⟡

“In here bunny!”

You smiled, chasing her voice and finding her sitting in the living room. The sky had turned stormy, making the room darker than it should be for seven in the evening.

A few candles were lit, the tv still off. She clicked off her phone and threw it on the couch before grabbing onto you and pulling you in to stand between her spread legs.

“Hi baby.” She smiled, leaning up to kiss you. You met her halfway, kissing her sweetly. “Have fun?”

“Mhm.” You hummed into her lips.

“Were you good?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes mama.”

She leaned back, so you stood back up. “I’ll have to check.”

You whined, stomping your foot slightly. “Please Wans. I’m hungry and I—“

“Shhhh.” Her hands wound up on your hips, right where your purple tanktop had ridden up from your jean skirt.

“Relationships are built on trust, Wans.”

“Relationships are built on devotion.” Her eyes were so dark you couldn’t tell where her iris’s ended and her pupils started. “Look at this house. Look at the clothes on your body. Look at the money constantly flowing in to your bank account every time you want to spend some.”

Her voice was soft, but the grip on your hips had turned violent. You winced, but did your best to stay still. “I am completely and utterly devoted to you and making your life better. So why can’t you do this for me?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

Wanda’s grip softened, her head tilting to the side. “Bunny, will you strip down to your panties now?”

“Yes mama.” You whispered.

Your hands were shaking as they came up to your skirt button, undoing it easily. Wanda leaned back, her arms coming up to rest on the back of the couch. You wished the overhead lights were on so you could see every flicker of expression in her face. The only emotion you could read right now was displeasure.

Your top came off easily, leaving you standing in front of her in just your matching bra and panties. The pair Wanda had picked out for you this morning. A white pair, laced with pink and adorned with a small pink rose right at the top. The top was a balconnette, the bottoms full coverage. The panties had been uncomfortable all day, digging into your skin. But it just served as a reminder.

“Alright.” Wanda leaned back in, her gaze purely predatory in a way that made your head spin. “Now let’s check-in.”

You let out a shiver despite the warm temperature of the room. Her hand splayed over your stomach, her eyes upturned to you. “So soft baby.” She commented, her cold rings making goosebumps erupt.

Her hand traveled down, the other joining it on your hip. “These panties don’t seem messed with. You didn’t go to the bathroom did you sweetie?”

“No mama.”

“Did you drink all your water then?”

You bit your lip and let out a small whine. She just shook her head. “What happens when you don’t do what mama tells you to do?”

“I get—I get punished.”

“That’s right. Such a smart girl.” Her hands traveled up again, wrapping around your front stubly. “How much water did mama tell you to drink?”

“My whole bottle.”

“And how much did you drink?”

“Half.”

She hummed, her hands massaging the skin of your waist. Her thumbs began pressing into your lower stomach. She hummed again, before moving her hands down.

“Alright honey, you passed the first part.” She whispered, though there was a smile on her lips. “Are you ready for round two?”

“Y-yes mama.”

She spread her legs, pulling you to step towards her. She was below you, looking up at you. Yet it didn’t matter. You were completely submissive to her.

Slowly, her hands trecked up your torso, up to the bottom of your bra. Her fingertips slipped underneath, pulling the fabric up enough to reveal your nipples. Without thinking about it, your hands came up to hold the fabric still.

“Such a good girl for me. Hold it up for mama.” She commented, letting go of the fabric to run her thumbs over your nipples.

They hardened quickly under her touch. Only taking one swipe of her thumb to make it happen. “Doesn’t look like these were touched either.” She commented to herself. “Mama knows how sensitive they are, you would’ve been a soaked mess if someone had touched them.”

“Would never let someone touch me mama.”

“Oh I know darling.” She drew her thumb over the hardened nubs again, drawing out a whine from her lips. “Mama knows you’d never let someone touch them. But the world is full of dark, scary people. That’s why you need me to watch out for you right?”

You squirmed as she ran her thumbs over them again. “Right mama.”

“Alright bunny,” She grabbed the fabric from your hands, dropping it back down. Her eyes weren’t on yours, they were staring at the hardness pressed against the fabric. She ran her thumbs over again, mesmerized. She cleared her throat, blinking once before pulling her hands away. “You passed, down on your knees now.”

You nodded, doing as she said, trying to get as close to the couch as possible so she wouldn’t have to move too much. Her hand came down onto your cheek, rubbing your face with her thumb.

“It’s so hard for mama to stay mad at her baby.” She sighed. “You’re just so sweet and so pretty. I could just eat you up.”

You whined under her praise, looking up at her with big eyes that were full of devotion. Her hand moved, her thumb coming to play with your lips, she pulled the chapstick that was lining your lips off with her thumb, pulling her hand away to suck it into her mouth, she pulled it out with a wet pop, smiling as she did so.

“Even used the chapstick I sent with you.”

“I did mama.”

“Sweet girl.

She dragged her now wet thumb across your lips. You were careful to stay still. Last time you had darted a tongue out when she had been in a particularly bad mood and she didn’t let you finish for days.

Soon she popped her thumb into your mouth, pulling out your tongue easily. She ran her thumb up and down it, careful not to go in too far. She pulled her thumb out, pulling it into her mouth again.

“What flavor ice cream did you get, bunny?” Wanda asked once she had sucked your slavia off.

“Strawberry cheesecake.” You replied, returning your tongue to its previous position right after.

She hummed before smiling. “Good girl. That’s exactly what I tasted.”

You beamed under her praise, pulling your tongue back into your mouth. Wanda reached over you, grabbing your water bottle from where it laid on the table. “We’re gonna finish your water right here okay baby.”

It wasn’t a question, you whined nonetheless. You were horrible with drinking water and you were already so worked up from her inspection that you were feeling impatient.

Wanda rolled her eyes, kicking your thighs apart roughly. “Don’t be like that. Not after all that praise I just gave you.

“S-sorry mama.”

“Alright, now open your mouth.”

Even in your protest, you still did directly as she said. You tipped your head back a little to make it easier for the water to flow. She poured until your moth was full, pulling the bottle away enough to stop the flow. “Not yet.”

She leaned over you, her lips forming a pout only for a line of spit to dribble out. It hit the water in your mouth and then she nodded. You swallowed, doing your best to not let anything drop. You felt a little on the corners of your mouth.

She repeated it again and again until the bottle was empty, garnishing each mouthful with some of her spit, just claiming you more and more. Once you swallowed the last of it, she set two fingers into your mouth, running it along. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, threatening to quickly spill over.

“See honey,” Wanda cooed, pushing her fingers in and out at a slow pace. “See how much more drooly you are? How much easier it is to do this? Mama doesn’t make rules just for fun, she makes them so you’re better.”

You nodded, drool spilling out now. You were trying to regain some composure but you were threatening to spill over at any second. She pushed her fingers all the way in until you were gagging.

She pulled out, her spit covered fingers resting on your chin. “Good job bunny.” She kissed your forehead. “Such a good girl for me, can you stand up for mama now?”

You nodded, helpless to obey anything she would command. Her hands returned to your waist, her thumbs rubbing against the skin right under your belly button. Her thumbs pushed in, making your jolt. She pressed down on your bladder just enough for you to feel it. You pressed your thighs together to try and stop the feeling but it did little to help.

“Alright bunny, time for the last inspection.”

“But mama I have to go—“

“Bunny.”

You whined but fell back onto your knees. You cried out as you turned around, seeing that the coffee table would only press on your bladder more. She pressed you down, hurrying you along. You were splayed out on the coffee table now, front facing down and knees digging into the hard floor, leaving your ass in the air for her mercy.

“Oh bunny.” She cooed, pressing a thumb over the fabric of your panties. “You’re soaked.” You whined as she rubbed you, touching you gently so it would never be enough to fully satisfy you. “Who got you worked up like this?”

“Y-you did—you did mama.”

“Good girl.”

Her thumb pulled away, her hands grabbing at the top of your panties. You whined, only for her to pull up.

You cried out, feeling the fabric pull into your folds. She shushed you, one of her hands holding your panties up, the other pressing down on your lower back.

“Stop squirming, baby. Stay still for me.”

“I-I’m-‘m sorry!”

“Take your punishment like a good girl.”

You whined as she pulled your panties up more. It was bordering on painful but it was so tight on your clit you couldn’t help but grind your hips.

As soon as you were done, her hand came down swiftly on the sensitive skin of your ass. You cried out, which only meant another smack to your other cheek.

“What did I just tell you?”

“T-to stay st-till mama.”

“Why did you start grinding like a whore?”

“Felt good, mama.”

“Ah so your panties we’re rubbing against you all nice?”

“Y-yeah mama.”

Her fingers relaxed, letting the fabric fall back in place. Her hands came down to grab your ass, pulling you apart. She let your cheeks bounce back into place only to lay a smack to each cheek once they had.

“Oh sweet girl…you’re soaked for me. This inspection won’t be easy.”

“Please mama.” You whined, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “‘m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For not listening.”

“Mama might forgive you if you take your punishment like a good girl.”

Her fingers grabbed at the elastic band of your panties, pulling it off to let it snap against your skin. You couldn’t help but moan, arching your back a little bit.

Her strong hands pressed down on your lower back, making sure that your navel stayed pressed down. You cried out, doing everything to keep yourself from wetting your panties.

Finally, her fingers pulled your panties down your legs, the wetness completely covering you making your shiver.

She left the panties pooled at your thighs, just enough for her to see you fully. Unlike the rest of it, she got right to work. Her hands pulled you apart, leaving you completely bare to you. “Hands, bunny.”

You moved your hands to hold yourself open, both holes exposed to her. “Do you feel how wet you are?”

“Yeah mama.”

“Were you this wet when you were out with your friends?” 

“N-no mama. Only for you. I promise—mama please—“

“Such a sweet girl.” 

An obscene moan left your mouth as her tongue licked all of you. From your clit all the way up to your puckered hole. She hummed, “Taste so sweet too baby. So good for mama.” 

“Please mama—I’ll be good—i’ll—“

“Shhhhh darling. Let mama finish.” 

Her hands pried you apart further, making your hole clench around nothing. “So tight for me. No one touched you baby.” 

“N-no—no one mama.” 

She spit right above your folds, letting it run down. Her thumb began circling your hole, teasing it as she did so. “So greedy for me baby.” 

Her thumb went down, your entire body jolting as she rubbed your sensitive clit. You cried, tears of desperation threatening to fall from your eyes. The feeling of needing to pee was only amplifying your sensitivity. Her touch moved after an instant, rubbing your folds without touching you where you truly needed it. 

“So sloppy.” She commented, which only made you whine. Her thumb was replaced by two of her fingers, circling your folds at a snails pace. 

She slotted her hands up, dragging over your hole and circling that too. You cried out, your thighs starting to shake with the will it took you to keep the rest of your body still and not wet yourself. 

Her fingers went up, pressing onto your asshole but not inside before falling back down. Then one finger was pressing inside of you. 

You moaned, unafraid of being loud. “So tight for me bunny.” She pulled her finger out, not pushing it back in like you were hoping. A tear sprang free from your eye, unable to hold them in anymore. 

She dragged her finger back through your slick, before pushing it into your asshole. “Sucking me right in honey, like you were made for this.” 

“Mama…” You whined. “Please…”

She shushed you once again, not hearing your pleas. Just dragging her finger out. Her hands went on top of yours, pulling your cheeks further apart. 

She licked your asshole, pulling more tears out of you. It felt good, of course it felt amazing. But you both knew it wasn’t enough. She licked again, pushing the tip of her tongue past the rim. 

The urge to pee was getting harder to ignore, but so was your neglected pussy. “Mama please—please I’ve been good—I need to—“ 

She didn’t listen, just kept licking and sucking your hole, completely ignoring where you needed her most. 

Tears fell freely from your eyes, your entire body was shaking. You tried to clamp your legs together but her feet were keeping your knees in place. 

She pulled away, one of her hands coming down to circle your hole. “You cum from this or you don’t cum. It’s up to you. You have a minute.” 

“No mama please, you know I can’t.” 

Her fingers came down, slapping your hole directly with practiced precision. “One minute.” 

She dove back in, doubling her efforts but it was in vain. You did everything you could, even grinding back onto her face. You were painfully on the edge, only one touch to your clit and you would be cumming. 

You sobbed as she pulled away, frustrated noises leaving your lips as Wanda pulled your hands away. You felt the cloth of your underwear being pulled back up, signalling the end of her attention.

She pulled you up by your hair, pulling you to sit on her lap. You were crying and shaking, still so mad at her for not letting you finish but still tucking your head into her neck. 

“Mama please—“

“Not my fault you didn’t listen to me.” 

You whined, “I’m so sorry mama I’ll never do it again. I promise.” 

“Oh I know honey, but that’s not good enough. You gotta know your place.” 

A pitiful huff left your lips but she stroked your back gently. “What happened to my good bunny? Is mama gonna have to make you hold it in longer?”

“N-no mama. No I-I swear—please don’t—I really have to go.” 

“You wanna go take a shower then? We can order some take out later.” 

It’s no secret that Natasha likes you… or at least, it’s no secret to everyone but you.

Tony is constantly rolling his eyes, Steve is always hiding a knowing smile when you innocently dismiss Natasha’s flirting, Wanda is endeared but growing exhausted, Clint keeps poking fun at you in ways that you never seem to understand, and Bruce just chuckles as he watches quietly from the sidelines.

You’ve been called it all: young, unaware, inexperienced, oblivious. It’s a running joke with the team now regarding your obliviousness to all of the large, loud, and very obvious blaring red signs that unmistakably point to Natasha Romanoff having heart eyes for you.

It’s not your fault. Not really. You’ve never been in a true relationship before—you’ve only been on a handful of dates in total, none of which went well—and the team learns to the full extent your inexperience goes on a random team bonding night.

Tony makes multiple trips from the kitchen to the common room, preparing everyone for what’s to come. Cups, ice, mixers, and alcohol… necessities, in his opinion.

“Alright, guys, drinking game,” he announces, voice firm, no room for objections, “What are we feeling? Truth or Dare? Spin the Bottle? Never Have I Ever?”

There are a few murmured protests anyway, the team clearly tired of his arguably concerning desire to bring alcohol into everything.

“Do we have to?” Natasha asks flatly, boredly.

“It’s a teambuilding exercise,” he retorts, waving a hand vaguely, “For boosting morale or, I don’t know, whatever.”

Spin the Bottle quickly gets voted out, and although it’s a close call between the other two, Never Have I Ever wins in the end.

And Clint starts off strong, jumping right into it. “Never have I ever joined the mile high club.” His eyes deliberately flit to Tony as if daring the billionaire to try and avoid drinking.

Tony isn’t fazed as he hears the prompt, as he notices Clint’s look, and he takes a large first gulp of his beverage, unashamedly admitting to his history of airborne debauchery.

“God, Tony,” Clint says, laughing, “I hope it was at least on one of your private jets.”

Tony simply smirks over the rim of his glass, neither confirming nor denying, and Clint fakes a gag at the nonanswer.

Wanda speaks then, keeping the game moving along. “Never have I ever had sex in public.”

More than just Tony’s drink is sipped with that one.

“Never have I ever had a one-night stand,” Bruce chimes in next.

Almost everyone takes a drink, all except Bruce… and you.

“Never have I ever lied about an orgasm.”

Natasha definitely drinks for that one.

The game continues, laughter and teasing comments getting thrown all around, but at a certain point, everyone else’s cups are at least halfway empty—Tony’s is almost completely empty—and Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes in the sight of yours: perfectly full, condensation forming on the glass, clearly untouched.

She glances over at you.

You’re not looking back at her, too engrossed in the game, in the fun of the night, in the entertainment happening around you.

She clears her throat then, drawing everyone’s attention her way. “Never have I ever had sex,” she says plainly, eyes still staring your way.

“What? Natasha, that’s too eas-” Tony starts, but she shoots him a look that gets him to shut his mouth before returning to you. No one understands her prompt of choice, but they play along anyway, every single one of them confusedly taking a small sip of their drink.

Every single one of them… except you.

She moves to something marginally more innocent. “Never have I ever gotten to second base.”

You still don’t drink.

The team turns to watch you along with Natasha now, finally catching on to what she’s doing.

“Never have I ever been kissed,” she tries again.

Your drink remains situated on the table, and you’ve fully noticed her attention, her pointed prompts. You give her a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you mutter good-naturedly, shaking your head, chuckling lightly to yourself at her figuring it out, “You got me. I’ve never been kissed. So what?”

Natasha’s eyebrows raise, and the resounding reactions from everyone else are a mix of shock, disbelief, surprise, and perhaps even concerned alarm from Tony. They begin talking over each other.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re fucking with us.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s no way.”

Despite the comments—you’ve heard them all before—you remain casual about the whole reveal, not at all bothered by the reactions you’re receiving or the fact that you’ve never had your first kiss. You shrug dismissively. “It just hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s silence as the rest of the team stares dumbly at you. They knew that you were mostly a stranger to romantic things, knew that you’d never had a real relationship with someone before, but this? This is newfound knowledge. No wonder all of Natasha’s attempts at flirting with you have been overlooked. You’re not just inexperienced; you’re inexperienced.

Tony breaks the quiet, blunt as ever, offering what he thinks is a simple solution… and if it means you kiss a certain redhead that’s been pining for you at the same time? Well, win-win. “You know what? Why don’t you just let one of us do it? Get it over with. I’m sure someone here is willing to kiss you.” He isn’t subtle with the way his eyes sweep across the others before landing and staying firmly planted on Natasha.

Wanda, although doing her best, is also not subtle, her gaze flicking back and forth between you and the Natasha, trying her best to communicate that now is the chance.

Clint is laughing, Bruce is smirking, and Steve is shaking his head at the antics unfolding before him. Everyone is in on something you don’t know of, but like usual, you’re blissfully unaware of the nonverbal conversation that is happening between your teammates around you.

After some more silent and not so discreet prompting from the others, Natasha takes a deep breath, forcing nonchalance into her voice and demeanor. “I guess I could do it,” she volunteers. Her attempt at acting casual is transparent to everyone else but you. “I mean, I probably am the best kisser here.” She tries to sweeten the deal.

No one refutes her statement. They all know it’s true.

But still…

“No, it’s okay. I’m good,” you answer her, giving the redhead a small, grateful smile, touched by the offer but unwilling, nonetheless. Your ideas surrounding your first kiss are more than just whatever tonight is. Then, you address the entire team: “But on that fun note, it’s getting late, so I’m going to bed. Goodnight, everyone. Drink some water.” Your last words are aimed at Tony.

You stand, grabbing your still full cup, and head to the kitchen to pour its wasted contents down the drain, placing the now empty glass in the sink and exiting the room, a handful of bewildered goodnights tossed out behind you as you go.

The confusion from everyone is palpable once you’ve disappeared.

And Natasha is almost… offended. You rejected her so easily, so effortlessly. You didn’t even seem to consider kissing her.

All eyes snap to her when you’re gone, everyone blatantly staring at the expression on her face as she tries to recover from your rejection.

“What just happened?” Natasha asks out loud.

“You, Natasha Romanoff, just got rejected,” Tony laughs, snarky and teasing as ever, “For probably the first time, I’m guessing.”

Natasha pauses. “That… wasn’t a legitimate rejection, right?”

“No, no, that definitely was,” Tony replies, “She literally said ‘nope’ and then left.”

“Tony,” Wanda hisses, trying to get him to be quiet, wanting to soften the blow for the redhead who is still clearly trying to understand everything that just occurred.

Natasha’s attention moves to Wanda now, wanting a second opinion. “Wanda?”

Wanda grimaces but answers honestly. “I mean… it wasn’t not a rejection”

Natasha lets out a loud groan at that, having been, albeit uselessly, hoping for another answer. “Fuck.”

“You know, I always thought that she was just extremely oblivious, but maybe she just doesn’t like you but doesn’t know how to turn you down,” Tony can’t help but continue.

“Tony!” Wanda exclaims again as Natasha groans another time.

Steve interjects before Tony can rub more salt in the wound like he is most likely planning to, the billionaire still smiling gleefully as if finding the whole situation beyond amusing. “Or maybe she just didn’t like the circumstances. I say give it one more good shot. Make it known that you like her, that you want to actually kiss her, that it isn’t just some silly drunken shenanigan to you.”

“I like Steve’s idea,” Clint comments, and Wanda nods her head in agreement.

“That’s just because none of you want to hear that-” Tony begins.

“Tony, enough,” Wanda grits out, “Get out. Go to bed. Go anywhere else. Just… shoo.”

Tony rolls his eyes but acquiesces, getting up and bidding everyone a goodnight before heading to his quarters for the evening.

Everyone else stands to file out of the room as well, sending Natasha a mix of sympathetic, encouraging, and pitying glances as they leave, Wanda’s hand making its way to Natasha’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture before she also walks away.

Natasha remains seated on the common room couch for a while after everyone’s exit, wallowing, lamenting, wondering what the absolute fuck happened tonight. She’s slouched against the cushion, her head flopped back and her eyes closed as she replays the look on your face as you rejected her, as she hears your little nonchalant “I’m good” on repeat in her mind.

It’s silent, the rest of the team already asleep by now for the night. Whether or not that’s a good thing as she’s left alone with her thoughts, she’s not sure, but she appreciates the peace and quiet anyway.

After some time, she sighs and reluctantly pries herself up off the sofa to return to her own quarters, shoulders slumped in discouragement as she goes.

She passes by your door on the way to hers and pauses right outside. The light is on, visible from under the door, and there’s quiet movement coming from within.

You’re still up.

God, Natasha isn’t sure her heart can handle any additional rejection from you tonight, but she finds herself knocking anyway. She needs to know.

Your door opens quickly and you peek out, head tilting in a silent question. “You’re still up?” you ask her.

The redhead doesn’t answer for a few moments, just looking at you. She doesn’t want to lie, but she doesn’t feel like she can tell you exactly what’s on her mind and preventing her from sleeping right now either. “Yeah,” she eventually says, and then a fake smirk appears on her face, “Just still trying to wrap my head around your rejection. It’s going to keep me up all night.” It comes out as a joke.

You hum, smiling at her words, taking her sarcasm in stride.

And then it’s silent.

And Natasha feels like the air is buzzing from all the things unspoken on her part, from all the confusion and uncertainty and discomfort that she’s experiencing by just standing here in your doorway. She wonders if you can feel it too.

“So, am I just that unattractive to you?” She breaks the quiet. Another joke.

That gets her a small laugh this time. “You and the word ‘unattractive’ have never been in the same sentence,” you respond.

That should make her feel better, but… “That wasn’t an answer,” Natasha points out.

“Do you really need one?”

There’s silence again as she considers what to say.

When she speaks up, it’s soft, confused, vulnerable, all smirks and sarcasm and pretenses gone. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?” she asks, looking away as she talks.

You frown slightly at the shift in her behavior, her playful remarks and teasing from before now nowhere to be found, replaced with something that seems fragile, imploring.

Your words come out a murmur, trying to explain yourself, to soothe. “It’s nothing personal, Natasha. I just want my first kiss to be special. That’s all.”

“What would make it special?”

“Just… with the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?” Natasha presses.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you muse, pausing for a moment to genuinely consider your answer to the question, “I guess someone sweet and considerate…”

Natasha remembers how just this morning she brewed an extra serving of coffee so that you’d wake up to a fresh pot.

“…someone who makes me laugh…”

Natasha remembers how just a few days ago you two were laughing until you both couldn’t breathe at some inside joke that would be too complicated to explain to anyone else.

“…someone who’s there for me.”

Natasha remembers how just last week she stayed up with you through the night when you needed someone to help chase the nightmares away.

Her. You’re describing her, and you don’t even know it.

How can she get you to see?

“Anything else? Hair color? Eye color?”

“Wow, you want specifics,” you joke, still not understanding.

Natasha could curse your obliviousness right now, and her tone turns more deliberate, still gentle but with a push. “What about martial arts abilities? Any history as an assassin? Or, you know, superhero status?”

You glance up at her, meeting her green eyes with your own.

And then you remember how the pot of coffee was already ready for you just this morning.

And then you remember the inside joke that Steve found the two of you laughing and clutching your sides at just a few days ago.

And then you remember the nightmares Natasha swore she’d stay up to keep you safe from just last week.

“Oh,” you breathe out slowly.

Natasha nods, hope returning as she sees realization start to wash over you.

“So, the right person…” she prompts.

“Yeah…” you murmur back, knowing what she means this time, what she’s meant all this time.

“Does that mean I can I kiss you now?” she asks softly.

“Is this still about the game? I don’t want a pity kiss.”

“It was never about the game. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed, but I have the biggest crush on you.”

“You do?”

Natasha says your name, fondly, tiredly. “I’m completely smitten with you.”

“I never even knew.”

“I know you never knew. You’re the most oblivious person on the team, the most oblivious person on the planet. I’ve been flirting with you for months.”

You shake your head in disbelief, trying to come to terms with the fact that Natasha’s romantic pursuit of you has apparently always gone right over your head.

“So, can I kiss you?” Natasha asks again.

You nod, and then she’s moving in, giving you just the slowest and gentlest press of her lips to yours, your eyes closing immediately in response to the touch.

She pulls back after only a brief moment, not wanting to overwhelm you since it's your first kiss, but it still leaves you feeling dazed, lightheaded, your mouth parted with little puffs of breath as your eyes flutter open to gaze at her. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest, and your face is flushed from just that.

You wanted your first kiss to be special, and you succeeded.

“Was that… okay?” Natasha asks, taking in your slightly stunned expression.

You nod again, struggling to find your voice at first, and when you do, it’s barely there, breathy and shaky. “Can we- can we do that again?” It comes out like a plea, as if there’s a chance Natasha might need convincing.

The first time you rolled your eyes, Wanda saw it.

She always saw everything, which was something you knew and had known for a long time, and which had apparently not factored into your decision-making when you'd done it anyway. She'd been in the middle of telling you it was time for bed. Reasonably, calmly, in the tone she used when she was still giving you the opportunity to make a good choice. And despite every bit of sense in you, you'd rolled your eyes so completely and so visibly that there had been a moment of silence afterward that felt like it lasted hours.

"Excuse me?" Wanda had said. She sounded almost pleased, but her face. Oh, her face. The way her smile had shifted, how her eyebrows had grown a furrow between them.

You'd known, in that moment, that you'd made a miscalculation.

She'd set you up at the kitchen table with a notebook and a pen. The instructions had been simple: fifty lines, I will not roll my eyes at Mommy, neat handwriting, every single one. She'd sat across from you with her tea and a book, and she had not looked up once while you wrote, which was almost worse than if she'd been watching you. The casual attention—like this was a minor administrative matter she'd already moved past—had made your face hot for the entire forty minutes it had taken you to complete them.

You'd handed the notebook across the table and she'd read through every line with the same close attention she gave everything, turning the pages slowly. Then she'd closed it and looked at you.

"Good girl," she'd said. "Now off to bed you go."

You'd gone to bed. You'd laid there in the dark of your shared room for approximately forty-five minutes, listening to Wanda move through the apartment—the quiet sounds of her finishing her tea, washing the cup, the soft click of the lamp in the living room. Then she'd come to bed and settled beside you. She'd said nothing and that had been that.

That had been two days ago.

Tonight, she'd told you it was time for bed again in the same reasonable tone, same calm. You'd looked at her across the living room and your eyes had moved before you'd made the decision to move them.

All the way up. All the way back down.

The silence afterward had been different this time.

Wanda set her book down on the cushion beside her with the specific care of someone who was making sure their hands were free. She looked at you from across the room. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't change her expression, exactly. But something in it shifted, settled, went very still in the way that meant something underneath it had made a decision.

"Come here," she said.

You came. Of course you came—there was something in that tone that your body responded to before your brain weighed in on the matter—and you crossed the living room and stood in front of her, trying to look like you weren't already regretting the last four seconds of your life.

Wanda looked up at you from the couch. She took her time about it. She let the silence sit for a moment, comfortable with it the way she was comfortable with most things, and then she tilted her head very slightly.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me, baby?" she asked. Her voice was warm. Genuinely, pleasantly warm. It was not anger. It was something far more composed than anger. You almost wished it was anger.

"I didn't mean to," you said.

"Mm." She looked at you for another moment. "You didn't mean to. Your eyes just went up, all on their own." The corner of her mouth moved. "Is that what happened?"

"Kind of," you said, which was not a good answer and you damn well knew it.

"Kind of," Wanda repeated, with the gentle, patient quality of someone working through something with a great deal of tolerance. She reached out and took your wrist—lightly, just her fingers curled around it—and pulled you forward one step so you were standing directly in front of her. "We did this two nights ago, baby. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," you said, huffing out a breath.

"Fifty lines," she said. "Neat handwriting. I sat right there and watched you write every single one." She looked up at you with those dark eyes, warm and steady. "And you remember what they said?"

"I will not roll my eyes at Mommy," you said quietly.

"I will not roll my eyes at Mommy," she repeated pleasantly. "And yet." She gestured at you, an open small motion of her hand, indicating the entirety of what had just happened. "Here we are."

You opened your mouth, but suddenly her face went stern. Her chin lowered, her eyes narrowed, her entire demeanor changed in one second.

"I want you to think," she said, before you could say anything, "very carefully, about what you're about to say to me."

You closed your mouth, and her expression faded back to gentle just as quick as it had shifted.

"Good girl," she said, with a warmth that was somehow more pointed than sharpness would have been. "See, you can make good choices. When you try." She let go of your wrist and sat back slightly, looking at you with an expression of mild, genuine consideration, like she was turning something over. "The lines didn't work."

You almost shot back. You came so, so close to replying with something sarcastic. But somehow, surprising yourself, you managed to keep your mouth shut.

"You know," Wanda said, knowing. "Because you just did it again. While looking directly at me." She paused. "Was it worth it?"

You said nothing.

"I asked you a question, baby."

"Probably not," you said.

"No," she agreed pleasantly. "It wasn't. And do you know why it wasn't?"

You had several guesses.

"Because now we have to do something that actually works," Wanda said, standing up.

She was not rushing. She moved through the apartment the way she moved through everything, calm and not rushed. She went to the bedroom and you followed because following was the only thing your body was currently interested in doing, and she opened the closet and took out the box from the top shelf, the one you were familiar with, setting it on the bed.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at you standing in the doorway.

All she had to do was snap her fingers and point to the spot in front of her.

You closed the door, before walking to stand in front of her. She looked up at you with that same warm, patient expression and reached for the hem of your sleep shorts.

"These can come off," she said, pulling them down with practical hands, leaving you in your underwear. She folded them, set them aside, and then she looked at you again. "And those."

Your underwear followed. She set those aside too.

"There you are," she said, pleasantly. "Go on and lay across my lap, sweetheart."

"Wanda—"

"That's not what you call me," she corrected, gentle as anything, the word landing in your stomach and spreading warmth. "And what I said wasn't a suggestion. Lay across my lap, please."

You didn't attempt to argue further.

She settled you there with practical, unhurried hands—adjusting your position until you were where she wanted you, her palm resting warm and still at the small of your back. You could feel the warmth of her legs beneath you and the quiet of the room and both of those things would usually be comforting but not at this particular moment.

"Okay," Wanda said, above you, with the tone of someone beginning a project they'd thought through carefully. "So here's what's going to happen." Her palm moved in a slow circle at your lower back—not soothing exactly, not yet. "We're going to talk about tonight. And I'm going to remind you of a few things. And then you're going to tell me you understand. And then—" a pause "—we're going to make sure it actually sticks this time."

You said nothing.

"Good," she said approvingly, like your silence was a choice she found pleasing. "See, when you're not talking, it's so much nicer. Isn't it?"

"Mommy—"

"That was almost silence," she said, pleasantly. "So close." Her hand moved to your lower back and held there, fingers tapping an absent rhythm. "Let's try again. Why are we here?"

"Because I rolled my eyes," you said into the duvet, your voice almost like a sigh.

"You rolled your eyes," she said. "After we'd already addressed this. After you'd written fifty lines." She stroked her palm once down the back of your thigh—slow, light—and back up. "Do you know what that tells me?"

"No…" you said.

"It tells me," she said, "that the lines were too easy." Another slow stroke down and back. "That you could write them and not really feel them. That you need something that's going to stay with you a little longer." She paused. "Do you think that's fair?"

"Yes…" you said quietly.

"Yes, what?"

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, biting your cheek. "Yes, Mommy."

"Good girl," she said warmly. "That's right. It is fair. And I want you to know—" her hand rested at the top of your thigh "—that I'm not upset with you."

Something in your stomach turned over.

"I mean it," she said, pleasantly. "I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed, even. I just know my girl, and my girl needs things to be very clear sometimes. Needs to feel them." Her palm moved to your ass and rested there, warm and still. "Don't you?"

You didn't answer.

"Don't you?" she said again, pinching the skin of your ass.

"Yes, Mommy," you said, squeaking.

Wanda smiled in satisfaction.

"There she is." A pause. "And that's what we're going to do tonight. We're going to make things very clear." Her hand lifted.

The first spank landed clean and sharp, exactly over your right asscheek. You made a sound into the duvet and she rubbed slow circles over the spot immediately after, her palm warm against the sting.

"One," she said, pleasantly. "We rolled our eyes after already being corrected for it. Which means we didn't take the correction seriously." Another one, the same spot, and your breath came out in a rush. "Two. We made a choice when we could have made a different one." She rubbed the heat in after, steady circles, her touch unhurried. "Are you with me so far?"

"Yes," you managed.

"Yes, what? Honestly, your manners these days."

"Yes, Mommy."

"Good girl," Wanda said, so warmly, and she landed another, lower this time, and you grabbed a fistful of the duvet. "See, that's all I want. For you to be with me. To listen. Is that so hard?"

It wasn't a question she needed an answer to, which was good because you didn't have one. She worked through the next several at her own pace—reading the sounds you made and adjusting, rubbing warmth into the heat after each one with the attentive patience of someone who was doing this correctly and knew it. She stopped occasionally to stroke your lower back, to let you breathe, to say something calm about what you'd done and why it had landed you here.

"Poor baby," she said, at one point, with a warmth that was so clearly arch that it made your stomach pull tight. "This isn't very comfortable, is it?"

"No, Mommy," you managed.

"No," she agreed. "I imagine not." She rubbed a slow circle over where she'd just landed the last one. "Maybe next time you'll think about this when you feel the urge to roll your eyes at me." Another one, sharper, and you cried out softly. "Or maybe not. Maybe you'll need reminders. And that's okay too." She soothed it afterward, her touch warm and certain. "That's what Mommy is here for."

By the time she finished, you were trembling and your face was wet. You were gripping the duvet in both hands, your backside hot, and you felt utterly and completely undone in a way that had nothing to do with anger anymore, that had in fact been several other things for a while now, things you were dimly aware of and not currently doing anything about.

Wanda seemed to be doing something about them.

Her hand slid from your lower back to your hip and then lower, and the sound you made was immediate and embarrassing. In response, she made a sound of her own, though hers had significantly more satisfaction.

"Oh," she said, pleasantly. "Look at that."

"Wanda—"

"Mommy," she corrected, and her fingers pressed through your folds, slick and openly desperate. "You're absolutely soaked, baby. After all that." Her fingers didn't move, just rested there against your clit, lightly. "Does being corrected do this to you?"

"Mommy—please—"

"Please," she repeated, in the tone of someone savoring a word. "That's better. That's so much better than an eye roll, isn't it?" She pressed slightly, adding pressure against your now need-induced throbbing clit, and you made a sound that was not a word. "See how nicely you can ask when you try."

She helped you up—hands under your arms, lifting you with an ease that she didn't make a production of—and arranged you on the bed. On your back, propped against the pillows, and she looked at you spread out in front of her and her expression was warm but had a heat underneath it.

She opened the box.

The wand was familiar. You'd seen it before, felt it before, had extremely specific opinions about it at this particular level of wound-up. Wanda held it lightly and looked at you with those hypnotizing eyes.

"We're going to finish this properly," she said. "And then you're going to go to sleep like a good girl." She tilted her head. "And next time I tell you it's bedtime, what are you going to do?"

"Go to bed," you said, your voice pretty much a whine.

"And if you feel the urge to roll your eyes?"

"I won't," you said.

"Mm," she said, pleasantly skeptical, the sound of someone who found this optimistic but charming. "We'll see." She clicked the wand on—the low hum of it filling the quiet room—and looked at you. "Spread your legs for me, sweetheart."

You spread your legs. There was no hesitation either. You knew that if you did hesitate, you'd be left without any relief and you'd already dug yourself into one hole tonight.

She settled beside you and brought the wand to your inner thigh first—not where you needed it, nowhere near where you needed it—and the vibration against the sensitive skin there made you inhale sharply and your hips tilt toward it automatically. She watched that happen with a small, warm expression.

"Oh, already?" she said. "Greedy girl. We haven't even started." She moved the wand slightly closer and then back, watching you chase it, and made a soft cooing sound. "Look at you. After everything we just did, you're this desperate?" She tsked gently. "I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed."

"Mommy—"

"Shh," she said, extending that for longer than it truly needed, and it did in fact make you more wet. "I'm getting there. You can wait." She moved the wand along your inner thigh in slow strokes—deliberate, close but not there—and watched your hips move with helpless frustration. "Can't you?"

"It's harrrrd," you whined.

"I know, baby," she said, with such warm sympathy that it made heat pool in your stomach. "I know it's hard. That's a little bit the point." She pressed the wand to the crease of your thigh, right at the edge of where you needed it, and held it there while you made a sound into the lamplight. "There you go. Is that better?"

"Please," you breathed. "Mommy—please—"

"Oh, keep begging, my sweet one," she said, warmly. "It's adorable."

"Please—I need—closer—"

"Closer," she repeated, like she was considering the word. "Let me think about that." She did not move the wand. She watched you squirm and tilted her head with the expression of someone finding this genuinely interesting. "You know, two days ago you wrote fifty lines. And tonight you rolled your eyes again while looking directly at me." She moved the wand a fraction closer and felt you tense toward it. "So you'll understand if I want to make sure we're in agreement before I give you anything."

"We're in agreement," you said immediately. "I understand, Mommy—I'm sorry—please—"

"You're sorry," she said. "That's sweet. You're so sweet when you ask nicely."

She brought the wand to your clit, and you genuinely cried out in both relief and surprise.

She kept the setting on low—she knew exactly what she was doing—and held it steady, watching your back arch and your hands grab the sheets, your whole body reaching toward something that was building fast from the accumulated tension of everything that had come before. She kept her eyes on your face, reading you the way she read everything.

"There's my girl," she said. "See? All you had to do was ask nicely." She kept the pressure steady and watched you climb, her voice staying that same warm pleasant register. "You're doing so well. Such a good girl when you try. It's almost a shame you made it so difficult to get here." She tilted her head. "Almost."

"Mommy—" You were close already, embarrassingly close, wound up from everything prior and now the wand. "Mommy—I'm going to—"

"Are you?" she asked, pleasantly interested, and then she moved the wand away.

The sound you made was not dignified. You did not give a single fuck about that.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, with such warm, such loving, such completely fake sympathy, looking at you in your frustration with an expression of mild, caring concern. "Did you think we were done?" She set the wand against your thigh, letting the vibration hum against the skin there while you came down from the edge, watching your face the whole time. "We're not done yet."

"Mommy—please!"

"I know," Wanda said. "I hear you." She stroked your inner thigh with her free hand, light and soothing. "You're doing so well with asking nicely, by the way. I want to acknowledge that. It's a real improvement."

"Please don't—" You took a breath. "Please don't do that right now."

"Don't do what?" she asked, with innocent warmth.

"Talk like that when I'm—" You stopped.

"When you're what?" she said, her voice too encouraging.

You closed your eyes, that feeling settling in you, the one where your head got all mushy without your permission.

"When you're desperate?" she finished for you, and the word landed precisely where she meant it to. She cooed softly. "Oh, baby. I know. I know it's a lot." She brought the wand back to your clit and your whole body responded immediately, your back arching. "But you were quite the handful tonight. So we're going to take our time."

She worked you back up slowly—starting low, building the pressure in increments, reading every sound and shift. You were gripping the sheets, making sounds that the room absorbed, and she kept her voice soft and exactly calibrated. She cooed when you were good. She acknowledged, pleasantly and at length, every time you asked nicely. She noted, with warm and gentle specificity, exactly how you'd gotten yourself here and what you could do differently in the future.

She moved the wand away a second time just as you were about to cum.

"No!" The word came out before you could manage it. "Mommy—please—no—I was so close—"

"I know you were," she said sympathetically. "I could tell." She rubbed a small circle on your hip with her free hand. "You're so sensitive, baby. You feel everything so much." She looked at you with those warm dark eyes. "That's actually something I find very sweet about you."

"Then please—"

"Mm," she hummed. "In a minute. Breathe for me."

You took a breath in and made sure she could hear it. She watched you do it and kept her hand moving in small circles on your thigh, letting the vibrator rest against your thigh and waiting.

"Good girl," she said, when your breathing had mostly returned. "See? You can be so good." She looked at you for a moment. "Are you going to roll your eyes at me when I tell you it's time for bed?"

"No, Mommy," you said, meaning it completely.

"No," she agreed, like this was a lovely conclusion. "I don't think you are." She brought the wand back—higher this time, directly where you needed it, the pressure more than it had been—and watched your back come off the mattress. "Because you're my good girl. Underneath all the difficulty." She kept the pressure steady. "Aren't you?"

"Yes—Mommy—yes—please—"

"Again with the 'please'," she said, smiling. "There it is. That's all I ever want." She increased the intensity on the wand, feeling you tense and hearing the way your breathing changed completely.

"Cum for me," she said, simply. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Whenever you can. There's no rush."

The orgasm that arrived was enormous and it came quickly. Embarrassingly quickly, but it wasn't like you were going to complain. It was the result of two edges and everything prior, rolling through you in long waves—and she held the wand steady against your clit through every second of it, watching your face with warm attentive eyes. She only eased it away when you were trembling, making oversensitive sounds and reaching for her wrist to push the vibrator away.

Surprising you, because you had half-expected her to overstimulate you tonight on top of everything else, she set it aside. She looked at you—undone and flushed, sweat dripping down from your temple to your jaw—and her expression softened into something that was still warm but different now, the fake quality gone. Just Wanda. Just your Mommy.

"There she is," she said, quietly. "There's my girl."

She drew you close and you went immediately, pressing into her and feeling her arms come around you. She was warm and safe, and she held you like you were precious, her hand moving in slow strokes up your back.

"You did so well," she murmured into your hair. "All of it. Even the difficult parts." She pressed her lips to your temple. "Especially the difficult parts."

You were nowhere near words. She seemed to know this.

"I know," she said. "I've got you." She adjusted you both against the pillows, drawing the blanket up with her free hand. "You're okay. You're right here with me."

You pressed closer and she held tighter and the room seemed to settle around you both.

"Next time you feel like rolling your eyes," she said, after a while,"you can come and tell me you're frustrated instead. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mommy," you mumbled into her shoulder.

"Good girl," she said, and you felt her smile against your temple.

She kept her hand moving on your back in those slow steady passes and you felt yourself getting heavier with each one. You heard her heartbeat under your ear. Smelled her specific scent. Took in her general calming presence. You felt the same hands that had spanked you earlier wrap around you and keep you in safety.

"Such a good girl," you heard her whisper one final time before you drifted off. "Hopefully the lesson sticks this time."

She knew it wouldn't.

In fact, she counted on it.

The rule had been unfair and you wanted that on the record.

Not that anyone was keeping one. But if someone had been, the entry would read: unreasonable. Excessive. Fundamentally misaligned with the biological realities of being left alone for twenty-four hours by Wanda Maximoff.

She'd said it the way she said things she meant completely, which was warmly: both hands cupping your face, her eyes right on yours, that slow curve of her mouth that made your brain go quiet. She'd already kissed you three times: once when she'd told you she had to go, once when she'd packed her bag, once standing in the doorway with her coat on and her hair still a little mussed from earlier, looking like something out of a dream that was actively inconveniencing you by leaving.

"Eat dinner," she'd said. "I made the pasta you like. Or get something else if you want it. I left money on the counter."

"I know how to feed myself," you'd said.

"I know you do, baby." She'd smiled at that. Fond, not condescending, in the way she was fond of you doing the thing where you pretended you didn't need taking care of, which she found genuinely endearing and also not very convincing. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, probably. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"And—" She'd paused, and her hand had come to your jaw, tipping your face up just slightly. Her eyes had been soft and certain. "No touching yourself."

The air had done something.

"Wanda—"

"Mommy's baby can wait a day without touching her needy little pussy, can't she?" She'd tilted her head, just slightly, with that smile, soft and absolutely in charge of both of you, and you'd had the sensation of standing at the edge of an argument and looking down into it and deciding not to jump. "One day."

"That's—"

"Can't she," Wanda had said again, and it wasn't a question.

"...Yes," you'd said.

She'd kissed you once more. Slow and thorough, her thumb brushing your cheek like you were something she was very pleased with. Then she'd picked up her bag and gone, and you'd stood in the doorway feeling the absence of her before she'd even reached the elevator.

And that had been fine. That had been completely fine for most of the day, actually, because you'd had things to do—laundry, a show you'd been meaning to watch, the pasta which was, as always, perfect. You'd texted Wanda at seven that you'd eaten and she'd sent back a heart and a photo of herself looking tired but okay, and you'd felt warm all the way down.

The problem had been bedtime.

The problem had been the bed. Alone in it and it smelled like her—the pillow on her side, the apartment quiet without her in it, a Wanda-shaped absence you were apparently more aware of than you'd realized.

You'd tried to sleep. Genuinely tried; tired, full day, all conditions met.

But you kept thinking about the way she'd said it. Needy little pussy. With that smile. The thumb on your cheek. The way she'd looked at you like she already knew exactly how you were going to get through the next twenty-four hours and had decided it would happen her way.

It wasn't your fault.

It was basically her fault. She'd said it like that, with that voice and that mouth, and then left, and you were supposed to just—what? Lie in the bed that smelled like her and think about something else? About what, exactly? You'd been given nothing to work with except the echo of her voice in your head saying words that seemed, if you were being honest, almost deliberately designed to produce this exact outcome, and the rule was you weren't supposed to do anything about it.

That was a bad rule.

A poorly constructed rule. An unreasonable one. You'd turned it over for a long time, the argument assembling itself with satisfying solidity, every point holding up under examination. She'd know, probably—that had been in the against column, and it had stayed there a while. Then your hand had moved anyway.

Just your hand slipping under the waistband of your panties, just your fingers finding your clit the way hers did—two fingers, slow circles, just enough pressure. You'd imagined her voice. Good girl. The way her eyes went when she had you exactly where she wanted you. The weight of her hands on your hips. You'd been quiet about it, face turned into her pillow, hips rocking up against your own fingers while you thought about her mouth and her hands and the low even certainty in her voice when she told you what to do. It hadn't taken long. You'd been wound up from just thinking about it, already wet before you'd started, and when you came it was perfect and you went slack almost immediately after, pleasantly boneless, the sheets smelling like her, and you went straight to sleep.

In the morning you'd felt completely fine about the whole thing.

You still felt fine about it.

It hadn't crossed your mind once today.

You weren't even thinking about it.

(-)

The door opened at half past two.

You heard her before you saw her: her keys, her footsteps, the familiar push of the door with her shoulder. You were off the couch before you'd thought about it, crossing the room just as she appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed despite the travel, her coat still on, her hair a little windswept, and holding—somewhat improbably, delightfully—a bundle of yellow tulips wrapped in brown paper.

She saw you and her whole face did something. Lit up, just like that. All the compound tiredness gone in an instant, replaced with something so plainly glad that it hit you somewhere in the ribs.

"Hi, darling—"

She barely got it out before you were in her arms, and she dropped her bag, catching you with her free arm, pulling you in close and pressing her face into your hair and holding on. You could swear you felt the warmth of her right through the coat. The tulips brushed your shoulder. You didn't care. You pressed closer.

"Hi," you said, muffled in her shoulder. "Hi, hi, hi."

She laughed—a real one, surprised out of her, bright and warm. "I missed you so much." She pressed her lips to the side of your head. "So much. Were you good for me?"

"I was so good," you said, with complete conviction.

"Yeah?" She pulled back just enough to look at your face, cupping your cheek in her free hand, her thumb brushing across it. Checking on you, the way she always checked when she'd been away—making sure all of you was still there and accounted for. Her eyes were warm and fond. "Good girl."

She kissed you once, soft and sure, and then produced the tulips with a little flourish.

"I found them on the way out," she said. "The woman at the market had them. I thought of you immediately." She held them out, watching your face. "Yellow. I knew you'd want the yellow ones."

"Wanda." You took them, holding them with both hands. They were very yellow. Yellow like summer, your favorite color. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted you to have something nice." She smiled, unwinding her scarf and dropping it on the couch. "Thank you for eating dinner last night. Did you sleep alright?"

"The pasta was good," you said, carrying the tulips toward the kitchen. "And yes, slept great, actually." You were already hunting for a vase under the sink, entirely unbothered. "Really well."

"Oh, I'm so glad." She followed you in, leaning against the doorway, watching you move around her kitchen with that soft expression that meant she was happy. "You do sometimes have trouble when I'm not there. What made the difference, do you think?"

She asked it lightly. Casually. Just a woman happy to be home asking after her girl.

But she was also watching you with those eyes. And Wanda's eyes, when she was curious about something, had a quality you might have clocked if you'd been paying attention.

You were not paying attention.

You ran water into the vase. "I don't know, I was pretty tired I guess—" You shrugged, trimming the stems with the kitchen scissors, perfectly comfortable. "Well." A small laugh. "You know how it is. An orgasm always makes me sleep better."

The kitchen was very quiet.

You set the scissors down.

The word orgasm hung in the air above the tulips and you watched it float there and something in the back of your brain, the part that had been quietly filing information all day, chose this exact moment to speak up.

Oh, that part said. You're fucked.

You turned around very slowly.

Wanda was leaning against the doorway with her arms folded and her head tilted at a small angle and the expression on her face was…not angry. That was what made it worse. It was warm. It was fond, even. It was the patient, settled look of a woman who had just received information she'd been fairly sure she was going to receive and was now deciding what to do with it in a very calm and organized way.

"Funny," she said. "I don't remember giving you permission for that. In fact, I seem to recall specifically telling you not to."

"I—" You opened your mouth. Closed it. The argument that had felt very solid at eleven-thirty last night was nowhere to be found. "It was just—it wasn't a big deal, I just—"

"Baby." Her voice was gentle. That was almost worse than if it hadn't been. "Come here."

Your feet moved before your brain weighed in on the matter. You crossed the kitchen and she opened her arms and you went into them, which was both deeply comforting and deeply incriminating.

Her chin rested on top of your head.

"Tell me what happened," she said.

"I couldn't sleep," you said, into her chest.

"Mm."

"And I was thinking about you."

"Of course you were."

"And it seemed like—I mean, it wasn't a big deal, it was just—" You could feel yourself listing, looking for the argument. "It seemed unreasonable, honestly, like how was I supposed to—"

"Unreasonable," Wanda said, with a quality in her voice that was not quite amusement but lived in the same neighborhood.

"I'm just saying—"

"You're saying that Mommy's rule was unreasonable."

The word hit you low and warm and scattered the rest of your sentence completely. "...I was trying to make a point."

"I know you were." She pressed her lips to your hair and held them there. "And the point is noted." A pause. "You still broke the rule."

You had nothing to say to that. It was true. You had, in fact, broken the rule, and you had done it with full knowledge that it was a rule, and the argument about reasonableness was falling apart on contact with Wanda's arms around you and her voice in your hair.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly.

"I know, sweetheart." She rubbed a slow circle on your back. "I'm going to take care of it."

She said it the way she said most things—warmly, simply, with the easy certainty of someone who had already decided and was just letting you know. Not a threat. Information.

Your stomach did something. You pressed your face a little more firmly into her chest.

"Okay," you said.

"Good girl." She kissed your hair once more and then stepped back, her hands on your shoulders, looking at you. Her eyes were soft and dark and certain. "Go to the bedroom. Take your clothes off and wait for me. I'll be right there."

(-)

She gave you enough time to do as she'd said and then a few minutes more, which had its own weight—being sent somewhere to wait, the room quiet around you, nothing to do but sit with the awareness of what was coming. You'd folded your clothes on the chair the way she liked, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. The afternoon light came through the curtains in long pale stripes. You'd listened to Wanda moving around in the other room, the kitchen tap, her quiet footsteps in the hall, and felt every second of the waiting.

She wasn't rushing. She never rushed. Wanda had a sense of time entirely her own, and she spent it exactly as she intended, and when she decided it was time to come to you she would come to you and not before. Knowing that, lying there, made the waiting feel very long.

You heard her steps in the hall. The door opened.

She'd taken her coat off. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she looked completely at ease. She took in the sight of you on the bed, undressed and waiting and probably looking a little undone already from just the anticipation, and something in her expression settled with satisfaction. Not unkindly. Just pleased with what she found.

She sat on the edge of the bed beside you and looked at you in the pale afternoon light, taking her time about it. You looked back.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," you said, softer than you'd managed in the kitchen.

She reached out and pushed a piece of hair back from your face, two fingers gentle along your hairline, and then her hand trailed down your cheek, your jaw, the side of your throat. Light and deliberate. She rested her fingertips at your collarbone like she was taking a reading of something.

She was in no hurry at all.

"Tell me what you did," she said. "Exactly."

Your face went warm. "Wanda—"

"Mommy," she corrected, gentle as anything, her voice almost a song.

"...Mommy." The word settled something and disrupted something else simultaneously, the way it always did. "I just…touched myself. Before I went to sleep."

"Where?" Her fingers traced a slow line down your sternum.

"You know where."

She looked at you with patient, limitless calm.

"My clit," you said.

"Mm." Her hand moved lower, resting flat on your stomach. Warm and still. "Did you rub it? Slow circles?"

"Yes."

"And it felt good."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"You thought about me."

"Yes."

"Good." Something in her expression settled with quiet satisfaction. "You should always be thinking about me." She pressed her palm flat and firm against you through your underwear—one deliberate moment of pressure—and you exhaled all at once. Then she withdrew it entirely. "Roll over for me, baby."

"What—"

"On your stomach," she said, the same tone she'd used for everything: warm, even, not leaving room for negotiation.

You rolled over.

Her hand came to rest at the small of your back, warm and easy, and you felt her shift her weight on the bed. Her palm moved slowly down over the curve of your ass.

"Mommy—"

"How many times?" she asked. “How many times did you cum?”

"Once," you said into the pillow.

"Once." No urgency in her voice. Just consideration. "Fifteen, then. Count for me, sweetheart."

"Fifteen—"

The first landed before you'd finished the word. Clean and sharp, and you gasped into the pillow, gripping the sheets. Her palm followed immediately—warm, slow circles over the spot, easing it. Sting and then soothe, and the contrast alone made your breath stutter.

"One," she said for you, gently. "Good girl."

She went slow. The second came after a long pause, the same spot, and you pressed your face harder into the pillow. The third landed lower and you exhaled in a rush. Her palm came back each time, rubbing warmth into the sting—patient, rhythmic, never skipping that moment of softness between strikes.

"Good girl," she murmured. "Stay still for Mommy."

By five your breathing had changed, gone shallow and uneven, your whole body trying to process the alternating sharpness and soothe. By ten your hips were pressing down into the mattress, some confused animal instinct pushing you toward the bed, chasing and bracing at once. She noticed. She always noticed. The eleventh landed on the crease where your thigh met your ass and you cried out louder than you'd intended, hands fisting hard in the sheets.

"That's it," she said, warm and even. "You're doing so well, darling."

By twelve you were shaking. By fifteen your whole ass was flushed with heat and your face was wet and you felt scraped open and deeply, entirely hers.

Her palm settled there, just resting, warm over the heat of it.

"Good girl," she said, softer. "So good. Fifteen."

She gave you a moment. Just her hand on you, grounding.

Then she moved, not away from you but up the bed, settling beside you. Her hand found yours in the sheets and loosened your grip from the fabric, gently, and drew your fingers up. She held your hand between both of hers for a moment, rubbing warmth back into where you'd been clutching, and then she brought two of her own fingers to your lips.

"Open for me," she said. Easy. Like it was the most natural thing.

She pressed her fingers in past your lips, settling on your tongue, and the immediate impulse was to close around them, which you did. The weight of them there, warm and familiar, the faint salt of her skin, did something to the noise inside your head that nothing else had. You'd been clenched up through all of it, holding yourself together through each strike, and the simple act of having something to close around, something of hers to hold, loosened something at the center of you. Your shoulders dropped. Your jaw softened. You felt a long breath move through your whole body and out.

She didn't move her fingers. She just let them rest there on your tongue, watching your face with that quiet, focused attention she gave to things she was tending to carefully.

"There you are," she murmured. Her other hand moved to your hair, pushing it back from your face, and her thumb traced a slow line along your temple. "That's it, sweetheart. Just breathe."

You breathed around her fingers. In through your nose, slow and even, out again. The room settled around you by degrees—the pale afternoon light coming through the curtains, the familiar weight of the mattress beneath you, the warmth of her beside you. You could feel her watching you come back to yourself, feel the way she clocked each small shift: the unclenching of your hands, the easing of your jaw, the moment your eyes focused on her face properly instead of just the middle distance.

She curved her fingers slightly, just a gentle press against your tongue, and you closed tighter around them without thinking.

"Good girl," she said softly, to that. Like you'd done something right. Like that instinct was something she was glad to have confirmed.

Her thumb kept its slow arc along your temple. She wasn't in any hurry. She'd told you she had all afternoon and she'd clearly meant it, because she sat with you like this, her fingers on your tongue and her eyes on your face, until the last of the tension had moved out of your shoulders and you were just lying there, held open and quiet, looking up at her.

She read it when it happened—you could see it in the small shift of her expression, something clicking into place. She drew her fingers free slowly, dragging them gentle across your lower lip as they went, and her thumb swept your mouth once before her hand moved back to your shoulder.

"Good girl," she said again. "Up on your knees for me."

You got your knees under you, shaky, and she moved with you, keeping her hand at your back. She reached around and pulled your underwear down and off, and then her palm was there, bare skin against bare skin, cupped between your thighs, and the sound you made was something you'd be embarrassed by later.

"Ten more," she said. "Here."

You barely had time to process what here meant before she was repositioning herself behind you—one hand at your hip, tilting you, adjusting the angle with the same calm attention she gave everything. The understanding arrived a half-second later and sent heat flooding through you before anything had even happened. Like this. Open like this. The vulnerability of the position had your hands clenching again on instinct, your face dropping forward, and you made yourself breathe.

Then the first landed. It was a light, sharp smack directly against your clit, and you jolted forward. Her free hand steadied you at the hip immediately, firm and sure, keeping you right where she needed you. Her palm pressed flat against you in the same soothing motion, softer here, more careful, and the pressure of her whole hand cupped against you between smacks was…something you couldn’t put into words.

"One," she said. Still that same warm, even voice. "You're okay. I've got you."

These were different. Lighter than the ones before, precise in a way that made your breath go ragged, and between each one she pressed her palm flat against the heat of you, and the relief of that pressure made you want to press back into her hand, which you did, twice, and she let you. Just held you there for a beat, her palm against you, warm and still, before the next landed.

You were making sounds into the pillow. You couldn't stop.

"You're such a good girl," she murmured, working her way through them. "Taking your punishment so beautifully. Look at you."

By ten you were trembling, slick against her palm, and something between crying and desperate, your hips rocking back toward her hand between each smack because your body had completely stopped caring about the difference between punishment pain and pleasure pain.

Her palm pressed flat against your cunt and stayed there.

"Ten," she said. "All done, my love. All done."

She kept her hand there, warm and still, and rubbed slow circles with her thumb, and you breathed.

"Roll over for me, darling," she said.

You did—slowly, your whole body still humming—and she was there, leaning over you, one hand braced beside your head, her hair loose around her face. She looked down at you with those warm eyes. You felt undone in the best possible way, and you’d never complain.

She looked at you like you were something she was very pleased with. Took a moment just to do it.

Then she settled beside you and her hand moved between your thighs again.

"This is what you did?" Her fingers found your clit and pressed, just a slow circle, barely-there, and you arched immediately. "Rubbed right here?"

"Yes—"

"With one finger? Or—" she adjusted— "like this?"

"Like that, please—"

"Mm." The motion stayed light. Maddeningly light. "And you thought about me."

"Yes, Mommy."

"What did you think about?" The circles continued, slow and steady, just enough to feel but not enough to build. Keeping you right at the edge of something without letting it become anything.

"Your hands," you managed. "Your—the way you—"

"The way I touch you," she finished for you.

"Yes."

"Like this?"

"More than this—"

"I know." She didn't increase the pressure. "But you didn't have permission for this, and you did it anyway." A pause. "So right now you get what I decide to give you."

You made a sound that was not a word.

"Is that fair, baby?" she asked. "Or is it unreasonable?"

"It's fair, Mommy," you said, and meant it completely.

She kept the circles going—slow, steady, unwavering, the same pace and pressure and nothing more, no matter how your hips rolled up toward her or your thighs trembled trying to close around her hand. She let you move. She just didn't give you anything extra for it. Your body was chasing something she was deliberately withholding, and she watched you do it with that warm settled expression, completely at ease, like she had all afternoon and intended to spend it exactly like this.

"Mommy—"

"Not yet," she said. Warm. Immovable.

"Please—"

"Not yet, baby." The circles continued. Her eyes stayed on your face.

You could feel it building anyway, despite the lightness of it—your body wound up from the anticipation and the spanking and the long teasing press of her hand through your underwear before any of this had started. The heat gathered low, slow and inevitable, and your hands fisted in the sheets and your back arched and she was right there, right there—

"Mommy—"

"I know," she said, and she lifted her hand away.

Completely. Gone.

The sound you made was embarrassing and you were past caring.

"Wanda—"

"Mommy," she sang, just like before, like you'd mispronounced something minor.

"Mommy—" Your hips were still working against nothing, chasing the shape of something that wasn't there anymore. Your thighs were shaking. "Please, please, I need—"

"Shh, I know what you need." She moved her hand to your stomach, flat and warm, pressing down. Grounding you. "My sweet girl. You're going to get everything you need. I promise you." She smoothed her palm in a slow circle. "When Mommy says."

You tried to breathe normally. You failed.

"You're okay," she said, watching you. "You're doing so well."

You didn't feel like you were doing well. You felt strung out, desperate, and entirely at her mercy, which you were, and she was well aware of that fact. She kept her hand on your stomach until the worst of it passed and your hips had stilled and you were just lying there trembling faintly, looking up at her.

She looked back, patient and showing no signs of moving faster.

"Again?" you asked, your voice coming out very small.

"Again," she confirmed.

Her hand drifted back down.

The second time she took longer. The same light circles against your clit at first but she varied them now, the pressure shifting, the pace changing, sometimes a slow drag of her fingertip and sometimes a tight circle right where you needed it and then veering off at the last second. Your body was trying to chase it and she was always a half-step ahead. She watched your face the whole time with that focused, private expression she had when she was doing something she found deeply satisfying, and you were already so sensitive from the first round that every change of pressure registered twice as much.

You found her wrist with your hand. Not to stop her. Just to have something. She let you hold on.

"You're being so good right now," she murmured, low and close. The circles tightened fractionally. Your breath hitched. "Such a good girl for Mommy. Even after what you did." Her thumb moved and you arched. "You're taking it so beautifully, sweetheart."

"I'm sorry," you said again, and it was different from the kitchen apology and different even from the first one. Realer. Lower. "I should have waited."

"You should have," she agreed, gentle. "But you're making up for it now." She leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your temple, and her hand kept moving, and you felt the warmth of her lips and the pressure of her fingers simultaneously and made a sound that came from somewhere deep. "That's my good girl."

The edge came back steep, the way it came back the second time when your body had already been there once and remembered the way. Your grip on her wrist tightened and your hips rolled and your back lifted and the heat was cresting, cresting—

She stopped.

"No—"

"Shh." Both her hands now, one flat on your stomach and one on your hip, holding you. Grounding you. "Breathe for me."

You breathed. Barely.

"Good," she said. "Good girl. I've got you."

Her hand on your stomach made slow circles. The same patient motion, but soothing now, just warmth. You came down by increments, shaking and frustrated, and she watched you do it with that steady warm expression.

"That's two," she said.

You were shaking. Your hands loose in the sheets now, not gripping, just resting there because you'd run out of the energy to hold on to anything. Your thighs were trembling and your whole body was strung out and wound so tight you felt fragile with it. All the while, she was right there looking at you with those eyes the color of moss and all the patience in the world.

"Wanda," you said, your voice was entirely wrecked. "Mommy. Please. I'll be so good, I promise, I should have waited, I know I should have waited, I'm sorry, please just—"

"Hey." Her hand came to your face, cupping your cheek. Her thumb swept across your cheekbone once, slow. "There she is."

You turned your face into her palm.

There was a pause. She looked at you—really looked, the way she did when she was deciding something—and her expression shifted, the patient amusement easing into something a little softer, a little more open. The part of her that was just Wanda, looking at you, glad you were hers. Her thumb moved again across your cheek, and she exhaled slowly, like something had settled.

"There's my good girl," she said, soft. "You've been so good."

"Please," you said, smaller. Just that.

"I know." She kissed your temple. Rested her lips there. "I've got you. Mommy's got you."

Her hand moved back between your thighs and this time she didn't tease. The same motion but with real intent behind it now, real pressure, and you cried out immediately from the sensitivity of it and she made a soothing sound and didn't let up. The buildup was fast. You were so far gone, wound up from two full rounds of edging, every nerve ending straining, and she worked you steadily and kept murmuring to you, low and close.

"That's it, darling," she murmured, right against your hair. "Good girl. Give it to Mommy."

"Mommy—"

"I know." Her voice was steady and warm and completely certain. "I've got you. You're safe. Come on, sweetheart—let go for me. Cum for Mommy, sweet girl.”

Your long-awaited orgasm broke over you in a long cresting wave, bigger than either of the edges had promised, and you cried out without anything left to moderate it, both hands locked around her wrist while everything rearranged. She kept the motion going through all of it, her fingers steady and unwavering, reading every tremor and staying with you through each one until you were pulling at her wrist from oversensitivity. Only then she slowed, gradual and careful, and finally stopped.

Her hand moved to your inner thigh. Just resting there, warm and still.

The room came back in pieces.

The pale stripes of light through the curtains. The familiar smell of the sheets, of her, of home. The sound of your own breathing, ragged and slow and trying to even itself out.

You were completely dissolved. Unmade. Every muscle had surrendered and you lay there loose and scattered and felt the afterglow move through you outward from the center, slow as a tide going out, warm all the way to your fingertips.

Wanda's hand moved. Long slow strokes up your side, hip to ribs and back, perfect and steady, just keeping contact, just letting you know she was there and wasn't going anywhere.

"There you are," she said, soft. "My darling girl."

The words landed somewhere they always landed. Deep, in a part of you that had always craved them.

"I know, baby." The strokes continued. Her other hand rested flat on your stomach. "You're alright. Just breathe. I've got you."

You breathed. The room continued to reassemble itself around you. You became gradually aware of more things: the texture of the sheets, the weight of the light, the warmth of Wanda's hands still moving on you, patient as she always was.

She gave you time like that—just her hands and her voice saying quiet things, holding you in place in the gentlest possible way while you came back to yourself. Then she shifted, settling back against the headboard, and drew you in close.

She arranged you against her with the ease of knowing you completely, one arm coming around your shoulders, your cheek coming to rest against her chest, and she held you there while your breathing slowed. You could hear her heartbeat under your ear. It was steady. It was the steadiest thing in the room.

"Hi," she said, softer than she'd said anything.

You made a small sound. Present. Accounted for.

She pressed a kiss to the top of your head and held her lips there. Her hand moved in slow strokes up your arm, shoulder to elbow and back, and for a while that was all—just her heartbeat, and her hand, and the amber light pressing in through the curtains, and the room settling around you like something that had been waiting to do it.

Then she shifted slightly, her free hand moving to the hem of her shirt. She drew it up and off in one easy motion, dropping it somewhere behind her, and then her hand came back to cradle the back of your head—palm warm, fingers curved—and she guided you, gently and without words, drawing you in closer, down against the soft warmth of her breast.

Your mouth found her nipple and closed around it, and something in your whole body simply exhaled.

It wasn't anything like what had been happening for the last hour. It was the opposite of that—the complete absence of striving, of chasing, of being held just at the edge of something. Here there was nothing to chase. Here there was just the soft weight of her against your lips, the give of her skin, the slow warmth of her hand at the back of your head keeping you exactly where she'd put you.

You stayed very still at first. Just rested. Just breathed through your nose, in and out, your whole body sinking deeper into the mattress with each exhale.

She made a small sound above you. Soft. The sound of someone settling into something, the same exhale you'd heard from her when she'd first gotten home and pressed her face into your hair. Like she'd been holding something through all of it too and had finally set it down.

"There she is," she murmured, her hand moving in your hair now, slow passes from your forehead back. "There's my sweet girl."

You pressed closer, and she let you, her arm tightening fractionally around your shoulders. Her nipple was soft against your tongue and you weren't doing anything particular with it—just holding her there, just present, just the warmth and the closeness and the steady rhythm of her breathing above you.

"You did so well," she said, low and close. "All of it. I know it was hard."

You made a small sound against her.

"I know," she said, like that had been a complete sentence, which maybe it had. Her fingers moved through your hair in that slow rhythm, the thing she did when she was tending to you, and each pass felt like it was drawing something down through your body and out, something tight and held that didn't have a name. "You took everything so beautifully."

The light coming through the curtains had shifted while you weren't paying attention, going from pale afternoon to the warmer amber of later afternoon, long and golden and slow. You were aware of it in a distant way. You were more aware of her—the soft weight of her breast against your mouth, the warmth of her hand moving in your hair, the sound of her voice talking to you quietly about nothing and everything, the particular quality of being held by someone who had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else.

"I missed you," she whispered, just for your ears. "Every minute I was gone. I kept thinking about you."

A small sound from you, believing her completely.

"The compound was fine," she said, easy. "But I wanted to be home. I wanted to be right here." Her arm drew you closer, her lips pressing again to the top of your head. "With my good girl."

You felt yourself getting heavier. The kind of heaviness that came from everything finally letting go at once. Your jaw had gone slack. Your hand rested against her ribs without any tension in it. The amber light moved slow across the ceiling.

"The tulips," you managed, from somewhere far down. The word barely made it out.

A smile moved through her, warm and private. You felt it more than heard it. "Mm. For you, my baby. Just for you. I knew you'd like the yellow ones."

A small approving sound from you, against her skin.

"I know," she said fondly. "I know you."

Her fingers moved in your hair—slow passes from your forehead back, the same even rhythm, the thing she did when you were drifting. You felt yourself going heavier with each one. Pleasantly, completely heavy.

"Sleep," she murmured. "You're exhausted, sweetheart. Let go."

You wanted to say something. Something about the tulips, or about the rule, or about how you understood now, how you really did—but it dissolved before you could find it, and anyway Wanda knew. She always knew the things you couldn't manage to say.

"I'm right here," she said. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

Her lips in your hair. Her arm around you. Her hand moving slow, forehead to back, forehead to back. The soft warmth of her against your mouth. Her heartbeat steady under your ear.

"I’m home," she said, softer still. "And you're mine. We're here. And everything is exactly right."

She said those words—everything is exactly right—and you were done, all the way under, falling easy into the amber quiet with her voice somewhere above you saying soft things you were already too far down to catch the words of.

Just the sound. Just her hands. Just home.

AERI UCHINAGA

KIM MINJEONG

NING YIZHO

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Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this. 

One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.

A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.

"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"

"Nope."

You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.

"Keep walking."

He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.

A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor. 

"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.

Because she's there.

Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes. 

"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.

You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead. 

There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.

Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.

"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.

Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.

"Shut up."

You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.

"That took a while," you comment casually.

Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.

"Line was long."

"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.

You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.

"Let me guess…new number?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.

"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."

You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.

"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."

Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.

"We'll see if I feel like it."

You smile faintly into your drink.

That's always her answer.

And you already know how it ends.

By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.

And in the morning?

She'll be gone.

Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.

Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.

"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now. 

"No," she deadpans.

You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you. 

"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."

Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.

"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."

The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression. 

It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.

Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.

Even you.

And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.

You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.

"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"

Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.

"I know what people want to hear."

You make a face.

"That's such a cop-out answer."

Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.

"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"

You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.

And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.

"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.

You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.

"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"

For a split second, there's silence. 

Then Natasha laughs.

It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard. 

Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.

And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.

You're just watching her.

Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.

"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.

You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.

"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."

You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time. 

It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.

Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.

"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."

You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus. 

This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.

Only then do you meet her eyes.

"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"

Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.

Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile. 

There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.

"Go ahead."

With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed. 

Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.

"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"

Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.

It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.

But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.

"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."

There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.

Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.

"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."

Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.

"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"

Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.

"Mhm."

Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.

It shouldn't affect you.

She hasn't even touched you.

And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.

"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.

Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.

"Someone interesting," she says.

Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.

"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.

There's a pause as she lets her words linger.

"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."

Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.

"Oh, is that all?" you tease.

Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.

"Think you can manage it?"

The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.

So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.

"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."

"I do," she admits without hesitation.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.

"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.

Her response isn't what you expect. 

There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms. 

It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.

Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.

"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."

You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.

"Maybe I am."

For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.

Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.

It just…stays.

Like she's waiting.

Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.

And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.

Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.

Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.

And then everything shifts.

Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.

That's what breaks the trance. 

You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.

And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.

Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.

Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.

Your breath catches.

When did you—

For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.

But there isn't one.

Just the quiet realization that it already has.

A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.

"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."

Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.

"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."

Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.

"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"

"Convincing?" she offers lightly.

You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

"Dangerous," you correct.

She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.

Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.

"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."

You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."

"Good."

The word lands differently.

You glance at her.

She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.

"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.

It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.

But you hear it anyway.

It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.

Her smirk slides back into place like armor.

"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.

"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."

And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.

The best friend.

The one who is never supposed to cross that line.

The one who already did anyway.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement. 

It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.

"Not that good?"

The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.

Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates. 

Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.

"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"

You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.

"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"

You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.

She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.

"Of course," she says. "Take your time."

That almost makes it worse.

You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access. 

The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.

You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.

For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.

Because this should be working.

She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.

By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.

And it is.

So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?

Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.

Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.

Back to her.

Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.

When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.

When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.

And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.

But all you could think about was the difference.

The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.

"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.

This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.

And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.

You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.

This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.

The line rings once.

"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.

It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.

You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.

"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."

There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.

"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.

You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.

"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."

You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.

"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."

There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.

"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."

It's not a question. 

Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.

"Maybe," you concede.

A beat passes.

"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.

And that's the problem.

Because you know she means it.

She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.

The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.

Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.

"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.

"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.

"Do you want me to?" 

It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.

Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.

You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.

"I–"

"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in. 

There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.

Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising. 

Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.

So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?

You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.

By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.

"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.

You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.

"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.

It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it. 

And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.

"Something like that," she finally replies.

You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.

"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."

The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.

You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.

"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.

There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.

"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.

You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.

You straighten, pushing off the counter.

"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."

Another beat.

"…right," she replies, quieter this time.

You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.

"Enjoy your night, Natasha."

You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.

Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.

Just…heavy.

Like something quietly settling into place.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable. 

Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.

The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.

The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.

At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity. 

This time, you don't hesitate. 

You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.

And it feels good.

There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.

It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.

You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.

There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.

She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.

You know this moment. You've been here before.

You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable. 

Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.

But then your thoughts drift.

You think of Natasha.

You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.

She just acts.

And for once, you decide to do the same.

You lean in first.

The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.

But it doesn't stay that way.

She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.

You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.

It isn't empty.

It isn't meaningless.

But it isn't her, either.

And maybe…it doesn't have to be.

Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.

You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.

Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.

For a brief moment, it almost works.

It almost quiets everything else.

You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.

When you pull back, your breath is uneven.

Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.

"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"

There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.

"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."

The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Natasha stands a few steps away.

One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it. 

There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.

Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.

"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain. 

"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.

And just like that, the moment collapses.

"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."

You don't stop her. You don't even try.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."

She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.

"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.

Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.

The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.

You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.

"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.

"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.

You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.

"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."

Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.

"That didn't seem like you," she says.

Something in your chest snaps.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.

"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."

You scoff, shaking your head.

"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."

Her jaw tightens, just slightly.

"That's different."

"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"

"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."

"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."

"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.

"Then what is it?" you press.

Natasha doesn't answer.

And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.

"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"

"Stop," she warns, her tone low.

But you can't.

You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.

"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"

At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.

Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there. 

Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.

But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.

The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.

Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.

"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.

And suddenly, you're exhausted.

Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.

Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains. 

"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."

For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.

You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.

"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"

"I love you."

For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.

"What?"

Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.

"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.

Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.

This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.

You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.

"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.

Nothing makes sense.

"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.

"I meant it."

"Then what the hell is this?"

Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."

She gestures between the two of you.

"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.

You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.

"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"

Her silence is answer enough.

You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.

Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.

"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.

She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.

Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.

A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.

Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.

Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.

Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.

"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"

She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

"I always lose them," she says.

Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.

"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."

No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.

The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice. 

You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.

"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"

Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.

"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.

Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.

"And yet, here you are."

She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.

Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.

The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort. 

The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.

With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.

You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.

"Hey."

"God—Natasha!"

You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.

"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.

Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.

A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.

"I did say something."

You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.

"I thought you left," you admit.

Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.

"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."

The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.

Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.

You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.

In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.

Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.

You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.

When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.

Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.

"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."

You glance toward her. 

"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.

A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.

"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."

There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.

At herself.

You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.

Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.

"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."

There it is.

Not I don't want you.

Not I don't love you.

Just:

I don't know how to survive being loved.

Her hands clasp together tightly.

"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."

She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind. 

Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.

"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."

Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.

Protect you. Protect herself.

You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.

"I know," you say softly.

Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.

You turn your head toward her again.

"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."

That gets her attention fully.

Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:

"Just trust me."

"It'll be different."

"You have to let people in."

As though fear is solved through persuasion.

But you don't try to take hers away.

"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."

Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.

You offer her a faint smile. 

"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."

Her expression tightens slightly at that.

"But I can promise something else."

You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.

She doesn't.

Your voice lowers softly.

"You never have to earn a place with me."

The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.

"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."

A shaky breath leaves her quietly.

"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."

Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.

"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."

That one almost breaks her.

Because what you're offering isn't pressure.

It isn't an obligation.

It isn't forever demanded upfront.

It's safety.

A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.

Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.

"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."

A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.

Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.

And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.

Just less alone inside of your love.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It was the first you’d heard from her in weeks. You try to play along the best you can, knowing little about their situation at hand. Articles and broadcasts had been screaming the word “Ultron,” and you felt like you had somewhat of an idea.

“Yeah, of course- I just- you and the- um, the kids are okay?”

“Good as we can be.” There’s a pause, and you can feel like she’s hesitant to tell you more. The pitch of her voice returned to normal. It was obvious she couldn’t say too much about where she was or what she was doing. 

This fleeting moment would tie you over for right now. 

“I miss you,” you whisper, almost inaudible. Your hand curls around your phone tightly as you await her response. Whatever she was so afraid of revealing could pause for just one second. 

An eerie silence is followed by, “I miss you too.” 

She quickly hangs up after her confession, slamming Clint’s landline back to its charger in the wall. She was angry with herself, helpless in this situation. Natasha takes a deep breath before feeling her observing teammates' eyes on her.

A small smirk lines her lips.

“What? Clint’s not the only one with a secret.”

-

You don’t see Natasha for another week. Plus three more days. 

You knew better than to watch the news for accurate updates, but you couldn’t avoid it. You had seen how they’d twisted everyone’s perceptions of the Avengers; the world was like putty in their hands. 

They were brutal towards each member of the team, but the comments made about the conniving ‘Black Widow’ left a sickly feeling in your stomach. You preferred your information straight from the source itself.

Still, you wanted to protect her from all of it. 

You knew the risks. You’d felt them the second things between you and her began to turn real. 

You found yourself drowning in imaginary scenarios and overthinking every time she was assigned to a mission, or when an Earth-shattering event from the Avengers was broadcasting live on your TV. 

Everything in Natasha’s life was out of your control, including her safety. 

-

“Nat,” you whisper against her neck, after pulling her into your apartment. 

She holds you tightly, making up for lost time and explanations. Two soft knocks on your door had you instantly drop the cooking utensil in your hands, impatiently waiting for her return since the phone call. 

Her eyes close, lost in the warmth that now surrounds her. The scent from your sweatshirt fills her nose, along with the familiar smell of your apartment. It’s like she was saying, “finally”, as she practically melted into your embrace. 

The events of Sokovia were brutal, unlike anything you've seen from the Avengers since New York. You felt nauseous every time you thought of what could've happened. You pull her in closer to you.

“You should really give me a key, y’know. I could’ve surprised you.” She smiles at you, her eyes scanning your whole face.

You kiss her, wearing a wide grin you’re unable to shake. 

“I was under the impression you were able to break into the highest guarded facilities.”

“Hey,” Natasha frowns, but you kiss her again before she can say anything else. Your hands gently cup her face, pulling her in to meet your lips over and over. Her strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you steady.

Pulling away, your thumb strokes the skin on Natasha’s face, examining her like it was your first time. You landed on a forming scar in Natasha’s lower lip, slightly faded into the top of her chin, and she looked away, half-ashamed. 

You press your lips to the side of her face. “Did you eat? I’m making dinner.”

-

Natasha watches you as she sits on your couch. You’re in your own world, humming to soft music playing from a speaker, stirring bubbling water every couple of minutes. You move with ease, chopping up ingredients quickly, tossing them into a bowl. 

Natasha feels herself zoning out at the sight, thinking how different her life was just a week ago.

For a moment, she feels envious of your carefree spirit. You’re so happy to be cooking for your girlfriend, to share the same space with her, and grateful that she’s come home to you after weeks without seeing her. There’s a small smile that lines your lips, a love shining within your eyes each time you meet Natasha’s steady gaze. 

A warm dish of pesto pasta is served, and you place it in Natasha’s grateful hands, accompanied by a small kiss on her cheek. She takes a small bite as you beam down at her, watching her face for a reaction. 

“Very good. I love it.”

You sit next to her on the couch, your leg bumping into hers as the cushion dips beneath you. Always a little extra clingy when you haven't seen your girlfriend in a while, your body is slightly pressing against hers, taking in the comfort her presence possesses. 

“Mmm- hot,” you say between bites, reaching for your TV remote. Natasha gives you a small smile, continuing to eat her meal. 

The TV turns on, and onto the channel you’d been watching last. 

Of course, it was the news. 

Clips of Sokovia smothered in smoke play loudly, the volume louder than you usually had it at. There are images of buildings crumbled to the ground, wildfires burning down forests, and separated families…

It takes Natasha right back. 

“Turn it off,” she says suddenly, feeling the muscles underneath her eye beginning to twitch. The sound of her fork clangs against the ceramic. 

You’re fumbling for the remote, flipping through channels to change it to something different, but you can’t escape the media coverage. 

“Shit- sorry.”

As much as she wants to, she can’t tear her eyes away. There are clips of Sokovia burning, crumbling, and exploding in the sky. Footage of the Avengers fighting off armies of robots, structural damage to people’s homes, and stories of grief from family members of those they couldn’t save. 

“This week, live from Sokovia-”

“Artificial Intelligence from Tony Stark himself causing irreversible damage-”

“Secretary of State refuses to speak on behalf of the Avengers-”

Natasha practically rips the remote out of your hands. The screen turns black, and silence fills the small space the two of you share. Your leg that’d been resting on hers gets shaken off as Natasha sits up straighter, resting her plate on the small table next to the couch. 

“Natasha, I’m sorry I-”

“It’s not you,” she says gently, after exhaling a tight breath, like she’d been holding it in. 

You touch her thigh, searching her face with an earnest concern. For a minute, it’s like she’s not with you. And for a sliver of a second, she looked like someone else, a shell of the person who’d returned to you. An expression passes through her face, one that you couldn’t depict what she was thinking. 

Natasha found it so easy to forget all of the parts she hated about herself when she was with you. Sure, the Avengers did that as well, but this was different. With them, Natasha fought all the time, spending her days trying to atone for her past, answering to those who assigned her to missions.  

After a long week of fighting or a grueling mission, she’d return to your apartment if she wasn’t needed at the compound. She’d found safety and peace in your arms that she’d never quite had with anyone else before. 

In order to protect that, she wanted to be nothing but normal with you. 

“I’m not really in the mood for TV anyway, let me clean up.” Natasha stands, feet moving quickly towards your kitchen.

“Okay,” you say. Your eyes drift to her plate, more than half of the pasta still untouched. 

You watch her move around your kitchen with haste, like she’s driven to complete a task instead of existing in the space. She tightly wraps up leftovers, scrubs silver pans, and wipes down your countertops with disinfectant. 

You’ve seen this before, usually after a serious mission. Her walls, the careful distance, the way she folds everything inward where no one can reach it. Pushing too hard would only make her retreat further, and you don’t know how the events of Sokovia have affected her over these few weeks. 

Your chest aches at the thought.

“Nat,” you say, but she doesn’t turn around. She’s rinsing a bowl, eyes fixed on something that clearly isn’t your sink. 

You push yourself off the couch, and your movements are silent against the floor as you walk over.

Slowly, gently, your arms slide around her waist from behind. You’re careful, giving her more than enough time to pull away if she wants to.

You press yourself against her back, resting your cheek lightly between her shoulder blades. You can feel the tension there, coiled and stubborn. Just like always. 

Natasha relaxes against you. She stops her movements, letting the dishes rest in the sink. Neither of you moves; you just simply hold her, and she lets you. Your nose slightly digs into the fabric of her long-sleeve, and you press a kiss to the middle of her back. 

“I don’t care what we talk about,” you start, your voice gentle. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to say anything about work to me.”

Her breath catches subtly, but you feel the rise in her stomach. The water keeps running for a moment longer before she shuts it off. You shift slightly, loosening one arm so you can turn her around in your hold. 

She lets you.

“I just want you here.” 

Natasha nods, her jaw tightening as her hands slide over your arms, squeezing gently. Her fingers play with the hems of your sleeves. Her head hangs with sorrow, refusing to even look you in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but you shake your head. “I haven’t even asked about you…”

You stifle a small laugh. Your hands move to hold her face, smoothing your thumb over her skin. Her hand follows, holding your wrist gently. “I think you’ve had more important things to worry about.”

“Hey, I’m serious. Tell me everything, tell me about work. Please,” Natasha smiles sadly. 

You lean forward and kiss her.

- 

The rest of the night settles into something quieter.

Dishes eventually get put away, this time together, slower. The music picks back up, low and steady, filling the spaces where words don’t need to go. You talk about nothing that matters. Your job at the office, neighbors, something dumb you saw earlier in the week. 

You make a small plan for tomorrow, wanting to bring her to a new coffee shop you’d found, just a few blocks away. 

Natasha listens more than she talks, but she stays close to you. Her knee presses into yours on the couch. Her hand finds your fingers absentmindedly as you talk, nodding along to your words and asking small questions.

Time passes quickly, and suddenly it has been hours since Natasha walked through your door. You kiss her softly once, then twice, before commenting how you’d like to shower. 

The apartment dims. 

Bathroom light spills into the hallway as steam curls out from the half-open door. Natasha listens to the familiar sounds of running water, the soft clatter of bottles, and soft music that plays from your phone. 

She hasn’t moved much since you’d left, sitting at the edge of your bed as she waited for your return. Your sheets are slightly rumpled beneath her hands, her fingers running through the white fabric. 

Her eyes are heavy, and they close, but she can’t seem to let her body fall just yet. There was too much at the forefront of her mind. Her body sways forward slightly, and she feels herself falling into a daze, waiting for you. 

The sound of running water stops, and silence follows. 

Natasha exhales sharply, burying her face in her hands, tightly pressing into her bones. Her hand drags through her short curls, then back over her face, her posture slumping with her movements. 

She only sits up when she hears the door open, taking her hands away from her face quickly. But you saw. 

“Hey,” you say, smiling faintly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Natasha breathes. She takes in the sight of you, wet hair clinging to your face, sporting a loose t-shirt and black underwear. “How was your shower?”

“So nice. Join me next time,” you grin, making Natasha blush, her head resting on her shoulder. Your voice echoes from the bathroom, putting something away that she can't see. 

You toss your clothes from the day into your laundry bin and miss the words Natsaha says next.

“Hm?”

“Come here,” she repeats, voice low. 

“Are you ready for bed?” You ask, obeying her command and walking over to her. Soft arms wrap around your thighs, her head leaning onto your stomach. 

Natasha nods, digging her face into you further, letting her eyes close, tucked into the smooth fabric of your shirt. 

Your fresh smell fills her senses, and the fragrance of your shampoo and lotion is all she thinks about for a moment. 

Your skin is warm and slightly damp against Natasha’s. You run your hands through her dark red curls, soothing the back of her head. 

She looks up at you, and all you can focus on are the green eyes you’ve loved for so long. The face you dreamed about at night, the body that you missed by your side each time she was out saving the world. 

“I missed you,” you say so carefully, she almost doesn’t hear it. 

“I missed you, too,” Natasha whispers back, her lips trailing over your stomach, leaning down to kiss your thighs. She rests her face back to where it was, nestled back into your t-shirt.

“Are you okay?” You ask again, your hand travelling to her neck, brushing through her baby hairs. Natasha doesn’t respond, and you cut her off before she can even think of a good enough response. “Shit, Nat, you’re bleeding.”

The black tank top she wore exposed her shoulders well enough, where you could see a long gash deep in her pale skin. Dark blood trickled down her back, and you quickly went to the bathroom to find your first aid kit. 

You fold a piece of gauze and press it into the back of her shoulder, applying a firm amount of pressure to soak up any blood that threatens to surface. Natasha winces slightly, sitting up straighter on your bed. 

“Must’ve just reopened, I didn’t even know I had one there,” Natasha comments. 

“How did you get this?” You pull the bandage away slowly, checking the progress. More pressure follows, pressing back into the wound. 

Earlier, you didn’t ask about the scar on her mouth or the healing scab on her wrist. You respected her boundary for not wanting to talk about work immensely, but you couldn’t help yourself now. There was always a line she hesitated to cross with you when talking about work, or even her past. 

Like if she showed you that side of herself, you’d never look at her the same way. 

“I uh, I was taken.”

“Taken?”

“I don’t remember a lot, but it was a pretty far distance. Must’ve happened there.”

Your movements slow, like you’re physically processing her words. 

“You were taken?” You ask again. 

Natasha nods once, eyes fixed somewhere on the ground. “It was quick,” she says. “One second I was with Clint, in the back of this truck, then…” She trails off, jaw tightening. “He had me.”

“He?”

“Ultron.”

The name feels heavier hearing it from her. Now it wasn’t something filtered through headlines or anchors, the sole word you’d been hearing for weeks on the news. This was something Natasha had dealt with face-to-face, something that had physically harmed her. Your stomach churns, and you try not to let too much emotion take over, keeping your composure. 

You dig through the first aid kit with one hand, still keeping your hand firmly pressed into her shoulder. You apply a thin layer of antiseptic before changing the current gauze with a fresh bandage. 

Natasha turns around, eyes staring into yours, still sitting with the weight of her confession. Your eyes drift back to the wound on her shoulder. Then to the faint scar on her lip. The bruises you hadn’t questioned.

How much had she chosen not to tell you?

“I’m glad you’re okay, I just…” Your expression softens, voice breaking a little. “You could’ve died.”

Natasha nods, unable to say anything in response to that. You can see her eyes well up with tears, and she swallows hard, a burning sensation travelling down her throat. Her eyes drift back to the ground as you begin cleaning up from your first aid kit. 

“There’s something else,” Natasha says. “It’s not an injury. This was after.”

You nod in understanding, urging her to continue. You make room next to her, setting the first aid kit on the ground, the mattress dipping beneath you slightly as you sit down. Your eyes scan over her face, trying to read her. 

“Steve and I, we were on top of the city, as it was in the air, it was getting harder to breathe. Pieces were falling off, people were still down there, and still in the city,” She cut herself off, shaking her head slightly. “It was bad, and we just…”

You don’t interrupt.

“I remember looking down,” she says. “And thinking, this is it.” 

Natasha lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, like she’s in disbelief that she’s even telling you this.

“I’ve been in bad situations before,” she continues, eyes distant. “But with this, there wasn’t a play, no way to fight it. No one was coming up with a solution. And I just,” Natasha lets out an exhale. “I was ready.”

“What?” You blurt out, frowning.  

You feel something twist painfully in your chest. Your hand inches forward, settling on her thigh, taking in the gravity of her words. You lean in closer, clinging to the sound of her voice, trying to process everything. “Natasha, I-”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, listen.” She takes a deep breath, debating whether or not she should say her next words. If she were you, she’d want to hear them. 

“I didn’t think about you.”

Your face is an unreadable expression, and Natasha forces herself to look away from you and your widened eyes, the sadness beginning to grow in them. She can’t bear it. 

“I didn’t think about anything,” she says. Her jaw tightens. “I just stood there and waited for it to be over.”

The sickly feeling that’d been with you since she’d been gone returns, but not for the reason she’s explaining. You don’t care that she didn’t think about you, about your relationship.

It’s something worse.

Your breath catches, and you feel yourself pull away. You can’t look at her.

Your mouth opens to speak, but you can’t find any words. You swallow, shaking your head slightly, like you’re trying to physically make sense of what she just said. “You were just going to let it happen?”

Her life, her precious, valuable life, wasn’t something worth holding onto in her eyes. 

“I keep thinking about it,” Natasha admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ever since. And I can’t fix it.”

Your brows pull together. “Fix what?”

“I can’t find a reason to make it better. And then I come back here,” she adds, quieter again. “To you. When I didn’t even-” Natasha cuts herself off, biting her lip, refusing to let any more words escape. 

You stare at her, silence filling the room, all except for her quiet breaths. You watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, her eyes that were covered with guilt.

What mattered was that she was still here. That she had come back home. 

“I don’t- I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising. “I don’t want just to be where you come back to. I want to understand what you’re going through. Even if it’s something like this, even if it scares me.”

Natasha studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if you mean it. If what she’s said isn’t too much for you to handle. 

“It should’ve mattered more,” she insists. “When I have this whole life here,” she weakly gestures between the two of you. “When I have you.”

You shake your head. It seems like she’s already decided the answer to this. You reach for her, intertwining her fingers with yours. Her hands are tense and cold, but your warmth spreads. 

“You called me. When you probably shouldn’t have with something that dangerous. That doesn’t seem like I don’t matter to you.”

“I know,” you say, but it comes out uneven. Your grip tightens around her hand. “I just… I don’t think this is something you could’ve controlled.”

Her mind flashes back. Her lungs struggling for air, Steve’s solemn face. The peace in her heart where there should’ve been devastation. All she could focus on was the view, grateful that this would be the last thing she laid her eyes on. 

“And as for me,” you add, “I don’t need to be the last thing on your mind for this to be real. I don’t care about that. I know that you love me, Natasha.”

Her breath catches slightly, and you pull one of her hands into you, resting your forehead on her skin, your eyes closing. Her hand moves to your face, holding your cheek with her hand, fingers hooking underneath your jaw. She can’t believe you, your words, the gentle look of love in your eyes, all just for her. 

“I’ve always known the risks of your job. I know the line of work you’re in, and I know your safety isn’t promised when this is your life. I know what that’s cost you,” you say softly, eyes locking with hers. 

Tears well up over green irises, and she bites the inside of her cheek, trying to contain herself. 

Her shoulders drop, tension easing just slightly, and her hand pulls away from your face, her shared warmth with yours disappearing. 

“I still should’ve thought of you,” Natasha whispers.

“You came back,” you say. “That’s the only part I care about.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief, colliding with the tears that stay glossed over. She looks at you like you’re not understanding a single word she says. 

And maybe you aren’t. You can’t understand the way she felt standing there, waiting for the end. Only she could. 

And as much as you want to reach into her body and fix the way she was feeling, you can’t.

Instead, you just reach for her. Your hand hovers for a second before it lands, like you’re not sure she’ll let you. Your fingers brush her wrist. “Hey.”

Natasha doesn’t move. Just sits there, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like she’s holding back, like she’s debating whether or not she deserves your soft touch, your kind words. Her lower lip trembles as she looks back at you. 

“I should’ve-” she starts, but the words fall apart before they can fully form. She breaks first, leaning into you. Her forehead hits lightly against your collarbone before she settles there, breath uneven against your skin.

“It’s okay,” you mumble, your face tucked into the side of her head. You pull back just enough to look at her, your hand sliding to her cheek, brushing away tears she didn’t even notice falling. Her skin is warm. Damp beneath your fingers. 

You press a kiss to the side of her face, and she leans in to kiss you. Her lips move with yours, slow and careful, breathing the scent of you in like she needs it. You taste the salt from her tears and savor the softness of her skin, her hands finding their way back to your face. 

When she finally pulls back, it’s only an inch, her eyes fluttering shut. She presses her forehead to yours. 

The rest of the night falls quiet, and your room floods with darkness. Shadows stretch across the walls as everything slows.

Natasha’s pressed up against you, one arm draped heavy over your waist, the other tucked between you to avoid her shoulder. Her face rests warm against your back, her breath soft and uneven at first, then gradually steadying.

There’s a quiet understanding between you. There are still things she hasn’t said, things you don’t understand yet. The unspoken promise to continue lingers in the air. 

But all of that could wait. 

Your hand moves slowly over her arm, tracing familiar patterns into her skin. Reassuring yourself as much as her that this is real, that you’re both still here. Natasha’s breathing evens out, until you can hear the moment she drifts completely. 

You feel the weight of her settling fully against you, and you tighten your grip, just slightly. 

And she stays.

-