"To my dearest..."

24 years || Shifter ||She/Her || Libra

[maidendiaries]

mother miranda be like :

[splattynatty1984]

Mommy Wanda’s fingers on a needy pussy

“Shh, sweet girl, no grinding yet,” she whispers, her hand cupped between your legs, slender fingers sliding through the slick that had been accumulating.

It’s been close to an hour, and you’ve been spread on the couch for the entire time, whining and begging in that sweet, pouty voice of yours. The need is churning inside you, your bottom lip red from the many times you’ve bitten it.

“P-please, Mommy—“

“Ah-ah,” Wanda tsks, pinching your clit. It’s a gentle reminder to stay still, but on your swollen, sensitive clit it feels like torture. “Mommy’s not done playing, my darling.”

Maybe she’ll finally decide to take mercy on you and sustain pressure on your clit. Maybe she’ll even slip a finger or two inside you. Or maybe she’ll continue her inspection for another hour, and all you’ll be able to do is take it.

After all, you’re Mommy’s good girl, aren’t you?

[imtiredmama]

˚𝜗𝜚 Baby Bambi 𝜗𝜚˚

Pairing: Stepmother Wanda x Fem Reader

A/n: this makes no sense and is hella rushed, but fuck it

Summary: All you wanna do for the summer is work as much as possible to avoid your new stepmother, no matter the cost on your body and mind. Your rich stepmother seems appalled by the idea, forcing you on a weekend getaway with her to... bond.

Wordcount: 4k

Warnings: Step-parent, the most unoriginal plot in existence, mommy kink, dom/sub, mock sympathy, pet names, praise kink, age gap (R=mid 20s, W=early 40s), smut, somnophilia, grinding, mild dub-con, humping, fingering, perv Wanda, rich people

The cracked handle of the broom is clutched loosely in your hand as you take in the massacre before you.

Countless cereal boxes are scattered along the floor, some slowly seeping out more work for you as pebbles and crumbs ooze from the broken plastic seals. Drifting in an ocean of Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Cheerios, you get closer to the source of your interrupted break.

It seems that during your fifteen-minute lunch break, the cereal aisle exploded.

Clusters of cereal lie strewn along the floor with strange voids in the middle, like a shitty murder mystery, just that instead of a body being outlined by white tape, it was more like a blob monster drawn with Cheerios.

It wasn’t the first time either- this is the third time just this week that you’ve had to clean it up.

Safe to say, your workplace has a cereal killer on the loose.

The squeak of obnoxiously loud sneakers screeches to a halt on the opposite side of the murder scene. A shadow falls across the dire situation as murder suspect #1 completely disregards the mess in front of you. Instead, the boom of hands colliding with each other has you raising your brows in annoyance.

“Why are you just standing there? Come on, we need you at the registers, chop chop!” Kyle, your asshole of a manager, doesn’t waste a second to hear your response, already halfway across the room before you can open your mouth. His condescending clapping still echoing down the hall with his retreat.

If it weren’t for the fact that he always gave you the shifts you wanted, you would’ve made him the murder outline by now. However, as it stands, he’s the only reason you get out of the house as much as you do, so with a huff, you get to work.

To say your time back from Uni has been dull would be an understatement. The thought drifts somewhat loosely in your head as you clock out at the end of your shift. It’s late, the time trickling into midnight as you make your way across the parking lot.

Mindlessly kicking a rock around, it jumps over bumps and crashes against divots in the pavement. The gentle clatter of stone striking is suddenly overpowered by the honk of a car.

The air shifts, her presence layers itself like something tangible until it slathers against the inside of your throat. You can’t escape the jump of your pulse or the squeeze of your lungs as headlights illuminate you in the darkness.

You attempt an on-foot escape from the familiar Porsche closing in on you. Your shoe digs into your heel, the bent material has become a near-constant ache as it aggravates the blister that brewed long ago. A slick dribble of blood smears itself against your white sock, spreading until a ring of red peeks over the edge of your shoe.

The voice of your stepmother follows your hasty retreat, but your ignorance is short-lived as Wanda points an accusatory finger through her rolled-down window.

“Nuh uh, no avoiding me today, baby Bambi.” The pet name runs through you like a splash of cold water, sending chills down your spine as you freeze in your path.

Wanda points to the passenger seat, undeterred by your initial resistance. It has become a dance between you and your stepmother since you came home for the summer. She would insist that you both do something together, to bond or whatever, while you would take on extra hours and avoid her religiously.

She has tried to pick you up from work multiple times now, but you would pretend you didn’t see her, simply walking past or hitching a ride with a coworker.

You know it’s rude, but you’d rather be rude than admit that you have a crush on your own stepmother.

There is no telling how it festered, but since the moment you laid your eyes on her, she’s consumed you. The idea of spending more time with her than strictly necessary sinks like a weight into the pit of your stomach.

You’d rather she hate you than be disgusted by your perverted crush.

Besides, you are well over the age where you need to bond with your father’s partner. It’s not like it will last anyway, anyone with a pair of eyes can tell they married for business’s sake. Your father owns a rather lucrative business in the corporate world, a business that just so happens to have been your stepmother’s business rival until the two CEOs supposedly found love.

Yeah, love is what you would call the new car in your dad’s driveway and him stepping down to let Wanda handle both businesses.

There was no telling why she hadn’t left him yet.

Today would be another one of your elusive instances if it weren’t for the look she is giving you. It’s stricter than usual, with a tightness around her mouth and firmness in her eyes.

With a sigh, you climb into the passenger seat. A waft of rich perfume engulfs your tired frame. It creeps over your skin like a second layer, spreading the warm scent of cinnamon and cherry over your sweat-stained uniform. Wanda regards you with a strange fondness in her eyes as your slumped frame not so subtly leans toward her in pursuit of the smell's source.

Wanda is dressed more homely today, her blond hair slung into a side part and her face void of makeup. Even her clothing choice is far beyond the usual. You’ve gotten used to the blazers and form-fitting dress pants over the past few weeks, but today she’s in a simple white shirt coupled with some washed jeans.

The sluggishness of your exhaustion must be doing a number on you, as you don’t even realize you’re staring until a touch against your leg startles you.

A hand settles, palm up, on your thigh as she drives out of the parking lot. The shitty fabric of your work pants does little to diffuse the heat that radiates from her. A strange lump forms in your stomach at the thought of heat spreading elsewhere, as her patience seems to run thin. “Come on, hand it over.”

You blink in confusion, looking over to where her eyes stay glued to the road, in question.

She glances at you, a hint of amusement and something you’ve never seen on her, flashing across her features, “Your phone. You know the rules, honey.” 

Ah right…

It was one of the weird things she had started implementing into your life.

The rules.

Most of them were fairly easy: keep your room clean, wash the dishes when it’s your turn, and help make dinner when you aren’t working. Then there were the stranger ones. Suddenly, you had a curfew at 10 pm outside of work hours, you weren’t allowed on your phone in Wanda’s vicinity, and only approved guests could stay over.

Knowing there is no point in making a fuss about it, you fish your phone out before dropping it gently into Wanda’s waiting palm. She opens the middle console and puts it in before leaning over slightly to pat your thigh in reward.

“Well done, darling. Thank you.”

The pet names are another odd addition to Wanda’s involvement in your life. Though they are always sweet, they make you squirm. People in your life never really use nicknames, or pet names, or anything other than your name when they are referring to you.

Wanda is an anomaly in your preferably predictable life.

The crunch of gravel beneath the tires lulls you out of your thoughts. The car drums gently atop the small rocks, some of them knocking against the rim in a soothing hiss that rings through the quiet car.

However, it does confuse you. The road back to your dad’s place doesn’t have any gravel roads. Now that you’re thinking about it, you're pretty sure Wanda is driving the wrong direction altogether.

“Where are we going?”

The slim silence while Wanda seems to ponder her wording makes a drop of sweat drip down your back, “My apartment. Your father is gone for the weekend, and I thought we girls should bond a little.”  

Your sluggish mind takes a moment to catch up, merely staring at her, until it hits you like a slap in the face. Spending more time with her addicting presence is the last thing you should be doing. If Wanda had any sense in her, she would see why you avoid her and run for the hills.

“Wan-”

Her hand, not currently occupying the steering wheel, is in your face. Squishing your cheeks together harsher than necessary, Wanda tsks, “No. I don’t want to hear it. Is it really that horrible to spend time with me?”

Fingertips release you from her hold, instead, they glide softly along your cheek. It hypnotizes you, your need to comfort her is stronger than your will to stay away: “No, of course not.”

A happy hum is all you get before her warmth is gone, both hands on the wheel and eyes staying strictly forward as Wanda keeps driving. “Good. Then it’s decided.”

You sigh your agreement.

────୨ৎ────

A lone chair sits in Wanda's luxurious hallway. It’s the first thing you notice, its rich brown color absorbs some of the warm light filtering from above. It’s a stark contrast from the rest of the white hall.

Paintings are scattered across both sides of the hallway, the illustrations vary, some abstract pieces hanging above the coatrack while a far too explicit painting of a woman engaging in… some interesting acts… sits atop the door that you assume leads to the living room.

You squirm where you stand, twisting your fingers as blush crawls up your neck. Wanda’s soft chuckle directly behind you does little to diffuse the sudden tension tightening your stance.

“Come here.”

There is no time to react before Wanda pushes you onto that neat little chair.

The groan of wood falls on deaf ears as all your senses hone in on Wanda’s hands. Fingers slide against your knees, the pressure of her fingertips pushing against the stiff material of your pants before grasping your ankle. Words choke themselves, stuck as your stepmother inspects your bloodied sock.

Blond tresses sway against your exposed skin as she lifts your pants for a better look. A dried slab of blood clings to your skin, a smudge of red festering on the back of your shoe where the broken back resides.

A suspiciously handy med-kit resides under the chair, Wanda getting to work with a quiet, “Poor baby.”

You stay silent as she goes through the motions of cleaning your bloody blister before adding a silly-themed band-aid over it. Leaning back on her knees with one last pat to your heel, Wanda eyes your destroyed shoes before looking back at you.

“I fear those will have to go.”

You know she’s right: if not for your bleeding heel, then the fact that the soles are practically nonexistent by now. Still, you can’t help the tears that build in your eyes at the news. You know you’re just tired and being stupid, but you really like these shoes.

The thought of fighting against her words must flash across your face because Wanda clicks her tongue before you have the chance to open your mouth.

“Now now, I know you’re tired, but there is no reason to throw a tantrum, baby Bambi.”

A stunned stillness settles over you at her words, it’s infuriating how she belittles you, yet some small part of you blooms under the condescending tone that drips so sweetly from her tongue.

The pitter-patter of Wanda’s socked feet hitting the wooden flooring as she starts walking away from you almost has you on your knees begging for forgiveness before she stops.

Illuminated by the bathing light of the living room, Wanda stands directly under her unique art. The warm orange bounces against her loose curls, leaving a strange dreamlike effect as her words float around the far too empty space between the two of you.

“Now, come, it’s late and mo- and I don’t want more attitude in the morning.” The soft murmur of her voice fades away from you as she turns, leaving you to force your depleting strength into your muscles and dart after her at what you hope is an appropriate speed.

Wanda leads you into a guest room, leaving with a curt goodnight.

It all seems awfully rushed to you. You know it’s probably for the best, the mere sliver of affection she granted you today already having left an addiction buzz inside your head.

But you’re greedy.

You want more.  

It’s the last thought you have before you succumb to the strangeness of tonight, drifting in an ocean of cinnamon and cherry as your head hits red silk.

────୨ৎ────

The cusp of darkness lies like a shroud above you as you wake up. Something is pushing toward you, heat engulfing your tired frame. Seconds tick by in a meaningless fashion before your mind catches up to the tickle of blonde tresses against your back.

It seems that sometime in the night, Wanda has come back for you. She cocoons around you, pushing in at strange intervals.  

You almost ask her if something is wrong before a sound submerges your train of thought.

Wanda’s scattered breath weighs heavily in the air. Sounds you have never heard from her before now moaned directly into your ear.

It stuns you into silence as you focus on her movements.

Hips buck against your back, seeking pleasure in your unassuming form. Wanda grinds gently, like waves cruising along the coastline, back and forth in smooth motions. Her sleeping shorts ruffle on your lower back, bunching with the movement of her hips and pressing into you.

You can hear her breath grow heavier by the second, puffing against the shell of your ear. The last remnants of slumber burn away from you as your own breath hitches in your throat. You wonder what she’s dreaming about.

At least you think she’s dreaming…

The lips resting against your neck expose Wanda's pleasure as she moans silently, “Fuck, I can’t stop… Baby Bambi, fuck.”

The sound of her sends a shiver through you. She isn’t dreaming. Your stepmother is humping your sleeping form because she wants you.

Needs you.

 You have to suppress the need to grind back into her desperately. It’s like a sickness, her desperation bleeding into your own as your breath grows quicker.

A hand sneaks beneath your t-shirt. The warmth of her palm travels up- up- up until she’s cupping one of your tits gently. Fingers circle the sensitive flesh of your nipple, not hard enough to rouse any real reaction, but constant enough for the wetness between your thighs to grow.

“You feel so good, baby Bambi.”

The ache in your chest explodes at her words, leaving you to pant against the sheets as you try to keep quiet. You fear what would happen if she knew you were awake, the thought of her stopping almost lets a whine slip past your slack lips.

Her other hand palms against your side now, gripping your hips lightly before braving the path down. She skims over your lower stomach, pushing you deeper against Wanda’s moving hips before she’s rubbing a teasing pressure against your underwear.

Two fingers rub in circular motions, only interrupted by her wild jerking. Wanda’s fingers drag a path across the sticky wetness of your pussy. She tests the stretch of your underwear, pushing against your opening before retreating and returning to your clit.

The bucking turns rougher, with sporadic jumps followed by a drawn-out “Baby, fuck-”

You squeeze your eyes shut, begging for the mercy of her mounting pleasure before you come in your panties, untouched, and reveal yourself. Instead, there is a murmur against your neck, something that sounds suspiciously like “fuck it,” before soft lips trail kisses against the back of your neck.

The movement of her hips stops, then her haughty voice breaks the newfound stillness: “I know you’re awake.”

For a moment, the world freezes as a thousand thoughts drift through your head.

Has she known the entire time?

Were you not supposed to wake up?

Is she mad at you?

But your inner panic is cut short as a thigh pushes itself between your legs. The warmth of her is a stark contrast to the wet patch sticking to the inside of your thigh.

Her hands shift to hold your hips firmly as she starts rocking you with her movement, surrendering you to her mercy as she drags you against the meat of her thigh. Your swollen clit strains against the soaked fabric of your underwear, the flimsy material the only hindrance between your flesh and hers.

“Let mommy take care of you, hm, what do you say, baby?”

A desperate keen is the only response she gets as she flips you.

The weight of a body pins you flat against the bed, coarse fabric pushing along your back as her chest settles atop you. Rougher hands lift until your hips wag in the air.

“You really thought mommy wouldn’t notice, baby?”

There is not a moment of wasted breath before your underwear is quickly pushed to the side and her fingers plunge into you. The naughty noise of wet squealing and your surprised moans bounce against the bedroom walls.

“Fuck, well done, baby Bambi, you take me so well.” The hair on the back of your neck drifts with her words as they blow over your skin. Wanda’s pushing against her hand, humping you as she fucks you roughly.

She grunts deeply, “Can mommy tell you a secret?”

The pads of Wanda’s fingertips rail against your sweet spot repeatedly, her words barely hanging on to meaning. She laughs at your pathetic cries, pushing your head further into the sheets. A pool of saliva turns the white fabric sheer.

Her moans grow in volume with your own, the both of you speeding toward pure bliss.

“Shit, I've been thinking about this for so long.”

Your skin surrenders to her teeth as they lodge into your shoulder.

“Ever since I first saw you, mommy knew you needed her.”

She forces your head to the side before she’s kissing you deeply, a tongue forcing its way down your throat. Wanda licks into you as if she's starving, drinking your spit like it’s one of her expensive wines. Her pace speeds up, hurling you toward pleasure faster than you can keep up.

The pressure in your stomach grows and grows, your crying spreading spit across both of your faces.

Wanda hushes you, “Oh, I know, baby, I know.”

“You’ve been working so hard trying to hide from mommy, haven’t you, baby Bambi?”

Her voice grows louder, hinting at how deeply she is affected by her own words.

“It’s why you’re going to quit your job and spend your time with me.”

The fingers inside of you are the only thing you can focus on as you moan your answer.

Wanda releases you from her hold, sitting up on her knees until she towers over your frame. The sweet bliss of your orgasm fades away as she takes her fingers with her. You whine, tears springing to your eyes as the taste of your denied relief sits strong on your tongue.

“Will you do what mommy tells you?

Your ass pushes against her crotch, a small cry of frustration the only sound you manage to make as she palms your ass. You twist your neck all the way to see her, her question going unheard as the sight of her licking your arousal off her fingers consumes you.

The pink of her tongue curls around her digits, dragging across the wet pads of her fingertips seductively slowly. Wanda holds eye contact all the while you watch helplessly, wanting nothing more than for the fingers to drive back into you. A moan rumbles from deep in Wanda’s throat, your answering whine going ignored as she refuses to touch you.

Wanda clicks her tongue, the mental timer ticking down to its end tally.

A slap rings through the bedroom like a gunshot, almost louder than the keening moan that tears through you.

It startles you enough to have words spilling out of you faster than you can comprehend them,

“Yes! Yes, whatever you want! Please, mommy, anything!”

You barely know what you’re saying. Your words are nothing more than nonsensical babble, but it must have made her happy because her fingers come back, railing you harder than ever before. Wanda is back to humping you too, pushing her fingers deeper as she grinds into you.

“There you go, good girl!”

You can’t hear her anymore, the pressure in your stomach is now balancing on a needle’s point. It’s overwhelming: the thickness of your desire choking you, and you begin to fight against her grip. You don’t know what you’re doing, your mind far away as your body fights the inevitable.

Her weight settles back over you as she shushes you gently, her words soft even as her fingers continue their drilling into your wet hole.

“Hush, baby, you’re okay. You’re okay, give in. You can give in now.”

You whine, a panicked noise your only response as the feeling inside of you reaches its limit. It feels like you’re going to explode, the feeling stronger than you have ever felt it before. It blisters inside you, festering onto every nerve, expanding the numbing pleasure from the tips of your fingertips and down to your toes.

Wanda pushes your face into the pillows, the suffocating lack of air, strangely enough, sending you flying over the edge. The loud moaning and jerking against your back tell you that Wanda came right with you.

It’s the last thought you have before the void plunges you in headfirst.

A hazy flicker of static hums inside you as you float far above your own mind. Dim lights simmer beneath your eyelids, a pattern of no sense or reason drawing across your mind like a gentle embrace. Warmth envelopes you, a soothing voice cooing at you while wetness and sweat are wiped away with soft hands.

You’ve just returned to your body when Wanda slides back next to you in bed—all resemblance of space a laughable notion now. Her voice drifts along your residual softness, “Well done, my beautiful girl. You’ll call your manager in the morning, and then we’ll talk. Let's sleep.”

Her palm brushes your cheek before she leans down to plant a sweet kiss atop the red flush. You hum your agreement, the previous conversation long gone from memory. But if it’s what mommy wants, then it’s what she’ll get.

Wanda wraps around you, her body curling into your own as her hand cups you carefully.

“Good girl. Mommy will train you well.”

You have a long weekend ahead of you.

a/n: if anyone asks, you didn't see this...

[volirm]

hammered

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader cw: bottom!reader, humiliation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise, degradation, mommy kink, non-con somnophilia, jealousy, dumbification, possessive behavior, wanda is a bad girlfriend technically, strap-ons, drinking at a party, inspection kink,  wc: 6.7k a/n: i really wanted to write hate sex with an ex-wanda, because i missed my ex…. , but mommy wanda took over 😵‍💫sorry, not sorry, i’ll always be a mommy’s girl. leave me request of what you want to see next <33 also find this and my other fics on ao3!

You really shouldn't have gone out today. Your friends would have understood; messy break-up, thundering migraine, heartbreaking numbness. Still, here you were, goosebumps lining your exposed legs from jean-shorts that were a little too—short. You had done that on purpose, maybe; you knew Wanda hated when you wore skimpy, revealing outfits around others. Whatever. Fuck Wanda. One of your friends giggled when you rolled your eyes at seemingly nothing. 

“Got your mind off her yet?” she teased, pulling your one-size-too-big jacket over your exposed shoulder. 

“Ugh, never,” you grimaced.

“Maybe hook up with someone, have a one-night stand, y’know, to forget about her.” You scowled at her remark, choosing instead to down the half-empty drink you’d been nursing the entire night. It felt like the more you drank, the more you thought about her. Her annoyingly entrancing auburn hair that clung perfectly to her heated face when she was just a little ticked off. Her idiotic metal rings that wrapped deliciously around irritatingly immaculate slender fingers. Stupid, stupid, Wanda, and her stupid, stupid disgustingly charming personality. Your thesaurus of internally monologued insults was interrupted by a clink on the bar counter behind you. 

“Thank you,” you muttered to your friend, hands meeting the shot glass immediately. 

“It’s on me tonight. You know you need it,” she grinned, “I can’t remember the last time you came out drinking with us! Finally you’re free from that witch, and how she managed to keep you locked up for so long is beyond me.” Free is the last word you would choose to describe yourself right now. The only thing you’re free from is the physicality of said ‘witch,’ she still mentally plagued your mind and claimed your feelings. 

“Yeah, thank god,” you joked, lightly, trying to disguise your depressive yearning as irritation. You didn’t mean it, of course. You would trade everything in the world for one more night with her. Too bad you had snapped on your last 2 love-sick years and stormed out of the room with a “fine, we’re done.” Part of you blamed your friends; if they hadn’t ‘convinced’ you that your relationship was unhealthy, that Wanda was taking advantage of you, too old for you, isolating you, you wouldn’t have had the false bravado to blow up in her face. You didn’t want to think about that, or her, for any longer, swinging your head back to down your second drink, and first shot, of the night.

“Let’s dance, help me take my mind off her,” you shouted over the music, pulling yourself and your friend off the high-stools and into the kaleidoscope of lights. She giggled and joined you willingly, swaying with the melody. Whatever was in that glass she had ordered started to sink into your bloodstream, and the constant movement did not help. You weren’t a lightweight–at least you thought—but it had been a while since you had alcohol without Wanda, and she never let you have anything too strong. The shot forced a weird latency effect in your vision, the ends of it obfuscating as you turned. Movement blur, paired with the same hammering headache you arrived with did not make the dancing easier. You muttered something about needing another beverage for the ‘nerves,’ and your friend gladly complied.

After a while, you lost count of how many drinks you’d had tonight, but no matter how many you’d accept, the sluggish, surfacing feeling of missing your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—kept rising. Knowing your friends would try to stop you if you told them about your ‘plan,’ you mumbled about needing to use the restroom, and slipped away quietly. Closing the bathroom door drowned part of the lyrics swimming through your mind, but the pounding bass line remained. Your phone had already met your palm when you paused; before you slammed the door in your face, Wanda had thrown a snarky, one-off line about how you’d “always need her,” and “wouldn’t last a day without calling her.” You had scoffed at her at the time, but right now, it couldn’t be more true; however, you had definitely had too much to drink, and your faux brazenness didn’t allow you to hit her contact—yet. It was for the better this way. You knew Wanda would laugh in your face if you had called her here, mocking you for your clinginess and want for her, even after she “treated you like she owned you” and “took away all your agency.” When you said those words to her, for the same second it takes someone to realize their hand is on a scalding pan, her face had crumbled; after that split-moment, she had given you an exasperated glare and built her mask back up. You couldn’t focus on the memory of what happened after, because the maddening music had seeped back in through the open door. The song plaguing the air had switched from the club EDM to a more pestilential rave scene vibe, and your friend had come looking for you. 

“Oh my god, why were you taking so long?” She questioned, dropping her bag on the sink counter and coming up to you. You grimaced at the loud clank of her belongings scattering on the surface.

“Shit,” she muttered, hurriedly picking up a round hand mirror making its way to a descent that would most certainly shatter it. You busied your hands by helping her clean up, mumbling a sorry at her previous comment. 

“I thought you had started your period, or something, that's why I brought all this,” she conceded, gesturing to her bag with various objects sporadically being placed back inside. You should be thankful for friends like her, willing to put up with your years of self-blackballing and rejection of plans extended for you. Here she is, still supporting you, paying for drinks. It’s not like you’d never accept their invitations; it’s just the times you would, Wanda would always pick you up early, or make up an excuse for why you couldn’t attend—with the amount of ‘doctor’s visits’ you had been at this past year, people should think of you as chronically ill with an incurable disorder. 

Speaking of Wanda, your lips pursed as you confessed, “No, I was going to sneak away and call someone.” You could practically feel her eyes rolling when you mentioned it. With both of you drunk, your friend had held an air of brashness, justifying her next remark. 

“She treated you like her little pet, you can’t be hung up on her anymore.” While this analysis of your relationship—past relationship—would have hurt you in any other context, tonight the only thing you wanted to be was ‘her little pet.’ Actually, the more you think about it, the more irritated it makes you. Your friend was right, how could you still be hung up on her? She’d control your outfits, relationships, and even jobs. You hadn’t lived for yourself these past 2 years. To be fair, it wasn’t that bad, she paid for anything you could have wanted, and you didn’t actually need to work since she handled your mortgage bills, student loans, and everything else. She loved you, cared for you, and never put anything above you. Wait. There it was again. That perpetual voice in your head that needed to defend her, always. It was almost like Wanda had planted a replica of herself in your own thoughts, always convincing you to submit to her, never disobey her, listen to her. Whatever; tonight that changed. You had already broken one of her “rules,” evident by the booze that tainted your breath and mind, might as well break them all.

“Remember what you mentioned earlier?” you goaded, looking up at your friend with a maniacal look. She grinned, quickly catching on to your, probably impractical, idea. The two of you left the bathroom, skipping with glee. 

It had been easy to get into bed with someone; perhaps your flirting skills needed work, yes, but their levels sufficed enough for a one-nighter. Was it a little irresponsible of them to let you leave with a stranger while absolutely hammered? Sure, but you had all been a little too intoxicated to think right, and you assured them you’d be okay. Drunken lips met, and your bodies folded into each other. There was a possibility, you thought as your hands gripped fiery strands, that you chose to approach this particular stranger because of her close resemblance to a certain someone. Your friend had eyed you and pointed out the resemblance, but you shrugged her off, calling her dramatic; maybe you should have listened to her at the time. Now, all you could think about were the similarities; her overzealous look, burgundy hair, and husky tone. Her hands on you, in you, lifting a haze over your mind. When you reached your peak, you were ashamed to admit how much it caused you to miss Wanda; thank god your face had been buried in a pillow, or else your mystery partner would’ve probably been disappointed to hear you moaning another’s name. 

You had left the bed as soon as you felt slow rises and falls in your mystery partner’s chest; you felt a little remorse for ditching, but it was a game both of you had signed up for: one-night, no questions, no feelings. Zipping up the same jean shorts that were hastily torn off of you just a few hours prior, and brushing your hair with her comb, you pried open the bedroom door quietly. Your eyes scanned the room, landing on the couch. You walked over to where you had lost your bra and top before you made it onto the mattress. That restless, expeditious hunger reminded you of Wanda, and you caught yourself smiling fondly. The drunken stupidity in your mind had nestled itself into a faint buzz, still leaving your head floating and a little empty. Before you could register your instinctual reflex, your hand started to dial a number you were all too familiar with. 

“Hello?” Her tone was sharp and annoyed. You froze. You didn’t expect her to answer so quickly, especially at 2 in the morning, and you also didn’t expect yourself to call her right after the event that was supposed to help you forget about her. Still, you tried to justify your own actions to yourself, blaming it on the bottomless drinks paid for by your friends. 

“Wan- mommy,” you whispered. You knew that title was her weak point, and she softened on the other line, but stayed persistent. 

“Why are you calling me this late?” She scoffed. She already knew the answer, of course. Wanda had been stalking your location all night, waiting for a call to appear on her phone; a few months ago she installed a GPS tracker on your phone, which you have since forgotten about. This was the type of controlling behavior your friends complained about, but you never took their warnings to heart. When you had mentioned it to her, Wanda told you they were just jealous, and what were you to do if not believe her? 

“‘m sorry.” The demeanor she held made your mind fuzzy; you never could stand to be bad when your mommy was disappointed in you. 

You could hear a sigh on the other line, and then finally, “Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming to pick you up.” Your body felt warm at her demand, humming a barely audible agreement. 

You had bundled yourself up in your jacket and a random throw blanket scavenged from the stranger’s apartment—hopefully they wouldn’t miss it—and fell asleep against a fire hydrant. When the familiar rumble of Wanda’s corvette approached the side of the street, you jolted awake. 

“I didn’t know mommy’s girl was this stupid. Why didn’t you stay inside, baby?” she chastised, coming around the front of her car to squeeze your chin up at her. As much as she hated seeing your blinking dot in some random apartment, she would’ve much preferred you stay warm. You sneezed in response, and blinked at her, dumbly. Her infantilization of you, paired with the high you were still coming off of, brought you to a space where only half your senses were present. 

“I can’t say I expected this of you, baby,” she murmured, pulling you into the car. “I thought my sweet girl would come straight back to mommy, especially after that big fit you threw.” 

Your head tilted a little, trying to wrap your head around what Wanda was saying to you.

“Is this who my little girl is now, hmm?” Her condescending stare, eyes narrowed as if she were scolding a child, make you melt even further into yourself. “A drunk slut, whoring yourself out to some random bitch, and then having to call mommy to clean up your mess?”

“No, mommy, please,” you begged for her forgiveness, wrapping your body around her free arm. You hadn’t stopped to question how she knew the details of your night. She yanked her arm out from you with such startling force, causing your head to hit the wheel. 

“Mommy,” your eyes welled up, "I'm sorry, please, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“Don’t go around making promises you can’t keep, baby.” 

“Please, anything,” you bat your eyes at her. At this point, you were just saying anything to get her to soften up, pawing at her arm again. This time she let you fit your fingers between hers, rubbing circles into the back of your hand, while her other hand turned the wheel.

“The first thing you’re gonna do is shut that whiny little mouth of yours. Then, when we get back home, you’re gonna take a nice long bath and go to sleep.” Even when she was mad at you, she could be so considerate. You should’ve never listened to your friends when they told you Wanda was bad for you. How could she be, when she took such care for you? You decided, on your own, that you were going to cut them off as soon as you woke up in the morning. When you verbalized this to Wanda—to the best of your ability—she cooed and stroked your thigh. 

“I knew my good girl was still in there.” Your face heated at her compliment, and you buried your face in her shoulder. It was quiet on the way home with you half-asleep and Wanda at the wheel. She occasionally peppered little kisses on your hand, murmuring words you couldn’t make out.

When you got home, the porch light had been left on—proof of Wanda’s hasty actions. She had been so worried about you, watching your location move to a foreign building. It had been a miracle that she hadn’t driven immediately there, but she knew her little girl would come back to her; you just got lost along the way. Getting you in the house had been easy, but getting you in the shower was another story. When she managed to haul you over to the tub, you fell limp against her, unhelpful and unmoving. 

“Baby. Mommy’s very mad at you right now. Don’t make it worse.” You huffed at her, opening one eye against the bright fluorescent light of her bathroom. Sluggishly, you climbed in the tub, still fully dressed. You still couldn’t believe that she had answered your call, without a second thought; you take her for granted too much. 

“Strip,” Wanda ordered, raising an eyebrow. You pouted at her, raising your arms for her. She rolled her eyes at your childishness, pulling your shirt over your head and your shorts down your legs. When she unclipped your bra, you covered your arms over your chest, bashfully. Wanda slapped them away. 

“How many times have I seen you naked, sweetheart?” she lectured, moving on to shimmy your panties down your thighs. Your cheeks glowed. As she slid them down, she could see a pool of want string down with them. 

“Fucking slut,” she said, biting her lip. You whined at her words, crossing your legs to hide yourself. You were ashamed; ashamed at your choices from earlier, and ashamed at how much you craved her inevitable punishment.

“I’ll deal with you in a bit,” Wanda said pointedly. The way she spoke to your pussy like you weren’t there made the pressure in your thighs grow, uncomfortably so. 

“Mommy,” you groaned, rubbing your legs together. 

“Stop that,” Wanda scolded, squeezing your thigh to freeze your movements. She started the shower, with her still fully dressed. It made you flush even more, knowing you were fully exposed for her. 

“Can you shower by yourself, or do you need your mommy to do that for you too?” She mocked, manhandling you into the cold water. You gasped out the title you had been repeating all night, jumping at the sudden cold. Your nipples pebbled when the droplets met them, a reaction that Wanda did not miss. She slid her hand from your thighs, trailing them up your body to your breasts. Her hand squeezed and tightness of her grip made you whimper. Her other hand, now free after turning on the water, floated to the body wash, pumping the silky product onto her palm. 

“Mommy needs to make sure my sweet girl is all clean, okay?” she spoke, condescendingly, “stay still, baby.” She brought her palm down to your icky center, and using the body wash as lube—not that you needed any help in that department; you were soaking wet, and not from the shower—Wanda pushed three fingers into you at once, causing you to gasp and stand on your tippy toes to get away from the stretch. She pushed you down with her free hand, until your feet were back on the ground, shushing you. When you settled onto her fingers, she began pumping, massaging your cute perky breasts at the same time. You held the back of your hand against your mouth, muffling your melodious moans.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, “I want to hear your pathetic sounds.” You complied, a bit embarrassed at the reflexive way you listened to her. The body wash gave her “inspection” of your pussy a little sting to it, and every languid thrust made you more and more sensitive. She was being rougher and meaner than usual, and you knew why. It was well warranted treatment, you thought to yourself; Wanda had always been so good to you, but there you were, practically cheating on her with a stranger you had been just a few hours before. And you had cum for someone else, without her permission no less. The guilt overcame you. You didn’t realize you were crying until Wanda’s hands left your chest and core, and cupped your cheeks.

“My sweet girl,” she purred. It was a mystery to how she even realized there were tears, especially because of the water. But Wanda always noticed. You leaned into her touch, babbling out ‘mommys’ and sniffles of apologies. She leaned your head out of the water, shushing you with a kiss. Her lips felt like they were searing hot compared to the shower that had yet to warm up. If you were in the right state of mind, you would’ve realized Wanda set it to that temperature on purpose, to keep your mind uncomfortable, and subsequently moldable. She has you right

where she wants you, pliable, submissive, and needy. You chased her lips when they left you, and she chuckled at your attempt. 

“Let’s finish showering, bunny,” she cooed, washing her hands in the falling water. The rest of your shower went without notability. 

You had passed out right when she finished dressing you in her oversized t-shirt and lacy underwear. Your little snores made her almost forget what she had to be angry at you for. She knew you were just a needy pet; all you did last night was throw a tantrum just for her attention. That was to be expected. What she didn’t expect was for you to actually let someone else touch what was hers. Wanda felt like she deserved reparations for your vehement behavior. And look at you now: freshly showered, adorable lingerie, shirt that lifted just a little too high. You were practically asking for it with your slightly agape mouth, and perfectly laid out hair. Wanda felt like it was justified; your body needed to be claimed again. It was only right. That’s what she told herself as she lifted your thighs, pulling your panties aside. No wonder you were so whiny, your pretty cunt was so worked up all this time. Wanda was only doing you, and her, a favor by taking care of this mess. That was her reasoning behind lowering her mouth on your leaky pink pussy. Her tongue pushed past your entrance, swirling around your insides. She lapped up the wetness you pooled between your legs, humming to herself as she did. A tiny crease formed between your brows as you let out small whimpers in your sleep. 

Fuck, Wanda had missed this taste. Sure, you had only been gone for a night or two, but she would’ve fucked you ten fold in that amount of time. You had been stealing her life source, her reason for living, when you stormed off. It’s only right that she gets to have her way with you now, she justified, as she flicked her tongue into your unconscious form. You were just as sensitive as ever, legs twitching at each swipe. She relieved her right hand of the duty of pushing your thigh apart, and instead brought it down to your soaked entrance. Your hips jutted out just a little, perhaps a cause of your dreams, and she giggled at your eagerness. Even in your sleep, you chased her fingers. When Wanda sunk them into you, she moaned. You were positively soaked, and she ravished in it all being for her. She pumped and curled her fingers with such lewd vigor and divulgence, one could actually believe that she truly did survive off of your pleasure. Your euphonious moans and whimpers bounced around the room, and when she found that spot in you that clenched your abs and squeezed your thighs, she drilled everything she had into it. Like a symphony, your entire body moved up and down to the rhythm of the tempo her fingers set. She didn’t give your clit a break either, licking, sucking, and circling the bundle of nerves until she recognized the contorted look that filled your sleeping face. Then, everything stopped. 

Oh no, she was not about to give her naughty little girl the pleasure of an orgasm, even unconsciously. Wanda had planned to bring you to the edge, over and over again, in your sleep, just so you would be needy and complacent tomorrow morning. And that she did. Every twitch of your thighs, clenching of your abs, and furrowing of your brows, halted her movements. She tightened that coil, again and again, throughout the entire night. At the end, you were so worked up, even a breeze blowing by could give you an orgasm. It was a miracle you hadn’t awoke at any point, and the alcohol definitely played a role. 

Coming morning, your hand had met your eyes, groggily rubbing consciousness into them. A Wanda sized dent was left in the bed, and she was nowhere to be seen. A faint aroma of scrambled eggs and sound of sizzling slowly crept into the room, and you would have been excited at the thought of one of your favorite dishes if it weren’t for the massive ache you had woken up with. Lifting up the edge of your underwear, you could see an ocean of need pooling between your thighs. What could you have possibly dreamt about to warrant this type of reaction? You flung your legs over the side of the bed, scrunching your nose at the feeling of fabric rubbing against your icky area. It was like you had been injected with some kind of chemical that increased your sensitivity exponentially. You slowly made your way to the bathroom, a pair of fresh underwear in tow. Your walk was a little funny, as a result of your attempt to prevent your thighs from rubbing together. It was a pain to clean up, as every swipe sent what felt like electricity jolting through your body. When you finished wiping up your mess, your feet led you towards the ravishing smell, into the kitchen, and your eyes staked their claim on Wanda. 

“Mommy, I’m sorry,” you looked up at her, covering your hands with your face. You felt ashamed caused by memories of last night, and the anger you held for her conjured by your friends dissipating, leaving you with the aftermath of your reactions. She melted at the sight of you, leaning down to pepper little kisses around your forehead. 

“What’s wrong, princess?” She whispered, kissing your ear as she dotted her mouth around. Her breath sent shivers crawling around your spine, leaving goosebumps where they trailed. 

“Need you,” you murmured, pressing into her side. She laughed at your words, hands still occupied on the stove. She had always looked so beautiful doing domestic things for you, like cooking or laundry. You’d usually love making yourself useful in whichever ways you could, but today, you held not the same appetite for helpfulness. 

“Go set the table, baby,” she asked, nodding her head towards the wooden surface. You whined at her request, pulling yourself off of her.

“Please, mommy,” you stomped your feet. Her eyes darkened and she raised an eyebrow.

“Is that how you want to speak to me right now? You’re in a lot of trouble still, silly girl.” Her voice raised in volume, just enough to strike obedience into you. 

“‘m sorry, mommy.”

“That’s what I thought. Do what I asked, sweet girl.” You dragged your feet the whole way to the table, and again whilst laying cutlery, plates, and glasses. Wanda rolled her eyes at your dramatics. 

“Mommy, pleaseee, I really need you,” you begged, a few hours after breakfast. You two had moved to the couch, wrapped around each other with an arbitrarily chosen sitcom in the background. Wanda feigned ignorance at the need between your thighs she knew you were possessing, instead choosing to echo your words from a few nights ago.

“I thought you said I was too much, and that you didn’t need me, baby,” she mocked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears. As her fingers floated over, they made just enough contact to melt your mind a little. 

“No, I take it back, mommy,” you whined, “can’t live without you.” You felt, in this moment, that acquiring her attention was akin to your fundamental need of oxygen. Wanda grinned at your admission, leaning in for a kiss. 

“I know,” she mumbled into your lips, and you shifted yourself onto her. 

“Please, let me show you how much I need you,” you whimpered, grinding down, and ruining her sweatpants. Wanda’s eyes glinted, her hand sliding up your shirt, fingers running up your bare stomach before grabbing your breasts with her hands. She pinched one of your erect nipples, rolling it around, watching your body squirm. After she had wound you up last night, almost every part of your body became hypersensitive, confusing you. Wanda, of course, was aware of this. She slapped your chest, playfully, and you gasped at the feeling of her palms rubbing against your nipples as she massaged you harshly. You would’ve fallen against her, had she not been holding you up by your chest; you were practically butter, leaning against her hands, letting her have her way with groping you. Wanda smirked at your pitiful whines and bucking hips, and she knew you felt the hard bulge beneath her sweatpants pressing against you.

“Please, please,” you mewled, any other word escaping your mind. Wanda let you continue to hump against her, her hips pressing her strap purposely up into your clit. Your back arched as you felt it, leaning yourself back against your arms and simultaneously into her. 

“I thought you wanted to watch a show, baby,” Wanda teased, turning your head towards the television by squeezing your chin with her free hand, the other still palming your chest. With your face flushed and eyes screwed shut, you could feel yourself getting wetter and more embarrassed at her words. 

“No, mommy, please, want you,” you moaned, hips already begging for release. She rolled her eyes at your need, bringing her hands down on your hips to force pressure into your nerves. You groaned, as your sensitive cunt tightened around an ache of nothingness. A part of you felt anger towards your past self; if you had not gotten so indignantly enraged at Wanda over what your friends had told you, she wouldn’t be so virulent to you now and you would be in a more propitious situation. As the coil in your tummy spiraled, slews of ‘please’s and ‘mommy’s began escaping your mouth; your hands came around to Wanda’s shoulders, and she could tell you were close. 

“You’re pathetic, sweetie,” she spat, “Fucking slut, whining about how you don’t need me, then coming back and begging for me to let you cum?” The visible flush on your face multiplied, if such a thing could even happen; her words left you fuzzy, and she forced your attention onto her with a sharp squeeze of your thigh, looking into your eyes which were glassy from the fusion of pleasure and humiliation that occupied your empty little head. “I haven’t even touched you down there, princess. What’s got you so worked up?”

Your words die in your gaping mouth and reincarnate as helpless whimpers. Your head was filled with only one thing, and Wanda loved to see you squirming to reach it; she knew you wouldn’t have the capacity to answer her purposefully loaded questions. It’s not like she needed the answer anyway, she hadn’t forgotten about the hours she spent winding you up like a toy, not letting you reach your zenith even once. When you didn’t answer her in adequate time, she released your face, slapping the side of it a little.

“Mommy’s little doll can’t be that dumb yet,” she mocked, pressing you even harder against her ruined pants. You pouted at her words, shaking your head childishly. She laughed at the display, pinching your cheeks. You buried your face into her, leaving breathy whines against her neck, begging for your impending release. The faster you grinded into her, the higher you climbed, but you knew cumming without her permission now would be a death sentence. 

“Mommy, need to cum please,” you spluttered out in one breath, not trusting yourself to take a long pause in between each word. It was getting harder and harder to form coherent verbal expressions, and Wanda relished these dopey babblings. She pressed you further down onto her, encouraging you to rut into her with fervent urge. Wanda had to stop for a moment, just to admire you; bare, rolling hips against, exposed nipples hardening to perfect peaks in the air, your eyes, half-lidded, glassy and full of desire. Your need for her was intoxicating, and her fingertips traveled down her chest, trailing between the valley of your breasts and over the curve of your clenching stomach. You arched into her touch with closed eyes, releasing a whimper of pure and absolute pleasure. 

“Go ahead, baby, show mommy how much you want me.”

With her consent, a breathy, prolonged cry escaped from the rope of desire that snapped inside you, letting you fall from your compulsive hunger; it felt like you had been thrown over a mountainside that had rivaled the heights of Olympus, soaring through the sky to land into the arms of your lover. Your hands dug into her shoulders, causing little crescent shapes to embed into her skin. Wanda reached around your back, nestling her hand in between sweaty strands of your hair. She pulled back softly, bringing your face to hers. It drove her mad, to think about you with another; she met your lips with indignation, leaving sloppy, open-mouth kisses to claim your shaking form. Your hips slowed, almost to a halt if it were not for the sporadic jolts of aftershocks from your orgasm. 

Wanda stilled your hips, pressing her hands around you. You had expected her to bring you down carefully, peppering little kisses around your face, praising you, like she always did. Unfortunately for you, she was not in that kind of mood. Instead, reaching under you, she flipped the band of her drenched sweatpants down, revealing her strap. In one swift moment, before your dumb, empty little brain could even register what was happening, she pulled your panties to the side and her cock into your hole. You squeaked when she pushed into you halfway, crying out and crumpling forward onto her. The feeling of her length engulfed your senses entirely, forcing your focus to one burning point of desire. 

“W-Wanda, wait, stop,” you whined, complaints muffed by her chest, “it’s too much.”

“Mommy,” she corrected with a hiss against your cheek, “isn’t done yet.” 

“Mommy,” you sobbed, grabbing to cling to her arms, or to anything really, as she sank herself further into you. Your stature crumbles under the weight of her looming desire, unable to produce even a single thought as you lose yourself to the sensation of her. 

“You’ll take what I give you, baby,” she hissed, “This is what you asked for, isn’t it?” You nodded, biting your lip and looking up at her through fear pricked eyelashes, fully resting on her hilt. Her hands moved to position both of you upright. Now, your hands were shaking on her shoulders, and hers gripping on your hips. She set an awful starting pace, lifting you up and down her cock, each impact grinding the straps base into her clit. You had whimpered at each movement, feeling fuller than you had ever felt before. Your head lolled forward, onto her shoulder, hiding your flush from her. In this position, your cute whimpers traveled straight into Wanda’s ears, fueling her need even more. It would be a tragedy to compare anything to the sweet heat of your aching cunt clenching around her. 

“Slower please, mommy,” you pleaded, trying to push her hands off your waist. She trapped your wrists behind your lower back, with one hand, while the other guided your hips to roll at a faster pace. “Don’t fucking fight me, baby. You don’t get to, not after that fit you threw. Just be a good girl, and let mommy use your tight little pussy.” 

You whined at her vulgarity, leaning further into her, now fully supported by her shoulders. Willing everything in yourself to be a good girl and take your mommy’s cock, you start to move your hips with her hand. You sat at the precipice of pain and ecstasy, pleasure building inside of you as your walls cave in on Wanda’s length. It truly felt as if you were being split into two, and, to the best of your ability, you voiced your concerns to Wanda. 

“Too much, it hurts mommy, please stop,” you spluttered, gasping and screwing your eyes together tightly at the intense discomfort that disguised itself in pleasure. 

“Mommy will decide when it’s too much for you, baby,” Wanda hissed. You had no choice but to accept her decree, but still let out a whine in complaint. She bucked up a little harsher in response. Wanda’s hand released your arms, trailing around your waist and across your tummy to grope at your bouncing breasts harshly and callously. You deserved a worse punishment, in her opinion, leaving her and running away to slut yourself off to some whore at a bar; she bet you never even caught the stranger’s name, but shit, did you feel addicting. Lost in her own thoughts formed by the synthesis of her outrage and craving, she pushed you over, onto your back to reach a deeper part of you. From on top, she was able to thrust harder with more fervor. Your wanton moans echo around the room, hands gripping the material beneath you. The slick sound of sex and the stringing stickiness of your mixed fluids would have embarrassed you in another mindset, but now, you were just as lost in the desire as Wanda was; the intoxicating feeling of intimacy overwhelmed your senses. Each plunge of herself into you loosened your cunt until there was barely any resistance; as you became accustomed to her size, your whines grew lewdly in volume. With your clammy hands, you clung to her, and every time your pussy took her to her hilt, you let out little whines, raking your nails across her back. Your mind felt higher than any drug could have ever taken you, pleasure obscuring any real thought you might have mustered up. She dropped to lean on her elbows, trapping you between her forearms. 

“My cute brainless fucktoy, aren’t you?” Wanda cooed into your ear, and you nodded your head into her neck; you would've nodded at anything she said, incapable of much else in that moment. Wanda’s breathy moans had picked up their frequency, and you knew she was grinding against the strap’s base as she fucked you; the thought of her using you as just an object for her own pleasure caused your cunt to tense around her, your wetness seeping out between the two of you. “My sweet girl, you feel so tight,” she muttered from behind you, hands fitting themselves around your waist, using your hips as leverage to rut into you rougher. The feeling of her desperate desire rivaled any other, and you felt as if she were trying to melt her soul into yours. Pleasure ran wild in your bloodstream and nerves, firing like crazy, random, and then surging back to one pure point as she rounded your hip to draw circles against your clit. You could hear a gasp, distantly, not quite sure if it was yours from pleasure or hers from the shock of your wetness; your muscles gathered and trembled in transfixed purpose, her fingers and cock prying moan after moan from your lips. You could feel the familiar coil in your tummy, tightening once again, stronger than it had ever before; Wanda could feel the same. 

“Gonna cum again, mommy,” you cried, as you buried your face into the side of her arm. Your forehead pressed against her, and you melted into the light bounce of the couch beneath the two of you. Wanda’s grunts collected against the side of your head as she grew ever closer to her own high. Without uttering a single word, she met your lips again, pressing into passionately. Your mouths locked together, burning, blissful, and mind-numbing. It had felt like a kiss for an eternity, void of time or oxygen. When she pulled away, your steamy, half-lidded stare incited a deep, fervent need within her. You could feel the bruise on your cervix forming as her tempo increased. You knew she was closing in on her climax, and you wanted nothing more than to feel the fall with her. You stammered out incomplete words, in an attempt to declare your proximity to your orgasm. 

The multiverse, and everything in it, ceased to exist in the very moment Wanda’s permission whispered into your ear.

Your legs wrapped around her tightly, and then it washed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore. As you came down from your peak, the wave pulled back, dragging the pleasure out from your core into every limb, every hair on your body, all the way out to your fingertips. The same gratification sank through Wanda, relief from the ache building in her center caused white-hot pleasure to blind her vision. She plummeted from her apex, hands gripping the cushions below you. 

When you both came to, tangled around each other, heavy breathing, and spent bodies, Wanda smiled at you. The love you felt for her in that moment was physically painful, and you brought your hands up to melt into another kiss. “My sweet girl, I love you,” Wanda murmured into your lips, as she fell into your embrace. 

Your life, soul, body, and mind belonged to her, and her alone. You’d never leave her side again.

[lowkeyerror]

Mob Law

WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Notes: Multi-chapter, Lawyer Nat, Mob boss Wanda, wrongfully convicted reader, mentions of murder, mentions of death, mentions of prison, mob/gang related activity, violence, etc.

Summary: You have been locked up for just about 10 years after being wrongfully convicted of killing your mother. Kate and Peter know you're innocent, so they ask for help clearing your name. That help comes in the form of renowned lawyer Natasha Romanoff and her wife Don Wanda Maximoff.

An: A series... weekly updates... another mob like tale... we're so back

Series Masterlist | Masterlist 1 | Masterlist 2

It was a scorching summer day, you had been out with some friends. The skies were clear and there was a slight breeze, but it only blew hot air. You remember how much you had laughed earlier in the day. There was a carefree atmosphere surrounding the day. At least until you got home.

You found her in the kitchen; your mother. Blood all over the floor, her body riddled with stab wounds. She wasn't the only thing you found. The killer was still in the house.

There was a struggle, you fought. He was bigger, stronger, and armed with a knife. You weren’t going out that easily. When he noticed your tenacity, you believe he decided to flee. Not without making one last effort to ruin your life.

He stabbed you in the gut, then fled leaving the knife in your stomach. Unfortunately for you, when you pulled the knife from your stomach, the police were barging into your house. From their perspective it looked like you killed your mother.

You maintained your innocence, but your story sounded farfetched. You had an alibi for the morning, but they argued that you had time to kill her when you got home. During the trial, they decided to charge you as an adult even though you were only 16. The court appointed lawyer wasn’t on your side, telling you to take a plea deal. You refused, and were found guilty of the murder of your mother. You were sentenced to 45 years in prison.

The case was famous. A lot of people thought your story was ridiculous. Some saying you had made a mockery of the trail, by saying some random man came in. Others, who knew you personally, refused to believe that you would do anything like that.

None of that mattered. Only two things were relevant. The first being that you were innocent and the second being that you were going to prison anyway.

While you’re in prison, you do a lot of thinking. There’s not much else to do. Your mother, your friends, your education, and your future; gone forever.

The years before you turned 18 were the worst of it. When you’re that young amongst the inmates you become a target. You had to learn to be strong, seem imposing, so that no one would fuck with you.

You were spending your formative years, trying not to die. At first you didn’t understand why. What was the point of living if this was your life? That was until you had your first visitation.

Kate had come to see you and she brought Peter with her. They had been with you that day your mother was murdered. The pair was certain that you were innocent. They always visited, always wrote, and swore that one day they would get you out. You appreciated the sentiment, but part of you had just accepted your fate.

A decade passes you in prison. You got your GED through a program. You spent most of your time reading or working out. There wasn't anyone you had gotten close to or mingled with. Everyone knew not to bother you at this point.

“Y/n, visitation time,” a guard calls into your cell.

You sigh, but get up and follow the officer out of your cell. When you get to the room you spot Peter and Kate instantly. However, they have someone else with them.

A beautiful woman. Her red hair was tied back in a pony tail, a few pieces stuck out to frame her face. Her green eyes were only soft in color, otherwise the stare they had felt meticulous.

You sit down with your friends and the stranger, “You brought a lawyer.”

“Y/n, this is Natasha,” Kate introduces.

The woman sticks her hand out and you shake it respectfully. The name sounds familiar to you, but you don’t place it immediately.

“Your girlfriend’s sister?” You recall that Kate’s mentioned her name in letters before.

“Natasha’s also one of the best lawyers of our time,” Peter says cautiously.

It’s been 10 years, they know how you feel about this. You hate that you made yourself a part of their life in this way. Something they refuse to let go of that only holds them back. You’re never getting out of here.

“I’ve looked over all the public details of your case and I’m certain that I can get you out,” Natasha speaks flatly.

“But…” You wait for the punchline.

“Did you kill your mother?”

Peter and Kate’s jaws drop. The audacity of Natasha to ask you this question. It almost sends them both into a frenzy. You can see the argument building on their lips.

You give them a look, and the theatrics stop. You shift your gaze over to Natasha. Your eyes bore into hers. For a small moment, you let the prisoner persona drip off of you. Once again, you’re that 16-year-old standing in the courtroom.

“No,” it’s a whisper from your lips. “I didn’t kill my mom.”

Natasha nods curtly, “Do you agree to have me as your lawyer?”

“Yes.”

Natasha stands, “Good, you sit tight and you’ll be out in no time.”

“Natasha,” you say her name before she walks off, “Thank you.”

She sends you a very small smile before exiting the visitation area.

“You’re going to be a free woman soon Y/n,” Kate says with certainty.

You shake your head, “I told you guys-”

Peter cuts you off, “We know, but Y/n we won't let you rot in here any longer. 10 years of your life wasted. You had dreams and aspirations.”

“You still draw on all the letters you send. Remember you were supposed to be an artist? Your paintings in galleries all over the world,” Kate reaches across the table to grab your hand.

“Even if I did get out of here, I don't know what I would do. You guys, I have nothing to my name, except a murder charge,” you keep your gaze on the table.

“You have us,” Peter says with conviction in his voice.

Kate squeezes your hand, “Y/n, we’ve been waiting for you to come home for a long time. Everything is going to be handled, you just have to trust us.”

“Time’s up.”

Before the guard drags you out, Peter and Kate give you a brief group hug. The guard allows it and you break the hug.

“I trust you,” you tell them before walking back to your jail cell.

The rest of the day passes by normally. The following morning when your cell opens, your bunk mate is pulled out.

You don't think anything of it as it's not your business.

However they never make it back. Instead a blonde woman you haven’t seen before comes in. Her hair is wavy and parted to the side. She has brown eyes, too kind looking to be in a prison.

The cell door slams behind her.

“I’m Carol,” she has no hesitation approaching you.

“Y/n,” you state definitively.

She pulls a paper out of the front of her jumpsuit and extends it to you. You stare at her blankly. She shakes the paper out, “This is from the boss.”

You shake your head, “Listen I've been in here 10 years, I’m not joining some gang. I can take care of myself.”

Carol lets out an amused huff of air, “You met her wife yesterday.”

You furrow your brow, “Natasha?”

Carol nods.

You cautiously take the paper from her. It’s a hand written note.

Dear Y/n,

We haven’t met yet, but I know who you are. Peter and Kate speak fondly of you. They miss you. Beyond that they are convinced of your innocence. Their words are pure to me. I’ve known them a long time, they’re family. They’ve never asked me for anything, in all these years. Yet, they come to me asking if I could help free you. I plan on making good on this favor for them. I could’ve had you out today, if they let me throw my weight around a bit, but they wanted this to be clean. My wife is the best lawyer walking this planet. Don’t just expect your freedom, but expect some compensation for wrongful imprisonment. If you’re family to Kate and Peter, then you’re family to me. I look forward to breaking bread with you.

~ Don W. Maximoff

You read over the signature a few times. Don W. Maximoff. Your hands shake a little. In the 10 years that you spent in this prison hearing about the Don was inevitable. The name is feared by most. It’s the kind of name you only whisper and even then, it’s dangerous.

“Don’t shake so much kid, you’re under protection from now on. You don’t realize it yet, but life is much better with the Don on your side. Even in here,” Carol hand clasps onto your shoulder.

All you can do is nod. Her hand comes off of you and she retreats into the top bunk.

You lay down on your back, staring straight up at the bottom mattress of the top bunk bed. A million thoughts racing through your head, but one sticks out.

“Carol,” you call out to her.

“Yeah,” she hums in response.

“Do I write back?”

Next part

[nattysnympho]

The Woman In Booth Seven

Prompt: G!P Silver fox Natasha Romanoff x Stripper Reader.

Warnings: Smut Ahead. Minors and Men dni. Age Gap (Natasha is 53, Reader is 22) Unprotected sex (p in V), stripper activities while being naked.

Word Count: 5.5K Words.

It was a late October night. The kind of crisp New York night that makes everyone look richer than they are. The charity gala smelled like old money trying to pretend it was brand new. Multiple assortment of orchids flown in from Singapore, champagne older than most of the waitstaff and more expensive than your salaries put together, and the faint metallic tang of desperation beneath thousand dollar cologne. You’d been on your feet for six hours in heels that were quietly trying to murder you, smile plastered on, directing billionaires and their trophy dates to their tables.

You moved through it all in a borrowed black suit two sizes too stiff, bow tie choking you like a warning, balancing a silver tray of flutes while counting the minutes until you could trade the starched white button up shirt for body oil and eight inch pleasers back at Velvet Room where you actually belonged.

This is a favor, you should be grateful! You thought to yourself. An opportunity to get some extra cash even though it meant you'd get lingering eyes from older men while their trophy wives gave you glares. But it was all worth it since they were paying you double this specific evening. You handed another flute out, flinching when one of the ambassadors grabbed your arm too tight. But something in the air shifted after that.

You felt the way the crowd parted just enough for you to see the mysterious woman. Natasha Romanoff walked in. Alone. No entourage, no date on her arm, just a floor length black coat cinched at the waist and her silver hair swept into a low, elegant knot that showed off the sharp lines of her face.

Your lips parted in awe once you got a proper look at her. Her silver streaked red hair swept low into a bun, and when she took that coat off, her midnight blue velvet blazer cut sharp enough to draw blood, while her green eyes were already locked on you like she’d been waiting hours for you to walk into range.

The sound of heels clacking on the floor brought you out of the trance you'd been in. Her eyes lingered on your face for a few seconds before you redirected your attention to the couple behind you. And when you looked back to where she had been standing a couple of seconds ago, the woman was already gone.

___

An hour maybe two went by and you'd secretly been stealing glances at the older woman. You knew who she was, of course you did. Everyone knew who the woman was. Natasha Romanoff. Famous ex-assassin turned CEO of Romanoff Incorporation, how she build her company from nothing to something in her mid twenties. Everyone feared the woman. She practically ruled security world or whatever the hell she did. You weren't sure. All you know was that she was the kind of loaded that came from hardwork and sleepless nights. You found yourself captivated by her.

The woman was interesting sure, but what intrigued you even more was the fact that she came with no one and paid attention to no one. Women circled around her, men stared her down and even the host was too nervous to hold eye contact while talking to her. That alone made her seem even more powerful.

You were certain that you spent almost an hour ogling at her before one of the wives attending the event called for you.

"You. Do me a favor and get me a scotch on the rocks."

"I only hand flutes out ma'am, I don't-"

"Is your job not to satisfy me? Isn't that what you're getting paid for?" The woman tilted her head, and from afar you could already see the head waitress giving you a warning look. Obey then walk away.

"Right away." You turned your back to her, making your way to the main bar area before placing the tray down.

"Scotch on the rocks please." The bartender nodded, and you took the time to unfasten the tie that had been irritating you for the past three hours. At least you had a few more seconds to breathe.

The bartender handed you the drink, you accepted it with a polite smile before handing it over to the woman. Little did you know that Natasha had been watching you for quite a while now. She watched you intensely. How every single one of your movements were deliberate. How your posture was upright but not stiff, shoulders squared like you were used to being looked at. Natasha’s gaze followed you without permission.

She watched you stop at a table of four ladies. One of them, a housewife in diamonds and too much perfume, didn’t even look up. The woman who'd asked you for her drink.

"You spilled." The woman said sharply. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t seen any spill. All she'd seen was grace walking around a room filled with arrogant women and hungry men.

"I didn't." She heard the way you replied. Your voice calm, low. Polite. Too polite.

"Yes, you did." The woman snapped, waving a manicured hand toward the hem of her dress.

"Do you people ever pay attention?" You people.

Natasha felt the familiar, unwelcome spark of irritation crawl up her spine. You simply glanced down, then back up, jaw tightening for just a fraction of a secon and you apologized anyway. A small apology. Controlled. Professional.

Natasha clocked it all. The restraint, the way your fingers curled just slightly around the tray, the way you didn’t look at the woman again once turned away. She found you interesting. Very interesting.

Later that night, Natasha found you in the bathroom. You were fixing your jacket, then your hair before looking at her through the mirror.

"Long night?" She asked, leaning against the pristine walls.

"You have no idea." You replied dryly. Why would she be talking to you? It didn't make any sense.

You thought that she was probably just being nice. Or maybe she needed something from you, but Natasha just stared, observed and took you in.

"You know, it's rude to stare." You mumbled while tucking a loose curl behind your ear.

"I know. But I just so happen to be appreciating the beauty in front of me."

"Smooth." You finally turned to look at her.

"Do you need something Ms Romanoff?" Natasha raises her brow in amusement.

"You know who I am?"

"Of course. Everyone does." She hums a low hum that sends something down your core.

You find yourself admiring the woman's features. The freckles across her nose, the small wrinkles just beneath her eyes, those perfectly shaped eyebrows and her eyes, christ her eyes. This women was the epitome of perfection, age be damned.

"Now I'm not the one staring." She teases, you huff out a laugh.

"I should get going." You gesture towards the door and she steps aside.

Once you leave the bathroom, after a long moment, Natasha is left with the scent of your perfume swirling around in her nose and your face engraved in her mind. You on the other hand finally let the breath you were apparently holding out. Something about Natasha made you feel hot and bothered. But you weren't here to hit women up, let alone a woman of her status.

You made your way back to the bar, grabbing the tray filled with new flutes before rounding your way around the gala room. But fate apparently wasn't done. Because a few minutes later, Natasha was in front of you, and without a word, you handed her a flute. She glanced down at you once again. Green eyes. Predator green.

"Thank you..." She read your name tag. "Kelly." You simply nodded, the sound of her voice rolling around the fake name sent some sort of thrill down your spine. You wondered how it would sound if she said your real name.

"You're welcome Ms Romanoff. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You walked away before she could reply, feeling her stare on your back the whole way to the kitchen.

___

VELVET ROOM, Friday night, 1:12 a.m.

Three weeks have gone by since you worked the night at the gala. But now, you were in the place you felt like you belonged. And yes, maybe it was contentious that you preferred this over waiting hand and foot around other people, but the pay was exceptionally good, you worked flexible hours and well you were considered the best of the best in the club. "Considered" was just you being humble. You were the best.

The bassline was filthy, lights strobing crimson and indigo across your sweat slick skin. The main stage belonged to you tonight. Your stage name, Onyx written in neon colors on the screen and the crowd knew it and loved it.

You were drrssed nothing but a black diamond G-string, a silver sheer top and eight-inch Pleasers, your body oiled, curls pulled into a high ponytail that whipped when you spun. The pole was your spine, your lover, your throne. You climbed it upside down, legs split in a perfect V shape, back arched until your hair brushed the stage, then slid down slow enough to make grown men cry and thro hundred dollar bills your way.

Some tried to touch, some tried to pull the strings of your top but you brushed them off. Instead you made your way to a man, probably in his mid fifties, with a stack of hundreds in his palm. He gushed to his group of buddies when you pulled his tie forward. And although the feeling of his rough hand sliding down your ass made your insides spin in disgust, you brushed him off with a wink while he placed said stack in your palms.

It all amused yet kind of irked you, of course it did! How unsettling it was that a questionable amount of men sitting in this club were probably fathers, husbands, company owners, but who were you to judge when you were making more than others would make in a few hours. Money continued to rain, your stage name was chanted across the stage, even when you stepped aside to get some air and water.

When you were back on the stage, the routine started once again, money was tossed around while you mindlessly swirled and danced around the slick pole. You were mid routine, inverted crucifix, one handed, thighs gripping onto cold steel, when you finally felt it.  A familiar stare. Heavy and unblinking.

You flipped upright, landed in a split that earned a roar from the floor, and finally let your gaze sweep towards the VIP booths. And there she was, Natasha Romanoff. Silver streaked hair, green eyes. Staring at you. At you.

Natasha was dressed in a similar velvet suit that she'd worn to the charity, soft and expensive. In her hand was an untouched drink, probably expensive bourbon. Next to her, were three other females who you assumed were to be her friends. They were too occupied with shoving bills into the waiters hands to really notice the sudden shift in Natasha's behavior. The rigid shoulders, how she stopped talking and replying to their murmurs, all because she was focused on one thing. You.

Her gaze made you swallow a non existent lump down your throat. You felt heat spreading all over your body like a wild fire spreading down a field. It's not that you felt embarrassed to see someone outside of your work life watching you parade half naked around a pole, no (though it rarely happened). But the way she was watching you, not just watching you for the fun of it, but really taking you in, observing you... It made you feel some type of way. Natasha didn't move, didn't blink, didn't show any emotion but she continued to stare at you like you were the only one in the room.

Eventually your set finished and the DJ shouted your name before the lights went black. That's when you made your way out of the room and into the locker rooms to change and maybe take a couple of seconds to breathe. A couple of girls scattered in and out, some refreshing their makeup, reapplying lip gloss, counting money, popping champagne while others were changing their clothes and the lucky ones were knocking off early.

You were about to change into a slick robe, ready to get a glass of water before your private dances but your boss, Anna, a carefree woman who'd stomp her foot on anyone who touched their girls inappropriately, walked into the locker room to stop you.

"No changing for you Onyx." You turned around with a small frown.

"What do you mean?"

"Velvet's asking for you."

"Who?" Anna cocked her head to the side, and that moment, behind the curtains your eyes met green ones.

Anna left, you covered your self in the thin robe before walking out of the room.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Well hello to you too, Onyx." Her voice was low, amused and rough from disuse.

"You dropped something at the gala." Natasha held out the same black bow tie you’d worn that night three weeks ago. She must have lifted it from your tray when you weren’t looking. You took it slowly, fingers brushing her fingers on purpose this time.

"Keeping souvenirs now?"

"Only the interesting ones." Her gaze dragged down your barely covered body, then back up.

"You’re wasted on charity events, malyshka." A thrill shot through you at the Russian endearment.

"Could say the same thing about you standing in this club." You shot back and the woman laughed, a low genuine sound.

"I'm here because a friend of mine lost a bet. I never lose bets." She said.

"Good to know." You leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of your body oil, a mixture of oud and vanilla. You then turned on your heels, ready to disappear but the woman stopped you.

"How much to get to see you longer?"

"I have scheduled private dances waiting for me Ms Romanoff." You cross your arms and the movement makes your cleavage pop out more. Natasha's eyes linger.

"I'll pay triple." You stutter out a response but nothing comes out.

"Of each." You let the silence stretch, then turned on your heel.

"Booth seven. Ten minutes. Bring your wallet and your manners."

You felt her watching you walk away again but this time in nothing but a robe and heels.

___

Booth seven was the biggest one, tucked in the far back corner where the music dulled to a low, syrupy throb and the lights were nothing but deep violet and slow moving spots. Velvet walls, a single chrome pole in the center, a low leather chaise that could fit two if they didn’t mind touching.

You stepped inside first, let the curtain fall closed behind you, and turned the dimmer until the room felt like the inside of a bruise. Natasha followed without a word, hands in her pockets, posture relaxed, but you could feel the tension rolling off her like heat.

You didn’t speak. You just let the robe slide off your shoulders and pool at your feet.

She inhaled, sharp and quiet, eyes tracking every inch of bare glowing skin now lit up for her alone. The diamond G-string, body chain dripping low across your hips, nipples already tight from the air and from knowing exactly who was watching.

"I prefer my clients to be seated while I work." You mumbled, she followed suite. You liked it quite a lot. How you were able to hold the reigns of the most powerful woman.

You pressed play on the room’s private system. Beyoncé's song, Dance For You, playing, slow, filthy, bass heavy enough to vibrate in the bones. Fitting for the moment.

Then you moved. Not the stage routine. No. This was different. Lethal in a quieter way. You wanted her to be hooked. You started with your back to her, rolling your hips in a slow figure eight that made the diamonds on your waist flash. One hand braced on the pole, you sank into a low squat, thighs wide, back arched until your ass nearly brushed the leather between her spread legs. You could hear her breathing change. You may as well give her a full show now. You thought to yourself.

Rising again, you spun, walked forward until your knees bumped hers. She didn’t move, didn’t reach, just watched with that predator stillness that made your pulse race. You straddled the air just above her lap, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off you, not close enough to touch. House rules for now. You rolled your body like a wave, breasts brushing a whisper from her lips, then away again. When you dropped low, grinding against nothing, your hands slid up your own torso, cupping yourself, thumbs flicking your nipples once, twice, just to watch her jaw flex. And it did.

Natasha’s hands curled into fists on her thighs. You turned again, planted your heels wide, and bent slow, slow, slow until your palms touched the floor and your ass was a perfect heart shape inches from her hips. You held it there, letting her look, letting her want. Then you rose just as slowly, letting your hair spill down your back like ink.

When you finally faced her again, you stepped in close, one knee sliding between hers on the chaise. You took her wrists and she let you, guided her hands to the armrests, and leaned in until your lips almost brushed the shell of her ear.

"No touching. " You whispered.

"Yet." A low growl rumbled in her chest.

You smiled, sank down until you were straddling one of her thighs, the muscle hard beneath her slacks. You rolled your hips once, slow, letting the thin strip of diamonds drag over her leg, letting her feel exactly how wet you already were. Her nostrils flared.

You rose again, turned your back to her, and lowered yourself into her lap properly this time, no barrier except that scrap of fabric and her iron control. Your gaze dropped lower towards the tent tucked beneath expensive fabric. You smirked.

You started a slow grind, spine liquid, ass rolling in deliberate circles, feeling her cock swell hard and thick beneath you in seconds. You didn’t speed up. You tortured her with the rhythm, rising until only the tip of you grazed her, then sinking down again, taking every inch of friction through her clothes. Natasha’s head fell back against the chaise, throat exposed, pulse hammering. You leaned forward, braced your hands on her knees, and rode her lap like you were fucking her right there, hips snapping, breasts bouncing, breath coming in soft moans you didn’t have to fake.

Her hands lifted an inch off the armrests, then froze. You reached back, caught her wrists again, pinned them gently but firmly.

"Be good." You murmured, voice velvet and steel. She laughed, low and wrecked.

"You’re evil." You rolled your hips one last time, hard, letting her feel your clit drag over the ridge of her cock through the layers between you, then rose smoothly to your feet. The song was ending. You stepped back, picked up your robe, slid it on but didn’t tie it.

Natasha sat there breathing like she’d run ten miles, pupils blown, lips parted. The front of her slacks was unmistakably ruined.

You leaned down, brushed your mouth against the corner of hers, barely a kiss.

"Next time..." You whispered.

"Bring cash. A lot of it. And maybe I’ll let those hands wander." You walked out first, hips swaying, leaving the curtain half-open so the hallway light striped across her flushed face and the very obvious problem in her lap. She was ruined. Absolutely ruined. In a way she hadn't been in decades. And you? You secretly thrived on it. And you knew she'd come back. Natasha was definitely going to be back.

___

It has almost been two weeks since you had last seen Natasha. At first you had hope. You hoped that maybe she'd show up, ask for another show, tell you how she desperately wanted you but that was all in your head. A week went by and still, nothing. You don't know why it bothered you so much. I mean yes the money that you got from her alone was an obscene amount but what was so special about her that you needed to see her again? Why were you still expecting her to waltz into the club and demand to watch you preform? She didn't need you and neither did you need her. Yeah. You didn't. Even though you still played with the bow tie that she'd handed you that night. But again, it was just a regular performance.

On the twelfth day, you've finally got the older woman out of your mind.  Back to regulars, back to routine, back to normalcy.

But then, two nights later, Natasha waltzes into the club alone. No friends. No pretense. No velvet blazer this time. Just a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled high, top three buttons undone, and tailored trousers that did nothing to hide the long, hard line of her when she walked. She looked like sin with a platinum card.

She didn’t sit in VIP. She went straight to the floor manager, slid an envelope across the bar, and said a few words.

"Onyx. All night." The envelope was thick enough that the manager didn’t even blink. Anna just handed Natasha a brass keycard for the Champagne Room upstairs, the one that locks from the inside and has no cameras.

You were mid routine when security tapped your shoulder and whispered.

"You’re done on the floor. VIP wants you upstairs. Full buy out." Your heart began to beat rapidly. You knew who it was before you even turned around.

You took your time getting ready. Showered off the stage oil, let your skin air dry so you smelled like nothing but warm cocoa butter and you. Slipped into the tiniest black lace balconette and matching thong you owned, the kind that looked like it would fall apart if someone breathed on it wrong. Thigh high stockings with the seam up the back. No robe this time.

When you pushed open the door to the Champagne Room, Natasha was standing at the window, city glittering behind her, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of something dark. She turned when she heard the click of your heels. Her eyes went almost black.

"Lock the door." She said. You did. The room was bigger than most apartments. Low black leather sectional, mirrored walls, a smaller pole in the center, bottle of 1996 Cristal sweating in a bucket you knew she hadn’t touched.

You walked straight to her, stopped when your breasts brushed her chest.

"Hi." You said softly. Natasha set the glass down without looking. Both hands came up, slow enough that you could stop her if you wanted to. You didn't. Her thumbs traced your cheekbones, then slid into your hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt your head back.

"Hi." She echoed, voice gravel and smoke.

"What are you doing here?" You ask.

"I came to make good on what you said. Besides you were very bad that night malyshka.”

You smiled, let your tongue touch your bottom lip.

"You paid so much money for all night. You really wanna spend it scolding me?" Her laugh was low and dangerous. Her hands began to roam and you let her.

"Let me take you to dinner." She mumbles and you let out a soft surprised laugh.

"Did you book me to ask me out?" She hums.

"And what makes you think I'm single?"

"Well you're letting my hands sit on your ass."

"Letting people touch me this way is part of the job."

"Is looking at your clients like you want them to fuck you part of the job?" You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

"Bold huh?"

"I know what I want."

"And what do you want."

"You."

"You don't even know my real name."

"Niet, I don't. Tell me." You pause for a moment, and Natasha watches you, waiting not rushing.

"Y/n." You mumbled softly and she makes a pleased sound.

"Y/n." She repeats to herself.

"Beautiful." The older woman's hands have stopped roaming around, now just simply cupping your ass while the tent in her pants grazes against your bare skin. You find yourself leaning in slowly but she stops you.

"Dance for me first. I want to watch you with nothing in between." Her commend sends a pool of wetness down to your core. This woman was going to be the death of you. You hesitated for a moment but then you got up. You stepped back, unhooked your bra, let it fall. Then you hooked your thumbs in the thong and paused.

"Everything?" You asked. Her nod was sharp. Hungry. You stripped the rest off in one smooth motion, stepped out of the lace, and walked naked to the pole.

The song she’d chosen started. It was something slow and syrupy, all bass and breathy vocals. You gave her everything you’d held back downstairs.

Climbed upside down, thighs locked, back arched until your hair swept the floor. Slid down into a split that put your pussy on full display, glistening under the low lights. Rolled your hips in the air like you were riding her, fingers trailing between your legs just long enough to spread yourself open for her eyes only.

Natasha never moved from the window. Just watched, chest rising and falling, one hand now openly palming herself through her trousers. When the song ended you were breathing hard, skin shining with fresh sweat. You walked to her, took the hand that wasn’t stroking herself, and pulled her to the sectional.

"My turn." You whispered. You pushed her down, straddled her lap, and finally finally let your bare pussy settle over the thick ridge of her cock. You both groaned at the contact.

Her hands went to your hips immediately, fingers digging in.

"Tell me the rules tonight." She said, voice wrecked. You leaned in, licked a stripe up her throat, and bit her earlobe.

"No rules." You breathed.

"You paid for me. Take what you want." The sound she made was inhuman.

"Am I the only client who's seen you like this?" You nod your head and before you know it, your lips are pressed against hers.

In one motion she flipped you onto your back on the wide leather couch, mouth crashing into yours, cock grinding hard between your thighs. You reached down, frantic, fumbling with her belt. She helped, extremely impatient now, shoving trousers and briefs down just enough to free herself. Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You wrapped your hand around her, stroked once, twice, thumb swiping over the head. She shuddered, forehead dropping to yours.

"Condom?" She managed.

"Clean. On the pill. Want to feel you raw." She cursed in Russian, lined up, and pushed inside in one long, relentless thrust.

Your back arched clear off the couch.

She was big. Bigger than you’d guessed and the stretch burned perfectly. She didn’t give you time to adjust, just started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, hips snapping, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding between you to circle your clit.

"Fuck, look at you." She growled, watching herself disappear into your body over and over.

"Taking my cock like you were fucking made for it." You couldn’t answer. You simply wrapped your legs high around her waist, heels digging into her ass, urging her deeper. She gave it to you harder, faster, leather creaking beneath you, your moans echoing off the mirrors. When you came the first time it was sudden and blinding, pussy clenching so tight she had to fight to keep moving.

She didn’t stop. Flipped you over, pulled your hips up, slid back inside from behind and fucked you through the aftershocks until you were shaking, drooling into the cushion, coming again with a broken sob while throwing your ass back to meet her thrusts.

"Da, just like that!" Only then did she let herself go, burying deep, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you with your name torn out of her throat like it hurt.

After, she didn’t pull out. Just folded over your back, arms wrapping around your waist, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades.

You stayed like that for a long minute, breathing together, her cock softening slowly inside you. Eventually she pulled out gently, turned you over, and kissed you slow and sweet and filthy.

Then she reached for her discarded jacket, pulled out a matte black card, and pressed it into your hand.

"My real number this time." She murmured against your lips.

"No games. Call me when you want to do this somewhere that isn’t a club. Somewhere I can keep you all weekend." You traced the edge of the card, smiling.

"I’ll think about it." You lied. She laughed, low and fond, and kissed you again. You both knew you’d be texting her before sunrise.

___

You're in your apartment now. It's almost four in the morning. You'd taken a bath to ease your tender muscles but apparently it did nothing to soothe the throb in between your legs. It felt taboo honestly. How you let the women conmand you to do such things. How she fucked you, held you, kissed you. You should feel embarrassed, ashamed even but you didn't. Did you regret it? Absolutely not. Would you let her do it again? Yes.

And that's how you find yourself pulling out that matte black card, and saving her name in your contacts. And then, you're texting her.

You

Still awake, old woman?

Natasha responds almost ten seconds later.

Natasha

Old woman who carried you and fucked you against the wall? Try again.

You

Still awake ma'am?

Natasha

Much better. Yes, I’m awake. I can still taste you on my tongue and I’m trying to decide if I’m pissed you left or proud you can still walk.

You

I'm at home now. My legs are questionable.

Pretty sure that I can still feel you inside of me.

Natasha

Jesus Christ.

You

Anyways, I was just checking to see if you had another girl on top of you or not.

Natasha

I’m in my kitchen drinking vodka out of a coffee mug and trying not to jerk off to the memory of how you looked when you came on my tongue.

So no. No other girl.

You

Smooth talker.

Natasha

Truth talker.

A minute goes by then the next text comes in from the woman.

Natasha

I want you to come over to my place.

You

Oh?

Natasha

Yes. I want you again. I can send a car in ten minutes.

You

Hm. No. Thirty minutes. I like making you wait.

Natasha

Dangerous game, malyshka.

You

I play to win. And also, you left bite marks all over my ass. My boss is gonna have questions.

Natasha

Tell her the truth. Tell her that I fucked you so good you forgot your own name for ten straight minutes.

You

Wow, cocky.

Natasha

You came so hard you squirted on a $9,000 couch. Think I’ve earned the right. And I don't sugarcoat anything.

You

Touché.

You

Hey nat?

Natasha

Yes, Y/n?

You

I don’t usually do this. Like… Like text the client after. Or let them cum inside me. Or let them carry me to the couch when I couldn’t walk. So if you’re about to ghost me, do it now. I’d rather know.

You watch impatiently as the three dots disappear then reappear once again. And then she finally sends the message.

Natasha

I don’t ghost. I also don’t usually pay six figures to lock a door and spend four hours finding every sound a woman can make. I don’t usually mark someone up like a teenager. And I definitely don’t usually sit here at four in the morning wondering what your real laugh sounds like when you’re not on the clock. So we’re both off the script.

You

Damn.

Natasha

Come over.

You

It’s almost sunrise, trying to kidnap me huh?

Natasha

No, and I know. Come watch it with me anyway. No money. No stage. Just you in one of my shirts, eating the pancakes I’m about to ruin, sitting on my countertop while I kiss the bruises I left on your thighs.

You

You’re making it really hard to keep my walls up, Ms Romanoff.

Natasha

Then stop trying. Let me see you. I'll send you a car.

You

Alright old woman, you win.

Natasha

Keep calling me that and I'll bend you over every surface of this penthouse.

You

Promise?

Natasha

You have my word.

You

Well then, I'll be on my way.

Natasha

Good girl.

Loved this. Hope you did too! Also attempting to crochet a black widow tote so that's fun!!!

[snowseasonss]

Breach of Contract

wandanat x f!reader

The employee handbook didn’t cover the way Wanda looks at you when you’re on your knees scrubbing the floor, or the way Natasha’s fingers feel when she tangles them in your hair to tilt your head back. You were hired to be their domestic chatelaine, but the professional lines didn't just blur. They dissolved entirely the moment the married couple decided that the only thing missing from their perfect home was you.

details: nasty smut (poly), porn w/ some plot, hurt/comfort, employee/employer to complex? to partners/dating/married, switch/gentle strict dom!wanda, top/sharp quiet dom!natasha, bottom/sub!reader, personal cook/maid!reader, rich/well off couple!wandanat, oral/fingering/strap in v, (kinks such as... hair pulling, spit, dom/sub, impact play, praise, ownership, overstimulation)

The kitchen is steeped in the soft amber glow of golden hour, sunlight spilling lazily across the countertops and catching on the edges of polished glass. The open window lets in a gentle breeze, just enough to stir the curtains into a slow, rhythmic sway. It’s peaceful—quiet in a way that makes the clink of utensils and the low hum of the oven feel almost comforting.

You’d finished your usual list earlier than expected today. With time to spare, you decided to start dinner—something more involved than usual, a recipe that required patience and care. The kind of meal that fills a home not just with aroma, but with warmth.

It’s been about a year since you started working here, and you’ve settled into the rhythm of it all with ease. Wanda can be particular—precise in a way that keeps everything running just so—but never unkind. And Natasha balances her out effortlessly. Together, they’ve made this place feel less like a job and more like somewhere you belong. The small home they’ve provided nearby only adds to that sense of comfort.

You’re pulling the dish from the oven, the rich scent of slow-cooked herbs and roasted vegetables (or perhaps a carefully layered lasagna, bubbling at the edges) filling the air, when you hear the front door open.

Voices follow. Familiar, welcome. A small smile tugs at your lips as you set the dish down carefully.

“We’re back,” Natasha calls, her tone lighter than usual, travel always seems to wear on her.

Wanda, however, makes a beeline straight for the kitchen, drawn in by the scent before anything else. She pauses in the doorway, breathing it in, her expression softening.

“What smells so good…?”

You glance over your shoulder, slipping off the oven mitts. “It’s a slow-baked recipe—took most of the afternoon,” you say with a small, proud smile. “Figured I’d make something special. Welcome back.”

Natasha appears behind her, resting a hand lightly on Wanda’s arm, a knowing look in her eyes. “Tempting,” she says, “but we should probably get out of these airport clothes first.”

Wanda hesitates for just a second longer, clearly reluctant to leave the kitchen, before allowing herself to be guided away. You chuckle softly, turning back to the counter to finish plating.

“I’ll have everything ready when you’re done,” you call after them.

The dining room is already set. Candles waiting to be lit, plates placed just so.

Their footsteps return not long after, quieter now. Changed, settled, the fatigue of travel softened into something more relaxed. Wanda lingers near the doorway again, though this time she leans lightly against the frame, arms crossed, watching as you finish up the last touches.

Dinner passes easily. They ask about the house, about anything that might have come up in their absence. It’s brief, casual—more habit than concern—and you reassure them everything’s been smooth. No issues, no surprises.

Wanda hums in quiet approval, exchanging a glance with Natasha before looking back at you. “We appreciate you,” she says simply, but sincerely.

Natasha offers a small, warm smile. “You’ve done more than enough. Go ahead and call it a night.”

You nod, returning the smile. “Enjoy dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They thank you again as you step away, settling in at the table just as you disappear back into the kitchen. The routine comes naturally now—plates rinsed, dishes loaded carefully into the dishwasher, counters wiped down until they gleam faintly under the soft overhead light. The house quiets again, save for the low murmur of their conversation drifting faintly from the living room.

By the time you’re done, the last of the sunlight has faded, leaving behind a gentle dusk. You grab your things, slipping out the door with a quiet ease, the cool evening air greeting you as you step outside. The short walk to your place feels familiar, almost grounding after a full day.

The ocean breeze greets you the moment you step outside, cool and laced with salt, drifting up from the waves crashing steadily against the rocks below the cliffside mansion; you take your time walking the familiar path to your small home tucked along the ledge, letting your gaze wander out over the endless stretch of darkening water as the last of the sunlight fades into soft blues and grays, and for a moment you simply pause, breathing it in, enjoying the quiet and the view that never quite gets old, before finally heading inside, closing the door behind you, and settling in for the night.

It seems as if something had shifted during their trip, you notice it before you can quite name it.

They’ve always been kind. From the awkward, careful beginnings when you first started working for them, to the easy rhythm you’ve settled into now, there’s always been warmth there. Gentleness. Familiarity that never crossed a line.

But something is different. You’re in the living room, cloth in hand, carefully wiping down the edge of the TV table, more out of habit than necessity.

Wanda is there too. She’s settled into one of the armchairs with a glass of wine, posture relaxed, but not absent. She isn’t doing anything obvious. Just watching. Or at least, it feels like watching.

At first, you try to ignore it. Focus on the surface in front of you. The grain of the wood. The steady motion of your hand.

But you feel it anyway.

“We don’t know too much about your life outside of here, do we?” Wanda asks, her voice smooth as velvet, casual on the surface in a way that doesn’t quite match the weight of her attention.

She tilts the glass toward herself and takes a slow sip of wine, watching you over the rim. Patient, unhurried, like she’s not expecting an answer so much as a reaction.

You pause.

“Um…” Your hand stills briefly against the cloth before you force it to keep moving. “I guess not, no.”

There’s a small, thoughtful hum from her. Soft, almost approving, though it’s hard to tell exactly why.

“I suppose that’s partly my fault,” she says after a beat, as if considering it for the first time in that moment. “We do tend to keep things… focused here.”

Wanda leans back slightly in the chair, glass resting loosely in her hand.

“You’ve been with us a while now,” she adds, softer. “It’s strange how little we know about you.”

A pause.

Then, lighter. Carefully so, like she’s stepping around something:

Wanda hums softly at that, the sound low and thoughtful as she turns the glass slightly in her hand. The last of the light shifts across the room while she watches you a moment longer, as if weighing something quietly in her mind.

“Is it alright if I ask you a couple of questions then?”

The request is gentle. Polite, even. Still firmly within the boundaries of employer and employee,but there’s something in the way she asks that makes it feel more personal than procedural.

You hesitate just briefly before nodding.

“Yeah… that’s fine.”

“Wonderful,” she says simply.

And just like that, the conversation continues.

At first, the questions are harmless enough, small things, things that could pass as curiosity after a year of shared space. Your routines. What you like to cook when you’re on your own. How you found your way into this work. Wanda listens to every answer with an unusual kind of attention, like she’s not just hearing you, but remembering you.

Time slips in quiet increments.

The sun lowers further, golden light fading into softer tones as your conversation carries, the house shifting gradually toward evening. Somewhere along the way, her wine glass empties, left resting on the arm of the chair as she forgets to refill it or even notice.

It was the most tame of what was to come. Of how quietly, almost imperceptibly, things would begin to shift.

A couple of days later, the house has settled back into its usual rhythm. The library is warm and dimly lit, the kind of space that feels even quieter after a long day—books lined in perfect order, the faint scent of paper and polished wood in the air.

Wanda and Natasha are there after work, speaking in low tones, their presence relaxed in that familiar way that only comes after years of sharing space. You pass through briefly, intending only to retrieve something you left behind.

You barely make it a few steps inside when Wanda’s attention shifts toward you.

“I showed Natasha some of your artwork,” she says gently, as if continuing a thought rather than introducing a new one. Her gaze flicks briefly to her wife, then back to you. “From what you shared with me last night… if that’s alright.”

“Oh,” you blink slightly, caught off guard but not uncomfortable. “That’s… quite alright.”

Natasha looks at you then.

“They were beautiful,” she says simply, no hesitation in her voice. A pause. “Did you paint them while we were gone last week?”

You nod, still a little unsure where this is going. “Yes. I had extra time… not as much to clean.”

A faint hint of amusement passes through Natasha’s expression at that, though it never fully forms into a smile.

“Right,” she replies, tone even, thoughtful. Then, after a beat: “Well… we were thinking we’d like to put your artwork in a showing next week.”

That lands differently.

You stop for a second, processing it. “What…? I— that’s very kind, I…”

Wanda watches your reaction carefully, something warm in her expression that isn’t quite pride, but close.

“It’s very beautiful,” she says softly. “It deserves to be seen.”

Natasha gives a small, confirming nod beside her.

Your surprise eases into something quieter—something touched, almost disbelieving. “I’d love to,” you say finally.

And for a moment, the conversation pauses there—not ending, but settling into something that feels a little more deliberate than before.

The museum is everything you expected it to be, and a little more overwhelming than you care to admit.

High ceilings, polished marble floors, and soft, controlled lighting that makes every piece of art feel curated to perfection. People move through the space in quiet clusters, dressed with the kind of ease that comes from never needing to think too much about where they are or why they belong there.

You stand near your work, hands loosely at your sides, trying not to look as out of place as you feel. The painting is hung beautifully—better than you’ve ever seen it displayed, but your attention keeps drifting to everything else instead of it.

A few guests pass by, offering polite nods or brief comments, but it all feels slightly distant, like you’re watching it happen rather than part of it. Then you see them.

The moment your eyes meet theirs, something in your shoulders loosens without permission. Wanda notices first, her expression softening as she approaches.

“There you are,” she says gently, as if you’d only been briefly misplaced rather than standing in the middle of a formal exhibition.

Natasha follows beside her, gaze briefly flicking to your work before returning to you. “How are you holding up?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands with more weight than it should here.

You manage a small breath of a laugh. “Alright,” you say honestly.

Wanda hums, understanding immediately.

Natasha’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before she gives a slight nod. “You did well.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward, but fuller than before.

And then you notice it. Wanda steps slightly closer than she usually would in public. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough that you feel it. Natasha’s hand briefly touches your arm as she adjusts her position beside you, guiding you gently through the flow of passing guests as they speak.

It isn’t dramatic. Nothing about it is. But it’s different.

As the conversation continues, small comments about the turnout, a few quiet remarks about the piece. You become aware of it in fragments: Wanda’s attention resting on you a little longer than necessary, Natasha’s hand lingering just a second too long before letting go.

By the time they eventually guide you away from the painting to greet someone else, you realize the shift isn’t something you can point to clearly.

Their touches, once fleeting, have begun to carry intention.

Their glances, once brief and forgettable, now tend to linger just a little too long.

Even now, kneeling on the floor with a cloth in hand, wiping a section of tile that doesn’t really need attention, you feel it. The quiet weight of their presence behind you, the way you feel their gaze drift to areas they maybe shouldn't.

You keep your focus down, continuing as if nothing has changed, as if you haven’t been carrying this awareness with you for weeks. You’ve been ignoring it, even as it follows you into the night and sits restless in your chest when everything else is still.

A month passes like that. Supporting your art, inviting you to sit while they chat quietly in the library. Investing in learning more about you, and you about them. Blurring a line from before into something warmer, friendlier.

Then they leave again for the weekend.

The departure is familiar by now. Bags by the door, last checks, calm instructions spoken in that easy rhythm of theirs. But the goodbyes feel different. Slower. Softer.

Wanda pauses at the door longer than usual, stepping closer as her hand brushes your arm with a deliberate gentleness. “Take care of yourself,” she says quietly.

Natasha follows, her touch brief but steady as it settles on your shoulder a moment longer than necessary. “We’ll be back,” she adds, her voice lower than usual.

Then they’re gone, and the house settles into a silence that feels heavier than it should.

One weekend later and all your usual preparation for their return is already in motion by late afternoon. The house cleaned, the air subtly refreshed, a simple recipe planned for dinner that will be ready around the time they’re expected back. Even a small arrangement of flowers sits on the coffee table, something soft and thoughtful you added without really thinking about it.

But somewhere between checking the oven and straightening the living room for the third time, exhaustion catches up with you.

It’s been building for days—late nights, early mornings, the quiet tension you haven’t fully admitted to yourself. And when you finally sit on the couch for “just a moment,” it becomes something heavier. Something you don’t fight.

The next thing you register is warmth, and the feeling of being watched.

Your eyes open slowly, focus slipping into place. Natasha is beside you, sitting close enough that you feel her presence immediately, her hand gently resting against your cheek. Her fingers move with quiet care, brushing hair away from your face.

“Good evening,” she says, her voice low and calm, like she’s been speaking for a while already and only now expects you to hear it.

You jolt slightly as awareness snaps back into place, not just of where you are, but of how close she is. Natasha notices immediately.

“Hey, hey—whoa,” she says, her tone shifting as her hand stills against your skin. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” you manage, pushing yourself upright quickly, the sudden awareness making you hyper-conscious of everything at once. “I just— I must’ve fallen asleep.”

You sit up fully, adjusting your position on the couch, suddenly too aware of how you’re sitting, of your uniform, of the space between you. Natasha shifts slightly to give you room, though she doesn’t move far.

Wanda is there too, standing a few steps behind the couch with her arms loosely crossed. Her expression is harder to read, but her attention is fixed on you in that quiet, steady way you’ve started to recognize.

For a moment, no one speaks. The air feels different than it did when you fell asleep; it no longer feels like you are just waiting for her to come home.

Over the last month, everything has started to catch up. The tension has built steadily through every conversation and every touch, everything done with quiet intent.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, the sound of your breathing loud in the silence. Your eyes search her face, while her gaze remains steadier, watching you back. Her eyes dart to your lips, as yours dart to hers.

Before you can make a move or say another word, her lips meet yours. With a month of built-up pressure finally breaking, you lean into the kiss far quicker than you’d like to admit.

Your back hits the couch cushion again, and your hand reaches out to grip her shirt. With eyes shut and your face tilted, you settle back, moving with her.

It was a kiss, a long winded one.

Lingering kisses eventually deepened into long make-out sessions, and those sessions inevitably blurred into the arrangement you had now.

With Natasha at work, the house was quiet, leaving only you and Wanda. At her request, you were on the floor scrubbing the tiles in the foyer. Her focus was lower than usual, her gaze fixed intently on the backs of your thighs. She watched with a quiet hunger, wanting nothing more than to pull your skirt up just a few inches to see more of you.

You swallowed hard, a soft "oh..." escaping your lips when you felt the point of her heel press against your skin. She dragged it slowly up the back of your thigh, inching toward the hem of your work outfit and pushing the fabric of your skirt higher and higher.

Wanda hummed in low approval at the sight, her eyes tracing the curve of your hips and the lace of your underwear, the only thing obscuring the view she wanted most.

The air in the foyer felt thick as you slowly turned your head. You didn't meet her gaze directly; instead, your eyes traveled up her legs, to the line of her shoulder, and finally to the soft curve of her cheek. The silence stretched between you, charged and expectant, until she spoke with a quiet, firm command.

"Continue."

Taking a deep breath, you turn back to the tiled floor, forcing yourself to focus on the scrubbing. You try to work as if you don't feel her gaze on you, heavy with a sense of deep entertainment.

When you finally finish the spot Wanda had pointed out earlier, she reaches down, her fingers firm against your jaw. She tilts your head up until you're forced to face her, then leans down to capture your lips in a brief, searing kiss.

"Good job..." she murmurs against your skin, her voice laced with a quiet, lingering satisfaction.

This whole thing was torture.

The memory of their kisses and the heat of their hands seemed burned into your skin, dragging you deeper into a hazy, unfocused mindset. They would pin you against the wall, hands sliding over your curves, feeling the shape of your body until you were breathless. They’d press feather-light kisses up the sensitive line of your neck or grip your hips just to hear the sharp catch of your gasp. These were hot, quiet, random spikes of intimacy that promised everything before they were stopped.

It was driving you up the wall. You felt like you were losing your mind because it never went further.

You’d be cleaning a counter and feel a hand drag slowly up the back of your thigh. Your back would arch instinctively, a silent, desperate plea for them to keep going, but they would just pull away. Every time, they took everything back right before it could progress, leaving you shivering and stranded in the silence they left behind.

You had finished for the day, your body burning from a weeks worth of teasing. Your forehead pressed against your shower wall, sighing from the coolness on your hot skin. Your mind kept replaying the moments, the scenes from earlier. And your fingers unknowingly dipped in between your thighs to feel the soaked mess. You keen at the touch, finally getting something.

You rub your clit, thighs shaking. Leaning heavily against the cool surface, bottom lip dropped open as you whine and keen at the feeling. Your mind full of all the moments between you and Natasha, Wanda... the both of them. Imagining if you went just further, how they'd take care of you. They're kind, so incredibly so. You can only imagine how their touch would feel there, how their voices low would sound against your ear.

"G-gods," you cry softly, shuddering. "W-wanda... Natasha... please...!"

Thighs clenching together as your thighs drip with your arousal as you fall down from your climax. Unaware Wanda had come by to your little home to try and return your laptop that you had left in the library, her ears perked to hearing your moans from the small space inside the front door.

As you breath heavily, your mind feeling a dazed mess. You jerk awake at the knock to your door, heart falling into your stomach. Wrapping a towel around your body, you hear towards the front door. Cheeks flushed, embarrassment and shame filling your body at the possibility that she's heard you.

"Wanda... I-"

She shuts your hesitant explanation up, grabbing hold of you and pulling you into a kiss. She places your laptop on a surface that she passes by, her eyes opening briefly to place it there before her attention turns back to you.

"Listen to me, shh." She explains, tone too sweet. "We're going to put a name in place if you wish to stop at any time, alright? Tell me you're listening, lovie."

You whine, arms crossing around the back of her neck, nodding, "Yes..."

"Any word you'd like?"

"I... um, Pear?"

"Alright, you say pear if you wish to stop. Okay?"

"Okay.. I will."

She's not wasting time after to back you up until you're falling back onto your bed. Her lips run down your neck, fingers tugging the towel around your bare body off. She runs her hand down your chest, rubbing at your nipple to hear you moan.

"Please...!"

"Shh," she murmurs, sliding her hand down your side to touch you directly. Her eyes, dark and lidded, watching your head fall back as she swirls her fingers around your wet pussy.

You bite your bottom lip, "mm..!"

You were already hovering on the edge, your nervous system frayed from the back-to-back stimulation. Every time her thumb swiped over your clit, a jagged bolt of lightning shot straight to your core. Your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, your fingers digging into the bedding as you tried to find some purchase in the storm she was creating.

"Wanda, please... I can't—"

"You can," she countered softly, leaning down to catch your whimpers with her lips. She tasted like expensive wine and authority.

The door to your cottage creaked open again, neither of you locked it in your sex-crazed haze. The heavy, measured tread of boots on the wood floor told you exactly who it was before she even spoke.

"I thought I'd find the two of you here," Natasha’s voice drifted in from the bedroom doorway.Her eyes took in the sceen. Looking from the discarded towel, your flushed, shaking form, and Wanda’s hand buried between your thighs. Natasha walked to the edge of the bed, her shadow falling over you. Your teary eyes looking up to her, hands clutching at the sheets beside your head.

"Heard her touching herself in the shower, moaning our names," Wanda explains, angling her hands so Natasha can bring her hand alongside Wanda's.

The addition of Natasha’s finger pushing into you was the final breach. Her fingers stretching you in a way that made your breath hitch and stay trapped in your throat.

"Is that so?" Natasha murmured, her voice dropping to a gravelly low as she watched the way your body reacted to the dual invasion. She didn't look away from your eyes, holding your gaze even as she began to move in tandem with her wife. "Using us to find your little thrill while you're all alone?"

Wanda leaned over you, her hair draping like a silken curtain around your face, sealing the three of you into a private world of heat and friction. "It’s a breach of contract, really," Wanda whispered against your lips, her thumb never stopping its relentless, grinding circles on your clit. "Taking what belongs to us without asking."

The sensation was overwhelming. Too much, too fast, and yet exactly what you had been dying for during those long, lonely months of "professionalism." With Wanda’s thumb pushing you toward the sun and the combined weight of their fingers filling you, your internal muscles began to clench in desperate, rhythmic pulses.

"She’s close," Natasha noted, her eyes darkening. She hooked her thumb into the crease of your hip, pinning you down as you tried to buck upward. "Don't you dare close your eyes. Look at what you've done to yourself. Look at how we're taking care of you. Open your eyes."

You let out a broken, high-pitched keen, your fingers losing their grip on the sheets as your back arched off the mattress. The world narrowed down to the point where their hands met inside you.

"Please," you sobbed, the word a frantic prayer. "Please, I—I can't—"

Your climax hit with the force of a tidal wave, your internal walls squeezing around them in tight, helpless spasms. Your overstimulation turned into a white-hot blur. You were vaguely aware of the way Wanda’s hand stayed exactly where it was, holding you through the aftershocks, refusing to let you retreat from the intensity of what they were doing to you.

As the room slowly stopped spinning, you lay there shivering, completely exposed and utterly claimed in the quiet of your own room.

"Good girl," Natasha whispered, finally withdrawing her hand to stroke a damp strand of hair from your forehead. Her touch was suddenly, jarringly tender as she looked down at your spent form.

Wanda hummed, leaning down to press one last, lingering kiss to your heated temple. "Rest now, darling," she murmured, her voice returning to that smooth, employer-like calm that felt so much more dangerous now. "We expect you at the main house at dawn. Breakfast won't make itself."

Same from before...

Torture. This was torture.

The granite was cold against your palms, a sharp contrast to the heat of Natasha’s body pressed firmly against your back. You had barely started on the morning’s routine before her hands were on you, dragging the fabric of your uniform up until it bunched at your waist.

Your head fell back against her shoulder, a broken sound escaping you as she reached around to find you. Her movements were steady and deliberate, her fingers sliding over your skin with a familiarity that made your knees weak. She didn't say a word, her quiet focus more overwhelming than any command.

"The stove," you managed to whisper, your fingers white-knuckled as you gripped the edge of the counter.

"Ignore it," Natasha murmured against your ear, her thumb finding your clit and applying a slow, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch.

Across the island, Wanda leaned against the counter, her dark eyes fixed on the way you moved under Natasha’s hands. She didn't move to help or stop it; she simply watched, her presence adding a weight to the room that made the air feel thick. She reached out, her fingers trailing idly over the morning paper, but her attention remained entirely on you.

Every time you tried to regain your footing, Natasha shifted her weight, pinning you more firmly against the stone and increasing the pace of her fingers. The friction was relentless, grinding against you in all the ways she knew you couldn't handle.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp leaving you as the stimulation became too much to fight. The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the house and the ragged sound of your own breathing as they watched you come apart.

The study was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the soft clicking of Natasha’s keyboard. You stepped inside, your grip light on the handle of your duster as you caught her eye.

"Hi," you murmured, offering a soft, tentative smile. "Is it alright if I start on the bookshelves?"

Natasha leaned back slightly, her expression warming as she looked up from her screen. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

You moved to the far wall, the steady rhythm of your work filling the silence as you reached for the higher shelves. You could feel her gaze occasionally flicking away from her work to follow your movements.

"How is your latest painting coming along?" she asked, her voice casual but attentive.

You paused, your hand hovering near a leather-bound spine. "Oh... it’s fine. I just haven't had much time to get back to it lately."

Natasha’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Then take the evening off," she suggested.

Your hand faltered, the duster stilled against the wood. "B-but... I still have the dinner service and the—"

The study was quiet, the only sound the soft friction of your cloth against the wood until Natasha spoke. Her suggestion caught you completely off guard, the professional habit of always being available momentarily clashing with the genuine excitement bubbling up in your chest.

"Truly, I mean it. Take the time."

"Really?" you asked, pausing with the duster still in hand.

"Really," she confirmed, a faint, knowing tilt to her lips.

You didn't need to be told twice. After a quick, grateful goodbye, you practically floated out of the main house. The walk back to your cottage was brisk, the salt air feeling particularly invigorating.

Once inside, the evening was a blur of focused energy. You set up your easel by the window, catching the last of the golden hour as it washed over the canvas. The brushes felt like an extension of your hand, the colors blending with a fluid ease you hadn't felt in weeks. The tension of the house, the complex stares from Wanda, and the weight of Natasha's attention seemed to channel themselves directly into the pigment.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only deep purples and bruised oranges across the sky, you were covered in faint splatters of paint and feeling a sense of profound peace. You stepped back to survey the work, your chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

The snap of a twig outside made you turn.

A silhouette stood on your small porch, framed by the darkening ocean behind them. The door wasn't locked, you rarely felt the need for it here. Wanda stepped inside, her movements as graceful as ever, her eyes immediately finding the canvas before they drifted to you.

"Natasha said you were inspired," Wanda said softly, stepping closer. She didn't look at the mess on your hands or the smudge of blue on your cheek; she looked at the painting with a quiet, intense reverence. "It seems she was right."

"I... I didn't hear you come up," you whispered, suddenly very aware of how small your home felt with her inside it.

Wanda didn't answer right away. She walked around the easel, her silk dress rustling faintly, until she was standing directly in front of you. The air between you hummed, charged with the same unspoken current that had been vibrating through the kitchen and the library for months.

"It’s beautiful," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingers didn't touch the painting; instead, they brushed against your jaw, her thumb ghosting over that smudge of blue paint on your skin.

"Thank you..."

Wanda’s thumb lingered on your jaw, the blue paint smearing slightly under the warmth of her skin. The silence in your home was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the cliffside. Her gaze dropped to your lips, and before you could draw another breath, she leaned in.

The kiss was deep and inevitable, the culmination of a year of stolen glances and professional restraint finally snapping. You whimpered into her mouth, your hands coming up to clutch at the silk of her sleeves as she pressed forward, her body a firm, commanding weight that forced you backward. Your heels hit the base of the wall, and the cool glass of the window pressed against your spine as she pinned you there.

She pulled back just an inch, her breath hot against your skin. "I've wanted to do that since the day we hired you," she whispered, her voice low.

Without waiting for a response, her kisses began to migrate. She trailed them down the line of your throat, her tongue grazing your pulse point before she dropped to her knees. The transition was fluid, her hands sliding up the insides of your thighs to gather your dress, bunching the fabric at your waist.

You gasped, your head hitting the windowpane with a dull thud as she moved between your legs. The cool evening air from the slightly ajar window hit your bare skin, but the heat radiating from Wanda was all you could feel.

"Be good for me," she murmured, looking up at you with lidded, intense eyes. "Be very still."

She didn't give you a choice. Her tongue swiped along your clit, tasting the arousal you’d been carrying all day. You bucked instinctively, your fingers tangling in her hair, but she gripped your hips, her fingernails digging in just enough to anchor you.

"I said still," she repeated against your skin, punctuating the command with a sharp, sudden nip to your inner thigh.

You let out a strangled cry, your legs trembling as she settled in. She ate you out with a slow, agonizing thoroughness, her tongue swirling and pressing in all the ways that made your vision blur.

Every time you tried to shy away from the intensity, her grip tightened, holding you ruthlessly against the glass until you were nothing but a shivering mess of sensation under her quiet, focused care.

The house felt unusually cold that Tuesday, the coastal fog pressing thick and grey against the windows. You were in the dining room, your movements mechanical as you adjusted the floral centerpiece, but your heart wasn't in the work. You’d been feeling the shift. A strange, growing silence between the three of you that felt less like peace and more like a withdrawal.

As you stepped toward the foyer to retrieve a fallen leaf, you heard their voices. Low, serious, and stripped of the warmth that usually colored their private conversations. You froze behind the heavy oak door.

“It’s getting complicated, Natasha,” Wanda said, her tone measured, quieter than usual. “We didn’t exactly set rules for this, and now… we’re just letting it drift.”

There was a brief silence. You could almost hear Natasha exhale.

“I know,” she said, her voice softer, but edged with something firmer underneath. “But we can’t keep guessing how she feels and calling it enough. She hasn’t said anything. She just… goes along with it.”

Your chest tightened.

Another pause.

“And if that’s all it is for her,” Natasha continued, a little more distant now, “then we need to stop pretending it’s more. Either she actually wants to be part of this, or we step back and let things be what they were before... We should ton-"

You didn't stay to hear the rest; the floor seemed to tilt beneath your feet. You retreated to your small cottage on the ledge, the salt air stinging your eyes as you spent a sleepless night convinced that the "arrangement" had finally reached its expiration date. You weren't just losing a job; you were losing the only place you’d ever felt you belonged.

The next morning, you moved through the main house like a ghost. You kept your eyes down, your uniform pressed and perfect, returning to the invisible persona of the domestic chatelaine. You avoided the study. You stayed out of the kitchen. You were back to being the help.

You were on your knees in the hallway, scrubbing the baseboards with a desperate, shaky intensity, when two pairs of shoes appeared in your peripheral vision. You didn't look up, your fingers white-knuckled around the brush.

"Look at me," Wanda commanded. It wasn't the playful, dark command from before; it was soft, laced with a sudden, sharp concern.

"I’m almost finished with the hall, Ma’am," you whispered, your voice thick and brittle. "I’ll be out your way."

A hand settled on your shoulder, Natasha. She knelt on the floor beside you, her strength forcing you to stop the frantic scrubbing. "Why are you calling her that? And why have you been hiding in the shadows all morning?"

“I heard you,” you said, the words breaking out of you before you could stop them. Your voice shook, eyes stinging as you looked between them. “About the distance… about things getting complicated. I know I’m just—” you swallowed hard, “—I know I work for you, and things got… blurred, but I can’t just go back to how it was. I can’t pretend none of this happened.”

The hallway went still.

For a split second, neither of them reacted—like your words hadn’t landed the way you thought they would.

Then Wanda moved first.

She dropped down in front of you, not cold, not distant—something in her expression cracking open instead. Her hands came up, hesitant at first, before gently steadying you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she murmured, her voice soft with sudden understanding. “That’s not what we meant. Not even close.”

Natasha stepped in beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her, the tension in her shoulders. “We weren’t talking about pushing you away,” she said, quieter now. “We were trying to figure out if we already crossed a line we shouldn’t have.”

You blinked, breath catching.

Wanda’s thumb brushed lightly under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. “You haven’t said anything,” she added gently. “You’ve just… gone along with us. And we started thinking—what if you felt like you had to?”

Natasha exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. “We didn’t want you stuck in something you couldn’t refuse. That’s what the ‘distance’ was about. Giving you room, if you needed it.”

The words hit differently now. Not sharp—just heavy in a completely different way.

“I don’t want room,” you said, the truth rushing out of you, uneven and fragile. “That’s the problem. The idea of going back—to just being your employee, pretending this didn’t happen—” your voice broke, “—that’s what scares me.”

They both stilled.

You forced yourself to keep going, even as your chest tightened. “I thought you were… done with me. Like this was just something that got out of hand and now you were fixing it.”

Wanda’s expression softened instantly, something almost pained flickering across her face.

“I don’t feel like ‘the help’ anymore,” you admitted, quieter now. “And I don’t want to. I want it to mean something. I want… all of it to mean something.”

The confession hung there, fragile and exposed.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Natasha stepped closer, her hand coming up—slow this time, deliberate—giving you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Her fingers curled gently at your jaw, grounding. “You should have told us,” she said, but there was no reprimand in it. Just something softer. Regret, maybe.

Wanda leaned in beside her, her hand finding yours and holding it tightly. “We thought we were protecting you,” she said quietly. “Not losing you. We should've said something too.... We're sorry, lovie."

The distance you’d been bracing for didn’t come. Instead, they stayed right there—close, careful, and waiting. Like this time, whatever happened next… would actually be your choice.

"Oh," Natasha moans, her head falling back into the pillows, her fingers tangling deep in Wanda’s hair as Wanda works between her thighs with a slow, devastating hunger.

The sound carries through the heavy oak doors of the primary suite, but you’re already inside, clutching your cleaning tray. It’s the standard schedule, the routine you’ve followed for a year, but the air in the room is different now—thick, charged, and smelling of salt and expensive perfume. Your cheeks flush a deep, hot crimson as you freeze mid-step, your eyes catching the sight of them on the expansive silk bed.

"O-oh, I... I’m so sorry. I’ll come back—"

Natasha’s eyes snap open, dark and lidded, "stay... if you'd like."

When you nod after a moment, she reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she waves you further into the room.

"Sit," she commands, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. She gestures to the edge of the bed.

Wanda pauses, her lips slick as she starts to move toward you, drawn by your presence, but Natasha’s grip tightens. She tugs Wanda back to her core by her hair, a sharp, grounding pull. "You’re not finished," Natasha murmurs, her gaze never leaving yours.

You sit, your legs feeling like lead, your thighs squirming against the soft duvet as you watch them. You watch the rhythm of Wanda’s shoulders, the arch of Natasha’s back, and the way they move together until Natasha finally breaks, a long, shattered breath escaping her as she finds her release.

When she’s done, Wanda finally pulls away. She crawls across the silk toward you, her eyes glowing with a dark, affectionate possessiveness. She reaches out, tilting your chin up, and spits into your mouth—a raw, visceral claim that ensures you taste both of them before she crashes her lips against yours. You kiss her back, a broken whimper escaping you as you finally receive the attention you’ve been starving for.

As Wanda makes out with you, her tongue searching yours, you hear the quiet, rhythmic click of a harness. Natasha moves toward you, her movements steady and clinical. She doesn't say a word, but the intent in her eyes is absolute.

Your legs are guided open, wrapped tightly around Wanda’s waist. You take Wanda’s fingers into your mouth, sucking on them as Natasha moves behind you. The first thrust is slow, a heavy, filling stretch that makes your eyes roll back. You moan into Wanda’s palm, your body shaking at the sheer scale of the sensation.

Wanda shifts her body, her hands firm on your shoulders as she maneuvers you onto your elbows and knees. Your back arches instinctively, a sharp, jagged keen escaping your throat at the way your body is being opened and used. It’s a beautiful, overwhelming stretch.

Wanda moves directly in front of you, settling onto the mattress and parting her legs, her gaze fixed on your face.

"Good girl," she whispers, her voice a dark velvet caress.

She pulls you forward, making you eat her out with a desperate, frantic hunger, while behind you, Natasha takes you with a relentless, punishing pace. You are pinned between them—the damp, intoxicating heat of Wanda in front and the sharp, rhythmic force of Natasha behind.

Every thrust drives you further into Wanda’s core, the dual stimulation turning your world into a blurred symphony. The rhythm behind you shifts, becoming sharper and more deliberate. Natasha’s hand leaves your hip, and the air hits your heated skin for only a split second before the first crack of her palm meeting your flesh echoes through the room.

A sharp, shocked cry breaks from your throat, muffled only by the proximity of Wanda’s body. The sting is immediate—a bright, stinging heat that radiates across your cheek and down your thighs, grounding you in the intensity of the moment. Natasha doesn't let up; she finds a punishing cadence, alternating between the heavy, filling thrusts of the strap-on and the stinging weight of her hand against your backside.

In front of you, Wanda’s fingers suddenly entwine in your hair, tugging just enough to pull you away from her. She grips your jaw, her thumb and forefinger squeezing your chin with a firm, unyielding pressure that forces you to look up. Your eyes are watery, your vision blurred by the sheer overstimulation of being taken from both ends, but she waits until you meet her gaze.

"Look at me, darling," Wanda murmurs, her dark eyes searching your face, drinking in the flush of your cheeks and the way your lips are parted and trembling.

The sting behind you continues—crack, crack—and your back arches with every impact, your breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. You are completely undone, a shivering mess of arousal and surrender pinned between the two women who own every inch of your world.

"Tell her," Wanda commands, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, catching a stray drop of moisture. Her voice is a soft, velvet blade. "Thank Natasha for taking you so thoroughly. Let her hear how much you love it."

You let out a broken, keening sound as Natasha delivers one final, heavy swat that makes your entire body shudder. The friction, the heat, and the weight of their attention culminate in a crushing wave of affection and need.

"T-thank you," you sob out, your forehead dropping to rest against Wanda’s chest as the last of your composure shatters. "Thank you, Natasha... please! thank you... thank you."

The room felt small, the air heavy and still as the frantic energy of the last few minutes began to settle into something deeper and more permanent. You were slumped against Wanda, your body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it felt like grief.

"Good girl," Natasha rumbled behind you. She didn't pull away; instead, she held you flush against her, her arms locking around your waist like iron bands. She pressed her face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin and the salt air. "Look at her, Wanda. She’s perfect when she’s broken down like this."

Wanda’s hand moved from your chin to cup your cheek, her thumb wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop falling. Her expression was luminous, a terrifyingly beautiful mix of pride and hunger.

"She is," Wanda whispered, her voice a soft, melodic hum. "And she did so well for us."

She leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours, and the mere contact sent a fresh spark through your sensitized nerves. She didn't let you rest. Her fingers drifted back down, finding the core of you that was already raw and weeping, and she began to move with a slow, agonizingly precise rhythm.

"One more, darling," Wanda coaxed, her eyes locked onto yours, forcing you to stay present in the sensation. "Just one more for us. Show us how much you belong here."

You let out a weak, desperate protest, but your body was no longer your own. Natasha’s hands squeezed your hips, grounding you, while Wanda’s touch drove you back over the edge. You came with a shattered, silent cry, your head falling back against Natasha’s shoulder as your muscles seized and finally went limp. You were completely ruined, your strength drained, leaving you a soft, pliable weight in their arms.

Wanda leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear. The words she spoke next were quiet, but they carried the weight of a life-changing vow.

"We don't want to just hire you anymore," she breathed. "We want the truth. We want total ownership of you—body, heart, and soul. How does that sound, lovie?"

The question hung in the air, thick and sweet. You didn't even have the breath to speak, but the answer was written in the way you slumped into them, seeking their heat. You nodded frantically, your chin brushing Wanda’s collarbone as you let out a small, pleading whimper.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I want this. I choose this, both of you.”

They didn’t rush. They just stayed. Together, you sank into the bed, their warmth on either side of you, no space left for doubt. Wanda’s arm curled around your waist. Natasha’s hand found yours, holding it gently.

note: I hate this 🙂

[just-aake]

Blurring the Boundaries

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.

Warnings: fluff, light angst, sexual themes

Words: 5768

The Avengers Compound kitchen is unusually calm that afternoon. Just the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the soft afternoon light spilling through the large windows as the two agents engage in a deeply serious debate.

“No, but listen,” Clint insists from the other side of the kitchen counter. “They made a good point.”

Natasha barely looks up from where she’s resting her forearms against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish, but the faint curve of her lips shows she’s listening.

“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.

“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”

Clint brightens immediately.

“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”

Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.

Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.

It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.

The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.

“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.

Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.

“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.

You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.

“Mmmhmm.”

Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.

“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”

Natasha snorts softly under her breath.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.

Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.

When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.

“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”

Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.

For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.

“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.

Your smile appears instantly, but then—

Flick.

Her finger taps your forehead.

“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.

Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.

You respond with an exaggerated pout.

Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”

A beat passes before she continues.

“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”

You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Alright, guess I’m going now.”

You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.

“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”

Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.

“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.

You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.

Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.

When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“What’s with your face?”

Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.

“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”

Natasha’s expression immediately flattens. 

“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”

Clint waves his hand vaguely.

“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”

He points toward the door you just exited through.

“However…”

Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.

“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation. 

“It was a hug, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint nods thoughtfully.

“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”

Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.

“It’s just a hug,” she insists.

“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”

Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.

Because…no. Not really.

You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.

But that kind of hug?

Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.

That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.

Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.

You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.

Post-sex warmth. Nothing unusual. Nothing meaningful.

Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.

Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.

“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”

Clint raises both hands in surrender.

“If you say so.”

His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.

Instead, he nods toward the counter again.

“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”

Natasha smirks again.

“Doesn’t make you worthy.”

Clint sighs dramatically.

“Damn.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The room is quiet.

Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.

This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.

Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.

Sleep refuses to come.

It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.

Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin. 

You usually aren’t here this long.

Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.

And then you leave.

Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.

But tonight is different.

You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.

Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.

Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.

But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.

And Natasha had let you stay.

Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.

Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.

For a long moment, she simply watches you.

There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.

And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.

Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.

Did it mean anything?

“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.

Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.

Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.

“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.

“Barely,” you grumble.

You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.

Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.

“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.

You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.

“What hug?”

“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”

Your brows draw together slightly.

“What about it?”

Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”

She trails off, searching.

“…intimate.”

The word lingers between you.

You go still for a second, thinking.

“Oh.” 

It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.

Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.

The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.

Natasha hates how quickly she notices.

You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.

“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”

Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.

It was just—

Nothing.

For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.

You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.

Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.

The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.

Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.

The contrast is jarring.

Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.

When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.

Then your lips press softly against hers.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.

For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.

Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.

But before she can act on it, you pull away.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”

Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.

“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.

You smile, soft and small.

But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.

“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”

Your expression softens further.

“At least when we’re not hooking up.”

The words settle heavily in the quiet room.

“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.

Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.

The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision. 

The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.

And what that would mean.

In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.

They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.

Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.

So Natasha made it simple.

No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.

And it has worked so far. 

You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.

“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.

“Sweet dreams.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.

Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.

The misunderstanding is gone.

Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.

What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.

She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.

Again. And again. And again.

Eventually, sleep begins to take her.

But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.

The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.

Everything appears normal.

But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.

The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.

And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.

She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.

When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.

At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.

But she had been wrong.

It started small.

A movie night in the common room.

Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.

Then in the gym.

After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.

But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.

Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.

You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.

Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.

Still beside her but never close.

Always careful. Always just far enough away.

Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.

So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.

And she had agreed to it.  

So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?

Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.

Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.

Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.

Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.

Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.

It should mean nothing. It is nothing.

Just like how it is for her.

But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.

Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.

A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.

Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.

Then she moves.

Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.

You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.

“Hey—”

Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.

Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.

“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”

Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.

You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.

The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.

You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.

Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.

There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.

She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.

For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.

The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.

Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.

Mine.

The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.

Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.

When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.

“Hey, what’s wr—”

She silences you with another forceful kiss.

Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.

Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.

“Natasha…” you murmur.

The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.

Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.

Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.

The contact draws a quiet breath from her.

Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.

Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.

But the sensation is complicated.

Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.

Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.

Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.

The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.

But the thought does not fade.

Only here. Only like this.

Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.

She shakes her head.

“I can’t do this.”

The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.

You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.

“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”

She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.

“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”

The words settle heavily in the space between you.

Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.

For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.

“Oh.”

The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.

You look hurt, though you try not to show it.

Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.

But she remains still.

What right does she have?

She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.

Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.

She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.

She wants you.

Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.

The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.

Because the words still refuse to come.

You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.

Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.

You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.

Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.

Only now does she understand why.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.

She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.

The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.

It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.

Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.

However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.

Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.

A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.

She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.

Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.

You appear just as surprised to find her there.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.

Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.

But you do not step closer.

Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.

And Natasha notices it immediately. 

You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.

“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”

The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.

Everything surrounding them, however, is different.

There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.

Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

She understands what this moment means.

You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.

“Good luck,” she says quietly.

The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.

Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.

“Thanks, Natasha.”

Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.

That is what breaks her composure.

It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.

Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.

Her body moves before the thought fully settles.

“Wait.”

The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.

You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.

Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.

Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.

Then she kisses you.

There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.

A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.

Then instinct takes over.

Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.

In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.

Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.

Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.

When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.

The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.

Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.

This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.

Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.

“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”

“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”

You do not look away from Natasha.

There is a brief pause.

“…Understood.”

Silence settles again, softer now.

Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.

“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”

The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.

Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.

“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.

Your brow lifts slightly.

“And they are...?”

She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.

“Whatever lets me love you.”

The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.

For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.

Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.

The distance is gone.

Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.

“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”

You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.

“…Did it mean something?”

After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.

“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”

Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.

“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.

You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.

“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”

You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.

“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”

She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.

Your grin returns instantly.

“Oh?”

Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.

“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”

Amusement flashes in her eyes.

“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”

You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.

“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: hope you enjoy the fic and thank you for reading! (love/hate relationship with this one but I needed to get it out of the drafts so that I can stop editing it every time I see it 😅)

[marvelselfinserts]

hi, sorry to bother you, but i had an idea. if possible could you maybe write about wandanat x reader where reader has a stutter/speech impediment?

Stuck

ScarletWidow x Reader [A/N] I'm not gonna lie these kind of requests make me nervous because I don't have a stutter/speech impediment so I worry about writing it inaccurately 😭 Hopefully it's okay! Thank you for the request my lovely, hope you enjoy ❤️

Frustration courses through your veins as you listen to Tony talk, wanting to interrupt but knowing that the words will only get caught in your throat. Meetings are the worst, there are so many people and the moment everyone’s eyes are on you it can make your stammer worse. Although everyone’s patient it still makes your cheeks heat up, makes you feel self-conscious.

When you’d first been diagnosed with a stutter at six years old, your parents had been reassured that with speech and language therapy you’d probably grow out of it by the time you reached adulthood. Apparently that had been a lie. The stutter hadn’t gone away and whilst it didn’t affect you every day, it mostly flared up when you were stressed or had to do any public speaking. Even just being in a small meeting like this with people you know and feel comfortable around can make you nervous enough to start tripping over your words.

Tony had just announced that you were going to be at a press conference with Stephen and Scott. You had all completed a successful mission recently and he wanted the three of you to take credit for your hard work. And of course, he’d announced this during the meeting so you couldn’t speak up to say you didn’t really want to. You’d made it pretty clear from the get-go that missions etc. were fine, but public speaking wasn’t something you were interested in. Why did he have to go and ignore you like that?

Natasha reaches over and takes your hand in hers, understanding the hesitancy on your face but not wanting to speak for you. Lots of people rush you, assuming the ends of your sentences for you long before you even get there – Natasha knows it frustrates you so she just squeezes your hand, a reassurance that she’ll talk to you afterwards. Across the table Wanda gives you a small smile.

Both of your girlfriends’ had found out about your stammer early on. You’d gotten so nervous whenever you spoke to either of them that it made your symptoms worse. When you’d wanted to ask them out, you’d barely been able to get the words out. Luckily they’d both found it pretty sweet and it hadn’t taken long until the three of you had begun dating.

As soon as the meetings over you go back to your room, pacing back and forth, “H-H-He knows that- that- I-I- I-” You feel a wave of frustration as you struggle to get the words out. Sometimes it’s even worse than this and you can barely say anything.

Wanda sits down, taking your hand and pulling you into her lap, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Just take your time,” Wanda says. “We’re here, we’re listening.”

With a sigh, you take a deep breath, taking a moment to try and calm down before trying again, “He- He knows that I h-h-hate p- public speaking. Why- Why would he- Why would he- D-Do that?”

“Honestly? Because Tony’s an idiot who loves public speaking and probably forgot that the rest of the world doesn’t feel the same way as him.” Natasha sits down next to you, running her fingers through your hair. “You know what those press conferences are like though. They’ll probably ask Stephen most of the questions, he’s the one with the big powers and he’s another one who likes the sound of his own voice.”

“I’m sure you could ask them both to field any questions if you really don’t want to talk,” Wanda says. “It’d be a shame if you did though, given how hard you’ve worked. You did amazing on that mission.”

As a kid, you’d turned to physical activities given you had so much trouble with your speech. Archery, martial arts, horse-riding, hand to hand combat, anything that didn’t require much talking. Being an Avenger hadn’t even crossed your mind until there’d been a threat in New York that the Avengers were trying to deal with. Without being asked you’d jumped in to help them, and when the dust had settled, Steve offered you a position on the team.

It was true; you had worked hard on that mission, especially since you were the only one without powers or some kind of enhanced suit. Your job had been civilian evacuation, a job that you always took very seriously – that was the main reason you all did this job after all. “No one will understand what- what- what I’m saying though.”

“Yes, they will,” Wanda reassures you. “Maybe they could make an announcement at the start to be patient-”

“E-E-Everyone w-will know though, they- they-”

“You’re getting worked up again,” Natasha says, taking your hand. “Try and tell us what’s really bothering you.”

You take a long moment before taking out your phone, realising it will probably be quicker to just write it down. Your girlfriends’ wait patiently as you type out into the notes app on your phone. ‘Everyone will know I have a stutter. They might think less of me as a hero.’

“Hey, no, of course they won’t!” Natasha says.

“Having a stutter doesn’t change how amazing of a hero that you are,” Wanda says firmly.

You wring your hands nervously, already feeling them go sweaty at the thought of stammering in front of a room full of people. No, you’d never been ashamed of your stutter; it was just part of who you were. Until you’d become an Avenger. Now you were aware of just how harsh people could be online. Whilst most reception to you joining the team had been positive, some had already torn apart your appearance online; some had doubted your ability. When you’d confided in Natasha and Wanda they’d simply shrugged, telling you it came with the job.

What would they say if they knew about your stammer though? Some of the kids in school had been unkind about it. You could only imagine what some of the people online would say.

“Hey,” Natasha says. “It’s up to you what you want to do. You can ask Scott and Stephen to do all of the talking, and just show your face. There’s no shame in choosing to do that. Or you can embrace the fact that yes, you probably will stutter when asked a question. And decide not to care because it's really not a big deal.”

“Look at it this way,” Wanda says, “What if there’s a little kid at home who’s just been diagnosed with a stammer? And they see you on TV and realise ‘wow, I can be a superhero too!’”

Irritatingly, that does get to you, just as Wanda had known it would. You’d always pushed the idea that anybody could be a superhero; it was even a hash tag that you used on all of your social media accounts. “I don- I don- I don’t want to- to- look st-stupid.”

“You won’t look stupid at all,” Natasha reassures you. “Because you’re not stupid. You’re a badass and the world deserves to hear you.”

“We’ll even come and watch if you want,” Wanda says. “You’re gonna be amazing, okay? Just remember to take a deep breath and pause to think about what you wanna say.”

On the day of the conference you get dressed up in something smart and then get a ride to the venue in one of Tony’s ridiculously expensive cars. You have to go there early, and Natasha and Wanda promise they’ll meet you there as soon as they can. When you arrive you’re immediately swept into something called a ‘green room’, then someone comes over to apply a little make-up on you. “Just for the lights,” They reassure you, dabbing at your nose.

Throughout the whole process you remain silent, even as the event organiser gushes over the three of you. Luckily, as Natasha predicted, most of her attention is on Stephen who nods in all the right places as she talks. Maybe nobody will ask you any questions after all. You might’ve spent all of last night worrying about nothing. It had taken you a long time to fall asleep, Wanda had had to use her powers to help soothe you in the end.

Once you’re on the stage it does get a little easier - Natasha and Wanda have managed to get themselves visible seats, and keep smiling at you reassuringly throughout the press conference.  Most of the questions are directed at Stephen and Scott, just as expected. In fact, after a while, you start to get annoyed. Why are you even here if no one’s interested in your contribution? You did just as much work as Scott and Stephen!

Eventually a woman in the front row is called upon and she stands up, “Y/N, can you tell us about civilian casualties? I understand you were leading the evacuation?”

For a second you just stare into space until you feel Scott nudge your shoulder. Oh! You’d been asked a question! Taken off guard, you glance at the woman and begin trying to speak, “I- I- I-”

You swallow hard, the words caught in your throat and that familiar feeling of your cheeks warming up hits you. You try again, stuttering over that one letter again, your eyes prickling with frustration until Stephen leans forward, “Perhaps I could answer. Civilian-”

“With all due respect Mr Strange, I directed the question at Y/N and I’m happy to wait until they’re able to answer.”

Stephen is so taken aback that he doesn’t correct her that it’s Dr Strange. You’re taken aback too and you glance towards your girlfriends’ – Natasha gives you an encouraging smile whilst Wanda gives you a thumbs up. The press looks at you expectantly, waiting to hear your answer so you take a breath and try again, “We-We-Well, I- I’m pleased to report, that- that there were n-no civilian casualties to- to report-”

Although you continue to stammer and stutter over your words the press waits patiently for you to finish and you’re able to make your statement about how there weren’t any civilian casualties, and that any injuries were minor and treated on site. When you’re asked another question you take a moment to gather your thoughts before answering – the stutter still there but you are able to make yourself understood, answering every question confidently.

Once the press conference is over you step down from the stage, watching as Natasha and Wanda approach you. Before they can make it though, the first woman who’d asked you a question reaches you first, holding out her hand which you shake. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I realised afterwards I may have been a bit much asking you to answer that question if you didn’t want to. I’m worried I overstepped a mark.”

“No! No, I- I appreciated it.”

“I had a stammer when I was a child,” She explains. “It was so annoying when people spoke over me in class when I knew the answer, they just didn’t give me the time to explain. It was so frustrating.”

You smile, “I know the- the feeling. S-Seriously, th-thank you.”

She smiles and then leaves you to it as Wanda and Natasha approach you from both sides, giving you big hugs. “You were amazing!” Wanda says, kissing your cheek. “You answered everything perfectly.”

“Not- Not- Not so sure about per- perfect.”

“It was perfect,” Natasha insists, squeezing your waist. “You should do more press conferences; you’re really good with your answers.”

They both continue to praise you and you let them, happy to hear that they thought it went okay. Maybe you’re not going to rush to check what people are saying online but you’re proud of yourself. And you found that actually, you rather enjoyed it. After years of thinking that public speaking wasn’t for you, it turns out it is. Definitely made easier by having your girlfriends’ in the crowd cheering you on – just like they always have.

[imtiredmama]

Their Darling Pet

Pt 1. of Their Darling Taglist

Pairing: Dark WandaNat x Pet Fem Reader

A/n: Sorry it took me so long, I've been up to my neck with work, but it's here now!

Summary: Wanda and Natasha are not on the market for a pet, but when work brings them to a pet café, the feisty kitten holding their attention hostage might just change their minds.

Warnings: Pet play, social normalcy of human beings as pets, a slightly depressing past for R (nothing too bad), smut (pt2 and 3), slightly hybrid R (ears and tail), possessiveness, protectiveness, brat R

A bell chimes in the background.

The quiet jingle swishes back and forth with the weight of the door. It’s changed tune so many times since you’ve been here that you’ve almost lost count. With every day, the screws holding it fast seem to loosen just a fraction.

On your first day, it called out with clarity. Newly purchased and hung up with a far too loud drill, nothing to obscure its annoying tone as you hid in a corner that quickly became yours and yours alone.

Now it’s barely a bell. It sounds more like the creak of a door after a fresh coat of paint the night before.

The other pets don’t notice.

Why would they?

Most of them are barely there long enough to smell the brewing of afternoon coffee.

You’re the last of your group.

New faces enter every day: pets, attendees, owners, all a blurry flow by now.

They disappear like sand between your fingertips. Slowly trickling past, but the weight… The weight stays. As if the sand isn’t truly gone, merely a memory.

It’s fine.

You didn’t really like them anyway.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the pet café is thick, the sort of air that settles on your tongue like a paperweight. Natasha and Wanda have spent the better part of an hour pretending it doesn’t bother them.

Truth be told, Natasha wants to gag.

It’s not just thick from a lack of circulation, but heavy with what could only be the mix of a dozen pets’ fur. It’s as if all the hair decided to join forces against the poor air conditioners scattered above, clogging them and forcing the machinery to work overtime. It would explain the horrible vibrating sound that seems to be coming from all of them.

 

Wanda isn’t doing any better. The smooth surface of Wanda´s wedding ring spins along her ring finger. Initially cool to the touch, it’s now turned lukewarm with friction. A sniffle accompanied her every word, leaving the deep red of her nose exposed. Her mild allergy to the puppy wrapped around her leg overtook the conversation more often than not.

At first, the young man seemed sweet, his puppy status clear given the floppy ears, wagging tail, and sharp canines. However, as the meeting drags on, Wanda finds herself increasingly annoyed by his presence.

His tail, though beautiful, is coarse and matted as it knocks against the younger redhead’s leg. The fur dragged across her ankle, back and forth, back and forth, following the rhythm of his mindless wagging. The weight of it is on the verge of too much yet too little, leaving an irritating limbo state somewhere between itchy and ticklish.

Wanda lost interest in the conversation long ago. Numbers and statistics from last year float somewhere above her head as she drifts her eyes across the room in an attempt to distract herself.

The pet café was a corner shop on the outskirts of town. Aside from the tunnel system of connected dog houses lining the walls, and the plush beds tucked away in corners, the layout was reminiscent of every other run-of-the-mill coffee shop. Tables neatly arranged in rows, soothing music drowning out the sound of grinding coffee beans, and groups of all sizes mingling.

Pets roam around freely, an array of different personalities and classifications crawling along the floor. Some beg for attention and preen under praise, while others hide shyly behind furniture. Though Wanda thought they all looked rather sweet, none held her interest for long.

Natasha drifted on the same boat as her eyes swept the floor. Carl from finance had overdone his presentation forever ago. His gruff frame leaning against the table with his elbows tucked tight to his side, making himself look like an insecure idiot. Nonetheless, Natasha lets him drone on, his words clinging to buzz words and trembling positivity.

Her heel taps repetitively against the linoleum flooring. It drums a pattern gently, tapping, then dragging, then tapping again for counts of three before repeating. Her pant leg shifts with the movement, adding an additional layer of sound as it rubs against itself.

Natasha doesn’t care much for pets. It wasn’t anything personal against any of them, she simply didn’t see the need for one herself.

However, she has a weakness.

A weakness that will soon be exploited if the teeth currently lodged in her heel had any say on the matter.

────୨ৎ────

Someone is tapping their fucking foot way too loudly.

It’s periodic, yet never-ending. Drumming and dragging, vibrating the floor all the way to your corner. Your hands sink into the cushion beneath you, softness seeping through and absorbing your limbs whole. However, underneath it all, you can feel it. Thudding against the pads of your fingertips.

The only thing missing is a damn snare.

Ire settles in the grind of your teeth, your ears jumping, tail flickering where it drags across the cold floor.

You know where it’s coming from. They would be hard to miss from a mile away, even if you had your eyes closed and spun around in a circle three times.

The two redheaded women sit at a table in the far end of the café. A man accompanies them, but he seems like a bore in comparison.

Long cascading curls fall down the back of one of their chairs, red hair shining unnaturally bright in the café’s warm mood light. You can’t see her face from where she sits with her back turned, but her bouncing leg is certainly obvious.

Then there was the one with sunglasses perched perfectly on her red nose. She is vaguely familiar in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. The sunglasses hide just enough of her eyes to leave a feeling of unease as you trek forward. Her beauty was unquestionable, a small cluster of freckles spreading along her flawless skin like glitter, but you didn’t care much. They oozed power in a way only businesswomen can.

You hate them most of all- with their fancy suits, expensive watches, and snotty attitudes to match.

Pets cower away as you stroll forward. A low grumble rumbles through you, your teeth on full display as you lick along the ridges in annoyance. Your tongue runs along the top row, snagging slightly on your sharp canine before continuing in a self-soothing manner along the points and divots.

Your hands pad gently, silently, as your muscles tense in preparation.

When you strike, it’s fast.

Fast enough for the puppy resting against the other woman’s legs to jump up and run away with his tail tucked.

The groan of plastic as you clamp down does little to deter you. You press yourself closer, sliding against her pant leg, pushing your shoulders where they land against the top of her foot. The leg beneath your grasp shakes gently, halfheartedly attempting to dislodge you while your teeth only dig deeper. You grumble, your breath coating her shin in puffs, refusing to let go.

That’s what she gets for interrupting your nap.

A chuckle, deep and heady, floats somewhere above you.

It’s the only warning you get before you're swept off the ground, heel still dangling from your teeth.

────୨ৎ────

Wanda had seen you make your advance, slinking through parting crowds, ears low and hackles raised. Her pearly white teeth were digging into the soft flesh of her bottom lip in a poor attempt to stifle her self-satisfied reaction as you jumped her wife.

It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, given the bellowing laugh Natasha let out once she realized whose teeth were currently holding her high heel hostage.

The pair has met you before.

The café is a regular spot for them outside of office hours. Previous to their current, very demanding and time-consuming, client, they would come by every Saturday. However, with their recent work hours, they haven’t been able to stop by in months.

Wanda assumed you would be long gone by now, as did her wife, given the delighted flicker of surprise in Natasha’s eyes as she picked your grumbling form off the floor.

Natasha’s hands wrap around your body. One of her palms glides against the small hairs on your lower stomach, pushing you tighter against her even as you hiss under your breath. The plastic vibrates with your muffled grumbles, clicking against your teeth as you regard the memorable redhead in annoyance. Her other hand holds the tip of her heel, trying to coax you to let go, even as you ignore her advances.

It reminds Wanda of the first time they met you.

You had used Natasha’s legs as a shield after picking a fight with a puppy twice your size. Back then, you had refused to let her pick you up, hissing and swatting at her as she tried to help you. The staff had been horrified, practically begging on their knees for Mrs. Romanov to forgive them for your poor behavior and threatening you with a spray bottle, all while you ignored them and continued to torment the oversized puppy.

Wanda knew in that moment -with Natasha reassuring the staff that she didn’t mind, and you still hissing at her even as you wrapped your tail around her leg- it was love at first sight for the other redhead.

Further proven now with you perched on Natasha´s thighs while she teased you. Bringing her hand higher up the heel until your hackles raised to a sneer, then backing away until your lips settled, and repeating the cycle while the hand against your stomach scratched you soothingly.

“What are you still doing here, Miss Hissy?” You ignore her, content to growl and grumble even as you sag against Natasha in lieu of an answer.

Carl sits beside the two of you, puttering and gaffing as Natasha’s attention disregards him completely.

Wanda hums in amusement under her breath, reaching across the table, she runs her finger along the ridge of your nose. You’re considerably less hissy with her, but you do make sure to send her a warning glare even as she smiles down at you.

Today just got a whole lot better.

Wanda clicks her tongue to garner the attention of Carl. He’s leaning away from the pair of you, looking mighty peeved at how the evening played out. It was poor manipulation of him to use their preferred coffee shop to his advantage anyway. A promotion is the last thing he has coming for him.

“You can find your way back to the office yourself, can’t you? I fear my wife, and I have a pet to settle in.” Neither of you hears Wanda- you being too busy trying to headbutt Natasha while Natasha tries to tickle you into submission.

Wanda walks the annoyed employee to the door, he knows better than to put up a fight. Subtly, she slides toward the counter with you two distracted.

────୨ৎ────

There is no forgetting Natasha Romanov.

From the first time you laid your eyes on her, to now, with her hands surrounding you, you can recognize her scent from anywhere. The heady vanilla and smoky whisky like an aphrodisiac seeping through your pores as her nose glides against an invisible path on the back of your neck. Soft puffs of breath leave shivers down your spine.

It also puts a name to the face in front of you: Wanda Maximoff, the beautiful perfectionist with a hint of sadism practically bleeding from her deceivingly kind eyes.

You have no idea what’s happening.

One moment you’re on Romanov´s lap, then in the next, they’re walking away from you again.

That part isn’t surprising.

They all do it in the end.

What you don’t understand is why you’re in a fucking carrier cage right now.

One of the owners had ushered you away as Romanov left with an apologetic smile, her wife waving her away from you. You had let go of her heel then, though you secretly wanted to hold on longer, force her to stay with you, but you didn’t.

You never do.

It had been a quick succession of events from then.

Your favorite toy, stuffed in a metal crate, was annoying but unsurprising. They always sent pets away with a toy, you’re just pissed someone got yours. Well, you were pissed until they decided to stuff you into the same damn box, so now you’re really pissed.

The cage wobbles and swings as they carry you out. The afternoon sun paints the sky with gold, birds chirping among the scenery, before it’s rudely taken away from your view as you stare into the leather of a car seat…

With Natasha Romanov staring right back at you.

What the fuck.

Taglist: @black-dragon1998 @helpmeilovewomenahh @sevikasoneandonlywife @gumboug @jessycatatiana @ayrtonwilbury @lizziescutiepie @ichala @pixie1mixie @bleuberriimatcha @upsidedowndanvers @simpform1lfs @ghostqeen @yearning-ka @lovelyy-moonlight @snowdrop1026 @t1psyone @littlelonelylesbian @keepingitundercover @dannis-world444 @piece--of--garbage @writtenbymarvelwomen @sugarysweetpretzel @vanillyezz @imjsagirllll @poppyshuman

[snowseasonss]

THE WOMEN WHO NEVER STOPPED LOVING YOU.

wandanat x f!reader

You spent your whole childhood with Wanda and Natasha at your side, certain the three of you would never drift apart. Then you left for the city, and now coming home means facing everything your absence turned their yearning into.

details: country/west farmer!au, slow burn/story/it's like a movie!! fic, a lot of words... please prepare time to read this story, eventual smut, porn/smut w/ plot, childhood friends to complex to together, farmer girls x city girl trope, hurt/comfort, slight angst with comfort, very happy ending!, top!natasha, switch!wanda, switch!reader, dom!wandanat/sub!reader, naughty smut, slight injury (r sustaining), f/afab!reader, cigarette usage (natasha)

Many hate on trios, saying there’s always a duo in a trio. That one person left standing just slightly outside the circle.

It was never the case with the three of you.

One shy greeting shared between you all when your families were introduced after Wanda and Natasha moved into town, and somehow the three of you became stuck together as thick as honey. Impossible to separate after that.

You spent countless sunrises to sunsets together. Inside jokes so overused they stopped making sense years ago, yet still sent you rolling onto your backs in laughter with pine needles tangled in your hair. From ages five to eighteen, you watched one another grow up in all the quiet ways that mattered most.

You explored every inch of land surrounding town, knew every trail, every hidden riverbank, every broken fence and abandoned road. Played the same games one too many times.

Spent nights at one another’s houses whispering embarrassing stories into the dark until tears gathered in your eyes from laughing too hard. And sometimes those nights turned softer, quieter. Comforting hands resting on knees when secrets slipped out, insecurities revealed only in the safety of each other.

You grew up with one another. Blew out birthday candles side by side, exchanged stupid Christmas presents every year, learned to drive in the same rusted trucks, and crammed yourselves into diner booths after reckless late-night drives through mountain roads. The whole town knew the three of you together, like your names belonged side by side as naturally as the mountains belonged to the horizon.

Inseparable, never meant to part from one another. Photos of the three of you hung around each other’s rooms, tucked into mirrors and pinned to walls, always leaving space for another year, another memory. Until one evening.

It was supposed to be another sleepover, only older now. The three of you somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, curled up in familiar places with the television humming quietly in the background and empty soda cans cluttering the table. Comfortable in the way only years together could make people.

Then your mother stepped into the kitchen and asked softly if you had told them yet. Their eyes flickered toward you immediately, and your body ran cold.

You couldn’t say it. Could barely even look at them. So your mother did it for you. She told them you were moving away to the city.

And the room lost its warmth.

You had been in New York for almost five years now. You’d finished college, settled into your first full-time job, and quietly reached the point where your life stopped feeling like something temporary and started feeling like something built.

Somewhere along the way, you’d grown into a woman almost unrecognizable from the girl who once ran barefoot through riverbanks and mountain trails. Back home, you grew up in a place where cell service barely existed, where fashion meant whatever clothes survived the week and your father’s boots were just part of the outfit you threw on over pajamas.

Your friends in the city found your childhood charming in that distant, curious way people do when they’ve never lived it. Wine glasses balanced between their fingers as they asked you questions about horses and wide open land and how you could stand living somewhere so small everyone knew everyone. What it was like. Why you left. If you missed it. If you could ever go back.

You always answered lightly, laughing it off, turning your past into something almost like a story instead of something you had lived. But the questions stayed with you longer than they should have, especially the ones about why you left, because you never really had a clean answer for that anymore.

Your parents had long since stopped arguing with you about New York. Now your calls home were softer, stretched out with pauses, your mother asking when you were visiting again and your father pretending not to notice how often you said you were busy. It hadn’t felt urgent before, life always pulling you forward too fast to look back.

But now, for the first time in years, the thought landed differently.

You could go home. There was nothing stopping you anymore.

You had PTO sitting unused, no deadlines pressing against you, no real reason not to leave the city for a while. You could just… go.

The realization settled in your chest in a way that made everything feel suddenly too quiet. That night you called your parents while sitting cross-legged on your couch, laptop open on your knees as flight searches loaded in the background, your finger hovering between dates as your mother’s voice filled your apartment from the speaker.

Your dad picked you up at the airport, giving you a hug so tight your lungs burned. You didn’t mind it. You just shoved your face into his shoulder and held on a second longer than you meant to, breathing in the familiar rough cigarette scent and something older underneath it was motor oil.

It hit you all at once how much you’d been holding back, how much you’d been pretending wasn’t there. How much you’d missed him. How much you still loved him in that deep, uncomplicated way that never really changes no matter how far you go.

When he finally pulled back, his hands stayed on your shoulders like he needed to make sure you were real. “God, look at you,” he said, voice thick in a way he tried to hide by laughing. “Look at my girl… you’re so grown up.”

You smiled at him, soft and a little watery around the edges, eyes matching his in that too-emotional way neither of you commented on. You squeezed his hands like you were grounding yourself through him instead of the other way around. “I miss you…”

“Me too, and so does your mother,” he said, giving your hands a gentle squeeze back as he nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go home… she’s waiting for you there.”

She gave you a just as tight hug, one you fully just broke into, tears slipping before you could even think to stop them. You held onto her like your hands had been waiting years to do that again, arms wrapped around her so tightly it almost felt like you were afraid she might disappear if you let go.

She didn’t rush you. Just held you back just as firmly, one hand steady between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like you hadn’t outgrown needing it.

You buried your face into her shoulder, breathing in her shampoo and lotion, the familiar softness of her sweater, the quiet warmth of her that somehow still felt like home even after everything. The air in the house felt different in a way you couldn’t quite place at first.

Cleaner, lighter, like it had been waiting for you to notice it again. And suddenly it hit you how long it had been since you’d taken a full breath without something sitting heavy in your chest.

You exhaled shakily, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy. “I’m home…”

“That you are,” she said softly, brushing a thumb beneath your eye like she was still allowed to do that without asking. “We’ve been counting down the minutes.”

Her smile was small, careful, like she was afraid too much emotion might break something.

“We’ve got dinner… please come in.” Then, after a beat, her gaze flicked over your shoulder toward the rest of the house, softer still.

“The house has changed a bit… as you might assume you notice.”

After dinner, when you finally parted for the night, you climbed the creaky stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way your body remembered before your mind fully caught up. They had said the house had changed, and you believed them, until you reached your bedroom door.

The moment you opened it, everything stopped. Your suitcase rolled softly behind you and came to rest in the corner, but you barely noticed. Your feet moved on their own, slow and careful, like you were walking through a memory instead of a room.

Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there, held in time like someone had refused to let it become anything else.

The old quilt on your bed. The faint marks on the wall where posters used to hang. The dresser you’d carved into when you were younger and thought it was funny. The bookshelf still slightly crooked no matter how many times your father tried to fix it. Even the soft smell of dust and old wood and something unmistakably you.

You walked like you were in a movie you weren’t sure you belonged in anymore, fingers brushing over surfaces as things you had forgotten suddenly returned in fragments. Late-night conversations, getting ready for school, lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking the world would never change.

And yet it had. Just not this room.

You flop onto the bed afe hearing the springs bounce under you. The ceiling stares back at you the same way it always did, familiar in a way that almost feels unreal after so long away. Your eyes drift to your vanity, spotting the photos there, and something in your chest tightens.

You sit up slowly, gaze lingering on them. Smiling faces caught in time. Too many memories packed into small frames, edges slightly worn from years of being looked at and never really put away. You, Wanda, Natasha. Always the three of you.

You wonder what they’re up to, where they are right now. If they’re together. If they’re laughing. If anything about them feels different, or if it’s just you who changed. If they moved on after you left.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

You reach over and turn your lamp off for the night before you can let yourself wonder about anything further.

You had some time to warm up to everything again before your parents mentioned that you should attend the city’s small gathering once more, just to greet everyone again, catch up, be seen. It had sounded like a good idea at the time. You missed people from the town you grew up in, missed the familiarity of faces that didn’t feel like strangers even after years apart.

Your parents were going too, a kind of quiet reassurance at your side in case you felt awkward or in case the town had decided you’d become the “city girl” who left and never quite belonged again.

A few hours later, and it had been a fine gathering for the most part. Shaking hands yet again, hugging occasionally, repeating the same softened version of your life until your smile started to feel practiced instead of real. The fire burned bright in the center of everything, casting warm light over familiar faces as the sun fully disappeared and the night settled in.

You excused yourself quietly, slipping away toward the bathrooms just to breathe for a moment, let your shoulders drop where no one could see.

That’s when a truck pulled up. Headlights cut through the dark for a second before shutting off, leaving the engine to tick in the silence. It caught your eye without meaning to.

The door swung open, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

The one with the short, messy hair stepped out first. Except it wasn’t short anymore. Long auburn strands spilled over her shoulders, catching the firelight every time she moved. A cigarette rested between her lips, smoke curling into the night air.

The habit struck you immediately. Unfamiliar against the version of her you’d carried in your head for years.

The second door swung open a beat later. You shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, not really, but the sight of her still knocked the breath from your lungs. She looked older now.

Taller somehow, steadier. Softer in a way that only time could carve into someone. Even her voice, faint beneath the noise of the party, had deepened into something calmer, more mature.

You could hear the two of them talking quietly amongst themselves.

Their names stirred in the back of your mind, dangerously familiar. You shoved the thought down before it could settle, forcing your steps to remain even as you continued toward the bathrooms, pretending your pulse hadn’t suddenly fallen out of rhythm.

Part of you hoped you’d imagined it. That maybe you’d looked too fast, caught the wrong angle in the flicker of firelight and smoke and familiar noise. Maybe she hadn’t seen you at all.

But fate had other plans.

For one fleeting moment, her gaze drifted lazily across the crowd. Casual, distracted. Then it found you right as you reached the edge of the building and stepped inside.

You pushed through the bathroom door quickly, the cold fluorescent light washing over you as you gripped the edge of the sink for a second longer than necessary. Your pulse still hadn’t settled. You turned on the faucet anyway, letting the icy water run over your hands just to give yourself something else to focus on, but you can't.

Five fucking years. You dried your hands slowly against your jeans as you stepped back into the mosquito-filled air, already planning to keep your head down and walk straight past them.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Guilt and awkwardness climbed up your throat so fast it almost made it hard to answer.

“Hi.”

The word came out quieter than you intended.

Silence settled between you almost immediately, thick and uncomfortable. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to her anymore—or if you were supposed to say anything at all. The two of you hadn’t spoken since the day you left for the city. No calls. No texts. Nothing except years of distance stretching wider and wider until it became easier to pretend it didn’t matter.

Maybe this was how things were supposed to go.

People faded. Friendships lost their grip. Not everyone you met was meant to become part of your foundation. Some people were only passing branches, temporary things meant to break away eventually.

You told yourself that was all this was. Five years was a long time to hold onto someone. You shifted slightly, already preparing to step around her and leave the conversation exactly where it stood. Brief, polite before Wanda spoke again.

"You changed your hair,” she commented, her eyes drawing carefully over you.

“Yeah, I did…” you breathed out, wiping at your bicep when you felt what was probably a mosquito land there.

“It looks nice. Seems like you’ve really been taking care of yourself.”

The compliment sat awkwardly between you. You shifted your weight, one foot already turning away like you were preparing to leave the conversation before it had the chance to become anything more. Still, you could feel Wanda’s gaze lingering on you. And another from farther away, heavier somehow, burning into your skin.

Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced toward the truck near the fire and found Natasha already watching you. The flame from her lighter illuminated her face for a brief second as she lit another cigarette, smoke curling past her lips as she leaned back against the truck.

“Not too sure,” you admitted. “However long I can stretch my PTO. I’m getting time with my parents.”

Something flickered across Wanda’s face at that. Small enough that you almost missed it. The mention of family. The quiet implication beneath your words. That you came back for them, not for this, not for her.

No mention of catching up. No offer to see each other again. Still, she smiled softly, the kind that felt more polite than personal now. “Well… it was nice seeing you.”

“You too.”

The words felt strange leaving your mouth.

Wanda gave a small wave before turning and heading back toward the fire, her figure slowly blending into the warm glow and drifting smoke. You started in the opposite direction, hands shoved into your pockets, but after a few steps you glanced back over your shoulder anyway.

It wouldn’t be a small town without its monthly farmer’s market.

Your parents had driven the three of you into town early that morning, and for once, you didn’t mind staying close to them. It gave you something familiar to hold onto. The market buzzed around you with soft music, overlapping conversations, and the scent of kettle corn drifting through the warm air. You pointed out different stands to your mom, teased your dad over overpriced honey, and exchanged polite smiles with a few familiar faces from years ago.

It almost felt normal.

By the time you stopped at the smoothie stand near the edge of the market, the heat had already settled into your skin. You held your mango smoothie in one hand while waiting for the larger one your parents planned to split, half-listening to the blender roaring behind the counter.

Then a voice slipped into the space beside you.

“Mango? Always been your favorite.”

Your stomach tightened before you even looked up.

Wanda stepped beside you casually, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket despite the warmth outside. Her hair was pulled back loosely today, auburn strands catching in the breeze.

“You ordering one?” you asked, trying to sound more relaxed than you felt. Almost pushing her away again.

She hummed softly, glancing up at the menu board. “Maybe. I’m deciding.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “This stand’s new. Only been here about two years.”

She glanced away from the menu for a moment, eyes settling on you. “How’s the city been?”

The question made your stomach sink unexpectedly, like there was too much wrapped inside those four words. Your fingers tightened slightly around the smoothie cup as you silently wished your parents’ order would be ready already.

“Uh, yeah…” you muttered, shifting your weight. “It’s good. A lot.”

Wanda smiled anyway, like she understood the awkwardness behind it. “Still overwhelming?”

“Pretty much all the time.”

“I can imagine,” she said softly. “Forty people in one gathering is about enough for me. I can’t imagine being surrounded by that many people all the time. Always somewhere to go.”

You hummed, feeling yourself loosen slightly at the subject. Talking about the city was easier than talking about yourself. Easier than talking about the five years sitting between the two of you.

“It’s not as bad as people think,” you admitted, glancing down at your drink. “Everyone kind of stays in their own lane. It feels like you actually get your own space there.”

You paused briefly before adding quieter, “Doesn’t feel as suffocating. Or like everyone’s watching you all the time.”

Your name was called from the stand. Relief flickered through you immediately. “That’s mine,” you said, half a step backward as you pointed toward the counter. You grabbed your parents’ smoothie when it was handed over, the cold cup grounding you in something simple again.

Wanda was still there. Feeling awkard to say goodbye, but even more not to say anything at all. You turned back to her, something small and almost unintentional softening your expression. Not quite a smile, not quite nothing either.

“Uh… it was good seeing you,” you said quietly.

Wanda nodded once, gentle. “Yeah. You too.”

You held her gaze for a second longer than you meant to, then shifted your weight away, your parents already drifting toward the next stall.

“Take care,” you added, voice lighter now.

"You too."

You lay in bed, covers pulled up to your chest, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of your room presses in around you. Your eyes drift again and again to the photos still pinned along your vanity mirror. Snapshots of a life that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.

You shift restlessly beneath the blankets, your thoughts swinging between extremes, almost hot and cold the way Wanda and Natasha feel in your chest.

Part of you circles the idea of mending it.

Of letting the distance soften, of allowing something polite and careful to form again. Something that doesn’t demand too much, just enough to acknowledge what you once were without pretending it never existed.

It's similar to Wanda, who's already reaching, in her way. Small steps. Easy conversations. A version of reconnection that doesn’t feel like it would swallow you whole if you tried.

The second part, one that looks at Natasha and feels that familiar finality settle in your bones. The part that questions why you would even try to rebuild something that already burned itself down so completely.

What would it even mean to go back there? What would you be rebuilding, exactly. Friendship, history, or just the echo of something you’ve already outgrown?

It pulls you in two directions at once, neither one fully letting go.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize it isn’t really about choosing between them. It’s about choosing which version of the past you’re willing to carry forward with you.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, watching the clouds shift into something ugly overhead. Thick, swollen, and dark enough to swallow the horizon. They rolled together into one continuous mass as far as you could see, the air turning heavy with the metallic scent of rain before it even started falling.

You tapped your foot against the floor near the counter, impatience building as you waited for the last of the payment to go through for your parents’ horse feed. One more errand. One less thing for them to worry about. That was the idea, anyway.

The cashier finally nodded toward the card reader. “You’re good to swipe or tap.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, relief already loosening your shoulders.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped outside.

You had wished for no rain. And the sky answered anyway.

It hit fast. Cold wind first, then the first scattered drops, and then all at once the world opening up above you. You hurried toward the car, already regretting the jacket you chose, the timing, the entire day.

You had wished to get home safe. And the car responded by slowing like it was thinking about giving up entirely.

A sputter. A shake. Then silence.

“No. No, no, no—come on,” you groaned, gripping the wheel as if that alone could convince it otherwise. You slumped forward, pressing your forehead against it for a second before letting out a long, defeated breath. “Damn it… of course. God fucking damn it.”

Of course it was the old car. Of course it was your parents’ old everything. Old house, old roads, old feed store that took forever to get anything done.

You shoved the door open and stepped out into the rain immediately soaking through your jacket. Cold water ran down your arms as you moved behind the car, placing your hands against the trunk.

“Please,” you muttered under your breath, as if the car might suddenly develop empathy.You pushed.

At first it barely moved, tires digging into wet ground that was already turning fast into mud. You leaned harder into it, boots slipping slightly with each effort. Rain blurred your vision, plastering your hair to your face, soaking through everything faster than you could adjust.

More time passed. And your arms started to burn. Your breath came sharper. The car barely shifted an inch.

“Come on,” you hissed through clenched teeth, pushing again, harder this time.

The ground gave out beneath one step, your foot slid out from under you instantly. You hit the mud first—hard—then felt the sharp sting as your face followed, your lip splitting on impact. A copper taste filled your mouth almost immediately, mixing with rainwater as it ran down your chin.

You froze for a second, breath shaking, rain hammering down around you like it was trying to erase you entirely. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over your lip. No, your nose. Or wherever it is the blood had started to show after slamming into the back of the car.

“God,” you muttered again, voice rough as you pushed yourself upright, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. It didn’t help much. Everything was already soaked anyway. Rain, mud, and now a thin streak of blood that refused to blend in.

You turned back toward the car, still half-focused on trying to salvage the situation, when headlights cut through the storm in the distance.

At first, it was just relief. Sharp and immediate. Someone. Anyone.

You held a hand over your eyes, squinting through the rain as she stepped out of the truck. Her boot sank slightly into the mud, dark water splashing around it, but she didn’t seem to care.

You opened your mouth to explain. Something halfway between it just died and I’ve got it handled... but she cut you off before you could get a word out.

“The hell are you doing?” Natasha’s voice cut through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it landed harder than the rain.

Something in your chest snapped hot immediately.

Not fear. Not embarrassment.

Frustration. Honestly, it might’ve even started the second you saw her truck.

“What does it look like I’m doing, you ass?” you shot back, wiping rain from your face again only for it to be replaced instantly. “The car stopped. It’s not starting again and I’m just trying to go home!”

She made it across the road, crouching slightly to peer into your stalled car as rain battered both of you. You stood there beside it, completely soaked now.

Tears dripping into your eyes, clothes heavy and clinging to your skin, mud tracking up your legs. Everything felt cold, uncomfortable, wrong. The only thing you could think about was a hot shower waiting somewhere on the other side of this mess.

Natasha straightened again, voice carrying over the storm.

“I can’t help you out here,” she called. “I’ll drive you back and tow your parents’ car.”

There wasn’t much room for argument in the way she said it.

The passenger seat of her truck felt like another world entirely. Your soaked clothes squeaked faintly as you sat down. You stared straight ahead for a moment, hands awkward in your lap, trying to settle your breathing. Time only moved forward, you reminded yourself. Second by second, and you're moving forward to this moment ending.

Natasha was already outside again, hooking your car up, rain running off her shoulders as she worked. Then she climbed back into the driver’s seat like the storm didn’t touch her the same way it touched everyone else.

The truck rumbled slightly as she started it. Silence settled in immediately after, just the low hum of the AC. The steady drum of rain against the windshield. The faint creak of metal as the tow line tightened behind you.

You stared out at the blurred world beyond the glass, rain streaking sideways in the headlights as the truck rolled steadily forward.

“Thank yo—” you started, the words catching in your throat before they could fully form.

Natasha hit the brakes. Hard.

The sudden stop snapped you forward against the seatbelt, breath punching out of your lungs as the world jerked into stillness. The tow line behind you creaked under tension. Rain hammered the windshield like it was trying to break through.

“I just can’t fucking believe that you’re back. Why in the world did you come back? You’re so incredibly selfish, you understand this?”

For a second, you just stared at her, rain and adrenaline still ringing in your ears.

“Excuse me?” you say, sharper now.

Natasha lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She looks back out at the road like she already regrets turning toward you in the first place.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “excuse you.”

The wipers drag back and forth, useless against how hard it’s coming down.

You open your mouth again, but she cuts in before you get anything out.

“No, don’t… don’t even start explaining like there’s a good version to any of this,” she says, voice tighter now. “Not ‘I wanted to chase my dreams.’ You only told the two of us when your mom brought it up. Like something you were never even going to tell us until you just left. And I don't even want to know how you told your sweet parents."

“Natasha—!”

“Two friends, people who’ve known you since birth,” she continues, faster. “You don’t think we deserve an official goodbye? Any explanation? Before you get up and leave for five years? And oh yeah, 'I got your little things done, so let me just come back because I missed it?' You expect everything to just be fucking peachy dandy? Two people you’ve known for your whole life, who’ve been nothing but everything to you. You can’t even afford the decency to say goodbye? What a fucking joke you are.”

You throw your hands up, opening the car door. “I can’t do this.”

She’s out almost immediately, slamming her door behind her.

“Run away,” Natasha snaps after you, voice cutting through the storm. “Very you. Don’t confront anything head-on."

You whip around to face her.

“So what is it with you? Do you want to drive me home, or should I drive? Because this is—”

“This is what?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “You tell me. What is it with you? Why did you want to leave everyone here who’s cared about you? Truly?”

Her voice rises slightly now, not quite yelling, but close.

“How’re the fake friends in New York?” she throws in, sharp and quick. “You like the money? The title of being in New York instead of this nothing town?”

A beat.

“It’s all wonderful, right? Until you need to think about something that actually means something to you. That’s why you came back. You’re not truly satisfied there and you know it. Why the hell did you even lea—”

“Because Natasha, I’ve had nothing done nothing! My siblings have done outstanding things, and all I have ever done is mess around. I tossed pencils into a cup with you and Wanda instead of studying. My sister was in honors at my age, while I was covered in mud. My parents expect more. I can’t be the loose end in my family.... I.."

She huffs. “You know how much your parents missed you when you were gone? I made up excuses to come by just to try and cheer them up. They worried they messed up with you. Wondered why you left so far away when you seemed so happy here.”

You wave your hands. “Can we just… don’t…”

“Sure,” she says, tone flat, unimpressed, already done. Climbing back into her car.

The drive is even more silent than before, Natasha reaching to try to light a cigarette on the rest of the drive.

You glance at her. “Terrible habit, but I’m not surprised.”

She huffs, setting the pack back in the cup holder. “Wanda’s been entirely too sweet to you. I’ve been telling her."

She pulls up at your parents’ house, unattaching the car. She waves to your parents, who look worried on the front porch, before her car hums off into the distance, not a wave your way. But your heart feels warmer, soften even... despite the harsh words thrown at each other. You slept that night, feeling a little less like bricks were laying on you.

The argument in the storm had been the dam that broke everything. After that, something in the air between you all shifted. Not healed, but loosened just enough to breathe through. The past hurt feeling like a river cried, and the bridge beginning to form again.

Despite it all, you started smiling a little when you ran into them. In a small town, it was impossible not to. There were only so many places to go, only so many corners of town you could avoid before they stopped feeling avoidable at all.

At the diner, it was a brief wave.

At the little store downtown, it was Wanda holding the door open while Natasha lingered near the counter, pretending not to notice you.

At the gas station, it was a quiet exchange of “hey” that lasted a few seconds longer than it used to.

It wasn’t smooth. But it wasn’t as sharp anymore either.

Each time, you found yourself staying a little longer. Saying a little more. Laughing, sometimes, before you had time to stop yourself. The awkward edges didn’t disappear, but they softened enough that you stopped bracing for impact every time you saw them.

And slowly, without any real announcement, things started to settle into something that resembled a pattern.

Wanda always spoke first. Careful, warm, like she was still trying to build a bridge between where you were and where you used to be.

Natasha stayed quieter, but she didn’t leave. She lingered in the background of conversations more often than not, watching, listening, occasionally throwing in something blunt that cut through the softness without fully breaking it.

It confused you, how something so fractured could still hold together in motion. And eventually, even your parents noticed.

“You’ve been running into them a lot lately again,” your mom said one evening over dinner, her tone light, but threaded with something warmer. “It makes me really happy… I was happy your friendship could rekindle. I had hope.”

“It’s trying…” you said, a little uncertain.

Your mom hummed softly, poking at her food. “It was a hard time when you left. Hit them hard, as it did us. Sweet women, they are. They’d come and help us with some chores. The ones you used to cover. They’d ask how you were doing…”

She glanced up at you then, softer now.

“Well... anyways, I’m just happy you’re all talking again. They’re gold. Don’t let go of them, alright darling? True gold, not false. Rare."

It had begun to bloom.

Not in any sudden, obvious way. Nothing you could point to and name, but in the slow return of ease. In the way your shoulders stopped tensing when you saw them. In the way conversations started lasting longer without feeling like you were walking on glass.

You found yourself revisiting places you hadn’t thought about in years.

The riverbank you used to sit at as a kid looked smaller now, quieter in a different way. The water still moved the same, but everything around it had changed just enough to remind you how much time had passed. You pointed things out absently when they were with you, half-laughing at old memories you weren’t sure you should still remember so clearly.

Your bed felt warm, like home each time you laid your head.

While you felt free, the two women felt caged still.

A weight still sat on their shoulders. Something unspoken, something that hadn’t dissolved just because time had passed and you were back in the same rooms again.

It lingered in the things they didn’t say.

In the way Natasha’s gaze flicked to you when she thought you wouldn’t notice.

In the way Wanda’s anger never quite found a place to land. It rose, once, briefly. Then dissolved the moment she saw you again, as if relief outweighed everything else. As if having you in front of her made it impossible to hold onto anything sharp for long.

It lived in hesitation, too. In the smallest pauses before speaking your name. In fingers that twitched, almost reaching, then curling back into themselves like restraint was a habit they couldn’t break.

In how their hearts betrayed them in quiet ways. Faster when you laughed, heavier when you looked away, uneven in your presence as if something inside them had never learned how to settle properly without you.

It lived in the nasty habit Natasha took upon herself. Smoke easing into her lungs instead of you. Into the nights the two of them spent together, the silence after as they occasionally grieved your presence.

Living to see a photo of you on social media, but too scared to follow.

It felt finate, your friendship. But the love that resonates in their hearts is infinite. And your distance, only strengthened it.

Your PTO is to come to an end. And this time, you inform others of your possible upcoming departure. It was brought up when they asked, settled into your bedroom. With a sunken heart, you come to realize the impending return date. Less than a week away. It felt as if a timer had offcially started. A stop watch starting, cointing down the seconds. Raising a feeling underneath everything. A question, a conflict to be resolved… hoping to be.

A sunken feeling settled in your chest as the return date became real in a way it hadn’t been before. Less than a week. A line drawn too clearly now to ignore.

It felt like something had started counting down. Haunting.

Tomorrow is your flight.

You sit with the two of them, checking into your flight. The room had been lively, until now. The clock louder than ever before.

"Sad I have only a couple hours really left... But we have each other's numbers... We can always text, or call..?"

"Right, yeah..." they had responded, dejected.

You hugged them, smiling—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes—before you got into the Uber. You waved goodbye to everyone: your parents, Wanda, Natasha. The dust kicked up behind the car as it pulled away, carrying you toward the airport, toward the flight.

You bit your nail, watching the world blur past the window, something tight settling into your chest. Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, uneven in a way you couldn’t quite settle. You kept swallowing it down, shifting your focus, pinching at your skin just to stay grounded in something physical.

It felt off. Wrong, even.

You walk toward security, lugging your suitcase behind you. Each step feels heavier than the last, like the airport itself is pulling you forward whether you want it to or not. The noise around you fades in and out. Announcements, rolling bags, footsteps, until it all starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re already halfway gone.

Your mind keeps catching on moments you didn’t realize you were holding onto. Wanda’s laugh in your room. Natasha’s voice cutting through rain. The way silence between you all had started to feel less like absence and more like something full. Something you hadn’t known how to name until it was already slipping out of reach again. Like you don't what you have, how you feel until it's gone.

You swallow hard, forcing your grip tighter on your suitcase handle, like that could keep you steady. Like that could keep anything steady. Each step feels slower. The clock in your head ticking down the last few seconds you didn’t want to hear.

Your body is tense, too aware. Too tightly held.... until your name is shouted behind you.

For a second, you almost don’t believe it.

Then again.

Louder.

You turn, as something in your chest breaks loose before you can think about it. You drop your suitcase immediately and start moving before you even realize you’ve started running.

The space between you disappears too fast. And then you’re there, hugging the two women.

Hugging them tight, like if you let go too soon it would confirm every fear you’ve been trying not to name. They pull you in just as close, like neither of them had any intention of letting you be the one to hold on alone.

The pressure builds in your chest all at once. Too much feeling, too much time compressed into a single moment, and it spills over before you can stop it. Tears blur your vision, warm and sudden, and you don’t bother hiding them.

You don’t want to go home.

Because home isn’t the airport, or the city, or the life waiting for you past security.

Home is right here in your arms.

Wanda's or Natasha's home. You’re unaware and uncaring of whose it is as you're shoved inside with passion.

Your arms are wrapped around Natasha's neck, lips pressed to one another. The kiss is deep and unmoving. Her body pins you to the wall, and she grabs your thigh to wrap it around her waist. She holds you close, tightening her grip as she pulls you in. She tastes like the smoke she’s always inhaling and some unnamed, basic brand of chapstick.

You gasp, tugging at her hair as you melt into the kiss. Your body feels so warm and tingly that you believe you're floating. Wanda shuts and locks the door, coming up behind you to slide her hands down your chest while her lips lock onto your neck, listening to the little sounds you make.

Your shirt is tossed aside by Wanda, bra is shoved down so she can feel along your chest. To feel your nipples harden from her fingers tracing them. Your legs buckle under their touch, and they catch you to lead you toward the bed.

You fall back onto the bed, looking up at the two of them with lidded eyes, dressed only in your bra and bottoms. Wanda removes her shirt and lays over you, mumbling quiet comments about your body.

She whispers how gorgeous you are and how you’re stunning, "like a dream."

She tells you how good you look under her as she climbs on top, slotting her lips against yours. You reach a hand up to tug at her hair, squirming under the weight of her body. Pushed into the mattress by her hips slotting between yours. Hips grinding against one another.

Wanda kisses down your body, her lips latching onto your nipple for a moment.

"Mm—!"

You jolt, a whine escaping you at the contact as your thighs rub together. You're seeking more already, which brings a cocky, knowing look to her expression.

She continues to kiss down your body and across your abdomen. She skips over the area you want, instead kissing up your inner thighs while her thumbs hook into your underwear.

"This alright?"

You nod. "Mm... 's alright..."

She slides them down while keeping eye contact, creating a deeper sense of heat. You reach out to cup her cheek, pulling her up to kiss you for another moment before she heads back down again to hover over where you want her most.

She blows against your clit, watching you as you shiver, your hands clutching at the sheets. It takes no longer than a minute to have you clutching at the headboard, moans slipping from your lips as she slides her tongue between your folds.

She presses her tongue against your clit, rubbing it there and making it feel almost as if it's vibrating. You keen and whine, rolling your hips against her face. You smear your arousal around her face as if it isn't already dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

Your chest rises and falls, your back arching. You give her a view she wishes could be captured in a Renaissance painting.

As you come down from your high and the pressure is released from between your hips, she gives you zero time before sliding a finger into you.

"O-oh—!"

"So tight," she teases. "Squeezing my finger..."

She licks at your inner thigh, biting down and littering the skin with hickeys, bruising it. She slides in a second finger, moving it alongside the one already inside you. You shove your face into the side, moaning into the pillow to muffle the sound.

"God...!" you squeak, mewling. "There...! There, please... oh...!"

She hums, kissing your collarbone. She places sweet kisses there before adding a third finger, one that stretches you delightfully well. Wanda seems gentle, as she is, but her fingers are large and she is something else in bed.

Watching you come down from your high a second time, Wanda slides her fingers out, licking the excess off. She looks back, noting Natasha's presence and the strap settled on her hips.

She moves to you, seeing the breathless, dazed expression on your face. Natasha manhandles you onto your back, raising your hips.

"Mm..! 'tasha...!"

"Keep 'em there," she commands, her hand resting on your hips to indicate exactly where she wants you to hold yourself. She rubs the length between your folds and against your ass, watching it catch your arousal almost like lube before she presses it fully at your entrance. She pushes all the way through, until she hits the hilt.

Noting how you rub your hips back as if you were in heat, grinding against her, she grips your ass and pulls back before pushing in again. She brings you to a keen, your mind completely lost.

Your face is smudged into the sheets, gripping them and making a mess as you take her the best you can. Wanda comes to the other end of the bed, leaning in to kiss you deeply.

You kiss back as best as you can. "I... I love you... I love you..."

Her expression softens, and both of theirs do. Wanda brushes her thumb against your cheek. "And we love you, so much."

"I... mm! Mm.. n-not leaving... e-ever—oh!"

Wanda hums, leaning back. She slides herself forward, her pussy on full view in front of you. You can feel the heat as her legs spread wide, opening herself up for you.

Before you can take anything into your own hands, Natasha’s hand shoves your face down into Wanda's cunt. You moan, rolling your hips back and liking the gesture. Your lips and nose are shoved into Wanda's cunt, while Natasha stretches you out around her length.

Wanda’s head is tilted back. "Ohhh baby, there... mm... dreamt about this."

You use your tongue and lips to worship her, driven by the rhythmic, heavy thrusts of Natasha behind you. The friction of the strap-on and the heat of Wanda’s skin create an overwhelming sensory overload. Your breath is hitching, muffled against Wanda’s thighs, as you work to keep pace with the frantic movement of your own hips.

Natasha leans over you, her chest pressing into your arched back as she whispers darkly into your ear. "If you don't make Wanda come, you get nothing else tonight. Focus on her."

The threat, or promise, sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through you. You double your efforts, your tongue flicking and swirling with desperate precision until Wanda’s hands lock into your hair, her hips jerking upward in a sudden, violent spasm. She cries out your name, her walls clenching around your face as she reaches her peak.

Seeing Wanda shatter is the final straw for your own control. As she collapses back against the pillows, Natasha delivers several hard, deep lunges that hit exactly where you need. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your internal muscles seizing as your own climax crashes over you.

The room falls silent, save for the heavy, synchronized sound of three people catching their breath. Natasha pulls away, sliding out of you and collapsing onto the bed beside you both, pulling your shaking body into the middle of their warm, protective tangle

You spent so long trying to leave this town behind, but looking at them now, you know you’re never going to find a reason to say goodbye again.

note: Omg you made it? you read this whole thing? about 8k? thank you and congrats too. Hope you enjoyed! this took me two days to write... im legit struggling to keep my eyes open. I MEAN IT. i have to get up in 5 hours for work oops.

[foxxyboxy11]

Ways I’ve shifted that aren’t your typical method

~was daydreaming about me and him doing it and shifted right in the middle of us doing it.

~ craving some soup real bad and shifted to my waiting room to eat said soup

~sitting in the shower and starting thinking about him and shifted

~ (my funniest one) I was in Walmart and was upset they were out of my chips there and shifted to a version of that reality were the chips were there

~ first time I shifted to fnaf I simply fell asleep thinking about the animatronics.

~ I wondered what it would be like to be an actual fox and shifted to a forest where I was a fox (it was amazing will be doing it again)

~asked my man to take me to a reality of his choosing, shifted to a version of the medieval AU of MHA.

~ I wanted a high grade on an assignment but didnt study, I got a A.

~imagined I was being held in my man’s arms and ended up shifting to my waiting room

~ I was so physically and emotionally tired that I shifted to my waiting room just to sleep for a few months

~didn’t want to do schoolwork here so I shifted to my first Mha Dr for like a year and came back here when school was over.

~I was really upset I couldn’t ever go to a concert here due to my disabilities and ended up shifting to a reality where I was singer that night.

~im pretty sure I shifted/manifested my therapist. My previous therapist was utter shit and I wanted one who understood me. About a few months later I meet my current therapist who is pagan and knows what shifting is. Truly she is amazing

~I was meditating one night and wondered what it would be like to be a star, like an actual star in the sky, and shifted to be a star. It was so cool

~sequel to the last one, I then wondered what it would be like to stare at all my drs as it’s own universe. I was looking down at all my drs as its own galaxy and could hold it in my hands. It helped me get comfortable with the idea that I am in control

You truly can shift in any way you’d like. Your method to shift is just as limitless as you. <333

[wandaslovey]

thinking about finally moving in with wandanat.

for the first month or so, they’re animals. all over you—their pretty, shiny new toy. most nights you slept naked, lest one of them woke up before you (they always did) and needed a little snack before breakfast.

you warmed tasha’s strap when she worked from home.

wanda lazily fingered you when you’d cuddle n watch movies.

you never showered alone.

they wanted you all. the. time.

after a little while though, there was a shift.

natasha stopped groping your ass when she passed by you in the kitchen. wanda stopped waking you up with her tongue licking through your folds.

you become needy—desperately so.

why the shift?

little did you know, the shift was purposeful.

you see, when your body goes without stimulation—long stretches of time between orgasms and pleasure—you become so much more sensitive when they finally do touch you.

they become addicted to your neediness.

your whines, your pleas and your desperate humping when you just can’t help yourself.

when they do give in, you’re so responsive. back arching, legs shaking, noises that echo off the walls responsive.

eventually they go back to being feral.

but they will never break the cycle of feral->hands-off->feral.

not when you respond so perfectly to it. it’s exactly what they want.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Topping Wanda but like... in a submissive way.

"That's right baby, just like that. No, go slower, work Mommy up."

Her fingers wrap around the dark red leash connected to your collar, lightly tugging until your face is inches from her own.

"Kiss me while you fuck me, hm? You're doing such a good job."

Wanda praises you until your face is flushed, making you keep eye contact with her as she murmurs commands. Telling you to go deeper, to use your fingers on her clit, to rub slower, move your fingers quickly from side to side, telling you to apply more pressure and rub circles, and finally....

"Fast and deep, baby, you're going to make Mommy cum. Fuck... yes, keep going. Don't stop, fuck, baby, I'm so close."

[thesweetiepienovels]

“No one is coming to save you.” I disagree ! I believe many people made up of many small moments come to save pieces of you , even if just briefly. The mentor who believed in you . The friend who said they’re proud of you. The family member that makes you laugh . The random person who held the door for you out of nothing but kindness. The teacher who took extra time to help you understand. The person who smiled at you when you walked into a store. The little kid who looks up to you. The person who randomly complimented you. Being “saved” isn’t about being whisked away and all your hardships gone, it’s about the people and things that remind you life is not all hardships, it is kindness, love, gentleness, softness, care, thoughtfulness. It is many moments made up of your lifetime that keeps you going and showing you the world is still beautiful, and will always be. Despite.

[leosmaxromanoff]

Nah, fr!

If I think about it at any critical moment of my life I always had at least one person on my corner, if it was a friend, teacher or even a stranger.

I remember one time I moved to another state and didn't know the subway didn't work the same as my birth city, so I didn't have extra money and the police didn't help me.

Only a person with disability did and that's something that I always remember fondly.

[wandanatsbee]

The Stones Will Remember

Summary: You have always been good at pretending, masking your quirks, hiding your overwhelm, and keeping your feelings locked away where no one can use them against you. Between a strained relationship with your mother, a father you refuse to claim, and a roommate who makes your skin crawl, you've learned that safety is something you have to build yourself.

Then one rainy night changes everything.

18+ ONLY

🍯 This is going to be a multichapter fic. This is a personal story to me, putting a lot of my own experiences into it, something I have been wanting to write for a while.

Prologue ~ Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~

Backstories

Playlist for the story:

[wandasveil]

“shh… just hold still for me, baby. mommy needs this.” ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

she’d coo in your ear—but you’re far too gone to respond. her rough hand fists in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you whimper. the other pins your wrists down, she keeps you there.

you don’t move. not because you can’t, but because you won’t.

her hips would ram into yours at a hasty speed. your face pressed into the mattress, body arching up against her.

you’d cry as she pumps her faux cock into you, begging for more and more.

“that’s right, baby. just let me use this pretty hole. such a good girl for mommy, hm.”