.

.

"You nearly died."

"Nearly," Pietro repeats, softly.

He grins with all his teeth — with that devil-may-care attitude that Wanda imagines often of smacking right off — and brushes dry, pale-cracked lips to her fingertips.

Her powers thrum inside Wanda, following the pace of her heartbeat. She feels it, she senses it amplifying — that part of her that wants to respond, to caress and cover Pietro with all the heat building inside her. Until they are truly one entity, sharing one tiny world to themselves again.

Not inside the Avengers facility deep, deep underground, with its cameras and recording every movement they make.

Wanda swallows, faintly tasting the film of sick-sour from this morning.

"They let you get shot, Pietro," she protests.

He chuckles, lying flat on the pillowed cot, bandaged and bare-chested with hospital sheets tucked around his middle. "And now, I live to fight another day." His eyes seem to twinkle. Neither of them have a reason to be carefree, or feel entirely safe, but… she appreciates her twin pretending for her sake.

"Were you worried about me, little mine?"

It's an enduring nickname from their native tongue, rolling off Pietro's lips. Spoken to little sisters, and even if she's only twelve minutes behind, Wanda find herself rolling her eyes.

Her eyes are not like her brother's.

Pietro's eyes are open, warm sky to run underneath. Their mother would clasp Wanda's chin one-handed, leveling gazes, and call her daughter's eyes celadon. Like the pottery in their home — elegant and fragile.

Wanda did not fall apart like her mother's beloved pottery, when Stark's bombs crashed into their home, when everything was lost to abyss-darkness. She and her brother are the only relics left now of their past, their bound untouchable and getting much stronger, it seems.

But she's tired. Fatigued and scared of what might happen, of being separated from the one person she loved.

Tears blur the corners of her vision, stinging. Her inhales shuddering.

"Yes," Wanda croaks out — I am still worried.

He murmurs to her, cupping the side of her face, bringing Wanda's head down. Pietro's mouth on her brow, pressing slow, comforting kisses, around her trembling eye, down to her right ear. Wanda half-lies on top of him, palming his silver-tinged hair, digging her fingers in.

No more. No more secret facilities, no more death.

She wants him out of this place, healed — and wants Pietro back in her arms when she falls asleep. When he drowsily strokes up her arms, nestling his face to her neck and shushing Wanda's violent nightmares. Instead of her waking alone in a room that smells like dust and artificial flowers, and hurting inside like an ache.

.

.

Sometimes, the ache can be relieved.

Temporarily.

With the lamps flicked off, closing her eyes, Wanda drags a hand to her underwear, prodding it aside. It's a moment silent and pulsing. She's surrounded by the texture of wool blankets, her wrist bending slightly as her own ringed fingers crawl blindly, stroking over her mound.

It's irresistible relief, touching herself, all that rising in her stomach.

She doesn't need a burst of wild wind to know it's him — her other half, and perhaps her absolute destruction one day — it's him hovering over her and breathing close to the joint of her throat, petting Wanda's clothed shoulder.

"Not finishing without me, are you?"

It's a sob for air escaping her, of her euphoria when Pietro's familiar, muscular torso pushes up against her. She feels his hand burrow between her legs, against her thighs, and slick-sliding to her vulva. A knuckle pressing on her swollen clit, and then vibrating, deliberately, working her until she's damp and whining open-mouthed to the mattress.

He says nothing. Pietro's hand moves dutifully to her waist, smoothing over the thin swelling of her belly.

Because nothing needs to be said — they both already know.

Wanda's energy flares out, rosy and pulsing visibly, glowing brightly within her irises.

.

.

A groan sounds from one of the nearby laboratories.

Tony shakes his head, motioning with a zip bag of freeze-dried blueberries.

He rips it open, shoveling his mouth full and then garbling out an unintelligible sentence, one of his cheeks bulging.

"Yeah, okay," Bruce says, dismissively. On the other side of Tony, he fiddles with a softly-lit holographic projection and doesn't look up. "I'm telling you that mathematically speaking, you need the data to work towards the total irreversible flow of heat."

The other man scoffs, gulping down his food. He spreads out his arms, dramatically, voice getting louder.

"Sure, if you want to debate Classical Thermodynamics, then—"

The sentence becomes lost, floating away, because Bruce's hands are on him, grabbing his face. His mouth crushing to Tony's lips as if ravenous — jesus capital-H christ.

For once, Tony feels speechless.

He stares, missing the flare of rosy color in Bruce's eyes.

(Or flooding blissfully in his own.)

Within a matter of moments, every semi-reasonable command in Tony's brain leaves him.

He careens forward, fisting Bruce's purple-punch polo, and thrusts them on the laboratory wall, breathing heavily. (Not on the carefully-detailed experiments, or sweeping off his cluttered worktop like some heathen of anti-science. Even if he can't reason that presently.)

Bruce's hips grind up in delicious friction, one leg hitched and cradled in Tony's hand, and ohmygod how did—

.

.

Her fingertips skim along Pietro's jaw, tracing a dark, prickly line of hair.

"Love you," Wanda murmurs, almost coyly. It's not the first time, and it wouldn't be the last she will speak these words to him. He echoes back her affections, nodding and smiling, kissing the V of her hand and suckling lightly down on her skin.

"Do you think we can live here…?" Pietro asks, teeth scraping her fore-nail.

"For a little while." She says, quietly, "The Avengers do good, but we cannot be sure they are good for us."

"I hear Thor has a brother. Loki. He is not so good."

"What is…?"

A huffing gust of breath against Wanda's palm, and she bites down a moan as his tongue flicks under her earlobe. "They call him a madman," Pietro explains.

"Thor doesn't speak of him," she replies, curiously.

"He and his brother were close once. A very long time ago."

An admiring smile tilts up her mouth, when her twin stares into her face.

"Like us?"

Pietro makes a disgruntled noise, hugging her and rolling them sideways.

"Nobody is like us," he tells her, solemnly.

.

.

Wanda throws on a currant-red, knitted shawl, and steps out of their double-apartment bedroom.

Down the adjacent corridor, Tony rushes after his best friend, calling out.

"Banner, do you understand that was the greatest sex I've ever had in my life?" Exasperation teems each word, not fury. He doesn't attempt to invade Bruce's personal space by touching him. "And I wasn't even pitching, man!"

"And it can't happen again," Bruce says, avoiding full eye-contact, his cheek high with flushing color.

"Y-you, for christs sake, you didn't even Hulk out!"

"Yes, and it's gonna STAY that way!"

Tony comes to a dead-halt, sighing out as the other, rumpled-looking man hurries out of sight.

"Ay, ay, captain," he mutters.

Passing him, Steve frowns, turning around.

"… What was that?"

He continues looking suspiciously baffled as Tony waves him off, growling.

.

.

It's hardly been twenty-four hours, but the sudden, increasing tension within the Avengers headquarters is near droning.

Thor could return to Asgard, seek purpose and relaxation; but instead, he decides to take a bath. Darcy had introduced him to a device called 'a rubber ducky, you doofus' — which, according to her, would bring immense splendor to his 'bubbly bath' experience.

He hums an old war-song, gladly soaking in the vapor-heat, bobbing his rubber ducky with a finger.

And with a flash of lightning-florescence, some of bubbly upends out of the tub, replaced with another person.

Loki coughs out water, brushing midnight-dark strings of hair out of his face, out of rosy-glowing eyes.

.

.

They've always been good at hiding their feelings in public.

Here, there's no need for it.

In the stillness of a bedroom, Wanda fucks herself down on him, leaning with her weight on her hands. She gyrates her hips, following the circling, deepening thrusts.

Pietro watches her long brown curls toss backwards, watches her panting and rocking. His blood-darkening cock wet and obscenely dripping with her fluids, disappearing and cleaving inside her vagina. He's tempted to pin Wanda down, hold himself completely inside and vibrate himself while his sister writhes in pleasure, clawing his back, screaming out his name.

It's so so tempting, but maybe next time when Pietro isn't so distracted.

He shifts up her little black dress, exposing her round stomach, pressing his lips to her navel.

"How long do you think you can hide this, Wanda…?"

"Vision told the Captain, aah, fuck," she gasps, moaning at a particularly hard thrust. "I'm reporting to a nurse's appointment tomorrow."

"How did he know?"

Wanda lets out a breathy, amused laugh, caressing his gentle, possessive hand covering her belly.

"Not sure," she answers, and Pietro believes her. When her back cranes, and she clenches hard around him, he pulls Wanda against him, holding her through a noisy orgasm.

.

.

They giggle like children.

Clint tickles his nose to Natasha's armpit, dangerously close to snuffling. She knees him in the gut, enough to knock the wind out of him, but not shatter any ribs.

"Ow, frick—really? Come on, Nat."

"Stay focused," she quips, tugging off her top. Her perfect set of breasts, heaving — shitfuck, he's a little smitten.

Clint groans, feeling his dick give a long, noticeable twitch. His balls even seem to enjoy the view.

"You stay focused," he retorts, nipping and kissing down Natasha's side, to the lacy edge of her panties. The cheap strawberry-print, oh yeah — that's kinda adorable. They're both right on the edge of fucking their brains out, and the third occupant is not on the bed with them, soundlessly observing. A naked, lean shadow.

"Want some too, big boy?" Clint slaps his own exposed ass, grimacing at the obvious jiggle.

He's not particularly joking — getting it in the ass is pretty spectacular, and he's still thinking about how to get Natasha to peg him. As a hot, wandering hand travels over Clint's buttock, Bucky's eyes go rosy-red.

He methodically turns away, stretches down for a pair of jeans — Natasha's — and yanks them on.

"No? Gonna pass?" Clint yells, aggravated as the door opens, and then shuts as calmly as possible. He tuts, dropping his forehead on Natasha's thigh. "Does he ever talk?"

"Maybe you're just not his type."

.

.

Office assistance wouldn't be on the top of his priority list.

Steve blows loud air from his lips. He shuffles the documents, and then piles them into a drawer. He has no idea what the drawer was previously being used for — but there you have it. Before closing it, and conveniently forgetting it was there tomorrow, Bucky appears intently in the doorway.

He's coated in sweat and looking disheveled, his usually messy ponytail undone, and clearly missing a shirt. Lips bitten and pinkened.

Remaining composed and vacant-faced, Steve gets on his feet.

His clear blue eyes draw to where Bucky's fingers, metallic-shiny and flesh, quickly unzip a pair of too-tight jeans. His skin tingles, and Steve's eyes itch, but hell, he grips onto Bucky's hips and presses with him to the door-frame. His voice thick with desire.

"Been a long time comin', huh?"

His oldest friend mock-scowls at the appearance of Steve's grin.

"Guess it has—oh god," Bucky croaks. His tongue pushes into a saliva-filled mouth, while Steve's hands wrestle the jeans down.

Heads accidentally bang together, but somehow, it's a dream come true—

.

.

Daybreak turns out to be more difficult to assess underground.

Wanda's appointment goes without a hitch. Except she's too big for three months, the nurse informs her. It's twins.

"They don't even have heads," Pietro says. He rotates the ultrasound pictures in his hands, squinting his eyes.

She lands a first-strike on hip, and for once, she can actually hit him when Pietro's not paying attention — he laughs out a "ow!" and sets them down.

"Get me a fruit salad, asshole," Wanda swears, no longer in the mood for using English.

"Anything for little mine."

As Pietro zips out, she massages the top of her belly. Her eyes catch the sight of Captain Rogers and the Winter Soldier, an arm slung casually around the infamous assassin. Rogers' face overly cheerful and he ducks to kiss the other man's stubbled cheek.

.

.

"Can we at least talk about—?"

"One time was enough, Tony." Bruce peers through his glasses, bashfully. "Thank you, but… it's not what I want with you," he says.

The clarity slams into Tony's mind, kickstarting the emotions: rejection, doubt, and finally, the beginnings of acceptance.

And, he doesn't tag along after Bruce.

"Roger that," Tony mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Ooh, a couple Jolly Ranchers.

Steve's head turns in his direction, and he looks questioningly over Bucky's shoulder.

"… okay, what now, Stark?"

Tony rolls his eyes, inclining his head backwards in exaggeration. The apple Jolly Ranchers go flying onto the carpet.

"I'm so done with all of you," he announces, marching onwards to his next brilliant idea.

.

.

There's no doubt that it's a fruit salad — slices of cantaloupes, honeydew, strawberries, watermelon, and blueberries pooling in their juices. Despite its tangy, pleasant aroma, Wanda feels a twinge of nausea overcoming her.

And he knows. Always, Pietro knows if something is wrong.

Instead of teasing her, he helps Wanda fully upright, picking her up from the examination table.

"Let's take a walk outside. I think I can convince Mister America, considering what's happened," Pietro offers, beaming at the obvious gratitude in her eyes.

"… yes, that sounds nice."

No more. No more worries. They have each other.

.

.


So, confession time: The easiest way to my heart, and to get me into a fandom, is to introduce to me to twins. Cause then I'm immediately hooked. IT MIGHT BE THE GEMINI THING WITH ME IDK. I didn't think I'd ever watch AOU until someone went "hey, the Maximoffs are in this" and my brain zoomed in on that. I also didn't imagine I was gonna ship it as hard as I did but aahaha story of my life. Why CASUALLY ship something when you can just let it destroy your existence?

This was my first attempt at MCU or any Marvel. -sweats nervously- I hope you all liked it? :D I saw a prompt floating around about Wanda's magic/her powers accidentally make everyone have sex, so I latched onto that idea. I've been wanting to write anything Maxicest for DAYS. But now it's an orgy. Bless.