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red (n.)

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It flooded her, filled everything, every crevice of her being: red.

Red-tinted memories of red-stained times, the Red Room, roses given her absent feeling, bright skintight dresses...crimson, like blood she couldn't truly wash off...other peoples' and her own. Red like she still bled monthly, reminding her of what's been stolen from her, never to be gotten back.

Red, still in her ledger.

Red like Steve's uniform and shield, one third of an omnipresent metaphor for what was viscerally real, born in purity and patriotism Nat could never manage.

Red, like the bittersweet history of this new Avenger, pain and pleading and a pervasive drive for vengeance.

Pain and pleading and a pervasive drive for vengeance, like the life Nat cannot remember herself before having.

Pain, like Wanda's nails scraping against her skin, parallel lines of red left in their wake, like when Wanda gets cheeky during training and Nat decides the red that lingers upon her ass cheeks for days after Nat spanks her is warranted.

Pleading, like when Wanda leaves Nat's pussy for her mind and Nat needs her deft, rough fingers that much more, like when Nat returns the favor with only the slightest licks at Wanda's swollen, tender lips.

Drive, like pushing each other against walls, like Nat demanding the gym to themselves, like the ruthless way they tear off their uniforms after every battle, won or lost.

Red like their mouths, pressed against each other, yearning yet fostering an unprecedented sense of peace.