you had the same explosive temper as him even though you were different, that as a teenager you got into fights frantically and that you were suspended from school for 'vandalizing' the bathroom walls and things like that. Most of that was true, but the only friend you had was Steve, you were both often chased by the good-looking guys and bullies for being "skinny and weird" and ended up being extremely excluded and beaten up at the time. As if the confusion came to you both on purpose.

In any case, Natasha didn't know you and became involved with Bruce shortly after you officially joined the army, where you were promoted to the rank of Private E-2 a year later. Although Bruce was her husband, he generally behaved unpleasantly some of the time, especially when he got drunk in front of Natasha, which also discouraged Derek and made him sad, wishing he had more time with his father. She wanted to get to know you better, she felt that you had a good heart and she didn't really want to believe all the absurd stories that Bruce told her as if he wanted to make you a bad son for his wife.

“I wish I didn't have to look at your face.” Your answer came, harsh, indifferent.

Bruce didn't move, however, as if it hadn't hit him. He really didn't care about you at all. You felt an extreme pang of guilt when you saw Derek at the end of the table, hunched over with his hands on his head. He hated arguing and shouting, and it often happened between you and Bruce, but you avoided fighting in front of the boy as much as possible to prevent that kind of thing from happening to him there.

“All right, darling, come here.” She called to him, hugging him and trying to calm him down.

The rest of dinner was a terrible, deathly silence that pressed down on her throat, absolutely wanting to break Bruce in half. But you wouldn't, you already felt bad enough for scaring your little brother. When you'd finished eating, feeling Steve stare at you in fear of another fight breaking out, you got up and put your cutlery and plate in the sink, emptying a glass full of orange juice that you'd barely touched minutes before.

“Oh, Y/n, you don't have to do that, I could really do it-” Natasha intervenes, but you respond subtly. “It's okay, I don't mind.”

She stops in place, her lips parted in shock. It was rare for a real man to be there to do something as simple and minimal as washing dishes without her having to ask. Because for that very reason, Bruce wouldn't do it on the grounds that 'he worked too much' and Natasha had to take care of the cleaning and everything else in the house on her own. But it weighed on her, she felt alone there, even if it seemed silly. Bruce Banner described himself as an old-fashioned man, but something about him pointed more towards a misogyny hidden under the carpet. You really were different from the man she married.

“Oh, all right.” She sighs, the corner of her lips curving slowly.

Putting a little detergent on the yellow sponge, you subtly scrub the plate and then the cutlery and glass. You turn on the tap and wash everything silently, watching a few bubbles of foam disappear down the drain and everything become clean, then you take a dry cloth and dry everything, placing it inside the cupboard in the proper places for each object. You knew how to do everything apart from washing dishes. Washing your father's rusty car, cleaning the whole house, absolutely everything that would be considered 'women's chores' that your mother taught you before she died. And he silently despised you for it, but it didn't matter, because there had been a helpful and very useless man in this house and now that man was back.

“Are you staying for dessert?” Natasha asks as she watches you dry your hands and Steve also wash his dirty plates and cutlery quickly.

“No, Steve and I are going to stay in my room for a while. We can eat later if there's anything left, thank you very much.” You shove your hands in your pockets, watching her nod a little tensely and pick up all the remaining dirty dishes when Steve gives her a nod.

The two of you climb the stairs and soon reach your room. It's not a small room, but it's spacious enough to hold everything you like. Philosophy books, art books, porn magazines that you used to swap with Steve when you were teenagers, – yes, this is kept secret – some toolboxes in case you needed them when something broke in the house, a collection of old CDs by the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and a thousand other bands and singers from the 70s and 80s. The room is still tidy, with a single bed lined with thin blue sheets and a gray pillow. There's also a desk and a medium-sized cupboard in the corner next to an old window.

The smell of your room and nostalgia is cozy, almost intoxicating.

“Hey, man, do you really keep them all? No kidding!” Steve laughs, picking up the magazines with the half-naked women on the covers.

Although you didn't have an addiction to this kind of thing, you and Steve were once two curious teenagers with hormones running wild in the middle of puberty. You'd get excited and buy these magazines on the sly, but even so, you weren't the type who needed to see a naked woman's body to get completely turned on. No, you were better than that, and you knew that real bodies worked better, were beautiful and much more objective.

“Of course, I left the army and ended up forgetting all this garbage.” You laugh, opening the drawers and leafing through some superhero comics, watching Steve laugh as he sees a cover with a blonde woman on one of the covers wearing pink lingerie. “No, no! Fuck, man that was the worst, I remember you gave it to me with the pages sticking together, you fucking pervert!”

“Sorry, man, I couldn't help myself! I still remember the look on your face when you got it full of life.” He says and you rolls your eyes.

“Jesus, that was disgusting. I'm going to throw it all away anyway, unless you want to keep it as a souvenir.” You laugh quietly and he makes a vomiting noise.

“No, thanks.” Steve shakes his head, walks over and picks up some comics to read too.

You put on a band CD while you lose yourself in conversation with Steve, remembering everything. You both laugh out loud when you remember the time Steve put a live frog on the head of a girl who was terrified of frogs, because she just thought it was funny to make fun of your worn-out shoes and said you couldn't afford new ones. He's never been so furious, no one could mess with you, only each other and all in jest, of course.

It was a great pastime for you to play pranks on bad students and grumpy teachers, or to skip important classes to drink cheap beer while listening to a small radio given to you by Steve's father. Those were incredible times, which only got old in the best way when Steve and you decided to enlist for the first time at the age of 18, getting kicked out because of arguments you had with some of the lieutenants. Anyway, you both found a way to get into the American army through the Kentucky fort, and obviously, together.

So Steve and you knew each other practically from your mother's womb. Joseph and Bruce met during high school before they got involved with their respective wives. They both served in the army, but only Mr. Rogers decided to make it a career, although he didn't succeed and decided to go into medicine. They were extremely close throughout your and Steve's adolescence, until one day they drifted apart over a mysterious fight in which you never really found out the motivation.

Even so, you and Steve could fight for centuries and still remain good friends.

“Hey, there's someone at the door.” Steve yawned, signaling the light knocks on your bedroom door.

With a light sigh, you put your comic aside, turning down the volume of a small, still-functional radio that was playing Black Sabbath in the background. When you opened the door, you saw her again.

Natasha. Your 'lovely' stepmother. She was standing right in front of the door, with two pieces of pie on a large plate and a tense, apparently shy look on her face. You still didn't understand why she looked at you as if she was going to dismount at any moment. She was wearing a beige apron over her dress and her hair was now slightly wavy at the ends, her face flushed.

“I know you may not be that hungry anymore, but I can't help trying. The pie is still warm, it's apple with caramel on top and blackberries and you know, I'm sorry about Bruce. Your father didn't have a good day, Y/n.” She sighs, looking away for a moment.

“Did I hear the word pie!?” Steve jumps out of bed already excited.

“I appreciate that. I'm sorry about the argument. I think he always tries to take it out on me, but that's okay. How's Derek?” You blink slowly, trying to ignore the feeling of Natasha staring you down to the core.

“Fine, I guess. I fed him dinner and some pie, got him to brush his teeth and now he's sleeping like a newborn after reading your stories about bigfoot.” She laughs softly, making you smile.

“He'll end up having nightmares about it. Thank you, Mrs. Romanoff.” You say, your voice already husky and slightly sleepy.

“Natasha, call me Natasha. There's no need for formalities here.” She replies, licking her lips slowly.

“Natasha.” You whisper back, hearing Natasha's breathing increase as you spell her name perfectly on the tip of her tongue.

“Have a good night. If you need anything you can call me and I'll be in the next room.” She says, almost stuttering, and nods as she walks away. “Good night, Natasha.”

“God, I thought you were going to eat each other and leave the pie behind!” Steve grumbles, picking up a piece with one of the forks and takes a bite, closing his eyes. “Wonderful!”

“Bloody hell, Steve, she's my father's wife!” you laugh incredulously, taking a piece of the sweet pie. “It's really good, it's fucking delicious.”

“But I know that. She's still got the hots for you, don't you see?” He shrugged, starting to devour the pie in seconds. “And even if she wasn't your father's, it must be worth losing yourself...you know, in that woman.”

“You're absolutely shameless. And I would never do that, no matter how much my father deserves it.” You roll your eyes, taking another piece of pie and Steve smiles. “I'm paying to see how badly this goes.”

Your wristwatch reads at least 6:10 in the morning. You don't know why you woke up so early on a Monday when you were on vacation from work, so to speak. Perhaps waking up at 5 a.m. every day at the Fort to paint walls and curbs, patrol, and other exhausting military services has made you accustomed to waking up at those times as if you were an uncontrolled robot. So you took a shower, brushed your teeth and ate an apple before going to Steve's house to pick up some cans of paint.

Your house was in a deplorable state, with the paint on all the walls outside peeling off, the garden with its extremely high lawn dirty with leaves thrown over it since last fall, dead plants and flowers everywhere and the appearance of the house itself sad and gray. You had to do something about it, since Bruce hasn't done it in two whole years.

Wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, the clock now reads 7:19 in the morning. You finish running the roller full of paint up to the top of the back wall of the house, not even needing a ladder because you're so fit. In an hour you've managed to paint the whole house and now you're going to rip down the wooden fences and put up new, clean ones.

“Y/n! What are you doing? It's so early and it's roasting hot out there!” You hear a familiar feline voice and drop the paint roller on top of the empty can.

You step away from the can and container and wipe the excessive sweat from your chest, your skin was probably all sunburnt, exposed to the bare torso and shapely legs on display. Natasha is at the door, dressed in a red sweater. Holy shit. You turn your face away, feeling deeply warmed, and run your paint-smeared hands over your face, clad only in baggy shorts and barefoot.

“I'm painting the house, Natasha.” You answer simply and matter-of-factly, watching out of the corner of your eye as she puts a thin blouse over it, certainly embarrassed.

“At 7 in the morning! You must be dying of heat! Have you applied sunscreen?” She asks, approaching quickly.

You missed the maternal concern and affection, but considering the current situation, it was totally inappropriate.

“We didn't use sun cream during our time in the army. Especially during patrols on the patio with direct contact with the sun, or anywhere else where it was necessary. They simply didn't hand out sunscreen to us.” You say and shrug, discarding the empty tin and the rest of the used items.

“That's horrible, you could get serious burns!” She replies and puts her hand to her head, making you laugh. "I'll be back in a minute."

Natasha leaves and you wash your hands in a sink at the back of the house, removing as much of the gooey paint as you can and wetting your head and chest to try and cool off. As soon as you've finished, you go down to the basement and get a box full of new fences that haven't even been used before. First you get the rest of the tools and put everything in the garden, then you get a lawnmower, which luckily isn't rusty.

You push the lawnmower as soon as the blades shoot out, starting to cut the grass quickly. Your hands are steady and nimbly, you're finishing off the first row of grass. Pressing the button on the side of the mower, you snort and sigh deeply, resting your hands on your waist.

“I'm going to melt like this, my Lord.” You say to yourself with a laugh.

Going round to the back, you find a sack and a shovel and start gathering up all that grass and throwing it into the sack. It could be useful or reusable at some point.

“Hey you! All right, take a break from that and come and eat properly.” Natasha appears as soon as you've collected all the grass in the sack and walks over to you gently.

She's now wearing a black tank top, which emphasises her perfectly marked collarbone and her pale neck, which is as delicate as any detail can be. On her legs are a pair of denim shorts, neither short nor baggy, but you can still see how her shapely thighs look so perfectly...thick in them. And she looks so natural, nothing forced, just there, for you, carrying a plate with a cut sandwich, a glass of juice and a bottle of water. I mean, your father was lucky but he was an idiot, why on earth would he deserve someone like that?

“Natasha, really, you didn't have to do that. I don't want you to bother with me.” You say, feeling your face very red, from the sun - and from a certain effect it has on you - and sweaty.

“I'm not bothered at all. I'm not going to let you die of dehydration in this heat, it must be 30 degrees or more!” She exclaims and you carefully pick up the plate, cautiously dropping the other equipment. “Wait, open your arms a little, don't let go of the plate please.”

You frown and open your arms, pushing the plate as far away from your torso and body as you can. Natasha approaches you, taking a plastic bottle from the pocket of her shorts and opens the lid, pouring some kind of cream onto her fingers. You stare at the words written in blue and white, trying to decipher the smudges, and your jaw drops in disbelief. It was sun cream.

“Natasha, look, it's okay, I've got used to the sun-” you say, but it's too late.

The woman is smearing sunscreen on your face, and you're so red that even under the sunscreen, you can see how flushed and hot you look. Oh, shit.

“The sun doesn't get used to any of us, though. Once when I was half your age, I went to a beach in Miami, Florida, with my parents and some friends. I slathered sunscreen all over my body except my buttocks and um... I definitely couldn't sit up straight for a week after that, the burns weren't kind to me and it wasn't the sun's fault.” She laughs lightly, gently rubbing the sun cream into her cheeks and forehead.

The heat in your cheeks spreads even more violently and you gently bite your lower lip, something that Natasha notices and strangely makes her legs wobble. I wonder what else makes her unable to sit down for a whole week. Fucking stop it, you cut off your thoughts before they spread, but they're dirty all the same.

“That must have been hard.” You answer, and your voice slowly begins to die.

What is she doing now, my Lord?

Natasha finishes spreading the sunscreen on your face and neck, her fingers still smeared with protector trailing down the start of your chest. Your skin is burning, but that's not what fascinates her, it's the hard, burly, extremely rock-hard flesh of your pectorals, covered in a very thin, sparse line of hair. She gasps as discreetly as she can, trying her best not to grab his every muscle and touch and squeeze. In fact, she knows now that you look like more than a wall, it's as if you were made completely of muscle and only a little 'skin' covering everything.

Romanoff's hand slides to the end of your chest on the right side, and she doesn't even know what she's doing, for her, she's just spreading the rest of the sunscreen on her fingers. But you feel it, you feel her grip, her electrifying, mundane, specific touch, as if she wanted to scratch every part of your skin as well as touch it, as if she wanted to do everything you could imagine there.

“I'm sorry.” She says, swallowing dry and trying to swallow her own shame as well.

But she still feels your warmth. She feels your minty fresh breath, pleasant and peaceful, she feels how affected you were by a single touch of her delicate, soft hand. You want more and maybe she knows it, but that's wrong, it's inappropriate.

“You can leave the sunscreen somewhere, I'll put more on after I've cut everything here.” You say and she nods quickly, hugging her own body.

“This is going to be a lot of work.” She says and you nod, taking a bite and moaning slightly.

The sandwich is a spicy mix of tomato, toasted wholemeal bread, smoked turkey breast, mayonnaise, a little mustard, bean sprouts, cheese and a spicy dressing. As well as being kind, intelligent, seductive, completely attractive, the woman cooks like hell, what more could Bruce want? Absolutely nothing.

“Fuck, this is fucking divine, the work will be worth it. Thank you so much.” You thank her without knowing what else to say, the scouse accent making Natasha wince.

She had time to notice your accent and your voice as soon as she arrived with Steve at the residence yesterday. She, however, had no idea that you were British or anything. Not least because all Bruce ever really said about you were the most unpleasant compliments in the form of criticisms. He proved to be a good father to other people, but it was different with you. You could see why.

“No need to thank me, really. I hope you didn't forget your sunscreen.” She says, raising an eyebrow as she tries to look serious and you laugh. “Sure, no problem.”

Your bites are precise and hungry, and you can tell that a single apple an hour ago would never have satisfied you. You finish eating, drink all the pineapple juice and hand it all to Natasha, taking the sunscreen again and spreading it on your fingers, your hands flying across your sweaty pecs, ribs and abs. Natasha walks away towards the house, her gaze lingering on you several times.

She's a married woman. Married to your father. That's not right, it's far from it.

But just taking a look is okay, right?

You hurry, organize everything and start up the machine again, cutting another row of grass. Then another, another, until you've finished with all that tall grass that could end up with some animal hiding there. You put all the grass in two sacks and put them in the corner of the garden, then you start to remove and tear down the old, dirty and soft wooden fences, which are practically falling apart.

After marking out the right height for the fences with lines and stakes, you make a quick calculation and grab a spade, digging the holes where the picket panels will be. It takes about some hours, between quick breaks, your feet are dirty with dirt and now your body is really bathed in sweat, but after lining up the pickets, checking that they're all in the same vertical position, digging non-stop and cleaning dirt off your grass, everything looks perfect. You even do a quick and precise finish, and smile when you see that your work has turned out perfectly.

“Great. I just need to replant the plants soon.” You whisper, feeling tired.

After putting away all the equipment, cleaning up all the grass and briefly painting the fences, you walk away and enter the house, dripping with sweat from head to toe. You wipe your feet on the carpet, imagining that Natasha is the kind of woman who will freak out if you get dirt all over the house and yell at you for hours. Now, however, she's sitting in the living room, with Derek by her side as she appears to help him with his homework.

“Looks like I'm late.” You smile, adjusting the black cap on your head and her gaze quickly falls on you.

She has to control herself, she has to. She's in front of a child.

But it's inevitable.

Bruce would probably show off if he looked like that too, but he's got the typical 40-something dad-beer-belly physique. You, on the other hand... you're majestic, even though you're completely sweaty and give off the classic manly odor of a man who does everything for his family, your muscles being highlighted by sticky sweat, probably swollen from working outside the house. She is silently awestruck, the heat rushes through the blood in her cheeks and her thighs rub together painfully.

“Y/n! Nat said you were painting the whole house.” Derek jumps up, running to hug your legs and you wave.

“I just went to give this house a new look, it was looking sloppy and abandoned. I painted it, put up new fences and now it looks decent, all that's missing is a few details on the inside. And you, big boy, go back to Aunt Nat and do your homework.” You kiss his forehead and the boy runs back to the woman.

“Aren't you hungry? It's practically lunchtime.” Natasha starts talking, looking tense.

“Maybe I'm a bit too hungry, but I need to take a shower and get rid of that skunk smell. Where's Bruce?” You cross your arms, looking around the house for your old father.

“He's gone out to sort out 'work matters', he said he'll be back in the afternoon. You can take your shower, when I've finished here I'll make you something to eat.” She says, smiling gently and you sigh.

You're definitely not used to this motherly treatment. You've always looked after yourself, but Derek first, and Bruce second. You always prioritized family, but that didn't mean you were at ease with Natasha doing it all for you. After all, you've never had anyone really care like that. Natasha seemed to want to take care of you like a newborn baby and that seemed strange, but you didn't want to give her so much trouble. You could look after yourself, so why worry so much?

You didn't want to be so close to her either. You were afraid of what might happen when you were alone, because that sexual tension was evident, it was dry and eager. She looked at you the way you looked at her, with silent desires that even without emitting sound, understanding, could be understood just by looking at you, by searching for you.

The warm water falls over your body, relaxing every tense muscle from your back to your exhausted chest. You lean your forehead against the wall and relax for a moment, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of relaxation and calm.

“Fuck.” You whisper softly, feeling a wave of warmth hit your body.

No. No dirty thoughts about an older woman. The problem wasn't that she was older, it was that she was your stepmother.

The foam-filled sponge glides over your stiff, tense body, your eyes closing as you imagine... Natasha on her knees, or lowered to the floor, or bent over with her face buried in the pillow as she smiles at you. A grunt leaves your lips and the blood rushes violently to your semi-hard member.

“Jesus, no.” You say, washing yourself and running some shampoo through your slightly overgrown hair, wiping away all that sweat.

After taking a few more minutes in the shower to get rid of a possible erection, you wash your face and leave the bathroom, drying yourself with the first towel you find there. You're still hot, but you have to control yourself. You want to take her right now, admit it. Your head shakes and you climb the stairs to your room with the towel around your waist, hoping you've been unnoticed, and enter the room, drying yourself quickly.

Passing through the open door, you put on sports shorts and boxer shorts underneath, quickly finishing drying your hair while putting on a tight compression T-shirt. Just wearing it makes you realize how much you've really grown physically.

“Hey, it's time to take Derek to school.” Natasha says as you walk down the stairs with running shoes in your hands.

“Sure, I can do that without any problems, my dad didn't use the car to go out today. Are you coming?” You ask, trying to understand the blush on her cheeks.

“I'd love to. I'm just going to finish tidying him up.” She smiles tensely, and you see your brother waving frantically as Natasha changes his clothes.

Derek then turns around, his hair combed back like his mother used to do with hers, the backpack a little bigger than him slung over his back and wearing a simple blue shirt and shorts, the sneakers identical to yours. Well, Natasha really was a good stepmother. You just couldn't see her the way you were seeing her, because that was incorrect and dirty, but it was almost inevitable.

“Ready?” You lick your lips and the two of you nod quickly. “Good, let's go.”

The road is quiet, peaceful. Natasha tells you where Derek goes to school because he was transferred not long ago and you drive along calmly, listening to them chatting about random, common things. Your hands turn the steering wheel skillfully, and through the rearview mirror you feel Natasha's gaze on you, although you can't say why.

The car stops and you park it in a wide parking lot, turning off the engine and taking off your seat belt. Stepping around the car, you help Derek out of his seatbelt and open the door for Natasha, who looks ecstatic about something but climbs down next to your brother, stroking his hair.

“Professor Carter!” Derek says, and runs out to a female figure standing a few meters away near a silver golf.

Natasha closes the door, giving you a grateful look, and the two of you approach the scene gingerly. Derek is hugging an older woman, she wears a long dress just below her knees in a wine color and her hair is straight blonde and well aligned, her brown eyes surprisingly calm, welcoming the boy and leaning down to hug him back. She... She's familiar to you.

“Hey, pretty boy, how are you? Natasha, good morning. Oh.” She greets the redhead and then looks at you, a surprised look filling her face.

More than a few years ago, you and Sharon Carter had a little fling together. You grew up together and had a lot in common. Steve introduced you to her at a party when you were 16 and she was 19. She's not that much older than you, and that didn't seem to be a problem, until Sharon said she'd fallen in love with you. And indeed, Sharon has fallen in love with you.

But you were the classic bad boy who liked to drive without a license, who spent the early hours of the morning away from home because your father constantly found any reason to fight with you, to complain about you as if it hadn't been his choice to have a son. You weren't the typical nice guy Sharon needed, like Steve for example, and you didn't know if you were in love with her, but you two had sex often, and that made her even more attached to you.

When you disappeared with the simple warning that you were going to serve in the army and didn't know if you'd be back any time soon, Sharon was disappointed. She wanted to spend time with you more than anything, but you had gone to serve your country and she had a career ahead of her, which she chose to become a teacher even though she wanted to be a psychologist. She liked you, she really did, but sometimes you acted like a bomb about to explode, just like Bruce did.

“Surprised to see me? Yeah, I knew you were going to become a teacher, Sharon. You always knew how to get along with children.” You say and squeeze Sharon's hand with a gentle but firm touch, which she blushes at before replying.

“I thought you were going to spend even more time in the army, Y/n. It seems to have done you a lot of good.” She says, biting her lip discreetly and smiling.

Natasha crosses her arms, an impassive expression on her face. She can already completely tell that the two of you know each other, that's for sure, but for some reason, the way Sharon looks at you and acts towards you makes Romanoff feel a big pang of discomfort in his stomach.

“Teacher, I have to show you my new drawings!” Derek says excitedly, hugging the woman tighter by the legs.

“Of course, darling, I'll look at them all, okay?” She says, running her hand over his bangs. “I thought Bruce was coming today.”

“You know how he is, always 'sorting out work stuff. Thanks for taking such good care of him, Sharon.” A minimalist smile curves your lips without showing your teeth and Sharon nods.

“No need to thank me, apart from being my job, it's a pleasure to look after this little one. We should have a coffee together one day, perhaps.” She says and makes you sigh, grabbing the car keys and giving Derek a kiss on the forehead.

“Yeah, maybe one day. Good morning, have fun, we'll be going for now, see you soon.” You nod and she agrees, expecting more from you, but turns and walks into the school with the boy.

As soon as you get into the car, put the key in the ignition and adjust the windows, Natasha gets in. Her face is slightly twisted with frustration, perhaps? That, and a hint of discontent. It looks like someone has stepped on her toes, but why?

“So, you and the teacher...” She says calmly, although her eyes seem distant and indifferent to you.

“What?” You turn the wheel, steering the car out of the parking lot and back onto the road.

“There seems to be something between you.” She replies and you laugh awkwardly, shaking your head.

“There's nothing between us.” You say and look at her out of the corner of your eye, Natasha's face turned completely towards you.

“She made it sound like there was, you know.” She shrugged, seeming not to want to bother you with the subject.

“Steve and I have known her since we were teenagers. Teenage parties, drinking, drugs, you know. Sharon was a fling of mine. If I can call it that.” Your voice answers quietly and you look at Natasha discreetly.

"Well, she doesn't seem to have forgotten you. You know how it is, when a woman loves, she's willing to do anything to make up for lost time, but it doesn't just depend on her." She says relaxed, still trying not to let her jealous face overflow.

“Sharon isn't in love with me. At least I don't think so. Even if she was, I'm not what she's looking for.” You say and on the one hand, Natasha reassures herself.

“And what is she looking for?” Romanoff looks at you from the passenger seat.

Her lips are pressed together, her breathing seems slightly unregulated. She's frustrated, yes. She's jealous, yes. She hated the way Sharon looked at you as if you were a toy she could ride on top of. Absolutely. Yes. But why should your stepmother be jealous of you? That was wrong, immoral, maybe a bit problematic, she'd only just met you anyway. It made your skin hot, but the hairs on the back of your neck were rising and your fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road before your eyes.

“What most women are looking for, I believe. A protective, self-assured, confident man. She wants a man who is one hundred percent there for her at all times. I didn't learn to be like that.” You brake at a red light and buckle up, your head resting against the seat.

“Don't you think she's the right woman?” Romanoff swallows, trying her best not to sound intrusive.

If anyone else were asking you these questions, it would be a different story. But her, she brought you comfort. She was...good. She was a good woman, as Steve assumed.

“I'm not in love with her, Natasha, even if she was right, what good would it do?” You look at her, and she nods quietly.

You've never found someone who makes your heart soar as if you were in one of those cheesy movie clichés, who makes time stand still around you, who makes you feel like the luckiest man in the world. No, you've never experienced any of that. You've only had nighttime adventures with older girls or even girls your own age, adventures with kissing, sex without commitment and conversations thrown away to be remembered. You never knew what love was.

And the only person who could teach you that was right there beside you, annoyed for some reason at the possibility of you falling in love with someone other than her.

“All right.” That was the only answer Natasha gave you, watching the car pull into the driveway of your house.

When you got in – and there was still a certain murderous silence in the air – you just took off your shoes, sat down on the sofa and picked up the remote control, looking for a live American soccer program, trying to distract yourself. Natasha went into the kitchen to do something, and the door creaked open a few minutes after you arrived, revealing Bruce's early arrival. He looked at you, but overcome by pride, said nothing and passed through to the kitchen.

“Hi, darling. How was work?” Natasha's distant voice said to him, who caught her kissing him, answering disconnectedly. “It was business as usual. I've never waited so long to get home and have my wife all to myself.”

You rolled your eyes, lay back on the sofa and turned up the volume slightly, watching two American league teams fight for a title. For some unusual reason, the sound of wet kissing bothered you deeply. You shook your head and tried to focus on the match, then you heard footsteps approaching the room and Natasha's warm hand touched your shoulder, making you turn almost instantly.

“Hey, do you want something to eat?” She asked, her lips slightly swollen and her face flushed.

You'd love to see her like that, but you'd love it even more to have that effect on her.

“No, thanks, Natasha. I'm going to take a nap, you can relax.” You replied and she nodded, smiling slowly before heading up the stairs, Bruce right behind her.

Your head pressed into the pillow and you let out a short curse, feeling uncomfortable and disgusted by the situation. It was your father's house too, but you were still there. Anyway, you forced yourself to sleep and it worked, your eyes became heavy and you completely relaxed your muscles against the not-so-spacious sofa, knowing that you would wake up with a sore neck as soon as you woke up.

“Fuck.” You cursed, rubbing your tired eyes.

The house was the same, but the afternoon was beginning to fade, making it clear that it would soon be dark. You grabbed the black clock on the table, seeing that it read 5:48 in the afternoon. There was still an hour or so before Derek would be released from school, so you were relieved to see that you weren't late to pick him up.

“What?” You sat groggily on the sofa, listening to a lot of noise coming from upstairs.

There were sounds coming from upstairs, and at first you thought there was something wrong there, since you were still groggy from sleep and tired. But gradually you noticed. The creaking of Bruce's bed, the loud sounds of skin hitting skin, of the headboard hitting the wall. They were having sex.

“Fuck, holy shit.” You say, completely lost in disgust and cover your head with your hands. “This can't be serious.”

But you could still hear it. It completely disturbed you. But it was also wrong, being jealous of your stepmother when she's married to your father. It's not as if Natasha hadn't been upset with Sharon about you too.

But she was married, you weren't. Still, that seemed contrary to morality.

“Fuck.” You cursed to yourself, getting out of there and going to the kitchen.

There was a case of beer in the fridge. You hated looking like your father, because whenever something bothered you or upset you, you always drank too, but not like him, he was worse. You grabbed two bottles and opened the caps with your teeth, spitting them into the trash can. Five minutes passed, and you emptied half the bottle of beer, lying on the sofa when Natasha came downstairs.

Your head turns subtly in the direction of the stairs and there she is, walking down the steps like an art exhibition that could never be bought. A misunderstood muse. Yet not something that could be conquered, but touched, felt. A woman, with a deceptive young girl's face, with an older woman's mature soul with gifts you could never guess. Married to your arsehole of a father. He didn't deserve her, that much was clear, but what could you do, if not mourn in the corners of the house, silently wishing this woman was yours?

Her skin was pale, although tanned by her own sweat. Her impeccable red hair was now dishevelled and out of order, falling in light waves to her shoulders. Her body, which could reveal to you many dangerous curves and paths to the most silent sin, was covered in a long black dressing gown, and you could see that she was wearing a baggy T-shirt that wasn't hers on her body. Her lips were swollen, dry. You could see a glimpse of her shapely legs, and wow, what legs. Although you knew exactly what she and your father were doing up there, she didn't look pleased. Her eyes looked confused, troubled, even sweaty, she was unhappy. And how could she not be unhappy with Bruce Banner?

But you couldn't look away. She was so well preserved, my goodness.

“I'm sorry, Y/n, I thought you were still asleep. I didn't want to appear like this, I must look like an unnatural stepmother.” She laughs, and it's so natural that you want to hear that sound more often.

“Yeah, well, I just had a nap anyway. It seems my father didn't take care of his work properly. I heard it, without meaning to, but I heard it.” You say, and as soon as you realise what you've said, you swallow bitterly.

Natasha looks at you deeply, she doesn't feel offended. But embarrassed? To the extreme. Bruce doesn't even look after the house, imagine if he could handle wife when they're in bed? He was an arrogant arsehole – and sometimes you were a bit arrogant yourself – but he was terrible at a lot of things. That made him a complete failure.

“Y/n. I wish you wouldn't comment on my sex life with your father.” She says, and she's not blunt, but firm and offhand, even.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to.” You reply calmly but you want to say much more to her.

Yeah, if I had you, you'd really moan, Natasha. In fact, you wouldn't even be walking unless your legs were completely weak and you wouldn't even be thinking. That would be having a real man.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you grab it, seeing messages from Steve inviting you out for a drink at a newly opened bar. It didn't sound too bad. And you weren't going to stand there listening to your incredibly hot stepmother having sex with your slacker father who didn't even know how to treat a woman. You answer Steve quickly and grab a camouflage jacket, put it on over your shirt and change your shorts for trousers and shoes before heading back down to the living room.

“I'm going for a walk with Steve, we're going to a pub with an old high school crowd. When I get back, I'll probably bring Derek from school. So don't worry, I'll take care of everything.” You say and walk across the room, but Natasha holds your arm.

“Hey, don't drink too much. You're driving and you're bringing your brother, Y/n.” She says, her green eyes clouded with worry.

“I won't. You can relax.” You whisper firmly, and the smell of her sweat hits you.

It's something like vanilla, but at the same time mixed with a specific sweet, fruity flavour. Delicious. She's delicious. Even when sweaty, her scent remains impeccable, and you've noticed it ever since you first saw her. You see a slight bite mark on her neck and you want to touch it, but something bothers your stomach, because you know it's not you who's caused it. And you can't. Natasha sighs, she knows you're so close that just by looking at you she could stop breathing, because you're like a masterpiece hidden deep inside her genius mind.

“I get it. You take care.” You say, forcing yourself to get away from her before you do something thoughtless.

Natasha regrets your departure. She wants you to stay, but it's your choice and you want to be with your old friends, it's your right, so she just watches you walk out the door. Your words are still jumbled and struggling in her mind. Bruce really wouldn't know how to satisfy her. But what about you? How deep could you go for her?

The place is cosy like being in an old cottage in the middle of a field away from everything, but it's a pub nonetheless. A pub, with the appearance of a pub, of course. With lots of chairs and tables spread out in an orderly fashion, with decorative signs with drink brands, with people laughing and exchanging small talk with each other, with a woman carrying more mugs of frothy beer than you can count. The smell is pleasant, a mixture of burning wood and live alcohol seeping through the walls, as well as jazz and blues playing in the background. Now that should be a lifestyle. You stick your hands in your pockets and catch up with Steve, who is chatting distractedly to Private Wilson, none other than Maria Hill and James Barnes, a school friend who has disappeared from your sight to go live with his parents in Germany.

Maria was a great friend of yours and Steve's, and he even told you that she liked you a lot, but you only saw her as a sister, something that annoyed her, but she would never push it.

“Hey, look who's here! When Steve said you looked like a wall, I couldn't believe it, I had to come and see for myself.” Barnes laughs and hugs you, patting you on the back. “And you look great, mate, if you were blonde you'd be considered a German citizen straight away.”

“You're impossible.” Maria laughs and hugs you too, as tightly as if she hadn't seen you for years, which was true.

The five of you get lost in conversations between the past and the present. Maria, who was a classmate at the school where you and Rogers studied, had completed her studies and was studying law for some time, something she was very proud of. Barnes, who was now living in Germany but took time out to see old friends, had opened a workshop in Stuttgart, one of the country's most influential industrial cities. Wilson was certainly in the army, as you already knew, but according to him, he planned to finish another year of service and open a carpentry shop to honour his late father's memory. Even Steve was planning to leave the army, he said he'd like to become a 'police chief', which didn't sound too bad. You, on the other hand, weren't even sure what to do.

All you knew was that you wanted your own car, to move out of your grumpy father's house and find a place of your own, even if it wasn't in the city centre.

But you would still happily visit Derek as often as you could.

“Hey, baby! Why don't you come round and give us a bit of attention? Let's have some fun!” A bald guy with yellow teeth exclaimed from the table a few metres away from yours on the left.

This guy was with two other men at his table, one of them had spiky hair and wore dark glasses, the other had gel-slicked hair and blue glasses. They were all wearing jackets and dark clothes, with helmets on the floor under the table where they were standing. They all looked fucking weird, though, and were already staring at Maria in a completely uncomfortable and sexual way that was putting you off. She paid no attention for the first few minutes, of course, trying not to care, but they were becoming increasingly unbearable to put up with.

“Hey, mate, stay cool. She's with us.” Steve said, noticing your shoulders tense with nervousness.

He didn't want to risk it, he knew you had a certain problem with anger but Steve was a man of order and hated arguments unless he felt it was 'necessary'. You, on the other side, had already downed three shots of straight whisky and were ready to blow the ugly faces off those ogre bikers.

“And who said I asked you anything, hero hair?” The frizzy-haired guy asked and stood up, passing behind Sam and subtly squeezing Maria's shoulders, who was startled. “Could you please take your hands off me?”

"You don't like it, do you?" He laughed and approached her.

You practically jumped out of your chair, using both hands to push the man's chest, who staggered backwards with your violent force and almost fell to the floor. He growled a dry laugh and approached you again, punching you in the air as you nimbly sidestepped him. Your group laughed and whistled in your direction, making him even angrier, and you drove your fist straight into his nose, hearing something break and fresh blood splatter on your skin.

“She said to let go of her.” You grunted, hardly caring about the pain.

“What the fuck, man!” One of them shouted and you felt the thud of something glass against your face. “Y/n!”

You punched the same man and kicked him in the stomach, hearing a loud grunt of pain, blood staining the refinished wooden floor. The second man approached and you head-butted him hard, feeling his blood splatter on your forehead and nose. The bald man pushed you, making you stumble with a bleeding part of your face, noticing that he had smashed a fucking glass bottle over your head. Fortunately, there was a single deep cut on your eyebrow going halfway down your pale cheek. He nearly blinded you. Steve pushed him hard and kicked him in the stomach, and you elbowed the third man who approached you in the face.

“That's enough! Out of my pub, NOW!” A middle-aged man with a full moustache said and Steve and the others pulled you out.

“Bloody hell, mate, you nearly fucked your face up for that! That was insanely crazy!” Barnes shouted, trying to analyse your bruise.

“It's okay, it's just a bit of blood.” You sighed heavily.

“What were you thinking! Jesus, Banner, you could have hurt yourself badly or something worse!” Maria grabbed your shoulders, visibly worried.

“Exactly! We need to take care of this.” Steve pointed to your bruised face.

“I wasn't going to let that disgusting worm harass you, Hill.” You whispered furiously, your fists shaking.

“And I didn't want you to get hurt because of me, Banner! God, you're so impulsive.” She shook her head.

“All right, Hill, I'll take care of it from here. Don't worry.” Rogers touched her shoulder and Maria nodded nimbly.

“Wilson, Barnes and I were thinking of going to a party a few blocks from here, are you coming? It's a friend's birthday.” She asked, brushing a lock of her fringe out of her face.

“I can't right now, I have to pick Derek up from school. I hope you have a good time, though.” You say and pull her into a tight hug, which she returns.

“And I'll be keeping an eye on this tough guy. Good night, take care, gentlemen and...lady.” Steve says goodbye to them and you look at him out of the corner of your eye. “Don't give me that look, you know I won't let you drive alone in this state.”

And Steve does. He drives to school as soon as you've said goodbye to the rest of the group, looking at you every five minutes as if you might jump out of the car if you had a mental breakdown. You were still bleeding, no matter how hard you tried to stop the bleeding, the cut had left a wide scar on your eyebrow sliding in a crooked loop to the beginning of your right cheek. It stung like hell, even, and there might have been a few shards stuck in there, but you'd convinced yourself to put up with as much pain as possible and Steve not to drag you to the nearest hospital.

“Stevie! Y/n!” Derek ran towards you both, hugging you and jumping into your arms.

“Hey, little brother.” You ruffled his hair, hearing voices all over the car park, parents gathering with their children and kids everywhere.

“What happened to your face?” The boy held your chin, his black eyes wide.

“Well, what can we say, mate? Your big brother took on a bad guy to protect a friend of ours and ended up with a war wound.” Steve smiled, crossing his arms as he looked directly at you.

“Hey, that's an honourable act. Let's just say it's what separates the men from the boys.” You shrugged, opening the passenger door for your brother and sitting him down, helping him buckle his seatbelt.

“In other words, he's a tough guy.” Steve laughed briefly, getting into the car and you patted Derek on the shoulder. “And we say...”

“We should always protect and look after women, sir.” The boy said before you could even think and you nodded positively, sitting down next to him and pulling on your seatbelt as Steve started to drive. “That's my boy.”

The journey home is a bit hectic. Derek tells you and Steve that the girl he's supposedly tremendously in love with, Emilly, has taken a liking to a guy who certainly loves to pick on him. She also seems to be ignoring him. You and Steve try your best to comfort the boy, who is quiet for a few minutes only until you mention that Natasha must be preparing something for him to eat when he arrives. The boy jumps out of the car as soon as you park it and helps him with his seatbelt, and you joke about it with Steve as you approach the house after locking the car.

“You're here, baby! How was class?” You hear Natasha's voice from inside and sigh.

The first thing that unfortunately crosses your mind is that she literally fucked your father while you were awake listening to everything.

But it's okay, because apparently Bruce didn't get the job done, but he should be calmer now.

“It was great, Nat! Emily kicked my arse, but it's okay because Stevie told me I'm a big guy who deserves better things and now I'm starving. Look at that, Y/n's got a new war scar!” He exclaims, pointing at you as you enter the room.

Natasha is now wearing neutral-coloured baggy trousers, a striped T-shirt and slippers that you've never seen before, but which make her even more adorable considering the situation. Her red hair is tied up in a messy bun and a few strands fall across her face, making her look completely and fucking ten times hotter than before. But no, you shouldn't see your stepmother like that, mate.

“What? My God, Y/n! What's happened?” Natasha moves away from the cooker where she was standing and switches off the fire, running over to you.

“Natasha, it's no big deal, just-” You try to explain yourself, but Romanoff is quicker.

“Oh, God. What's wrong? I told you not to drink, especially as you had to bring Derek back home! Say something, how did this happen?” She exclaims, practically on the verge of collapse.

You almost laugh at the situation, because you find the way she cares for you subtle and kind, but your smile falters when Natasha is so close that her breath brushes your face. Her fingers are on your jaw, some run over your ears, and you smell her, feel how close she is now, and her touch is simply the icing on the cake. It lights you up.

“It was just a silly bar fight, Natasha, it's fine. Steve and I were with some friends, Maria, our friend, was being bothered by some weirdos and I had to take action.” You explain, swallowing.

“And by that he means: he took on three men practically on his own and got his head bashed in. That's why he's bleeding.” Steve commented, not looking threatened by your fatal stare.

“Jesus Christ. You've got to be out of your mind, you should be in hospital right now! Hang on, I'll take care of it.” Natasha said, moving away to rummage through the cupboard drawers.

Just then, Bruce appeared, coming down the stairs. He had his glasses in his eyes, his hair crumpled and dishevelled, a crooked posture and a grumpy, grey look in his eyes. He didn't look very friendly for someone who'd had sex this afternoon. Well, it's not as if he's the type who knows how to leave a woman satisfied. It seemed to make sense.

“Leave the boy alone, Natasha, he can look after himself, he's practically a grown man.” He said and she replied. “No, he's bleeding, he won't know how to look after himself.”

“You're stubborn, just go and serve the dishes and stop voicing your opinion-” Bruce said rudely, but she cut him off.

“Shut up, Bruce. Sit down. I'll take care of Y/n's wound first.” She practically grunted, bringing with her a first aid kit.

Bruce looked static, probably furious that his wife had hit him for the first time, but he went to sit down at the table and remained silent.

“Natasha-” You sighed, feeling her sit you down in the living room armchair and shake her head.

“No Natasha, Y/n. You're hurt, the least I can do is clean it up and hope it gets a bit better, but if you were in hospital, you'd probably need a few stitches.” She shakes her head, opening the small suitcase. “And that's going to hurt a bit.”

You close your eyes and shake your head subtly, trying to ignore the way her breath was practically in your face and judging that her full breasts were so prominent inside her striped shirt, she was probably without a bra. Fuck, don't look over there, kid. Natasha takes a piece of gauze, her hands already clean and sanitised, and presses it gently on the cut, trying her best to stop the bleeding without hurting you.

“You know, I was a nurse when I was about your age. For a few years. I served in the army in Manhattan. I was good at what I did, but I didn't think it was for me.” She whispered softly, her eyes fixed on every part of your face.

“Can't stand the smell of blood?” You asked rhetorically.

“Not just the smell. I don't like seeing the consequences caused on the body of a man who is trying to defend his country. I didn't have the stomach for it.” She swallowed dryly and you nodded softly.

“What do you do now?” The question escapes her mouth faster than she realises and Natasha pulls out the bloodstained cotton wool, fiddling absent-mindedly with the case.

“I make cakes, sweets in general, it's been a long time since I married your father. I was unemployed anyway, so as I'm almost obsessed with baking, I put one thing together and that's what happened.” She replied, bending down to wipe the dried blood from her brow.

“Do you make them and have your own shop or?..” You stared at her.

“No, well, I cook them and prepare everything myself. Young Thor, from next door, delivers them on his bicycle, and I pay him accordingly. He's a great kid.” She says simply.

Your jaw clenches, the fingers of your hand squeezing the seat cushion indiscreetly. Annoyed? Certainly. But why? She's your stepmother, she's married and well-off, even though she has your idiot father for a spouse. Apart from that, you shouldn't be jealous of her.

“Got it.” Your eyes flash dangerously and Natasha suddenly blushes, looking away.

“I'll put a saline solution over the cut to make sure it's cleaner. Then I'll cover it with gauze, but please make sure you go and see the doctor, Y/n, I don't want you to get an infection or anything.” She asks and you nod.

Romanoff leans over and with a new piece of damp cotton wool, she dabs it over his still open cut with the utmost caution, cleaning the area as best she can. A grunt comes out of your mouth as the wound burns all over, the blood running cold through your veins. Natasha notices and pulls her hand away slightly, feeling your gaze on her.

“It's all right. Take a deep breath.” She says and you do as she says, your chest rising and falling.

She moves closer again, and feels your hand on her wrist, which makes her breathing increase slightly, intimidated by you. But you follow her every move, and she cleans the wound as much as she can, pulling away when she's finished. With a clean towel, she carefully dries around the wound and takes a piece of gauze, making a few improvised cuts because of the angle of your wound. She quickly covers the area and sticks the cotton fabric there, making sure it sticks well but also doesn't cover or obscure your vision.

“Thank you. That wasn't necessary.” You say, your heavy accent making Natasha's legs tremble discreetly.

“It was necessary. And please don't get into any more fights if you want to kill me and your father with worry.” She says, and her hand accidentally brushes against your broad shoulder.

“I'm sure he doesn't mind, but I really appreciate it, Natasha.” A crooked smile curves her lips.

“I care about you.” She says simply.

Natasha's gaze on you is surreal. Everything about this woman is surreal, her eyes, her voice, her completely gentle and naturally full demeanour. Fuck, she should be unwanted here, but you're starting to completely ignore the very rules you've built behind the wall you're hiding behind, because deep down, you want this woman in every way possible. It doesn't matter if she's your stepmother, or a forbidden woman.

“Aren't you coming round for dinner?” Natasha smiled softly, a bite on the lower lip being enough to end your evening.

[sunschay]

Proving a point to my boyfriend.

PLEASE REBLOG if you (male or female) believe it is perfectly okay and natural for a guy of any age to cry

[sunschay]

SO DAMN FINE, UGH

[sunschay]

be rough but do it with love

[sunschay]

i love needy femmes that whimper when you pull their hair, that blush furiously when you call them baby, and always want to be touching you, even if it’s just pinkies under the table or tugging on your wrists to get your attention. girls who melt when you kiss their shoulder in passing or grab their waist from behind. that cling to your hoodie sleeves and tuck their cold hands under your shirt just to feel your warmth even if you squeak at them not to. those who send voice notes saying they miss you even though you’ve just left. femmes who light up when you brush their hair out of their pretty eyes, and who ask ‘do you still like me?’with a precious pout, but need to hear ‘always’like it’s their reason for being

i want to kiss every freckle, every inch, and make them feel so treasured and loved and adored hhhh