ImTiredMama

Long after she leaves, you remain on the cold floor.

The wood is turning sticky, a layer of half-dried blood seeping through the cracks in the grain as if it belongs there, pooling beneath your cheek. The sludging heat of red is a stark contrast to the chilling wood, but you hardly notice.

Everything hurts.

Yet, you don’t cry.

You never do.

There is almost a sick thrill to the pain that blossoms like love inside your chest as your lungs struggle to draw breath.

You really should get up…

It is the logical thing to do. No matter what happened, no matter how much it hurts, you need to get up.

But you don’t.

Don’t know if you ever will again.

So, you remain down, like the dog you are. Floating around in the tense silence that threatens to consume you whole.

That’s when you notice it.

The light streaming through the slim window like a beacon.

Slivers of warmth wrap around you, embracing you in a kindness you could never afford. It shines across your skin, blocking in your body as square shapes draw along the wooden floor around you.

You wonder if it means something, if only for a moment. Maybe it’s a sign, one last effort from the universe to tell you to continue, to fight.

But the thought passes quickly.

The truth is-

There is no message.

No sign.

No kindness.

And no care.

No one cares.

Even as it repeats like a mantra inside your head as you succumb to the sticky wooden flooring, you almost think she’ll come running back- begging for forgiveness and cradling you in her arms as you bleed her love all over her.

That she’ll see you.

And only you.

Just for a little while, as the storm clouds pass.

But you’re alone.

And you will remain alone.

Until the day she kills you.

But it’s alright.

That day will come soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah right…

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

The rules.

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

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

“Well done, darling. Thank you.”

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

Wanda is an anomaly in your preferably predictable life.

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

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

“Where are we going?”

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

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

“Wan-”

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

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

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

You sigh your agreement.

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

“Come here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I fear those will have to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re greedy.

You want more.  

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least you think she’s dreaming…

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

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

Needs you.

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

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

“You feel so good, baby Bambi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she known the entire time?

Were you not supposed to wake up?

Is she mad at you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you do what mommy tells you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you go, good girl!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl. Mommy will train you well.”

You have a long weekend ahead of you.

The quiet jingle swishes back and forth with the weight of the door. It’s changed tune so many times since you’ve been here that you’ve almost lost count. With every day, the screws holding it fast seem to loosen just a fraction.

On your first day, it called out with clarity. Newly purchased and hung up with a far too loud drill, nothing to obscure its annoying tone as you hid in a corner that quickly became yours and yours alone.

Now it’s barely a bell. It sounds more like the creak of a door after a fresh coat of paint the night before.

The other pets don’t notice.

Why would they?

Most of them are barely there long enough to smell the brewing of afternoon coffee.

You’re the last of your group.

New faces enter every day: pets, attendees, owners, all a blurry flow by now.

They disappear like sand between your fingertips. Slowly trickling past, but the weight… The weight stays. As if the sand isn’t truly gone, merely a memory.

It’s fine.

You didn’t really like them anyway.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the pet café is thick, the sort of air that settles on your tongue like a paperweight. Natasha and Wanda have spent the better part of an hour pretending it doesn’t bother them.

Truth be told, Natasha wants to gag.

It’s not just thick from a lack of circulation, but heavy with what could only be the mix of a dozen pets’ fur. It’s as if all the hair decided to join forces against the poor air conditioners scattered above, clogging them and forcing the machinery to work overtime. It would explain the horrible vibrating sound that seems to be coming from all of them.

Wanda isn’t doing any better. The smooth surface of Wanda´s wedding ring spins along her ring finger. Initially cool to the touch, it’s now turned lukewarm with friction. A sniffle accompanied her every word, leaving the deep red of her nose exposed. Her mild allergy to the puppy wrapped around her leg overtook the conversation more often than not.

At first, the young man seemed sweet, his puppy status clear given the floppy ears, wagging tail, and sharp canines. However, as the meeting drags on, Wanda finds herself increasingly annoyed by his presence.

His tail, though beautiful, is coarse and matted as it knocks against the younger redhead’s leg. The fur dragged across her ankle, back and forth, back and forth, following the rhythm of his mindless wagging. The weight of it is on the verge of too much yet too little, leaving an irritating limbo state somewhere between itchy and ticklish.

Wanda lost interest in the conversation long ago. Numbers and statistics from last year float somewhere above her head as she drifts her eyes across the room in an attempt to distract herself.

The pet café was a corner shop on the outskirts of town. Aside from the tunnel system of connected dog houses lining the walls, and the plush beds tucked away in corners, the layout was reminiscent of every other run-of-the-mill coffee shop. Tables neatly arranged in rows, soothing music drowning out the sound of grinding coffee beans, and groups of all sizes mingling.

Pets roam around freely, an array of different personalities and classifications crawling along the floor. Some beg for attention and preen under praise, while others hide shyly behind furniture. Though Wanda thought they all looked rather sweet, none held her interest for long.

Natasha drifted on the same boat as her eyes swept the floor. Carl from finance had overdone his presentation forever ago. His gruff frame leaning against the table with his elbows tucked tight to his side, making himself look like an insecure idiot. Nonetheless, Natasha lets him drone on, his words clinging to buzz words and trembling positivity.

Her heel taps repetitively against the linoleum flooring. It drums a pattern gently, tapping, then dragging, then tapping again for counts of three before repeating. Her pant leg shifts with the movement, adding an additional layer of sound as it rubs against itself.

Natasha doesn’t care much for pets. It wasn’t anything personal against any of them, she simply didn’t see the need for one herself.

However, she has a weakness.

A weakness that will soon be exploited if the teeth currently lodged in her heel had any say on the matter.

────୨ৎ────

Someone is tapping their fucking foot way too loudly.

It’s periodic, yet never-ending. Drumming and dragging, vibrating the floor all the way to your corner. Your hands sink into the cushion beneath you, softness seeping through and absorbing your limbs whole. However, underneath it all, you can feel it. Thudding against the pads of your fingertips.

The only thing missing is a damn snare.

Ire settles in the grind of your teeth, your ears jumping, tail flickering where it drags across the cold floor.

You know where it’s coming from. They would be hard to miss from a mile away, even if you had your eyes closed and spun around in a circle three times.

The two redheaded women sit at a table in the far end of the café. A man accompanies them, but he seems like a bore in comparison.

Long cascading curls fall down the back of one of their chairs, red hair shining unnaturally bright in the café’s warm mood light. You can’t see her face from where she sits with her back turned, but her bouncing leg is certainly obvious.

Then there was the one with sunglasses perched perfectly on her red nose. She is vaguely familiar in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. The sunglasses hide just enough of her eyes to leave a feeling of unease as you trek forward. Her beauty was unquestionable, a small cluster of freckles spreading along her flawless skin like glitter, but you didn’t care much. They oozed power in a way only businesswomen can.

You hate them most of all- with their fancy suits, expensive watches, and snotty attitudes to match.

Pets cower away as you stroll forward. A low grumble rumbles through you, your teeth on full display as you lick along the ridges in annoyance. Your tongue runs along the top row, snagging slightly on your sharp canine before continuing in a self-soothing manner along the points and divots.

Your hands pad gently, silently, as your muscles tense in preparation.

When you strike, it’s fast.

Fast enough for the puppy resting against the other woman’s legs to jump up and run away with his tail tucked.

The groan of plastic as you clamp down does little to deter you. You press yourself closer, sliding against her pant leg, pushing your shoulders where they land against the top of her foot. The leg beneath your grasp shakes gently, halfheartedly attempting to dislodge you while your teeth only dig deeper. You grumble, your breath coating her shin in puffs, refusing to let go.

That’s what she gets for interrupting your nap.

A chuckle, deep and heady, floats somewhere above you.

It’s the only warning you get before you're swept off the ground, heel still dangling from your teeth.

────୨ৎ────

Wanda had seen you make your advance, slinking through parting crowds, ears low and hackles raised. Her pearly white teeth were digging into the soft flesh of her bottom lip in a poor attempt to stifle her self-satisfied reaction as you jumped her wife.

It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, given the bellowing laugh Natasha let out once she realized whose teeth were currently holding her high heel hostage.

The pair has met you before.

The café is a regular spot for them outside of office hours. Previous to their current, very demanding and time-consuming, client, they would come by every Saturday. However, with their recent work hours, they haven’t been able to stop by in months.

Wanda assumed you would be long gone by now, as did her wife, given the delighted flicker of surprise in Natasha’s eyes as she picked your grumbling form off the floor.

Natasha’s hands wrap around your body. One of her palms glides against the small hairs on your lower stomach, pushing you tighter against her even as you hiss under your breath. The plastic vibrates with your muffled grumbles, clicking against your teeth as you regard the memorable redhead in annoyance. Her other hand holds the tip of her heel, trying to coax you to let go, even as you ignore her advances.

It reminds Wanda of the first time they met you.

You had used Natasha’s legs as a shield after picking a fight with a puppy twice your size. Back then, you had refused to let her pick you up, hissing and swatting at her as she tried to help you. The staff had been horrified, practically begging on their knees for Mrs. Romanov to forgive them for your poor behavior and threatening you with a spray bottle, all while you ignored them and continued to torment the oversized puppy.

Wanda knew in that moment -with Natasha reassuring the staff that she didn’t mind, and you still hissing at her even as you wrapped your tail around her leg- it was love at first sight for the other redhead.

Further proven now with you perched on Natasha´s thighs while she teased you. Bringing her hand higher up the heel until your hackles raised to a sneer, then backing away until your lips settled, and repeating the cycle while the hand against your stomach scratched you soothingly.

“What are you still doing here, Miss Hissy?” You ignore her, content to growl and grumble even as you sag against Natasha in lieu of an answer.

Carl sits beside the two of you, puttering and gaffing as Natasha’s attention disregards him completely.

Wanda hums in amusement under her breath, reaching across the table, she runs her finger along the ridge of your nose. You’re considerably less hissy with her, but you do make sure to send her a warning glare even as she smiles down at you.

Today just got a whole lot better.

Wanda clicks her tongue to garner the attention of Carl. He’s leaning away from the pair of you, looking mighty peeved at how the evening played out. It was poor manipulation of him to use their preferred coffee shop to his advantage anyway. A promotion is the last thing he has coming for him.

“You can find your way back to the office yourself, can’t you? I fear my wife, and I have a pet to settle in.” Neither of you hears Wanda- you being too busy trying to headbutt Natasha while Natasha tries to tickle you into submission.

Wanda walks the annoyed employee to the door, he knows better than to put up a fight. Subtly, she slides toward the counter with you two distracted.

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There is no forgetting Natasha Romanov.

From the first time you laid your eyes on her, to now, with her hands surrounding you, you can recognize her scent from anywhere. The heady vanilla and smoky whisky like an aphrodisiac seeping through your pores as her nose glides against an invisible path on the back of your neck. Soft puffs of breath leave shivers down your spine.

It also puts a name to the face in front of you: Wanda Maximoff, the beautiful perfectionist with a hint of sadism practically bleeding from her deceivingly kind eyes.

You have no idea what’s happening.

One moment you’re on Romanov´s lap, then in the next, they’re walking away from you again.

That part isn’t surprising.

They all do it in the end.

What you don’t understand is why you’re in a fucking carrier cage right now.

One of the owners had ushered you away as Romanov left with an apologetic smile, her wife waving her away from you. You had let go of her heel then, though you secretly wanted to hold on longer, force her to stay with you, but you didn’t.

You never do.

It had been a quick succession of events from then.

Your favorite toy, stuffed in a metal crate, was annoying but unsurprising. They always sent pets away with a toy, you’re just pissed someone got yours. Well, you were pissed until they decided to stuff you into the same damn box, so now you’re really pissed.

The cage wobbles and swings as they carry you out. The afternoon sun paints the sky with gold, birds chirping among the scenery, before it’s rudely taken away from your view as you stare into the leather of a car seat…

With Natasha Romanov staring right back at you.

What the fuck.