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The dreams are always different from night to night, but they nearly always all start the same way: Vision goes to bed, closes his eyes, and then she’s suddenly there, filling up the empty spaces in his bedroom, in his bed, in his mind. It comes to be a source of comfort, to know that however empty and purposeless his days may feel, the night will always bring her back to him. What shape she comes to him in - well, that’s not as predictable, and not always as comforting. But still: he waits all day for the night. But still: he is eager for her arrival, in whatever form she might possess - lover or enemy, friend or stranger, human or Witch, Before Wanda or After Wanda. Vision will take whatever he can get, now that he’s suddenly living in a world where everything is after Wanda.
Tonight, though, breaks the rule of predictability, because she comes to him quite unexpectedly. Usually Vision is aware of himself in dreams - he has a strange ability to know when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake, something he only learned was strange after Wanda told him once that most humans can’t do that, something that originates in the way his mind works - but this time Vision only knows he’s dreaming when he looks up and sees a pair of red eyes looking out at him from the shadows. He’s aware that, for most people, this would constitute the beginnings of a nightmare. Neither of them are normal people. Neither of them, arguably speaking, are people at all. She certainly doesn’t look like one, her figure nothing more than a dark smudge swathed in the darkness in the corner of Vision’s bedroom, a long thin slant leaning against the wall, red eyes burning into him where he sits on his bed with his laptop propped on his thighs, watching a documentary about jellyfish. From here, you can’t even tell she’s breathing. You can’t even tell she’s alive.
After a long, startled moment, Vision smiles at her uncertain, smudgy form. “Hello, darling. You’re early tonight. I’d not even realized I was asleep yet.”
The slant of darkness cocks her head. Her red eyes blink. “I’m… early.”
Vision nods. “Yes, but I certainly don’t mind.” He’s thrilled, in fact. He doesn’t even care if it makes him desperate, how eager he is to call her to mind, how willingly he sinks into these dreams - he can be as desperate as he likes, in the privacy of his own subconscious. That’s the nice thing about dreaming.
Dream-Wanda blinks again at him, slowly, like a cat. “You don’t… mind.”
Vision closes his laptop and sets it aside. Even though this is a dream, he still finds himself being careful not to let it fall to the floor. Habits are hard to break. “I never mind, darling,” he assures her, beaming now at her, so pleased to see her (as he always is) that he can’t help it. “It’s my subconscious that summons you up, isn’t it?”
Two blinks this time. “... Yes,” she says slowly. She takes a tiny step closer, and he can almost make out the shape of her. At her sides, her fingertips flicker red, twitching restlessly. “I… suppose.” There’s a question in her voice somewhere.
She isn’t usually so twitchy in his dreams, or as uncertain. Most nights, when Vision is so lonely that his mind invents various ways of her returning to him, she comes to him as herself, as he’d known her Before - messy hair, jeans, a sweater with too-long sleeves that she cuts thumb holes for, a bad habit of hers. He used to buy her sweaters with the thumb holes already sewn in for every birthday and holiday. Most nights, his dream will have her slouching into the room with a yawn and a familiar grin, a bowl of popcorn in hand, and she’ll crawl into bed to curl up in his lap so they can watch Netflix, just like she’d done on countless nights when they’d find time together in safe houses during her stint as a fugitive. Before their encounter with Thanos, they’d been halfway through binging the entire Stargate franchise. Even now, months after Westview, Vision still hasn’t been able to watch a single episode without her.
Vision doesn’t mind, though, when she comes to him like this in his dreams instead. A creature of shadow and magic and nightmares she may seem to most, but he’s never anything but grateful to see her. Dreams might be a poor substitute for reality, but he’d rather have her like this than not at all - vibrant red eyes and shadowy darkness included. He’s never been good at learning from his mistakes when it comes to Wanda, anyways; he doesn’t know how to associate her with fear, even when the dreams take on a turbulent edge.
He slides the laptop across the bed, just in case it is one of those nights. “Would you like to join me, Wanda?” he says, and pats the bed beside him. He likes the dreams where he can control the narrative, where he can invite her in and she stays.
In the shadows, Dream-Wanda hesitates. “Vision…”
Vision frowns. “Darling?” he asks. Then, with a sinking feeling, “Oh. Is this a nightmare?”
A small, choked laugh, and those eyes grow wide and wild. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe.” The slant of her body twitches, like she’s thinking of throwing herself out of this window, out of this dream.
Vision says, “That’s alright, if it is. It’s only a dream. I’m not afraid of you.” Don’t leave, he thinks with all of his heart. I’d rather have the nightmare.
In the corner, Dream-Wanda makes a mournful sound that makes Vision want to rush to her and pull her closer. He very nearly does - would have, if he didn’t know from painful experience that it’s a surefire way of her making her slip through his fingers and sending him bolting upright in bed with empty arms and a pounding heart. “Wanda,” he says instead, pained. “What’s wrong?”
Dream-Wanda wraps her arms around herself, hunching against the wall. “Are you really dreaming, Vision?” she whispers, and her voice is a quiet, guttural rasp of a thing, wounded and small.
Vision pauses, a strange pang echoing in his chest, a phantom twist in his gut. This is new territory. Usually by now, his dreams will have them sprawled out atop the bed, sometimes watching television, sometimes sleeping, sometimes kissing lazily, sometimes with his body buried inside of her or her mind buried inside of his, the two of them doing their best to merge into one being. His dreams are usually a rough simulation of his actual memories, occasionally sliced through with a vicious nightmare: a cut-away scene to that day in Wakanda, or waking up in Westview, or a montage of every time they’ve said goodbye. On very rare occasions, his nightmares include even worse things, things that come only from the deepest, darkest pit of his imagination: her death at his hands, his death at hers, permanent and final. But usually, usually, his dreams are a reprieve, and she’s there crawling into his arms and whispering how much she loves him. It’s worse waking up from those dreams than the nightmares, truth be told. There’s no relief in waking, when dreams are lovelier than reality.
Dream-Wanda isn’t usually aware of herself, though. Not like this. Not even in the nightmares.
“I think I have to be,” Vision decides, after several minutes. He’s dreamed of her a hundred times - he was bound to come up with this scenario eventually, he reasons. It’s certainly easier to compartmentalize it that way. That’ll make it easier when he wakes up and she’s gone. If he lets himself believe it’s real -
No. He’s done that before. It never ends well.
They contemplate each other for a long moment, and Dream-Wanda hums unsteadily under her breath, like Real Wanda used to do when she was trying to calm herself down from a panic attack. The sound tears a hole inside of his heart, because he knows very well how to interpret her noises, even the memories of them, and this one means Wanda is hurting. Vision curls his useless, empty white hands into loose fists. Let me hold her, he begs his subconscious. Let me hold her, please.
Wanda shudders. “Are you sure?” she asks, ragged, still huddled in the dark. “Are you really sure that this isn’t real?”
There are so many threads of emotion in her voice that Vision can’t hope to unravel them all, not when he’s not sure how long this dream will last. “I’m sure,” he says firmly, though it hurts to admit, even to himself, that it has to be a dream, because dreams are the only place Wanda ever comes to him, now. He offers Dream-Wanda a soft, sad smile. “I dream of you every night. It stands to reason that nothing’s changed.”
Another rusty, choked-up laugh. “Maybe it is. Maybe it is. Maybe this is your dream, or maybe it’s mine. I don’t know anymore. That fucking book - I can’t fucking tell what’s real anymore. So this probably isn’t real. You wouldn’t even really want me here if you were awake, would you?”
He blinks. Of all the things she could say to him, even in a nightmare, that’s maybe the worst. “Of course I would, darling,” he argues, stung but always sincere. “There isn’t a world or a dream where I don’t want you.”
Another pained, mournful sound, like his words are hurting her. Vision’s throat narrows. The worst nightmares are always the one where he’s the one hurting her. He thinks Wanda drags her fingers through her messy hair, but it’s still hard to make her out in the shadows. “I don’t even,” she starts, frustrated, then makes a furious noise and cuts herself off. He can tell she’s speaking through gritted teeth when she tries again. “Fuck, Vision. Are you even really saying that? Because I don’t know anymore, Vision. I don’t know anything anymore. Maybe I never did, maybe - maybe everything is a dream. Or a nightmare.” Her shadowed figure wilts. “Maybe I just invented you to make the nightmare bearable.”
Vision wants to hold her so badly his arms ache. “Will you come here?” he begs, sorrowful, regretful. “We can keep debating the possibilities of who’s dream this is all night long, if you’d like, but please - can I hold you? I’d come to you, but I don’t want you to disappear.”
Dream-Wanda moans. He’s not sure whether it’s pain or longing, but he thinks he sees her body sway towards him a little, moth to a flame. “You don’t… you don’t want me to disappear,” she echoes, like she’s trying to convince herself, and Vision’s throat narrows even further.
“No,” he says, very quiet. “I’d really rather this not be a nightmare, if it’s possible for me to decide. I would rather feel… like it was real.”
Dream-Wanda steps a tiny bit further from the shadows, trembling, like she’s in a fight with herself, like she can’t help herself from reaching towards him. He’s familiar with the feeling. “And what would you do next, if it were real?” she asks.
She’s close enough now that he can see her smudgy outlines. Bony elbows, wild hair, small, with blackness rippling from her fingertips and up her hands, her arms. Painfully familiar and unfamiliar at once. Vision smiles gently at her darkness. “Why, the same thing I do in my dreams, I suppose. I would kiss you.”
Another tiny step. He can make out that she’s jeans, a white shirt with too-long sleeves. She hasn’t cut out thumb holes yet. “Would you?” she asks hoarsely. “You’d kiss me, even now?”
“Always,” he says, because he’s Vision and she’s Wanda and even in a dream, wanting to kiss her is simply a part of who he is. “Always, darling. Yes.”
Dream-Wanda sighs softly, and steps into the light, and Vision’s breath stutters out of his chest. She’s always so beautiful, even like this, and every time he dreams of her it’s like seeing her for the first time all over again: that moment of confusion and alarm when he was first born, and then her eyes, and then her, and the world made a little more sense. Even now, red-eyed and weary, she’s still maybe the only thing he really understands about the world, though the sight of her makes his heart pang with worry, too. She’s close enough, now, for him to see how unwell she looks - how her clothes hang off her frame, how she slouches, how her bare feet look too pale, how her eyes look too big in her thin face. Her lips are dry and cracked; her feet are bare. He longs to find her a pair of warm socks.
“Oh, Wanda,” he says, aching. He wonders, for the first time, a wild and dizzying thought - perhaps she’s projecting herself into his dreams from wherever she is. He wonders, more realistically - maybe he’s finally broken down and figured out how to delude himself to an alarming degree. He wonders - would she even be here, if she thought it was real? He wonders - who dreamed up the other? It’s not the first time he’s had to question whether or not he’s even real. When he holds up a hand to her, it’s white, cool. Sometimes in his dreams he reverts back to his original body. His heart begins to pound. “Come here,” he begs again.
Wanda makes another pained, wounded sound, and shuffles forward and crawls onto the bed. Her eyes are still glowing red. She sits by his feet, and doesn’t come any closer. She’s close enough, now, that he can feel her, can see how just not-human she looks, even in the way she holds herself, almost like a predator waiting to pounce, though her expression is conflicted, confused. She cocks her head to one side, regarding him like an animal regards a new plaything it doesn’t understand - what is this thing doing here? Can I eat it? Even if this is a nightmare, he can’t bring himself to be afraid. He’d rather be eaten by her than anyone else.
When she places her black-tipped hand on his ankle, he doesn’t jump, even when he can feel the surge of magic beneath her skin, barely contained within her body. “Oh,” Wanda says.
The single sound jolts through him like a shock - he really is that desperate. It’s much harder to think when she’s touching him. In dreams and in reality. That’s never changed. “What?” he asks, and licks his lips.
“You’re warm,” she says to him, her voice wondering. “I.. You look like you’d be colder, I guess. But you’re still warm. You still feel like you.” There’s a wobble in the edge of her voice, and it breaks entirely on the last word.
Vision offers her a reassuring smile, something bright and sharp and hungry bubbling up inside of him. “You just feel me then, do you?” he says, lightly, because this is a dream, and you can’t hurt someone in dreams, not really.
Predictably, Wanda flinches, but she also laughs again, that strange rusty sound, like it’s fighting its way out of her throat. “That,” she says, and flicks her red eyes up at him, “is not funny.”
“It’s a little bit funny,” he argues, still in that light, pleasant voice. Sometimes he can coax the nightmares away. If this is her dream, somehow, then perhaps he can do the same for her. He wiggles the foot she’s gripping, and her hand tightens around his ankle. “I’ve found that gallows humor helps, on occasion.”
Wanda snorts, and for a moment, she almost looks like herself again. Her hand creeps up his shin, pushing up the leg of his pajamas until it’s bunching beneath his knee. They’re real pajamas, not phased on, a habit he’d picked up when she’d told him once how much she liked being able to properly undress him, how delighted she always was when she saw him in the silly, novelty pajamas she liked to buy for him. This particular set is light blue with little cartoon computers on them. Difficult to find in his size, but they’d made him think of her, when he’d bought them a few weeks ago. Wanda eyes the pattern, the corner of her mouth twitching upward for a moment. “Cute,” she croons.
“You know me,” he says mildly. “I like to be cozy.”
Briefly, Wanda shuts her eyes. She keeps petting his leg. Vision is relaxed against the headboard, more than happy to let her do as she wishes. If, when he wakes up in the morning, all he’s had to dream about is Wanda sitting there stroking his leg like he’s a cat, well, it won’t be the worst dream he’s ever had, certainly. Even if this is the start to a nightmare, he can still enjoy this part. After a minute, Wanda licks her lips, her eyes still shut. “Vis?” she rasps.
“Yes, darling?”
Her fingers lightly scrape at his kneecap. It’s incredibly distracting, in a way that only Wanda ever could be. “What would you do next? If this was real?”
Vision shivers a little. “I would let you do whatever you like to me,” he says, a little breathless this time, his focus still on those thin, sharp black claws pawing at his skin.
A ghost of a smile lifts Wanda’s face, and she opens her eyes to look at him again. Her eyes are still red, glowing. “Whatever I like?” She echoes. Her top lip curls back, revealing her straight white teeth in a faint snarl. With her hair falling in front of her face a little bit, and her eyes glowing, and her flushed-black hands, she looks a bit like a vampire, or a bogeyman. But she’s still dressed like his Wanda. She still sounds like his Wanda. He’d be willing to bet she probably tastes like her, too. But maybe that’s how vampires get you to let them in, Vision muses to himself. Just familiar enough to open the door… or your mind. Wanda laughs, snarl-smiling, and her fingers inch up his thigh, ticklishly gentle. “Whatever I like,” she muses. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to something like me, baby.”
Oh. Oh. He hasn’t been baby in - a while. A chasm of longing breaks open inside of his chest. “Still,” he manages, and his throat would probably swell shut if he were human - “Still, darling, I would let you.”
“Even if this turns into a nightmare?”
“Even then,” he admits, a bit humiliatingly.
Wanda’s smile twists into something sadder, quieter, and her hand falls still, resting on the inside of his thigh, his pajama leg bunched up almost all the way to his hip, his skin pale and unmarked. He wishes she could mark him with her nails, like she could if his skin were really skin. He wants her touch to linger; the only time anyone touches him is in dreams, now. “I’m tired of nightmares, Vis,” she tells him, world-weary, sad. “I’m tired of this… thing inside of me. It’s so hungry, Vision, and I just - I wish I never let it in. I want to sleep.”
Slowly, Vision reaches out and sets his hand on Wanda’s, holding so still he’s practically frozen, and he almost wilts in relief when she doesn’t disappear at the touch. Maybe this isn’t a nightmare. He dares to curl his hand around hers, and she spreads her fingers, letting his slip into the gaps like puzzle pieces. Even now, even as changed as they both are, they still fit together like they were created for the sole purpose of touching. The chasm in Vision’s chest widens. “Come here,” he whispers, and gently squeezes Wanda’s hand in his. “Come here, rest with me - if this is your nightmare, let me protect you from it. You can rest here for a while, my love, I won’t mind.”
Wanda looks at him with wide red eyes, her lips pressed together. “You’re not afraid of me?” she asks. “Really? Even - even when I look like this?” She gestures at herself - her sharp lines, her thin, prominent bones, her blackening fingers, the chaos swirling inside of her just barely contained by her skin.
Vision squeezes those bony black fingers. “No,” he says. “I’m not afraid.” When all she does is look at him, her expression scorching, he reaches out with his other hand and holds her thin one between both of his, stroking her knuckles. “Please,” he breathes out, “please, Wanda, come here.”
Wanda’s shoulders slump as she shudders hard, and then she crawls into his lap, letting out a gasping sob when he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her closer, her knees hugging his hips and their fronts pressing together as she falls into the cradle of his body, her face tucking into his neck and her hands sliding underneath his pajama top to grip his smooth skin with scrambling claws. “Oh,” Wanda says, barely more than a gust of breath against his throat. “Ohohohoh.”
Vision presses his hands to her back, feels the warmth of her body beneath her. There’s a faint buzz of energy beneath her skin, as if there’s a storm inside of her that’s longing to break free. He holds her tighter to his chest, wishing he could do something, anything, to keep her from breaking. Will this be the new form his nightmares take? Watching Wanda’s magic - something he’d always found beautiful and remarkable - turn on her and eat her away from the inside, while he’s here on the other side of the world unable to help? “Wanda,” he says. “Oh, darling…”
Wanda shudders again, moaning into his neck. “It’s too much,” she babbles out. “It’s too much, it’s too strong. It has me, it - it’s got me…”
“No,” Vision argues, pressing his face into her wild hair. “I’ve got you.”
Wanda presses her face harder into the crook of his neck, so hard she’d be cutting off blood flow if he were human, if this wasn’t a dream. “I miss you,” she whispers, like a terrible secret, like she’s afraid someone will hear, and it burns. “I miss you so much I dreamed this up.”
He rocks her gently from side to side. “Maybe I dreamed this up. This certainly feels like my dreams, getting to hold you again.”
Wanda moans, ragged and helpless, squirming closer, like she’d crawl into his body if she could. He would let her, if it would help. He’d probably let her if it didn’t. “Vis,” she whines, little quaking tremors rolling through her body, and Vision realizes that he’s shaking a little bit, too. Touching Wanda always feels like the first time, especially when his dream self remembers just how long it’s been since he’s had her this close. When she rocks against him, mindless and needy, his dream self starts to remember other things, too. “Vis,” she says again, and he recognizes the cadence of her voice, the need that shivers through the single syllable, and maybe - maybe he’s not the only one desperate, these days.
He pets her back, shaky. “Wanda…” He can’t seem to form the words as hard as he tries, please and I need you getting stuck in his throat. He swallows, and says it again, “Wanda,” his own voice cracked and hoarse now.
Wanda’s hands stroke his sides, her hands warm-soft against his bare skin, her magic humming against his vibranium. His body remembers her so well, well enough that his dreams feel achingly real. “Vis,” she murmurs. “What would you do next, if this were real?”
"Just this," he breathes, his words ghosting over chapped lips - how he longs to wet them, soothe them, bite them. As if she can hear his thoughts - (can she?) - her lips part, and they're breathing into each other's mouths, poised at the edge of all of his wildest hopes. He brushes the tip of her nose with the tip of his, and Wanda breathes a little faster, red eyes wide. "Just this," he says again, "just this, and so much more, darling."
Wanda sighs, still rocking against him gently in a way that sends heat spiraling through his gut, and reaches up to cup the back of his neck. She tilts her face up to look at him. This close, he can just make out the faintest ring of green iris around the red glow in her eyes. It should be frightening, but he’s as far from scared as he’s ever been. “Vis,” Wanda breathes. “Kiss me. I want - I want to remember, I want to feel. Kiss me.”
That chasm inside of him erupts into a wildfire, and Vision slips a hand into that wild, tousled red hair and covers her mouth with his, swallowing her gasp, giving her a moan as her tongue presses nsistently into his mouth to explore, to taste. He was right - she still tastes like his Wanda, but he supposes that only makes sense, in his own dream. Wanda keeps kissing him, shaky and peppered with moans, and her arms come up to circle his neck, holding him tight as she licks the roof of his mouth and tangles her tongue with his in a way that makes him ache with memory, with want. Vision strokes her hair, not caring when it snarls in knots around his hands, more than happy to open his mouth and let her swallow him whole. If this was a nightmare, and she really was a vampire, he would simply have said, eat me, eat me. She’s his vampire. His bogeyman. Even a nightmare can be pleasant, if you love someone enough.
Wanda breaks off to breathe, and there’s salt on his tongue. He wipes her tears away as she pants, his thumbs stroking her lips. He moans when she sucks his thumb into her mouth and sucks. “You’re the only thing that’s real,” she says, around his hand in her mouth, “you’re the - you’re the only thing, Vis - I, I -”
He strokes her tongue, and it’s her turn to moan, to whimper. “Wanda,” he whispers. “Wanda.”
She shuts her eyes, still sucking on his thumb, still letting him stroke her soft, wet tongue, like velvet beneath his touch. When he pulls his thumb out, a line of saliva connects her lips to his fingers, and he brushes his thumb over her lips, wetting them even more, and he knows her eyes would be blown dark and hungry if they weren’t so red. She tilts her head down, kissing and biting at his pale wrist. “Vis,” she mumbles, pressing closer, easing the vee of her thighs right over his erection, the heat of her obvious even through their clothes, and Vision bites his lip. “Vis, baby - I want you -”
“Have me,” he gasps, and Wanda’s eyes fly up to meet his, and they flash brighter than the sun, her body suddenly vibrating beneath his hands and -
He ends up on his back, Wanda on top of him, her hands beneath his pajama top and his hands slipping up the back of her shirt, his thumb tracing the solid bumps of her spine, his fingers reacquainting themselves with her skin, with the shape of her, with her warmth. Every night of this, and still no dream is enough to satiate. “Wanda,” he moans, arching up into her, and she gasps and groans into their kiss, grinding back down against him and making his head spin. “Oh fuck - Wanda -”
Wanda pulls up, looks down at him, her face nothing but shadows hidden beneath a fall of wild hair, two pinpricks of red light looking down at him, her mouth swollen and slick. “Vis,” she breathes, and strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, and he is so, so weak for her. “Baby… tell me what you’d do next.”
Vision smiles through his helpless, needy little moan, looking up at her - his thing-of-the-night, his beautiful nightmare. “Anything,” he says. “Everything.”
Her gaze is a black hole, drawing him in, the very heart of the universe. When she leans down to kiss him: a supernova. He’s anticipating the wash of magic against his skin, wiping their clothing out of existence, but the sudden flush of her body against his still makes him gasp into her mouth, and Wanda bites his bottom lip, moaning when he reaches down to grasp the backs of her thighs to pull her closer, the heat between her legs settling against his stomach as she parts her legs wider to straddle his hips, grinding down, wet skin and heat and lovely when she brushes over his cock. He’s missed her. He still misses her. He wishes this was real.
Vision arches up against her as she presses down, their bodies sliding together, and Wanda growls as she rubs herself against him, her body tense with need, and Vision whines high up at the back of his throat as her slick folds slide over him, parting so she can rub her clit against the head of his cock in a way that makes them both twitch and shake, that makes Vision have to swallow three times before he can manage to get any words out. “Tell me what you’d want - ” he pants, gripping her hips and making himself focus on those red eyes even though it is so, so hard to focus. Her chest is pressed flat to his, her nipples pebbled and taut where they drag against him as she pants, and he wants to put them in his mouth. Vision cups her face with his hands. “Tell me what you’d want, darling, if this were real.”
She looks down at him, even wilder in her desire, her pleasure. For a moment, though, her eyes look almost human again when she bites her lip, a flush crawling up her cheeks, that little blush before she speaks so shockingly familiar and right that it nearly kills him, because Wanda used to blush and stammer like this all the time in the beginning when she was still figuring out how to ask for what she wants, and Vision nearly cries out at the wild stab of emotion that pierces him at the sight of it, his dreams dragging that little blush-and-smile right from his sweetest memories just to torture him with it. He strokes her blushing cheeks with shaking hands. She’s still his Wanda, he thinks wildly. She’s still his, deep down in there somewhere.
He shuts his eyes when she presses their foreheads together.
“Tell me what you want,” he says again, barely louder than a breath. Anything louder might puncture this moment, might dissolve this dream into smoke. He puts his hands on her back, trails his fingers up and down her sweaty skin. “Tell me, darling.”
Wanda’s thumb draws circles on the back of his neck, where she’s got her hands resting, holding him. “I want you in me,” she murmurs, just as quiet, just as fearful-hopeful-needy.
Vision lets out a soft little laugh, and lets himself press up against her, gentle. Wanda shivers in his arms, breath hitching, so wet against him. “Doesn’t matter,” he croons out, so in love he can’t hardly breathe, “if this is my dream or yours, darling - I’m yours.”
Wanda moans something that might be his name, lifting her hips up, and Vision guides her down, slow and steady, the world going fuzzy around the edges as pleasure sings up his spine when she clenches down around him, wet and slick and tight, the best home he’s ever had. Wanda groans, rocking her hips, circling, shuddering as he throbs inside of her, the two of them still clinging so tight that neither of them can barely even move, their foreheads still pressed together so hard it hurts. “Please,” she gasps, “fuck - Vis, fuck, baby.” The words are garbled through her ragged moans, her hot breath on his face, and Vision pulls her down into a kiss at the same time that he thrusts his hips up into hers, and they both shout with it, and the thing about dreams is that they always feel so real when you’re having them but far away when you’re awake, and so every night that he falls into this with her is like having his nerves set on fire again, and again, and again, and Vision thrusts up into her wildly, desperate to hold onto the realness of their pleasure while it still exists, while she still exists, wanting and wanting and wanting so badly he burns. Wanda whines, gasping for breath, clawing at his shoulders, and if he keeps his eyes shut then Vision is sure he wouldn’t be able to distinguish this moment from any real memory he has, the sound and sight and feel of it so familiar, so right, right down to the way her voice breaks when she tries to say his name and the way she bucks her hips just like that.
“Wanda,” he murmurs, under his breath, the closest thing to a prayer he has, a sigh escaping him as he surrenders to this - this madness, and he’s not sure if it’s his or hers but he is sure that it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. He slides his head down, resting his forehead against the juncture between her shoulder and neck, feeling her sweat bead on his skin, letting her take control of their bodies’ rhythm as she grips his shoulders tighter and rises, falls, rises, falls, each thrust better than the last, each wet smack of their bodies so good it almost convinces him that this is real. As long as he keeps his eyes shut, it’s real - it’s real - it’s real -
Wanda sobs his name, and Vision’s eyes fly open - even in a dream, he can’t bear her sadness, and Vision tilts himself back so he can watch her. Wanda catches his eye, and her knees squeeze him tighter as she sits up properly, pressing her hands to his chest for leverage, the change in the angle making them both choke as he slides deeper inside of her. She gazes down at him, and the tears on her face make his heart twist so sharply that he almost forgets everything else. He goes to sit upright with her, but she keeps her hands on his chest, shaking her head. “No,” she pants, “I want this - just this - before I wake up - and you’re gone again -” She whines as she rides him faster, canting her hips so the head of his cock sinks in and strikes her right there, and her mouth drops open in a silent wail of pleasure even as she trembles on top of him, and Vision looks at her tears and thinks, nightmare, nightmare.
“Wanda,” he says raggedly, the tidal wave of her body rising and falling on his cock making it difficult to think, but he manages to reach up and cup her face again. “Darling, sweetheart - tell me, tell me what’s wrong, tell me how to help -”
Wanda cries out, losing momentum, and Vision grips her thigh gently and rolls them over so he’s covering her smaller body with his, like he could block out the world for her, if he could, if this wasn’t a dream, if she would let him really hold her again. Wanda clings to him, crying, and Vision leans in and presses his face into her throat. He lays kisses there, soft ones, dragging his lips gently up and down and over her skin, kissing her pulse-point and her shoulder and her throat and the jut of her jaw, still pressed inside of her but holding them both still, dragging out the moment until nothing else matters beyond them, beyond this.
He kisses the corner of her mouth. “Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you need.”
Wanda shivers. She wraps one leg around him, digging her heel into his ass and pressing him deeper, the hungry grip of her body so good he trembles where he’s propped himself up on his forearms, so he doesn’t crush on. Even in his dreams - hers? - he’ll never risk hurting her. One of her hands strokes the back of his neck in time with the slow rhythm of his kisses. Her breathing’s evened out, but there’s still a tremble in her voice when she says, “You. I need you.”
He reaches down to hitch her leg higher, and sinks in just the tiniest bit deeper inside of her, his cock bottomed out, his hips pressing sharply into hers, and it drags a moan out of Wanda that makes Vision groan between clenched teeth. “You have me,” he says, kissing her lips once, twice, rolling his hips the tiniest bit just to make her breath hitch. “I’m here, my love. I’m here. Stay with me.”
Wanda wraps her other leg around his waist too, so she’s practically hanging off of him, locking her body around his like no force could separate them, and this must be a nightmare because dreams aren’t supposed to be heartbreaking. Wanda aims a shaky kiss to his cheek, her lips kiss-bruised, and he turns his head to kiss her back, tremulous and full of wounds. “I don’t want to wake up, Vis,” she whispers.
He bites her lip gently, sucking on it to soothe the sting. “Then don’t,” he murmurs. “Use - use your magic. Keep us here. I promise you, if this is really me, then I won’t mind it.”
Wanda sighs so deeply that Vision can feel the tension melt out of her, and he lowers her back against the mattress, daring to rest his body on hers, and she only clings tighter, making a pleased sound at the back of her throat and kissing him again, and again. “I wish -” she starts.
He nuzzles her neck. “Me too,” he says. “Oh, darling. Me too.”
She lays her head back down against the pillow, and Vision cranes his neck so he can look down at her, and for the first time he looks into her red eyes and sees her. “You’re beautiful,” she tells him, stroking his cheek, her voice soft and tender like she’s finally seeing him too, and it could be any sweet conversation they’ve ever had, if it weren’t punctuated by the way he’s still full and throbbing inside of her, their bodies clinging as tightly as their hearts. “You’re different now, and so beautiful,” she sighs, smiling softly.
Vision kisses the tip of her nose, his own eyes burning - he’s not sure he likes it, this new ability to cry. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he tells her.
Wanda laughs, and it’s not rusty at all this time, it’s her. “Vis,” she says, and squeezes her thigh muscles pointedly, wiggling around on his cock in a way that makes his vision go spotty for a moment, and whatever look crosses his face makes her laugh again, and squeeze the back of his neck with her hand. For a moment, the sadness passes. “Baby. Please fuck me, you’re driving me insane.”
“Oh,” he says, shivery. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Wanda chokes back another laugh, and kisses him. “No,” she mumbles against his mouth.
Vision moves then, fucking her slowly, then faster as she urges him on with her whimpers and gasps, each sound digging under his skin and burrowing there, lightning lighting up his nerves and making him shake as he buries himself in her. He shifts so he’s braced on his knees over her, tugging her further beneath his body and spreading her legs as wide as they can do, driving his cock into her hard and deep like if he tries hard enough he could bury himself there forever, and Wanda cries out, and keeps crying out, a shriek escaping her as he grips her thighs as hard as he dares and tries to put them back together and break them apart all at once.
“Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Wanda begs, moving with him now, the twist and pull and sweet reunion of their bodies undoing them both, and Wanda’s gasping with each thrust, getting wetter and wetter as she twitches and flutters around his cock, so close he can taste her orgasm on her tongue when he kisses her, “don’t stop -”
“Don’t go,” he begs, shaky, as he grips her hip and shifts the angle of their bodies again so every roll of his hips presses him against her clit in a way he knows drives her crazy, and Wanda shrieks, clenching around him, “don’t go, please, I can’t bear it again -”
“Never,” she vows, and clings to him, her voice breaking as she shakes, “Never, never -” She breaks off with a sob as she comes apart, and Vision shouts when her orgasm spreads from her body to her mind to his mind, ripping his own orgasm from him and sending him flying over the edge in a way that makes everything go hazy and too-bright all at once, their pleasures singing back and forth across each other’s nerves, lighting each other up, making it last and last until Vision thinks it’ll never stop and they’ll just stay here like this forever and god, that’s all he wants in the world -
But it ends, still. Everything ends, even dreams, and when Vision rolls aside Wanda rolls after him, clinging, his cock soft and wet against her thigh, his come dripping out of her and onto his belly, a sensory memory surely pulled right out of his mind (or maybe hers) and making this feel so real that Vision has to shut his own eyes against the ache. His hands, greedy things they are, can’t stop from pulling her closer, always closer, but never close enough. She rests her cheek over his heart. He strokes her bony, sweaty back.
Neither of them dares to speak for a while, unwilling to break the spell. Unwilling to be the first to wake.
Wanda strokes his chest. “I don’t know what I am anymore,” she says eventually, her voice small and quiet. “I thought I did, but I don’t - I can’t even tell if this is real or not, if I did this to us, or if this is just… I don’t know.”
Vision looks up at the ceiling. He feels like if he looks at her, she really will disappear this time. There’s an ache in him that no sex could fix: it started the day they left Westview, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever mend until he sees her again, for real this time. “Do we have to know?” he asks, because anything else would hurt too much to say. “Can’t this be enough?”
She breathes out slowly. “I miss you,” she says. “I miss… I miss everything. I miss being with you, I miss being me. I miss your hands, and your mouth, and your cock, and your voice, and your laugh, and your arms… I just… I just miss everything, Vis. I want everything to go back to the way it was. I want to watch Stargate in bed with you and eat popcorn and make love again. I want to never have found that stupid book. I want… I want you. I want you.”
Vision laughs softly, still stroking her back, because if he doesn’t laugh he’ll scream. “Well, since this is my dream, I think it’s safe to say I miss that, too. I miss you, darling. I miss your hands, and your legs, and your lips, and your curly hair, and your body, and your taste. I miss making you breakfast in bed and reminding you to wear socks when it’s cold because you can’t sleep when your toes freeze. I miss talking about all the things we wanted to do someday, together. I miss the grocery shopping and the laundry and the cleaning, even. I miss doing everything with you.”
Wanda sniffles, and he tightens his arms around her. “I don’t think I deserve you,” she manages, teary-voiced. “I don’t think I deserve to be forgiven, anymore.”
Vision kisses that head full of hair he misses so much. He remembers how much it used to drive him crazy, when she’d forget to clean her hair out of the drain. He remembers how much he loved it, when she’d let it stay curly instead of straightening it. “I forgive you anyways,” he says. “I forgive you always.”
Wanda shudders, and pushes up onto her elbow to look down at him with wet eyes. They’re almost green now. Almost Wanda. She touches his face with one black finger, tracing his mouth. The pulse of sickening magic beneath her skin could be pleasant, he thinks. He wouldn’t even mind it, if this were real. He wouldn’t even mind anything at all, if he could just have this again. “I think…” she says, and he can see all the things she wants to say in the look on her face, but what she says is simply. “I think there’s still a few hours until morning."
He raises his brow at her, grabbing her hand and cradling it to his face, kissing her palm. His lips tingle. “What do you suppose we do to pass the time?” he asks, his heart somehow both incredibly full and utterly bereft all at once. He doesn’t want to think about morning.
Wanda leans down, brushes her mouth lightly, lightly over his. “I can think of a few things,” she whispers.
He nods, and reaches a hand between her legs, finds her wet and waiting. They’re always waiting, the two of them. “Me too,” he says, and rolls them over again so he can kiss down her body, thinking, over and over, don’t wake me, don’t wake me, don’t wake me, don’t wake me -
When he opens his eyes in the morning, she’s not there. The window is open. He can’t remember if he ever closed it.