In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships

Chapter 7

Warning: Smut and Dubious Consent

Wanda's still twitching when you withdraw your fingers, nonchalantly swiping off the moisture against her pants. She reaches for the waistband of your trousers, silently seeking your permission to touch you. But without making eye contact, you decline, turning away to smooth out your shirt.

Aside from a few words exchanged during your tryst ("open your mouth", "suck", and "don't come yet"), you haven't spoken a single word that suggests you're interested in anything beyond fucking your ex-wife–which, in essence, has been happening for almost a week now. In fact, this is the fourth day in a row that you have visited Wanda in the middle of the day, just to shove her inside the cafe's tiny stockroom and give her orgasms that blur into each other from your relentless pursuit of them until she begs you to stop.

It's a desperate and intoxicating experience, one that sends shivers down Wanda's spine and makes her toes curl in pleasure, despite it being anything that's remotely healthy.

During moments like these, Wanda does steal kisses. She brushes her nose against your jaw when you're too lost in thought to notice, catching your soft sighs and sensing the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat and breath.

Yet, even with this unspoken agreement, you've never felt more out of reach. Though she may be physically closer, the barriers you've built around yourself have only grown taller, your defenses even more fortified.

Wanda surmises how everything about you is simultaneously familiar and a stranger. You look like her, you smell like her; you don't fuck like her, because you're even better–bolder and more primal. But she knows–hopes, really–that somewhere inside of this enticing stranger, is you. Her Y/N. And if she has to use her body to peel through the layers in order to find the person she fell in love with, then so be it.

Wanda winces at the discomfort of having to keep wearing her ruined underwear. She decides to forgo it altogether and keep her panties in her purse to wash later. There's no mirror or any smooth surface in the room for her to check her reflection, so she resorts to running a hand through her hair a couple of times while you search for the tie that she had ripped from your collar earlier.

You eventually find it at the lowermost part of the shelf where the bags of flour are kept.

Wanda's fingers itch to do your tie for you, just like old times. "Do you want me to–"

"I got it." you dismiss her stiffly.

Wanda nods, feeling sheepish all of a sudden. The silence has become even harder to fill now.

"By the way, I cooked your favorite meal last night. I was going to bring you some later today, but I also packed a container of it when I came in this morning. It's in the kitchen if you want some," she says.

"Thanks," you say, quite disinterestedly. "But I have to go. I've got an interview in an hour."

"Oh," Wanda mutters under her breath. She meant to ask why you came to the cafe wearing a suit, but she got distracted fast when you started backing her into the stockroom with your lips attached at her neck. "Good luck. I hope you get the job. Can I ask where?"

Although it's unfair to blame Wanda for being terribly proper these days, it still irks you anyway. It's not like things would improve between the two of you if she just avoids tripping the wire around you each time.

Frankly, you're past the point of caring about progress.

(While it's all Wanda cares about.)

"Stark Industries," comes your curt response.