Chapter 4: Wanda rocks against Natasha's thigh, her swollen clit leaving slick trails as she growls, *'Tell me how Yelena whimpers when she's close - does she bite her lip like you? Does she beg?'* while her fingers twist cruelly in Natasha's hair.
The wet patch on the mattress had cooled, a stark reminder of the morning’s violence. Natasha lay on her back, staring at a hairline crack in the ceiling plaster. The ghost of Melina’s imagined cries still echoed in her bones, a phantom chorus to the real ache between her thighs. Wanda was a solid, warm line against her side, one hand idly stroking Natasha’s stomach.
“Yelena,” Wanda said into the quiet. Not a question. A summons.
Natasha closed her eyes. “Wanda…”
“No.” Wanda’s hand stilled. “Melina is complicated. A symphony. Yelena is… a burst of automatic fire. Tell me.”
“She’s angry.”
“I know she’s angry. I want to know what her anger tastes like.” Wanda moved then, swinging a leg over Natasha’s hips, straddling her thigh. She wore only her skin. The heat of her was immense. Natasha could feel the dampness of Wanda’s cunt already seeping onto her leg. “How does she move? When she’s fighting, when she’s… wound up.”
Natasha’s breath hitched. The pressure was delicious, obscene. “Fast. Erratic. Unpredictable. She favors her left side after the Budapest drop—a weak ligament she won’t admit to. She smells like gunpowder and that cheap strawberry lip balm she’s obsessed with.”
Wanda began to rock, a slow, grinding roll of her hips that smeared her wetness across Natasha’s muscle. “Sounds. What does she sound like when she’s hurt? When she’s coming apart?”
“Guttural.” The word was torn from Natasha. She could see it: Yelena in some safehouse cot, biting her own fist to stay quiet. “She snarls. Like a feral thing. She curses in Russian, filthier than you can imagine.”
“Mmm.” Wanda’s eyes were half-lidded, watching Natasha’s face. Her rocking became more purposeful, her clit seeking friction against Natasha’s leg. “And if I had her pinned? If I had my fingers in that tight, angry little cunt of hers, fucking her until she remembered how to be a person and not a weapon? What then?”
Natasha’s own sex throbbed, empty and aching. The image was blinding. Yelena, struggling, then melting. “She’d fight it. Until she didn’t. She’d scream. Not a scream of fear. Of… recognition.”
Wanda moaned, low and satisfied. Her hands braced on Natasha’s shoulders, her movements growing urgent. The room filled with the slick, rhythmic sound of her pleasure. “Tell me she’s tight. Tell me she’d come so hard she’d see stars.”
“She’s tight,” Natasha whispered, hypnotized by the sight of Wanda above her, using her, conjuring her sister from the air between them. “Tighter than anything. She’d claw your back. Draw blood.”
“Good.” Wanda’s breath was coming in short pants. “I want her to mark me. I want her rage and her need all mixed up until she doesn’t know the difference.” She leaned down, her breasts brushing Natasha’s chest, her mouth hovering over Natasha’s. “Would you watch? If I made her sob? If I made her cum so many times she forgot her own fucking name?”
It was the core of it. The secret, shameful hunger Natasha carried like a second spine. She’d pictured it a thousand times in the dark: Wanda, a benevolent goddess, dismantling the women she loved with ruthless, exquisite pleasure. Healing them by ruining them for anyone else.
“Yes.” Natasha’s voice broke on the word. “God, yes. I’d watch every second. I’d want her to see me watching.”
That did it. Wanda’s control snapped. A jagged cry ripped from her throat and she ground down hard, her body seizing. Natasha felt the hot gush of her release flood over her thigh, a second soaking. Wanda shook through it, her inner muscles clenching around nothing, her eyes screwed shut.
When she finally stilled, breathing like a runner, she slid off Natasha’s leg. She didn’t go far. She slithered down the bed, her face level with Natasha’s sex. The intent was clear, her gaze unwavering.
“You’re thinking about it right now,” Wanda said, her voice wrecked. “Her face. My mouth on her. You’re so wet for it, Nat. It’s dripping out of you.”
Natasha could only nod, spread open before that knowing green stare.
Wanda didn’t use her hands. She simply lowered her mouth and began to lick with a slow, devastating thoroughness that had Natasha’s heels digging into the sheets within seconds. This wasn’t the frantic worship of before. This was a claiming. A communion.
“You want this for her,” Wanda murmured against her, the vibrations shooting straight to Natasha’s core. “You want her to feel this. To have her world reduced to my tongue on her clit. To know her big sister is getting off on it.”
She pushed her tongue inside, fucking Natasha with it, then circled her clit with relentless precision. Natasha’s hips canted off the bed, seeking more, seeking oblivion. The coil wound again, fiercer, fueled by a torrent of forbidden fantasy.
“Come for your sister,” Wanda commanded, her fingers now digging into Natasha’s thighs, holding her wide. “Come imagining her walking in on us. Seeing me eat your cunt while I finger her own. One big, happy, fucking broken family.”
The orgasm detonated. It was less a flood this time and more a series of brutal, body-locking convulsions that stole the air from Natasha’s lungs. She made no sound, her mouth a silent ‘O’ of agony and ecstasy, back arched like a bow. Wanda drank her down, swallowing every pulse, until Natasha collapsed, boneless and gasping.
Wanda crawled up and curled into her, a protective, possessive shell. They lay in the mess they’d made, the scent of sex and salted skin and Laura Barton’s forgotten perfume clinging to the air.
After a long time, Natasha spoke, her voice raw. “We’ll have to go to Budapest first. There’s a safehouse. A rally point she might still use.”
Wanda nodded into her shoulder. “Then we go to Budapest.”
The plan was no longer abstract. It had a taste, a sound, a scent. It had the phantom feel of Yelena’s imagined body between them. The dacha had given them its ghosts, and in return, they had forged a new, terrible purpose from the bones of the old.
Natasha looked at the unlit candle on the nightstand. For the first time, she thought of lighting it.