𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐍.𝐑-𝐖.𝐌

𝐒𝐢𝐱 -𝐒

Tysm u all for 1k😭♥️♥️

Im sad u guys don't interact:'((

-

Natasha is a babbler.

It's something Wanda's learned now that they've had more time together, time to settle in and get to know each other more...intimately. Her love, Natasha, has a loose tongue when she's aroused, her soft sounds of pleasure starting as gasps and sighs and gentle moans, and then rising in pitch and pace the closer she gets to her climax.

When she's good and truly roused, when she's sensitive and trembling, and near to the edge, that's when it starts in earnest, the whispered words, sibilant sentences about how good it feels, and oh, and more, and the brunette's tongue, and "oh God don't stop, and keep licking just like that oh Wanda oh God oh please don't stop don't stop I'm so close I love this Wanda please please oh"...

And Wanda loves it. Goes absolutely mad for it. Has to fight the urge to grin every time that tense and heated voice reaches her ears, evidence of what she does for her, of how Natasha comes undone for her. The famous Black Widow unraveling thread by thread in soft mewls and grasping thighs.

Wanda likes to think she knows her, thinks she's seen most of her colors and shades, until one night, one blessed night when the rest of the avengers are sent onto a mission, where the compound is empty and quiet.

There were candles and wine and a homemade dinner, and a warm, languid soak in the tub before they'd collapsed onto the bed in a heap of tension begging release.

And since they'd had all the time in the world, Wanda had been determined to take her time.

To see to her good and proper, soft kisses all over her collarbone, down her sternum, over her belly and back up. Tasting every inch of pale, creamy skin.

Natasha had been whispering sweet nothings to her by the time the brunette finished with her breasts, relentless tugs of lips and teeth chased by soft swirls of tongue until she'd been gasping, fingers tight in dark hair, hands pushing, urging lower.

"Go down on me," she'd gasped, and then, "Please," and "I need your tongue."

She hadn't had to make a third request. Wanda had made her way back down, found her soaked and slippery, tasting of salt and earth and lavender soap, a heady cocktail of Natasha that she'd supped on for long minutes, teasing her with taps and twirls of her tongue until the redhead was muttering half sentences and arching and pleading.

She'd brought her up, and up, until Natasha cried out and out, and then she'd come, thighs trembling in Wanda's grasp, hips bucking against her mouth.

And Wanda hadn't stopped. Had slowed, perhaps, had let her tongue tease gently, softly, kept it flat and light as she'd licked and licked, and the redhead ahh!ed and sighed, her fingers combing restlessly against her scalp again and again.

Words leave Natasha after her first orgasm, leave her gasping and quiet, but they come back soon enough, and all it had taken was two fingers into her slick depths, angled up just right, for the chorus to begin anew.

Wanda kept her attentions slow but firm, had pressed and pressed as Natasha's hips rolled and rolled and "oh Wanda oh God Wanda oh please Wanda oh k-keep going just like–just like that" her name has never sounded so lovely as it does from the deep timbre of Natasha's sex-roughened voice; she'd deny herself for hours to hear just that sound again and again.

Natasha had risen up on a slow wave of half syllables and abandoned exclamations of bliss, her fingers in the sheets then, curled like claws as her torso twisted, her eyes scrunched tight, a riotous cry of bliss spurring Wanda on, filling her with a sudden need to draw that sound out again, more, louder, more ardently.

So she'd shifted some, for better angle, better leverage, had eased a third finger into her just as soon as she'd come down enough from her high to accommodate the extra girth. And then she'd been merciless. Three fingers angled up just so, thumping hard and quick, making Natasha stiffen and shout, ankles scrabbling at the bedsheets, thighs twitching. When Wanda's thumb had found her clit she'd gone downright delirious, making fists in her own hair, her belly flexing tight against the onslaught.

Her lips had been moving, quick and soundless, but at Wanda's soft, "Let me hear you, my love," she'd begun to speak in a strangled, breathless timbre.

Wanda thought it was gibberish at first, syllables of sensation so swift as to be unintelligible, as her hips had jerked, her fists flying to the pillow to grasp and twist.

But then she'd caught half a word, something she knew but only vaguely, and had begun to listen, really listen.

Not exactly Sokovian, but Russian. Deep, fluent Russian that coats Natasha's words like expensive silk.

Wanda barely knows it well enough to pick out the pinched and rising exclamations as she moves her fingers faster, harder, the wet smack of them joining Natasha's cries to a deity of some kind and something particularly vulgar about certain parts of her anatomy and what she needs her to do to them.

And then she'd been flying, another scream to a god in a foreign tongue and then just wordless, mindless ecstasy. She bucks and writhes, and Wanda has to keep a hand on her belly to keep her from wrenching the brunette's fingers right out of her by accident as she shatters to pieces.

Wanda thought she knew all the colors of Natasha, but now here she is, sweat-slicked, and limp-limbed, gasping for each whimpered breath as the brunette strokes her belly gently with her thumb and stretches the ever so slightly cramped (and oh-so-deliciously wet) fingers of her now-freed right hand.

She murmurs something again, delirious, more Russian sentences that hardly connect and Wanda grins.

It seems she still holds secrets, after all.