Bonheur d'occasion
Summary: Wanda thinks it's great fun to tease virginal, naïve Vision. Until he learns to tease back…
In the two weeks since Sokovia, since her very soul had been wrenched in half, Wanda had been quiet and alone, searching her consciousness for any sign of her brother. He'd always been there, like a comfortable sweater, warm and soft, and now he was gone. There was a prickling at the back of her consciousness, like snow on an old television, static and electronic. It tickled in a way that almost hurt, a magnetic seizing and drawing towards it while at the same time dancing back in repel.
At first, she'd thought it was Pietro's death. That his absence felt like this, like the moment before a sneeze, anticipation and yearning, scared her. She wasn't sure if it was pleasure or pain.
She started to get accustomed to it, though.
And then she figured out that Vision was the one causing it. Like a microphone held too close to an amplifier, her ears rang with the sensation. She caught herself being short with him, prickly like a cactus. Trying to keep him from being close, while at the same time, wanting to be closer, to find out why he made her feel like this. It was torturous curiosity.
She noticed that the static was starting to shift, when she was close to him. It was strange – she could sense his emotions, but not his thoughts, not in the same way as the others – unless he was thinking of her. Then the static rolled through to fog, smelling like her shampoo and her perfume and the after-the-lightning crackle of her hexes. It sounded like her voice, tinged with a Russian accent, but blushing slightly pink.
Vision had been beyond polite to her; downright accommodating. Maybe he thought she was grieving and just needed time. Maybe he was trying to win her over. But he was treating her differently.
He made her tea one day, when she was sitting in the window and staring morosely out at the city. She sniffed the mug suspiciously – Earl Grey with a hint of lemon – and then took a sip, letting the steam penetrate her sinuses and soothe her throat.
When she looked up at his eyes, those unnaturally blue eyes, that glowed like a cat's – he had his mouth shaped in a silent "o" – and his eyes were rolled back in his head in pleasure. Somehow, in giving her this gift, he was sensing how she felt when she received it. He looked down at his feet guiltily, then scurried out of the room. She sighed, but stayed where she was, sipping her tea, enveloped in the steam.
He gave her different things every day, small little gestures that he then experienced rebounding from her. Hot coffee, a cold bottle of Coca-Cola, a bowl of popcorn – each one exhilarating but different for both of them. On the day he'd brought her a box of Godiva chocolates – he'd confided in Pepper, who acquired them for him, was the day he realized he was in trouble. Big trouble.
"I hope you like them," Vision said, as Wanda carefully undid the gold ribbon, tying it playfully in a bow on her ponytail.
"I don't know why you keep bringing me things," she told him. "But I thank you."
"The Captain said you'd need… what was it? A little pampering. I'm trying to comply."
Wanda stifled a giggle. He had no filter for things like that, and it was endearing. She popped a chocolate into her mouth, leaning forward from where she was sitting on the floor. He sat across from her, leaning forward on his thighs, his piercing blue eyes studying her intently.
She popped open a button on her shirt, and fanned herself with her hand, as she moaned sensuously.
"Oh, Viz," she threw her head back, eyes shut. "This is just, so… so good."
It was only once she opened her eyes that she realized he'd vanished.
He had avoided her completely the following day, she mused, returning to her room to go to sleep. She opened the door, and found a bouquet of wildflowers in a vase on her bedside table. In perfect copperplate script, the note attached read: "My apologies, Miss Maximoff. –Vision". She inhaled deeply, reaching out for the electrical sensation in her head and pushing her feelings towards it.
In the middle of an intense physical training against Iron Man and Captain America, Vision suddenly gasped, throwing his head back, feeling as if he'd been stabbed in the spine with a cattle prod, and dropped to his knees.
"Hey, Viz, what's up?" the Captain's voice came over the radio.
"I'm fine," he said, breathing heavily.
Despite his skin already being a deep shade of crimson, he seemed to flush every time she came near him. She wasn't sure if she could see it, or sense it, but he was absolutely as giddy as a schoolboy with a first crush. And she'd started spending more time with him.
She fell asleep on him one night, as they'd watched a movie. Apparently she drooled on his lap, she thought, awakening, her pulse pounding and feeling damp and hot between her thighs.
Viz disappeared.
She'd been having sex dreams about him.
From ones where he pulled her, roughly, into a private corner, and started attacking her mouth, because he'd never been kissed before but she was kissing him back and he could feel how it was making her feel. A feedback loop of shiver and shudder.
To the ones with more romance, where he lowered her onto a bed, draped in gauzy netting, dressed in a ridiculous outfit from the cover of a romance novel, and leaned over her, shirt open at the neck, wearing breeches. These ones were more tender, almost toothache sweet.
To the ones where she initiated, straddling him and grinding against him while kissing him, her own arousal dictating their speed.
He'd been having sex dreams about her.
One day, she had stood in the kitchen with him. He was explaining something, his voice soft and low. She had stopped listening, and was instead staring at his mouth, her own dropping open. He stopped what he was saying, concentrating hard on the look on her face and the sensations he was feeling, before she reached up and grabbed either size of his head, kissing him hard, dizzyingly hard.
She'd pushed him back into the cabinets, and pulled his head down to hers, closing the gap between their heights by standing on her tiptoes. She ground her hips into his. The heavens exploded behind his eyes.
It had taken weeks to get him to call her 'Wanda' instead of 'Miss Maximoff', but she was being equally patient at letting him take the lead for going beyond kissing. She didn't think he knew she wasn't a virgin, but she also didn't think he'd care if he did.
One night, they were lying on her bed, kissing gently, touching each other, gentle caresses and gripping squeezes. He had his hands cupping her rear and, and she slipped her hand over his crotch. He groaned and arched his back into it.
"Oh," he said, his hands fisting in the back of her shirt. "Does it… will it feel better than that? If we, well…"
"It would," she assured him, pulling her own shirt off over her head. Within an instant he was naked, and she had her hand wrapped around him – hot iron under a velvet slipcover, dark and red just like he was but feeling exactly like skin, only somehow better.
She took off her jeans, and straddled him. He gripped her hips as she lowered herself onto him, and he ran his hands up her side, to tweak her nipples with his fingers. She gasped and clenched; he gasped and arched his back.
The feedback loop they generated at their climax was enough to knock out every piece of technology in the Tower, not that either of them noticed.
Bonheur d'occasion: secondhand happiness - the happiness you experience through another person's pleasure.