Sibling telepathy works a little differently when one sibling is actually telepathic.
Pietro groans as he rubs at his eyes, dazed after just rousing from an otherwise peaceful slumber. He was dreaming something about croissants and squirrels stealing said croissants when a shiver wracked his body, then another, and then he was startling awake feeling distinctly sticky. Quick as he was, the blanket on top his body was quickly tossed from the bed, and in a matter of miliseconds he was cupping himself awkwardly in the bathroom, now certain he hadn’t actually had a wet dream. Instead, he was simply painfully hard, alone in the floor he and Wanda normally share in Stark Towers.
She should be here, sharing his misery, if she wasn’t having some fun somewhere else.
Pietro has half a mind to fight with Vision, or perhaps Captain America, or even Black Widow or Hawkeye. He is not certain who it is that she’s playing with today, nor does he find himself too interested in joining in. In the months he had spent asleep, a state near-death, Wanda had found herself something resembling a family. An unusual one, certainly, with a web of casual intimacies he cannot wrap his head around, but a family nonetheless.
He would not take anything more from his sister.
He just wishes she would take him into greater consideration at nights like this.
“Ughhh, Wanda, why?” Pietro hisses, rubbing at his betraying dick. He feels wet, sticky in a certain way, and it isn’t hard for him to close his eyes and focus on the feeling. There’s a hand cupping her breast, rubbing circles into her nipple, another two knuckles into her pussy. He groans at the feeling, magnified onto skin and flesh that isn’t there.
A tongue touches her clit and he yells.
“Really?!” Two. Two people, at the least, appraising his sister so. Pietro has half a mind to run out of Stark Tower to confront her, certain it would be a quick trip to discover her location and temporary lovers. It would certainly serve her right—his limbs remain sore from the training earlier this morning, and every stretch of her body sets his aflame.
Something mocking drifts into his brain and he returns it with a nasty zing, feeling particularly irritated. So Wanda is aware of his awakening, seemingly enjoying his exhaustion. He makes a mental note to soil her breakfast tomorrow morning, perhaps sour pancakes? Coffee grinds in her milk. Moldy strawberries might be a bit too far.
She nags at him, a needling in his brain, and Pietro sighs. The hands are back, pressing more firmly, and he presses his body against the cold bathroom tiles in retribution. Wanda hisses, heat flickering at his skin. He’d muster a proper response if not for the tongue invading her throat, his, and then he’s choking on air by the sensation of a mouth drawing shapes along his groin.
The world flickers between bright lights and darkness for a moment, his eyes glassy as her world glitches into view. He can’t see, can’t hear, only the retreat of her mind a safety from the sudden sensations wracking his body. He shrieks, and then their minds are washed out in darkness, bodies writhing at the pleasure of being pushed overboard. The vibrator pressed against her, his, their clit is torturous, overwhelming, and he yells and kicks at nothing.
Someone grasps his face, forcing his jaw open, and then there’s wet folds pressed against his mouth.
Wanda, Pietro, groan. Her tongue laps obediently at the vagina offered, grinding her tongue at the dripping entrance. Another mouth does the same to her, and against the vibrator still wracking her body with pleasure, it’s terribly difficult to focus on properly eating out the person pressed over their face. His hips stutter, rocking against the person, and when they crook two fingers into his ass he yelps. Two hands return to grope and pull at their breasts, sharp stinging making the skin swell. Almost as quickly as the last, Wanda is screaming again, toes curling, world reddening, and then Pietro’s awake on cold tiles.
“Oh, fuck.” There’s cum smeared on the floor and his stomach, and it is only blind luck that he ripped off his clothing the moment he fled his bed in a panic. A litter of bruises trail his chest, no doubt bites on his sister, and they prickle pleasantly when he ghosts a finger over them. A groan forces its way out of his throat, lingering wet heat making his mouth salivate.
“Hate this. Hate this!” The pro of super speed is cleaning the floor in a millisecond. The con of super speed is that he’s fast to anyone but himself, which means that he still has to scrub and wipe at his semen on the tile floor in hopes that none of Stark’s cleaning bots will discover and tattle on him to the rest of the team. The temptation to place the blame on Wanda is dawning, though he has an awful feeling that the team would be more intrigued on the extent of their bond than accepting the excuse.
His dick betrays him, still leaking and hard. His legs already feel shaky, never having had quite as much stamina as his sister, and Pietro can see her darkness with every blink. She’s shaking, but pleased, a certain excitement trembling through her body. Wanda is happy, and Pietro should be happy for her.
It’d be easier if he didn’t have to give up his sleep for her.
Armed with a box of tissues, wet rags and disinfectant stray, Pietro settles back into bed—her bed. Wanda will inevitably nag at him tomorrow for the smell, but he believes she should reap her rewards. His eyes flutter shut, mouth gnawing at his neck, vibrator moves to her breasts, a dick rubbing at their entrance. He sighs.
It’s going to be a long night.