Wanda watches you like you were made of the stars themselves, the way you finally felt at ease, in the pool, feel the water ripple over every crease of your skin, whilst Nat kept jumping in and out of the pool with sunscreen and a sunhat from 1984.
"Come on just wear it."
"Nat, stop, I'm fine, I-" before you could even swim away Nat had the hat tight around your ears, squeezing your head to the point of popping.
You gazed up to Wanda, who was sat on the side, watching the shenanigans of her wife. Your big eyes pleading whilst you stood in the middle of pool, water up to your chest, with a hat that was far too tight around the middle of your ears, and Nat's fingers rubbing all over you with the sunscreen.
'Please.' You mouthed to the red head, whose legs where stretched out, dipped into the water below.
You loved them both.
You adored how protective they both could be, but since your mental health and plummeted a few months back...well Natasha had gotten a bee in her bonnet, and was over protective now.
More than over protective. It was over baring.
"Nat come on, leave the poor girl alone, she said a relaxing day, not a make me look like a bobble head day."
Nat scrunched up her face, eyebrows knitting together as if Wanda had told her that her pet spider had been killed.
The sun was hot on your back, glimmering in the water as Wanda and Nat seemed to be staring each other down.
Wanda tilted her head slightly, eyes more emerald than usual, from the gleaming sun, her finger tips sparking with red magic. She sighed deeply, placing her bookmark back inside what she was reading, and set it to the side.
She let her self slide gently int the water, like a mermaid, full of magic and intrigue.
"Natasha," Wanda giggled, her fingers pulling at the hat, one, two, three, and she tugged it free from your head "the poor girl was going to have a marshmallow for a brain with how tight this is." her knuckles came to your cheek, caressing your skin, nerves inside your body sparking like fairy dust.
Wanda's eyes glimmered under the midday day sun, following the way you avoided her gaze, your smile reaching your whole face, the need for you against her was clear, as was your need for her.
"Be a good girl, and swim away, I need to have a word with Nat alone." Wanda kissed your wet lips slowly, tongue exploring your mouth, your breath hitched, squeaked was more like it.
You breathed her in, every strand of hair that tickled your cheek, the scent of vanilla lingering, the way her fingers cupped your cheeks and her lips moved against yours.
mommy!nat would take you face down ass up with her favorite strap after a particularly rough mission. making you cum so hard that the sheets of her bed tore from your fingers digging. but she wouldn’t stop there, wouldn’t even give you a break, forcing you to keep up. she needed her stress relief, and you were her good girl. you would let her fuck you dumb, right? sweet nothings were whispered right in your ear, the tip of the strap was buried and trying to coax out another orgasm out of you
“Shh… shh, malysh. i know, i know. but mommy is just so stressed from the mission. i need my good girl to make it all feel better.. uh-huh detka?” words were said through grunts, her hips repeatedly jerking forward, laced by mock sympathy, desperation and her russian accent being thicker than usual. all you could do is just dumbly nod and bury your pretty face into her pillow as she picked up the pace.
Wanda “Baby, this is why you need mommy. You clearly aren’t capable of taking care of yourself.” Maximoff after you made a stupid avoidable mistake.
Natasha “You’re such a dumb baby, aren’t you? Need me to do everything for you, even the thinking.” Romanoff after you made a stupid avoidable mistake.
– synopsis | sometimes love means knowing when to let go. sometimes it means knowing when to hold on. after a painful breakup, you and natasha navigate the space between heartbreak and healing, discovering whether your love is strong enough to survive a second chance.
– warnings | (18+), angst, breakup and reconciliation, mentions of self-harm/scars (non graphic), top!nat, bottom!reader, sexual themes, breeding kink, mommy kink, breast/nipple worship, marking, aftercare, fluff.
– word count | 3k
The low, monotonous drone of the television does little to fill the suffocating silence of your living room. It’s a ghost of a sound, a feeble attempt to distract from the tempest raging within you. You’re sprawled on the couch, a position that should be comfortable but instead feels like a cage. Your eyes trace the flickering lights on the screen, but the images are a meaningless blur, unable to penetrate the thick fog of your thoughts. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, a testament to the anxiety that has taken root in your soul. Your mind, a relentless machine, replays a highlight reel of your relationship with Natasha—the laughter, the whispered secrets, the stolen kisses, all now tainted by the bitter sting of recent memories.
Natasha. Her name alone is a paradox, a source of both immense joy and profound sorrow. She’s on her way, and with each passing minute, the knot in your stomach tightens. You’ve rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in your head, but the words still feel foreign and cruel on your tongue. How do you tell the woman you love that you need to step away? How do you explain that the very thing that once anchored you is now dragging you under? The constant cycle of her shutting down, of her deflecting and denying, has chipped away at your heart until it feels raw and exposed. You’ve given so much of yourself, only to be met with a wall you can no longer scale. The love is still there, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished, but it’s no longer enough to sustain you. This isn’t just about you anymore; it’s about survival.
The shrill cry of the doorbell is a physical blow, jolting you from your reverie. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet room. This is it. You force yourself to take a deep, shuddering breath, then another, and another, a desperate attempt to find your center. Rising from the couch, your legs feel like lead, each step a monumental effort. You pause at the door, your hand hovering over the cold metal of the doorknob, a final moment of hesitation before you shatter both of your worlds.
You swing the door open, and there she is. Natasha. Her beauty is as breathtaking as ever, but it’s the flicker of uncertainty in her emerald eyes that captures your attention. She offers a small, hesitant smile, a fragile thing that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She steps inside, her presence filling the space with a familiar yet painful energy. You watch as she gravitates to her usual spot on the couch, a silent testament to the life you’ve built together, a life that is now on the verge of collapse.
“So… you said you wanted to talk?” Her voice is a soft melody, laced with a thread of apprehension. She knows. Of course, she knows. Natasha has always been able to read you like an open book, and right now, your pain is written on every line of your face.
“Yeah, I did,” you manage to say, your voice surprisingly steady. You choose to sit in the armchair opposite her, the coffee table between you a chasm you’re not sure you can cross. “I needed to talk to you about us. And this isn’t a conversation for the phone.” A dry, humorless laugh escapes your lips, a nervous tic you can’t control. You clench your trembling hands in your lap, willing them to be still.
“I can’t do this anymore, Nat,” the words tumble out, a torrent of pain you can no longer contain. You see the confusion in her eyes, the way her brow furrows and her lips part in a silent question.
“What are you talking about?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. The fear in her eyes is a dagger to your heart. It’s the fear of a woman who has lost so much already, a woman who is terrified of losing you too.
“I’m so tired, Natasha,” you confess, the words raw and honest. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m not enough, like my feelings don’t matter. I’m tired of you shutting me out, of you building walls that I can’t break down. I pour my heart out to you, and you just… disappear. You act like nothing’s wrong, like I’m the one who’s overreacting. I know I’m not perfect, but I don’t deserve to be treated like a ghost in my own relationship.” You hold her gaze, your own eyes burning with unshed tears. You need her to see, to finally understand the depth of your hurt.
Silence descends upon the room, heavy and suffocating. Natasha’s face is a mask of conflicting emotions—shock, hurt, and a dawning, painful understanding. The spy, the assassin, the woman who can face down any enemy without flinching, looks utterly lost. You can see the war raging within her, the instinct to retreat battling with the undeniable truth of your words.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” she finally murmurs, her voice thick with unshed tears. She looks down at her hands, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
“That’s just it, Nat. You never do,” you say, the bitterness in your voice surprising even you. “Did you even know? Did you have any idea how much I was hurting?” You look up, and the sight of a single tear tracing a path down her cheek breaks your heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I never… I never wanted to hurt you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I… I ruined it. I understand why you’re doing this. I do.”
“I’m glad you understand,” you say, your own voice choked with emotion. “I think… I think we both need some time. To heal.” She nods, a sad, resigned smile on her lips. She reaches across the table and takes your hand, her touch a familiar comfort that now feels like a goodbye. “I love you,” she says, her eyes meeting yours. “I will always love you. Whether we’re lovers or friends, that will never change. Okay?”
You manage a small smile, squeezing her hand. “I love you too, Nat. And I’ll never forget us. You’ll always have a piece of my heart. Maybe… maybe someday we’ll find our way back to each other.”
The walk to the door is a somber procession. You step out into the cool night air, turning to face her one last time. “Thank you for everything,” you say, a wry smile on your face. “See you around, Romanoff?”
“Until we meet again,” she replies, her own sad smile mirroring yours. The door clicks shut, the sound echoing the finality of your decision. You turn and walk away, the weight of your shared past and uncertain future a heavy burden on your shoulders.
Until we meet again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Months have passed. Months of healing, of rediscovering yourself outside of the all-consuming orbit of Natasha Romanoff. The time apart was a necessary balm for your wounded soul, a quiet space to lick your wounds and remember who you were before the heartbreak. And yet, not a day went by that you didn’t miss her. The ache was a dull, constant companion, a reminder of the void she’d left behind.
So when she called, her voice a hesitant murmur on the other end of the line, asking to see you, you agreed. And now, you’re standing outside her apartment, the familiar scent of her building wrapping around you like a ghost. Your heart is a frantic bird beating against the cage of your ribs. You take a deep, fortifying breath, the air doing little to calm the storm inside you, and knock.
The door swings open, and she’s there. She looks… softer. The hard edges you’d grown so accustomed to seem to have smoothed over, replaced by a raw vulnerability in her emerald eyes. A genuine, hopeful smile touches her lips.
“Hey,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming. Come in, make yourself at home.”
She closes the door and turns to you, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I know I called last minute, but I… I really needed to see you. To talk to you.” She leads you to the couch, and the sense of deja vu is so strong it’s dizzying. The same couch where your world fell apart is now the stage for its potential reconstruction.
“It’s okay,” you say, offering a small, tentative smile. “You don’t need to explain. I missed you too, so it’s a win-win.” The admission hangs in the air between you, a fragile truth. You look down, a blush of your own creeping up your neck. “What did you want to talk about?” you ask, finally meeting her gaze. You brace yourself, ready to accept whatever comes next. If she wants to end things for good, you’ll let her go. Anything to make her happy.
“I’ve been missing… us,” she starts, her voice trembling slightly. “A lot. I want our relationship back. I promise I’ll be a better girlfriend. This time without you… it made me realize how much of an asshole I was. I want to do better. Give me a second chance, please. I won’t fuck up again.” She’s practically begging, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sight of the unshakable Black Widow so utterly broken and open for you is staggering. You sigh, your resolve crumbling, and take her hand.
“Nat, I won’t lie and say that I didn’t miss this, because I did,” you confess, your voice thick with emotion. “But I was so scared of getting hurt again. You understand, right?” She squeezes your hand, nodding vigorously, her eyes never leaving yours.
“I understand, and you’re right. But please, I’m begging you. Give us one last shot. I promise that if I fuck up again, if it doesn’t work out, I will leave you alone and never contact you again. If that’s what you wish.” You think about it, about a life devoid of her laughter, her touch, her presence. It’s a bleak, colorless picture you can’t bear to imagine. You let her in.
“This is the last chance, alright?” you say, your voice firm, your boundaries clear. “If it happens again, I will walk away and I won’t come back. I won’t bury my feelings and forget my needs just to make you happy. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” she breathes, a radiant, hopeful smile breaking through her tears. “So… does that mean we’re back together?”
You nod, and before you can register what’s happening, her lips are on yours. The kiss is a chaotic, desperate collision. It’s messy and rough, a raw outpouring of months of pent-up longing, pain, and unspoken love. It’s the taste of a second chance, of a homecoming you weren’t sure you’d ever have.
She pulls you onto her lap, her hands roaming your body with a possessive urgency, as if to reassure herself that you’re really here. “I missed you,” she murmurs against your neck, her voice a low growl. “You have no fucking idea.” Her kisses are a brand, a declaration to the world that you are hers.
“I’m going to show you how much I missed you,” she whispers, her voice dripping with a dominant heat that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re mine.”
Her hands move with a newfound reverence, a tenderness that was often absent before. She helps you out of your shirt, her eyes full of an adoration that makes you feel like the most precious thing in the world. “So beautiful,” she whispers, her gaze tracing the lines of your body. Her fingertips ghost over the scars that litter your skin, some faded with time, some newer, angrier. You instinctively move to cover them, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you.
She gently grabs your arms, her touch firm but loving, and moves them aside. “These are new… Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly. You shake your head, not ready to revisit that darkness. “Maybe later,” you plead, your voice thick with need. “Right now, I just need you to touch me. Please.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. She scoops you into her arms and carries you to the bedroom. She lays you down on the bed, her movements deliberate and controlled. She worships your body with her lips and hands, kissing every inch of skin, every scar, whispering praises and affirmations that soothe the wounded parts of your soul. “You’re so beautiful, my love,” she murmurs against your skin. “Every single part of you is perfect. You were sculpted by the gods.”
You tear up, overwhelmed by a love so profound it feels like a physical force. You cup her face, pulling her up to meet your gaze. “I love you, Nat,” you whisper.
“I love you, my angel,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. She traces your lips with her thumb before capturing them in another soul-searing kiss. Her hand wraps around your neck, a gentle but firm pressure that speaks of her control, of her dominance. Her eyes travel down your body and then back to your face, a silent question in their depths. “Can I?”
You nod, your breath catching in your throat.
“Words, honey,” she smirks, the familiar, commanding glint in her eyes making your heart race.
“Yes,” you breathe out, a prayer and a plea. “Yes, just… please.”
She smiles, a slow, predatory smile that promises pleasure and oblivion. “Good girl.”
She moves with a languid grace, her every action a testament to her love and her desire. The world outside fades away, the room shrinking until it’s just the two of you, two broken pieces finally fitting back together. Her touch is both a question and a command, a dance of dominance and submission rooted in a love that has weathered the storm. You surrender to her, to the overwhelming feeling of being cherished, of being wanted, of being home.
She doesn't waste time. Natasha presses her body against yours, the scent of her vanilla shampoo mixing with the faint musk of her skin. Her mouth crashes onto your neck, teeth grazing before sucking hard, marking you with deep, bruising hickeys that bloom purple under your skin.
Each pull sends jolts of pain-laced pleasure through you, your hands clutching her shoulders as you gasp. “Mine.”, she growls against your throat, her voice thick with possession. “No one else gets to touch you like this.”
You whimper, nodding, the emotional weight hitting you — her need to claim you again, to heal the fractures between you. The marks sting, a visible reminder of her love, and you crave more, your vulnerability laid bare as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.
Natasha's hands roam your body, stripping your shirt away with efficient pulls, exposing your skin to the cool air. You watch, breath hitching, as she sheds her clothes, revealing the harness already buckled around her hips, the thick strap-on jutting out, realistic and veined, glistening with lube she's applied. Her eyes lock on yours, fierce and tender all at once.
“You need Mommy to take care of you, don't you?” she says, the word slipping out like a secret key, unlocking the flood of submission in you. You nod, whispering "Yes, Mommy,” your voice breaking with raw need, the emotional reconnection making your heart ache as much as your body throbs.
She straddles you, knees pinning your hips, her weight a comforting cage. The tip of the strap-on presses against your entrance, teasing your slick folds before she thrusts in deep, filling your pussy with one controlled push.
You cry out, the stretch burning sweetly, her toned body rocking against yours as she sets a rhythm — hard, demanding strokes that make your breasts bounce.
“That's it, take it all,” she commands, her hands cupping your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until they're hard peaks. She leans down, mouth latching onto one breast, sucking and biting the soft flesh, worshipping it with hungry laps of her tongue. You tremble under her demanding hands, the sensation shooting straight to your core, clenching around the invading length.
Emotions swirl — love, regret, relief — as she murmurs against your skin, “I worked on myself for you, baby. To be better. To be the best girlfriend for you. To fuck you like you deserve.”
The pace builds, her hips slamming forward, the strap-on pounding your pussy with wet, obscene slaps. You wrap your legs around her, pulling her deeper, lost in the mix of physical overwhelm and the depth of her gaze. “Gonna fill you up, breed this tight little pussy”' she groans, the words fantasy-fueled heat that makes you arch, imagining her seed taking root, binding you forever.
Her free hand marks more skin — fingernails raking your thighs, leaving red trails — while she switches to your other breast, teeth grazing the nipple hard enough to make you sob with pleasure. Sweat slicks your bodies, the room filling with your moans and her grunts, the emotional undercurrent making every thrust feel like reconciliation.
You come first, walls spasming around the toy, crying her name as waves crash through you, tears streaming from the intensity of it all.
Natasha follows soon after, grinding deep with a shuddering groan, her body collapsing onto yours in spent release. She doesn't pull out right away, staying buried inside as she shifts to hold you close, the strap-on a lingering connection. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you into her chest, lips brushing your forehead in soft kisses.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Hours later, you’re brought back to reality by the gentle touch of a warm, damp cloth against your skin. You open your eyes to see Natasha carefully, lovingly cleaning you. You smile, a deep sense of peace settling in your heart. You grab her hand, pulling her down to cuddle, burying your face in the crook of her neck and inhaling her familiar scent.
“I love you,” she whispers, her voice a soft rumble against your ear.
“I love you more, baby,” you mumble, already drifting off to sleep, safe and secure in her arms.
“Not possible, honey,” she chuckles, her arms tightening around you.
Just woke up thinking about Wanda putting the harness on her good girl for a change. Usually she’s the one wearing it, but there’s something about the way she desires you this time. Conducting her own personal experiment.
She’s sitting on the bathroom counter and helping you fasten the straps around your hips. She pulls you closer by the front of the harness until the strap is teasing her entrance. Watching you and that fascinated look as you glance between your bodies. It’s cute, the excitement on your face and shyness tensing your shoulders.
Wanda reaches for your neck and kisses below your ear before directing you, “Go slow baby. I just wanna try something new.” And she pulls you into her by your lower back.
The moment the dildo pushes into her, stretching her perfectly, she takes in a sharp breath and tenses. You can feel it and you stop, so once again, she directs you, “Keep going detka.”
And you do, inching in slowly until your hips meet hers. She’s barely sitting on the edge of the counter while she uses your body for support. This was new to the both of you. But you would do anything Wanda asked if it made her feel good. And secretly Wanda was curious about this particular dildo she would use on you. It had a little more girth with veins running through it for a better sensation.
The both of you seemed to get what neither of you were expecting when you bottomed out and pushed back in. The moan that came from Wanda was the definition of sinful. Deep and long to match the same way you were stroking her.
Your favorite sound in the world and yet it sounded so foreign this time. Wanda typically has control over herself. Sounding breathy and shaky as she climaxes, but this, something about it was even more addicting. So you do it again, dragging out the toy and snapping your hips back into her repeatedly. This time she clings to you along with her moans. It’s desperate and needy as she wraps her legs around you, “Fuck baby. Keep-keep fucking mommy like that.” It’s rare she can’t get out her words. There’s something about the way she sounds and the way her head drops to your shoulder before throwing it back with a long groan. There’s something about the way her tits bounce with each thrust as she leans back. There’s something about the breaths she has to take just so she can finish her sentence. Yet somehow she’s still willing to taunt her precious baby. “Is this how you feel when I fuck you baby? Needy and full, but still wanting more?”
You may be the one fucking into her but she still knows how to slip you into that fuzzy headspace that desires to please her. “Answer me.” She demands when you stay silent with awe. You’d think your brain could muster up a more confident “yes” but it comes out with a pathetic squeak.
“You’re just mamas pretty little cock slut, aren’t you?” You nod your head, it was all you could do as you felt yourself throb and clench around nothing. “I can see why. You feel so fucking good inside me baby. Don’t stop. You’re being such a good girl for mama.”
And that’s how it went until you made Wanda cum. She’d degrade you for how much you liked to be fucked with the same strap inside of her and praise you for being her perfect good girl while doing it.
Summary: After finding you outside her farm in the middle of a thunderstorm, cold and skittish, Natasha takes you in and gives you a place to stay. You begin to form an unexpected bond, but you know all good things are never permanent for you. Natasha can only hope you decide to trust her enough to let her in, and you can only hope you’re able to overcome your fear enough to do so.
Word Count: 5.3k
Warnings: Light hints at sexual exploitation | Bruises | Trauma responses
The storm came over the farm the way it always did out there. Quiet at first, almost deceptive, and then everything hitting all at once. The sky had been dark all evening, clouds pressed heavy like they were waiting for permission to let go.
By the time Natasha reached the far fence, the wind had turned sharp, slicing through the seams of her coat, rain already slanting sideways and soaking her sleeves. She should’ve moved faster.
She knew that. The horses had been restless since dusk. Their ears flicking back and forth, hooves stamping against the dirt, sensing the pressure change long before she’d been willing to admit the storm was coming.
She’d underestimated it. Again.
“Alright,” she murmured, tugging the gate open as another gust of wind snapped at her coat. “In you go.”
The horses shifted, snorting, crowding toward the stable. Natasha guided them in with practiced ease, hands steady even as rain plastered her hair to her temples. Fanny stuck close by her side, circling once before sitting near the fence, her head lifted, eyes trained on the dark stretch of road beyond the pasture.
The American Akita’s fur was already slick with rain, but she didn’t seem to care. Fanny never did. She enjoyed tagging along for whatever chore Natasha had to handle, treating it like an important shared duty rather than work.
Natasha latched the final stall door shut, and that was when Fanny barked.
Not playful. Not excited.
But sharp. Alert. A warning sound that cut clean through the echoes of the storm.
Natasha froze, one hand still resting against the stable door. “Fanny?” she called, raising her voice just enough to carry over the wind.
The dog barked again, stepping forward, muscles taut beneath her thick coat, then stopping short like she was waiting for her signal.
Natasha followed her gaze.
At first, she thought it was nothing. Rain distorted everything out there. Shadows stretched, lightning flashed too fast to trust. But then another bolt split the sky open, white and blinding, and for a split second the land was illuminated clearly.
A woman.
Walking along the road.
No horse. No wagon. No lantern in hand. Just a coat pulled tight around her frame, head bowed against the rain, steps uneven, like she wasn’t fighting the weather, but rather exhaustion.
Natasha’s brow furrowed. No one walked this far out unless they had to. No one sensible, anyway. And certainly not in a storm like this.
She shut the stable door and started toward the road, boots sinking into the mud with each step. “Hey!” she called, lifting her voice without shouting, careful not to startle whoever this was any more than they already might be.
You startled anyway.
Your shoulders jerked up, your whole body flinching like you’d been caught doing something wrong. You turned too quickly, almost tripping over your own feet, eyes wide and searching. When you saw it was just another woman standing there, no horse, no weapon, your breath still seemed to catch regardless.
“I—I’m sorry,” you said immediately, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I didn’t mean to—I can leave, I was just—”
“Hey,” Natasha said, slowing her approach, hands lifting slightly, palms visible and open. “You don’t need to apologize.”
You nodded. Once. Then again. As if apologizing was a reflex, something ingrained too deeply to stop even when it wasn’t necessary.
Rain stuck your hair to your cheeks, the strands clinging to your skin. Your eyes flickered everywhere but Natasha’s face. The road ahead, the fields stretching out on either side, the dark sky overhead, like you were tracking something Natasha seemingly couldn’t see.
“Are you alright?” Natasha asked, keeping her voice low, comforting. “Storm’s not too kind to folks on foot.”
“Yes,” you answered too fast. Then, quieter, like the truth was catching up to you, “I think so. I’m fine. I just—thank you for asking, but I’ll get out of your hair now.”
You took a step past Natasha, then hesitated. Your hands tightened inside the sleeves of your coat, fingers curling like you were bracing yourself.
That was when Natasha noticed the trembling.
It wasn’t obvious. Not the kind people noticed right away. Just a subtle shake under the rain. But once Natasha saw it, she couldn’t unsee it, and something settled uneasily in her chest.
“You’re a long way from town,” she commented, mostly an observation. “And it’s only getting worse.”
“I know,” you replied. “I didn’t mean to come this far. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
There it was again.
Natasha couldn’t help but make a mental note of it. The constant apologies like you seemed to expect immediate irritation in response.
Fanny padded closer, nose lifting as she sniffed curiously, tail giving a tiny wag. You flinched at the movement, shoulders tensing, then relaxing just a fraction when the dog sat instead of advancing toward you.
“She won’t hurt you,” Natasha reassured softly. “That’s Fanny. She’s technically my sister’s, but I take care of her while she’s out of town.”
You swallowed, observing the dog. “She’s…cute.”
The word surprised a soft laugh out of Natasha before she could stop it. “Yeah,” she said fondly. “She knows. Careful not to inflate her ego any more than it already is.”
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough that the ground vibrated beneath your feet. You winced, shoulders drawing inward instinctively, visibly trying to make yourself smaller.
That decided it for Natasha.
“Why don’t you come inside,” she offered. “Please.”
You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden suggestion. “I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Natasha said, calm but firm in a way that didn’t leave much room for argument. “Just until the storm passes. You can warm up. Dry off. Rest your feet.”
“I really shouldn’t,” you murmured, shaking your head even as you stayed rooted in place. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
Natasha stepped a little closer, not too much, but just enough that her voice didn’t have to fight against the wind anymore. “You’re not,” she gently assured. “And I won’t leave someone out here in weather like this.”
You finally looked at her properly.
Really looked.
Your eyes were cautious, searching, weighing the offer and the intentions behind it. Natasha simply held your gaze, letting the answer be entirely yours to decide.
“…Okay,” you finally nodded. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
Natasha turned back toward the house, adjusting her pace so you could walk beside her without feeling rushed. She noticed how carefully you kept your distance, like you were afraid of taking up too much space.
“I’m Natasha,” she said after a moment.
“Y/n,” you replied. “Thank you. Truly. I—I promise I won’t stay long.”
Natasha glanced at you, taking in the curve of your mouth, the way rain traced the line of your jaw. There was something soft there beneath the fear, something quiet and guarded.
“Take all the time you need,”
Inside, the warmth of the fire wrapped around you immediately. Wood creaked softly as it settled, walls holding the storm at bay. The rain still hammered the roof, but here it was muted, distant.
You paused just inside the doorway.
Water pooled at your boots, darkening the worn floorboards. You stood there as if you’d crossed some invisible threshold you weren’t sure you were allowed to step over, hands fidgeting at your sides, fingers brushing the seams of your coat, then retreating again like you didn’t quite know where to put them.
Natasha noticed immediately.
“Go ahead,” she ushered gently, toeing off her own boots near the door. “You can come in.”
“I am in,” you said, head tilting slightly like it should’ve been obvious. Then your face flushed, heat creeping up your neck as if you’d misspoken. “I—sorry.”
Natasha ducked her head to hide a small smile, not wanting to draw attention to it. She set the lantern down on the table and glanced at the damp trail you’d left behind as you took a few tentative steps farther into the room, eyes scanning the space like you were memorizing exits.
“You’re soaked through. Let me grab you something dry.”
“Oh—no, that’s really not necessary,” you said all at once, words mushing together. “I don’t want to—I can just—”
You hesitated, eyes flicking toward the door like you might bolt if given even half a reason. The storm rattled the windows behind you, thunder rumbling again, and after a long moment you nodded.
“Okay,” you conceded. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”
Natasha didn’t comment on the apology. She simply disappeared down the hall before it could settle too deeply between you.
She returned a moment later with a folded pair of clothes. Fresh but clearly well worn, fabric softened with use. She held them out without comment, not pushing them into your hands, just offering.
“You can change by the fire,” Natasha said. “Or I can step out.”
“No—I mean—the fire’s fine,” you decided quickly, then added, quieter, “If that’s alright with you.”
“It is.”
Natasha turned her back anyway.
She busied herself at the stove, filling the kettle with water, setting it to heat. The familiar motions grounded her. Hands steady, movements practiced. Behind her, she heard fabric shift, the soft sound of wet cloth being peeled away, the faint hitch of your breath as you tugged free of damp layers.
“You don’t have to rush,” Natasha told you quietly. “Take your time.”
She turned as she reached for the mugs, and caught more than she meant to.
Just a glimpse.
Firelight traced your bare skin before the cloth replaced it, the moment fleeting but unmistakable. Enough to see what the rain and darkness had hidden.
Bruises.
Faded yellows and greens along your ribs, older ones healing unevenly. Darker marks near your shoulder, newer, blooming deep and angry like they hadn’t yet been given time to recover. The pattern clearly wasn’t accidental.
Natasha looked away instantly, throat tightening as if she’d swallowed something sharp. She focused on the kettle, on the steam curling upward, on the way her fingers had gone rigid around the handle.
Someone had hurt you.
The realization settled heavy and cold in her chest, followed quickly by something else. Anger, sudden and protective, coiling low in her stomach.
She wouldn’t ask. Not now. Not when you stood just a few steps behind her, unaware you’d been seen, and finally trusting her just enough to let your guard waiver in the warmth.
When Natasha turned back, you stood awkwardly near the chair, clothes folded neatly in your arms like you weren’t sure what to do with them. Your hair still dripped slightly, as the heat of the fire coaxed the damp away.
Natasha poured the tea, hands steady despite the storm that had shifted inside her. She crossed the room and held the mug out. “Here, I’ll trade you.” she said, voice gentle and unchanged.
You stared at the mug for a brief moment, as if inspecting it, as if making sure it was truly meant for you. Then you handed the damp bundle of clothes over and accepted the tea with a quiet, “Thank you.”
“I’ll—I’ll give these back as soon as they’re dry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha brushed off as she draped the wet clothes carefully over the backs of the kitchen chairs so they could air dry. “They’re just clothes.”
She took her own mug and moved to the couch, sinking into it with a soft exhale. The fire cast warm light across the room, shadows dancing lazily along the walls. When she glanced back up, she realized you hadn’t followed.
You stood exactly where Natasha had left you, tea held in both hands, shoulders tense, eyes flicking uncertainly between the chair and the door like you were weighing whether staying was a mistake.
Natasha tilted her head slightly. “You can sit,” she said. “Anywhere you like.”
You just blinked, surprised by the permission. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,”
You hovered another second before perching on the edge of the chair across from the couch, posture careful, like you were ready to spring up if asked.
The both of you sat in silence for a moment. The fire crackled softly. Rain tapped steady and rhythmic against the windows. The world felt smaller here, contained.
After a beat, Natasha spoke. “What had you out there tonight? Not many people come out this way, even on a sunny day.”
Your grip tightened around the mug. Your gaze dropped to the tea, watching the steam rise and disappear.
“I—” you hesitated, breath catching, the word stalling before it could become anything solid.
Natasha saw it immediately. The tension snapping tight, the way your body began closing in on itself.
“I’m sorry,” Natasha apologized. “You don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No,” you said quickly, lifting your head. “It’s—it’s okay. Really.”
You swallowed, shoulders curling inward just a little. “I just needed to get away for a bit. Things got…overwhelming.”
Natasha only nodded, choosing not to press. “That happens.”
You glanced up at her then, tentative, as if testing the space between you. When Natasha didn’t push, didn’t pry, something in you seemed to loosen, just a fraction.
You took another sip of tea, then yawned. The sound was small, involuntary. You flushed immediately, lifting a hand like you could apologize it away.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” Natasha chuckled softly. She leaned forward, setting her mug on the table. “You look exhausted.”
You shrugged, but the motion lacked conviction. Your eyes were heavy now, blinking slower, the adrenaline finally draining away.
“You can stay the night,” she said, already standing. “Storm’s nowhere near done yet, and you’re in no shape to walk anywhere.”
“Oh—I couldn’t take your bed—”
“I wasn’t offering it,” Natasha replied, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Couch is more than comfortable. There are extra blankets in the chest.”
She crossed the room and pulled them out. Thick quilts, softened with years of use, smelling faintly of soap and woodsmoke. She set them within easy reach, careful not to crowd you.
“I’ll be down the hall,” Natasha added. “If you need anything. Water. Food. Or if you just can’t sleep.”
You looked at the blankets, then up at Natasha. Something quiet and grateful flickered across your face.
“Thank you,”
Natasha nodded once, letting that be enough. She dimmed the lantern, leaving only the firelight, and gave you the space you clearly needed for the night.
~ ~
The morning came gently.
You woke to warmth first.
The weight of blankets pressed reassuringly over your body, heavy in a way that felt comforting rather than confining. The fire in the hearth had burned low overnight, embers glowing dull red beneath a thin layer of ash, giving off just enough heat to keep the chill away.
For a few quiet seconds, you lay there disoriented, staring at the ceiling, unsure where you were or why you didn’t even feel the need to run despite the uncertainty.
Then the smell reached you.
Rich. Savory. Salty.
The house creaked softly as it settled, old wood stretching and relaxing with the coziness of the morning.
From the kitchen came the low, steady clink of a pan, metal meeting metal, followed by the unmistakable sound of sizzling. The rhythm of it was unhurried yet purposeful.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, as if moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile calm had found you. The blankets slid down to your waist, and sunlight filtered through the window, pale and clean after the storm, dust motes drifting lazily through it as it painted the room in warm gold.
For a moment, you simply sat there.
Taking it in.
Natasha stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, hair pulled back and out of her face. She moved easily, like this was a morning she’d lived a hundred times and expected to live a hundred more.
Natasha glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of you.
“Morning,” she greeted, voice warm as she gave a small smile. “Hope you’re hungry. I’ve got bacon and eggs.”
Something in your chest jumped sharply at the casual kindness of it.
But then as it sank in, your feet hit the floor almost immediately.
“Oh—I can help,” you said quickly, already crossing the room before Natasha could turn back to the pan. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late, I can—just tell me what to do.”
Natasha turned fully then, taking in the way you hovered, already braced for instruction or correction. She noticed the way your hands twisted together, fingers worrying at each other like they needed something to hold onto.
“You don’t need to do anything,” Natasha said gently. “I’ve got it. It’s okay.”
“But I should—” you started, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t want to just—sit around—”
Natasha softened her voice even further, lowering it so it didn’t feel like a command. “Just sit. Eat. That’s all I need from you.”
She held your gaze when she said it, steady and unflinching, offering certainty without pressure.
You hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to the table, then back to Natasha, like you were waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, your shoulders eased just a fraction.
“…Okay,” you agreed.
You moved to the table and sat, posture careful, knees drawn in slightly beneath the chair. Natasha watched you for a moment longer than necessary, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in her chest.
A pull. A need to make sure the chair was comfortable, the food was filling, the silence wasn’t too uneasy.
She turned back to the stove before you could catch her staring.
The bacon crackled softly as she plated it, the eggs steaming and cooked to perfection. She paused, then added a little extra to your plate before setting it down in front of you.
“Here,” she said. “Eat.”
You stared at the plate like it might vanish if you didn’t focus hard enough. “Thank you,” you murmured, then picked up the fork with careful deliberation.
Natasha took her own seat across from you, resting her elbows lightly on the table. She didn’t eat right away. She watched instead. Subtle, unobtrusive.
Observing the way you took your first bite, the way your eyes fluttered closed for half a second before you caught yourself and straightened.
“How’d you sleep?” Natasha asked.
You paused, fork hovering midair. “Um…good,” you said after a moment. Then quieter, like the truth was still surprising you, “Better than I expected.”
Natasha smiled faintly at that, something easing in her chest. “Good.”
You ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, punctuated only by the scrape of cutlery and the low pop of the dying fire. Outside, the farm gleamed clean and fresh, puddles reflecting the pale sky.
“I’ve got a few things to do today,” she said casually, more to fill the space than anything else. “Fence needs checking after the storm. Horses will be restless. Fanny too. She hates it when routine gets disrupted.”
You nodded along, but Natasha noticed the way your movements slowed, the way your gaze dropped to your plate. Something closed off again, subtle but unmistakable.
Natasha leaned back slightly. “You don’t have to go anywhere,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Not today. Not tomorrow. You can stay as long as you need.”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “I couldn’t—”
“You can,” Natasha protested gently. “And you don’t owe me anything for it.”
The words seemed to settle slowly, but before you could respond, a knock came sharp and sudden, a solid rap against the door that cut clean through the quiet of the kitchen.
Natasha looked up first, rising from her chair. It was early for visitors, especially this far out. She wiped her hands once on a towel and crossed the room, steps unhurried even as her attention sharpened.
Natasha reached the door and pulled it open.
Cool morning air spilled inside along with the scent of damp earth. An older man stood on the porch, hat in his hands, coat still darkened with rain from the night before. His eyes were sharp, scanning past Natasha almost immediately, lingering just a beat too long on the interior of the house.
“Good morning,” he said. Polite. Measured. “Sorry to bother you so early.”
“Oh, that’s alright. What can I do for you, sir?” Natasha replied evenly.
The man shifted his weight, as if he was trying to choose his words carefully. “I was wondering if you might’ve seen a young woman passing through here. Would’ve been walking. Came through sometime last night.”
It wasn’t the words that caught your attention.
It was the voice.
Behind Natasha, a chair scraped softly.
You went rigid.
The color drained from your face so fast it was almost startling. Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles blanching as if you needed something solid to keep yourself anchored. You didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
You just shook your head.
Once. Twice.
Barely noticeable, but unmistakable.
Natasha saw it out of the corner of her eye.
Saw the fear, raw and unfiltered, flash across your face like you’d been struck. Saw the way your shoulders curled inward, like you were bracing for impact.
That was all the answer Natasha needed.
“No,” she said calmly, maintaining her composure. “Haven’t seen anyone.”
The man studied her. His gaze stayed on her face for a long moment, searching, like he didn’t want to believe her. Natasha met his stare without blinking.
Finally, he nodded once. “Alright. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Safe travels,” Natasha said, forcing a kind smile.
He hesitated another second on the threshold, eyes flicking past her shoulder one last time, then stepped back. His boots thudded softly against the porch as he turned and walked away, disappearing down the path.
Natasha closed the door slowly.
Only when the latch slid into place did she turn around.
You were still seated, hands clenched in your lap now, chest rising and falling too quickly. Your eyes were fixed on the door like you expected it to open again at any second.
The breath shuddered out of you, thin and uneven, like it had been trapped in your lungs the entire time.
Natasha didn’t rush toward you.
She moved back to the table and sat down slowly, deliberately, like she was trying not to spook a skittish animal. The chair dragged softly against the floorboards, and she rested her forearms on the table, leaving space between you. Close enough to be present, but not too close to feel intimidating.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Your breathing began to even out, though your fingers were still curled tight in your lap, nails digging into fabric. Your gaze stayed fixed on the door, like part of you was standing on the other side of it.
Natasha waited until the tension eased just a fraction.
Then she spoke.
“Do you mind telling me who that man was?” her voice was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath it.
Not suspicion. Not accusation. But real concern.
You winced anyway.
Your shoulders drew in, chin tucking slightly, eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain suddenly required your full attention. You swallowed once. Then again.
“I—” your voice faltered. You cleared your throat. “That’s Dreykov. He…he owns a place in town.”
Natasha didn’t interrupt. She didn’t fill the silence. She simply nodded once, encouraging you to keep going without demanding it.
“It’s called The Red Room,” you continued quietly.
Something shifted behind Natasha’s eyes.
She knew the name.
Anyone within a day’s ride knew The Red Room.
Officially, it was a saloon. Whiskey, cards, music drifting out into the street. It looked ordinary enough if you weren’t looking too hard. Unofficially, it was something else entirely. The kind of place people went to get lucky with the pretty bartenders, and to forget their spouses for a night.
Natasha had passed it before on supply runs she didn’t like to linger on.
She kept her expression neutral.
“I see.” she said evenly.
Your fingers tightened again. “I…work there.”
The word came out wrong. Too flat. Like something you’d practiced saying just in case someone would ask.
Natasha’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “Work how?”
You hesitated, breath stalling in your chest. When you spoke again, it was soft and careful. “I pour drinks,” you explained. “I talk to people. I…I do what I’m told.”
You didn’t look up.
Natasha didn’t push for more. She didn’t need to. The picture painted itself in between the pauses, the bruises, the fear that had hollowed you out at the sound of one man’s voice.
“And you owe him.” Natasha said. It wasn’t a question.
You nodded.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
“For room and board,” you added quickly, like you needed to justify it. “For food. For taking me in when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Your shoulders rose defensively, preparing for judgment.
It never came.
Natasha leaned back slightly, inhaling through her nose, grounding herself before she spoke again. Anger simmered low and steady in her chest at the situation you were put in.
“And he came looking for you.” she continued calmly.
You nodded again, tears gathering but not falling. “He doesn’t like it when people leave without permission.”
Natasha held your gaze now, steady and unflinching. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know. He doesn’t own you.”
Your breath hitched at that. Your eyes finally lifted, searching Natasha’s face like you were waiting for the sentence to finish. To twist, to take itself back.
It didn’t.
Natasha continued, quieter but no less firm. “And if he comes back here, that becomes my problem too.”
Your eyes widened. “I don’t want to put you in any danger—”
“You didn’t.” Natasha reassured immediately. “But I just need to know what I’m dealing with.” She paused, then added, “And I need you to know that you don’t owe him anything.”
You pressed your lips together, a single tear finally slipping free and tracking down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, embarrassed, but Natasha pretended not to notice.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Natasha nodded once and a silence fell between you. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just space. The kind you give a wound so it can breathe instead of being pressed and prodded. The fire crackled softly behind you, and outside, the morning carried on as if nothing in the world had shifted at all.
Natasha broke the quiet first, her voice natural in a way that made you feel more relaxed. “I’ll be heading out for a bit. Firewood needs hauling, and that fence won’t fix itself.”
You nodded, your eyes still fixed on the table. It was easier than looking at Natasha after that. “I can help—”
“You can rest,” Natasha cut in gently. “And that’s not a request.”
You huffed a small, embarrassed laugh, the sound thin but genuine, and finally glanced up. “Okay.”
Natasha stood, gathering the plates from breakfast, and began to clear the table. She moved with a quiet awareness of you the entire time. Not watching you outright, but keeping track of you in the way one does with something fragile without wanting it to feel suffocated.
You remained seated for a while, then eventually curled up on the couch, blankets pulled around your shoulders like you were still unsure you’d earned the comfort.
Fanny trotted over not long after, nails clicking softly against the floorboards. She paused, glanced once at Natasha for permission, then hopped up with a low huff and circled before settling beside you. You startled at first, then relaxed when the dog pressed her warm weight against your side.
“Oh,” you murmured, surprised. Your hand hovered uncertainly above Fanny’s head before resting there, tentative at first, then firmer as the dog leaned into the touch.
Natasha watched from the doorway.
Something in her chest eased at the sight. Your shoulders lowering, your breathing slowing as Fanny anchored you to the present in a way words couldn’t.
Still, beneath that easing sat a tight, restless knot. The man’s voice. The way you had gone still. The knowledge that danger didn’t disappear just because a door had been closed.
When Natasha finally stepped outside, the air smelled clean, scrubbed raw by the storm. She split wood with measured force, the steady rhythm grounding, but her thoughts refused to settle. She kept seeing your bruises in firelight, hearing the apology woven into every sentence you spoke.
Inside, you listened to the sounds of work drifting through the walls. The thud of an axe. The creak of wood. The world continuing to spin despite you.
Guilt gnawed at you.
Natasha had offered safety without hesitation, comfort without expectation. And already, you had brought danger to her door. You could still hear the man’s voice, polite, probing, and imagine him returning, less patient next time. The thought of Natasha having to handle that because of you made your stomach twist.
This wasn’t permanent. You knew that. It couldn’t be.
Natasha had her farm, her animals, her quiet life carved out with care. You didn’t belong in it. Not when you carried so much baggage with you.
You moved slowly, quietly, and changed back into your own clothes. The familiar fabric was rougher, colder, after the borrowed warmth of Natasha’s. You folded the clothes Natasha had given you with careful precision, smoothing out every crease, aligning edges until they sat just right.
At the kitchen table, you set them down neatly. Then you hesitated, fingers hovering, before finding a scrap of paper. The note you left was simple. Too simple, maybe.
Thank you.
You paused at the door, taking one last look at the space you’d finally been allowed to feel the safest you’d felt in forever.
Fanny noticed you first. The dog lifted her head, ears perking, tail giving a hopeful thump against the floor, then stopping when you reached for the door. A low whine slipped from her throat, confused and unhappy.
“I know,” you whispered, crouching just long enough to brush your fingers through the thick fur along Fanny’s back. “I’m sorry.”
Fanny followed you to the threshold, whining again as you stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind you. The sound lingered even after you started down the path, a thin, aching thread tugging at your chest.
You didn’t look back.
You couldn’t.
By the time Natasha returned inside to fetch a coil of rope a couple hours later, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The couch was empty. The blankets folded back neatly. Fanny lifted her head, ears pricking, tail thumping once against the floor before stalling.
Natasha’s gaze drifted to the kitchen table where the clothes she’d lent you were folded and stacked ever so carefully. Beside them lay a small scrap of paper, the edges torn unevenly.
Natasha picked it up.
Thank you.
Her chest tightened. Not with anger or blame. But something heavier. Worry. Something she hadn’t expected to feel for you, who had trusted her, however briefly it was.
She sank into a chair, hands brushing over the note, reading and rereading the words. The brevity didn’t lessen the weight. Fanny padded closer, nudging Natasha’s knee with her damp nose. Natasha’s fingers absently scratched behind the dog’s ears, and for a moment, the quiet pressed against her chest.
The emptiness of the house, the idea that you had returned to a place that would demand more from you than Natasha could protect you from. She allowed herself to hope that you might come back. That you might need her again. That you might, somehow, be willing to let her in.
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A rough hand tangles with your hair, your knees shifting slightly on the carpet. The tip of Natasha's strap gently hits the back of your throat, and you tighten your hands around her thighs.
"Looks like someone is enjoying themselves."
You smirk, Natasha's hand tightening further as you feel Wanda's presence behind you. You bob your head enthusiastically, taking her strap deeper. Her hips thrust slightly, and you see Wanda's nude body in your peripheral vision.
Well, not completely nude. She, too, was wearing a strap. You watch her hands run over Natasha's stomach, her red nails sharp as they leave fine lines in their wake. Natasha groans, her abs flexing slightly as she turns her head.
Wanda moves her hand up, grabbing the shorter woman's jaw tightly before firmly pressing her lips against hers. You swear you hear Natasha whimper, but you know she'll murder you slowly if you bring it up.
"What do you say we use our little toy properly, hm?" Wanda murmurs.
"You always have the best ideas," Natasha says, smirking down at you when you gag slightly from a particularly hard thrust of her hips.
Wanda crouches down, her green eyes piercing as she looks at you. Her hand gently strokes the side of your cheek, dragging her fingernail across your jaw as you feel arousal curl in your belly.
"I bet you're all worked up, aren't you?"
All you can do is nod; the movement is awkward, but you try your best. Wanda just tilts her head in response.
"Nat," she says, her voice suddenly firm. "Go kneel next to the headboard. I want to stuff our toy."
The strap disappears from your mouth, but you don't close it. You're too excited, your mind racing at Wanda's words. One of her fingers wipes a smear of saliva from your bottom lip, and she grabs your chin before turning your face toward her.
"Turn that pretty little brain off for tonight, won't you?" Wanda says, her voice as sweet as honey. Her words wrap around your brain, your head nodding before you can fully process. She smells like vanilla, the scent trapping you in a haze as she smiles at you. "Good job, toy. Let Mommy and Daddy take care of you."
She urges you up, her lithe frame towering a foot over you as you both stand. That was the first thing about her that you had noticed, all those years ago. Her height and the way she could command an entire room just by stepping into it.
You let her position you on the bed on your hands and knees. You receive a warm pat on your ass once she's done, and you blush at the nonverbal praise.
"Nat," Wanda warns, seeing the woman's hands move towards your head. "Hands on the headboard. Now."
Hesitating only for a split second, Natasha slowly brings her arms to her sides before lifting them and grabbing the headboard behind her. You think she looks incredibly hot as you let your eyes trail over her muscular form before they lock on the strap mere inches from your face.
"How would you like it, hmm?" Wanda asks, the tip of her strap teasing your clit. The pressure is delicious, and you can feel your heart beating rapidly in anticipation.
"God, our toy is soaked, Nat." You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. "Sucking her off really got you going, huh?"
Before you can respond, she buries her strap inside you. It's rough and utterly perfect. A gasp forces its way up your throat, and you jolt forward. Natasha's strap slides against your cheek, but she doesn't move, her eyes locked on Wanda's.
"Go ahead," Wanda says, her hands moving to your hips. Her fingernails dig in, and she forces your hips back onto her strap, setting a punishing pace. "Fuck her throat, dear,"
Natasha obeys, your body bouncing forward with each rough thrust from Wanda. She moves her strap until it prods at your lips, and you dutifully take her in.
Slamming into you, Wanda's hips meet your ass as she drives the strap deeper. When she pulls out, your body moves forward, forcing Natasha's strap deeper into your mouth. It's perfect, the rhythm lulling you into that lovely vanilla-scented headspace.
"Mommy always takes care of you, doesn't she?" Wanda murmurs.
Natasha groans. "Yes, Mommy."
Both women thrust roughly at that, sending your arousal skyrocketing. The only thing you can do is moan, sandwiched between them in an endless cycle of pleasure. It's almost torture, but you feel fucking amazing.
You would respond to Wanda, but the best you can manage is a weak set of whimpers. You can barely focus, pleasure clouding your thoughts as you're fucked from both ends.
"Does our little toy want to cum?" Wanda's voice is strong, if a bit breathless. You have no idea how she manages to fuck you so rough without getting winded.
"Mmppphh," you manage, controlling your breathing as Natasha's hips stutter and cause the strap to slide down your throat. She throws her head back, her abs clenching fiercely as she holds her own orgasm back.
"Make Daddy cum, little toy," Wanda practically purrs. "Make her cum in the next minute, otherwise you won't get to cum."
Your eyes widen at that. Natasha smirks down at you, but you're already looking up at her with those big, teary eyes that she loves. You let a pathetic, pleading look spread across your features, and you exaggerate your moans.
Natasha loves it when you appear helpless and weak, so you bob your head more than necessary, letting breathy whimpers and low whines out as you watch her breathing grow heavier. Her chest heaves, her fingers tighten on the headboard, and she finally looks up at Wanda with a desperate expression.
"Please," she whispers.
Wanda must have nodded or something, because before you know it, Natasha's hips are shallowly thrusting the strap down your throat. Burying it deep inside you, she grinds her hips into your face, her breath coming out in sharp gasps as she cums.
You watch, your own arousal leaking harder around the strap Wanda was still fucking you with. Her strokes increase in pace, her hips slamming against you as she fucks you deeper.
"Good job, little toy," she purrs, one of her hands reaching down to rub fast circles over your hypersensitive clit. "Cum for Mommy."
The words have an instant effect on your body, your orgasm racing through you as the words leave her lips. You want to collapse on the bed, but the dildo is still lodged firmly in your throat, and Wanda's hand holding your hip doesn't allow for much movement. You're forced to take it, waves of pleasure coursing through you as Wanda fucks you through the orgasm, her hips finally stilling as she cums too.
"Do you want more?" Wanda asks, cutting through the pleasurable haze in your mind. She flips you over, Natasha's strap sliding out and hitting your cheek as you lie on your back. You can see Wanda's imposing figure between your legs, her dark red strap glistening.
"Yes, Mommy," you whisper, your voice slightly hoarse.
Wanda smirks, glancing up at Natasha. The tip of her strap prods your lips, and you dutifully open, moaning softly as she begins to fuck your mouth. Wanda slides her strap back inside you, and you relax as the two women start to thrust again.
"So perfect for us," Natasha murmurs. "Our perfect little toy."
"We should keep you stuffed all the time," Wanda says. "Filled up with Mommy and Daddy until you can barely think for yourself. Would you like that?"
You just nod as best you can. Fuck, you'd love that. You want to be their little toy forever.
