Chapter 16: Nat bath
Wanda’s smile was a slow, private thing as she looked from Yelena’s dazed face to Natasha’s desperate form still braced against the vanity. “Yelena, my baby girl,” Wanda said, her voice a low hum that vibrated in the steamy air. “You want to see big sis get her bath now?”
Yelena blinked, the fog of her own climax still clinging to her. She watched a droplet of water trace a path from Wanda’s collarbone into the valley between her breasts. “Yes,” she breathed, the word coming out instantly, without a single thread of hesitation.
“Good. Sit.”
Wanda gestured to the closed lid of the toilet, a sleek black marble perch. Yelena moved, her legs still unsteady, and sat, the cool surface a shock against her heated skin. She pulled one of the abandoned towels into her lap, a weak shield. Her eyes were wide, fixed.
Natasha hadn’t moved. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the vanity’s edge, her head hanging between her shoulders. The line of her spine was a tense, elegant curve. Wanda approached her with the silence of a predator, but her touch, when it came, was all warm water and soft intention.
She picked up a fresh, clean washcloth and the bar of lavender soap. She ran the sink, the water hot, soaking the cloth until it steamed. “Turn around, my love,” Wanda murmured.
Natasha pushed off the vanity and turned, leaning back against it. Her eyes were dark pools, fixed on Wanda’s face with a devotion that looked like pain. Wanda began.
It started clinically. Gently. Wanda washed Natasha’s neck, her shoulders, the strong deltoids. The lavender scent bloomed around them. Natasha’s breath was even, her eyes closed. Yelena watched, fascinated, as Wanda’s hands, so capable of cracking continents, moved with a nurse’s thorough care over old scars and newer bruises. She soaped Natasha’s arms, lifting each hand to clean the palms, the fingers, the spaces between.
Then Wanda shifted her stance, moving closer. The washcloth swept down Natasha’s sternum, over her ribs. Natasha’s breath hitched. A tiny, almost inaudible sound. A sigh.
Wanda’s hands moved lower, circling her navel, sliding over the tight muscles of her abdomen. Natasha’s head tipped back against the mirror with a soft thud. Her lips parted. Another sound escaped—a gentle, fractured moan.
Yelena leaned forward, the towel forgotten. She had seen Natasha in every state—broken, furious, victorious. She had never seen her like this. Unraveling.
Wanda rinsed the cloth, wrung it. She returned to Natasha’s chest, and this time there was no clinical distance. The cloth moved in slow, deliberate circles over Natasha’s breasts, the terry cloth catching on pebbled peaks. Natasha gasped. Her back arched off the vanity, pushing into the touch.
“Mommy…” The word was a whisper, a plea.
“I’m right here, солнышко,” Wanda cooed, her Sokovian accent softening the Russian endearment. She dipped the cloth into the basin of warm water and let it stream directly over Natasha’s chest, watching the water cascade down her torso.
The sounds from Natasha were changing. The sighs were becoming whimpers. The gentle moans were gaining pitch, becoming shorter, sharper. As Wanda traced the washcloth lower, skirting the junction of her thighs but washing every inch of her hips and the tops of her legs, Natasha’s breath started to come in ragged puffs.
“Please,” Natasha begged in English, her voice thin. “Wanda, please.”
Wanda just smiled, a goddess at her altar. She dropped the washcloth into the sink. Her bare, wet hands replaced it, sliding over Natasha’s soap-slick skin, from her hips back up to cup her breasts. Her thumbs brushed over Natasha’s nipples, once, twice—a firm, knowing pressure.
Natasha cried out. A high, sharp sound that echoed off the marble.
And then the language broke.
“Боже мой…” Natasha gasped, the Russian exclamation ripped from her throat.
Yelena stiffened. She knew that tone. It was the raw, unfiltered voice of the Red Room, the one Natasha buried under sarcasm and control.
Wanda’s fingers slid down Natasha’s trembling stomach, through the wet thatch of curls, and finally, finally touched her. Not with the cloth. Skin to skin. Two fingers, sliding through slick heat with an audible, wet sound.
Natasha’s head slammed back against the mirror again. A stream of Russian, fast and fluent and filthy, poured from her.
“Да, вот так, прямо там… не останавливайся, мамочка, пожалуйста…” The words were a silken, desperate rush. Yelena caught the vulgar, anatomical need, the pleading to a deity and to Wanda interchangeably.
Wanda’s fingers moved. A slow, torturous curl inside her. Natasha sobbed, her hands flying to grip Wanda’s wrist, not to push her away but to hold her there. “Ещё!” she demanded. More.
Wanda obliged. Her pace quickened. The wet, rhythmic slapping of her fingers filled the room, syncing with Natasha’s escalating cries.
Natasha was babbling, a frantic code-switching mess. “Right there, мамочка, yes—ах, чёрт!—don’t stop, I’m gonna—я кончаю!”
Her back bowed, a perfect tense arc. A shattered, screaming climax tore through her, so violent her feet left the floor. Wanda held her through it, fingers working, pumping her through the pulsing waves.
Just as Natasha’s cries began to ebb, Wanda changed the angle, crooking her fingers. Natasha’s eyes flew open, wide with shock. “Нет, нет, я не могу…” she chanted. No, no, I can’t.
But she could. A second, sharper peak hit her, wringing a guttural shout from her lungs.
Wanda didn’t let up. She was relentless, a master who knew the instrument she was playing. She leaned in, biting gently at Natasha’s throat while her fingers continued their devastating rhythm. Natasha was sobbing now, overstimulated, sensitive, her pleas a chaotic blend of languages.
“Too much… слишком хорошо… Wanda, прошу… Mommy, it’s too—БОЖЕ!”
A third climax, this one a silent, shaking seizure, gripped her. Her knees buckled. Wanda caught her, her arm wrapping around Natasha’s waist, holding her upright against the vanity while her other hand finally, slowly, stilled.
Natasha slumped against her, completely spent, breath hitching in great, shuddering gulps. Wanda held her, murmuring soft, praising nonsense into her hair. She reached for the clean, warm water, gently rinsing the soap and evidence of release from Natasha’s trembling skin with the gentlest touch of the cloth.
Yelena sat frozen on the toilet lid, her own skin prickling with a sympathetic electricity. She had just witnessed a total dismantling. She saw the raw, exposed core of her sister, the one hidden beneath the Black Widow’s impenetrable armor, and it was beautiful and terrifying. She saw the woman who held that power, cradling her wreckage like something precious.
Wanda looked over Natasha’s shoulder, her green eyes finding Yelena’s in the foggy mirror. They were calm, satisfied, holding a secret knowledge that made Yelena’s breath catch.
The chapter was complete.