"Hush, sweetie." Wanda coos in your ear, fingertips rubbing soft, comforting circles into the flat of your wrist as she pins you down against the cushions. You're still in the throes of sleep, head a melty fuzz of nothingness. It's so easy to slip back into that cozy lull; especially when Wanda is sliding over you—the comforting weight of her body, kissing the crown of your head—down your nape—your spine.

It's become a common occurrence for Wanda to drop into your room, late at night, recently. You're not sure why. You're the youngest of the Avengers—they newest. Wanda and you had struck a fast mentorship-teetering-on-friendship, citing that she knew just how you felt—being new, and all. You had being used as a weapon in common, too. Being used.

Wanda was a familiar presence for you. She made you feel safe. Which was why, you had absolutely zero thoughts going on in your head when you felt crimson, chipped nail-polish drag, cool against your stomach.

You let out a sleepy, incoherent mumble. Wanda's lips curve into a smile, hovering just above you—hair tickling your shoulder. The dark red is fading, bleeding out to something more muted. "Don't worry about it, my beautiful girl." She hums, and her tone is low and tender—if not a little breathier than normal. It rolls over you in waves. "Just—had a bad day." She mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. This is wrong, Wanda knows. But you're used to being used, aren't you? It might not even register.

It certainly hasn't, the last fifteen-something times.