Feel It Deep

*

Pietro's finger taps on the holo-footage. 

He remembers every crumbled Sokovian building in every poor district, and every bleeding face, and how the glimmer of Wanda's tears clung to her long, mascara-coated eyelashes, streaking dark moisture on her jawline. This was before and after the Avengers.

There's always a before and after.

Pietro wanted home again. Even if it was on the brink of war.

"I was supposed to die back there… wasn't I?"

There's too much to remember. 

He can't keep up sometimes with his own mind, as it whirls and overloads him with sensory information. His frustrations vent out with yelling, or punching a wall, or hunching down in an unlit room by himself. Wanda knows it best to leave him alone then.

Pietro does remember Ultron hijacking the Avengers Quinjet. The terror burning quickly as Pietro's speed. The bullets deflecting off him.

He stood witness to a crimson red, psionic energy forming a barrier across his entire front and arms and legs.

He stood, and gasped out, and lived.

Wanda hasn't explained if it was her casting a protective hex beforehand. Or not.

"No," Wanda answers, staring dully at the recording of Captain America lowering his shield, gazing to a shell-shocked Hawkeye cradling one of the Sokovian children against him. "Nobody was supposed to die. But they did."

"That's encouraging." Pietro mutters, quirking an eyebrow high at Wanda's sardonic but faintly amused look.

Whatever happened to him… it kept them together.

He's thankful enough for that.

*

They don't go home.

Home is rubble and fire-strewn ash, and Pietro compartmentalizes that grief for a later date. Right now, it's only Wanda. She's his home, smelling of old honeysuckle perfume, wrapped snugly in Pietro's arms in a long line of heat and kissing his throat.

The Battle of Sokovia ends.

Now they live.

*

"Do you think Vision… how you say in English… fucks?" Pietro calls out, his Sokovian accent thick.

A muffled laugh.

"You could ask him, you know. He isn't very shy."

"I might," Pietro teases, stepping out of their bedroom's entrance. While picking out a level of the New Avengers Facility to stay in, they reject any residential space that had separated bedrooms. Separate twin beds, however, were acceptable.

(Pietro suspects that the Avengers are aware of the Maximoff Twin's unusual form of codependency. Questions aren't brought up.)

He struts to Wanda, wearing what the Widow called "her interrogation heels".

Wanda's bra and a pair of her underwear. 

Thin and dark. 

Pietro smeared a little of his sister's charcoal-dark makeup on his lips and chin, as well as around the outside of his eyes.

"I know what you are thinking, Wanda," Pietro drawls, lifting his arms over his head with mock-elegance, smiling widely as Wanda muffles another laugh into her hand, her face scrunched. "You are thinking you could never pull this off—and you are right."

Wanda's laugh fades, replacing with a little, devilish tone.

"Turn around."

For once, Pietro willingly does as he's told. 

He wiggles his butt, but stumbles, the high heels tottering. "I meant to do that," Pietro declares, looking unfazed. 

Wanda doesn't appear convinced, but he's enthralled by the intensity surging between them. 

Pietro's hand strokes up his leg, combing through the silvery-dark hairs.

"How would you like me, little-mine? Like this?" Pietro whispers, dragging his fingers inside of Wanda's panties, rubbing on himself. His cock twitches in Pietro's grip, lengthening slowly, becoming harder under Wanda's attention.

Everything feels hard and soft and wet with fluid dribbling out of his cock-slit.

"Or maybe like this?"

"Spread open," Wanda murmurs, dreamy-eyed. "On your knees." Cascades of bright red energy teems from Wanda's fingertips, as she waves a hand without considering it, effortlessly knocking Pietro's arm to his side. "No more touching yourself, Pietro."

Pietro grins fiercely, snapping Wanda's bra-straps on his shoulders. "Are you taking command?"

She only grins back, mirroring her twin.

Wanda's leg props up on the armchair she's arranged in, crooking apart.

No stockings.

The hem of Wanda's dark, lacy dress exposes open, revealing her bareness. Makes sense to Pietro. He did take her panties.

"Pietro, wait…"

He swallows hard, mumbling out.

Wanda's fingers fluff through her pubic hair, curling in.

Pietro wants to see her touch against her full, moistened vaginal-lips. All plump pink. All waiting for him, waiting, because Wanda has never let someone else touch her like Pietro touched in the middle of long, cold nights. Never had her murmurous moans and her dripping wet warmth.

"Wait…"

She sips on a fingertip, glistening it, lowering and running along the seam of her lips. Wanda's eyes roam over Pietro, from his opening lips, to his cock thickening, bulging out. One of his balls seems to slip free, hanging from the bridge of Wanda's thin underwear.

"Wait…"

"Come on, Wanda," Pietro says, nearly pleading in a breath. His molecules vibrate with need, loudly trembling, making him blur.

Wanda doesn't seem to hear him, tossing her head against the armchair and sighing.

Her entrance clenches along with Wanda's sigh.

That's when he feels himself release, throbbing hard, filling up the soft cottony inside of Wanda's underwear.

When her head tilts, Pietro's mouth meets hers. 

He kisses her ravenously, having returned to Wanda's personal space, crawling on her lap. It's where he belongs—him and her. Together. One of Wanda's hands combs into Pietro's silvery-dark locks, petting in, soothing the aftershocks of his pleasure.

Pietro reaches under her dress, thumbing into her dampness and grinning with all of his teeth against Wanda's ear.

"No more waiting," he murmurs.

The vibrating surface of Pietro's thumb presses on her clit.

*