hey, sailor

But at some point, Natasha had started seeking you out more frequently.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, your mom kicked me out of our room,” she murmurs apologetically against your neck after slipping into your bed one warm summer night. “Not my fault, baby, I’m sorry.”

Your bedroom is dim, your childhood nightlight struggling to light up the room. You hum gently as Natasha’s arms wrap around your waist, her front pressed against your back, and for a moment you think she’s getting ready to shut her eyes and fall asleep, but then a wandering hand brushes the hem of your soft sleep shirt, fingertips cool against your abdomen, and you gasp softly.

“Dad,” you whisper, and Natasha hums lazily. “Dad, you can’t. Mom’s next door.”

“She’s not gonna hear,” your stepdad says, though it does little to soothe your worries. The same wandering hand starts to inch upwards, and when she finally grasps at your chest, you can’t help but arch your back against her. Your ass presses against her front — with the thin material of both of your pyjamas, you can feel her hips stir against you as she stiffens under your touch. She hisses softly. “Fuck, baby, it’s like you want this more than me.”

“You have to be quick,” you mumble, but now Natasha’s up, pushing you onto your back until you’re looking up at her with wide eyes. 

Your chest rises and falls steadily with every breath, and you glance at the door. It’s unlocked. If you were too loud, there was every chance of being discovered, and that couldn’t happen at any cost.

Natasha lifts your legs up and you wordlessly acquiesce, lifting your hips for her to shimmy your pants off. “Pretty baby,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your calf. “My pretty little girl.” Next are your panties, a frilly white pair that Natasha had mentioned offhandedly once about finding cute and girly, so you’d bought three more hoping she’d be able to take them off.

You squirm with warmth. “Take it off,” you demand, voice wavering. Natasha huffs.

“Should get up and leave just for that,” she says, though without any real anger, and then your panties slide down your thighs too easily. “I’m your fucking dad, I make the rules, okay?”

The firmness of her voice makes you throb. “Y-yes, Daddy,” you reply, and you see Natasha’s brow soften. She leaves another kiss on your calf, and then she’s spreading your legs apart with her work-rough hands.

“Look at that pretty pussy,” Natasha says, almost to herself, and a hand absently trails to your cunt, gently petting with two wide fingers and spreading your folds. A loud exhale leaves her nose when her fingers come back sticky with arousal. “Already wet. Why’re you wet, baby?”

You whimper softly. Natasha’s pulling her pants down, and God, you can’t even look at her cock with the way your cheeks are burning.

Natasha settles on top of you, bracing herself with a hand, the other on your waist. From this close you can see her lips twitch into a smirk, something the low light was hiding. “You wanted Daddy to come to your little bed and fuck you, huh?” but judging by her smile, she already knows the answer. Her hand on your waist squeezes roughly, making you cry out. 

Instantly her hand flies to your mouth, clamping tightly, and both of your eyes are wide. “Shh! You want your mom coming in?” Her hips press against yours. You moan softly at the feeling of her nudging at your cunt, leaking pre-cum all over. “Stay quiet.”

And then your stepdad is slipping into you so easily with how wet you are, making you stretch around her, and you’re gasping behind her palm, tears prickling in your eyes. Natasha kisses your forehead softly as she pushes herself in, inch by inch, and then she’s completely in you, soothing an ache deep inside you that you hadn’t even realized you had.

“Good girl,” she says in a hushed whisper against your temple, leaving another kiss. “Took me so well, baby, good girl.” The praise makes your thighs shake a little.

She pulls out just enough, and then she’s fucking you roughly, her other hand still on your waist and groping hard. Your bed creaks with every movement, and you see the furrow of Natasha’s brow as she tries to balance the need to be quiet with the need to be as deep in you as possible. 

Your cunt clenches around her with each deep thrust as she drives her hips forward relentlessly, and the bed starts creaking louder, headboard hitting the shitty thin wall behind you, but it's your moans that are too loud, even muffled behind her palm. You’re sure you’re drooling as your stepdad pulls her hand away to grab at your face.

“You wanna fucking wake her up?” Natasha hisses, though not unkindly, but her hips aren’t stopping and the heat in your stomach is getting stronger. Her mouth moves to your neck, nipping against sensitive skin as she slams into you harder, like she wants to fuck all the moans out of you.

“D-Daddy…” you whine high in your throat, then bite your lip to stop a loud moan in your throat, but it’s almost impossible with the way her cock is hitting the perfect spot inside you, the spot that makes your hips lift off the bed involuntarily.

“Shut up,” Natasha says, and then her fingers are prying your mouth open, your jaw hanging as she presses two fingers against your wet tongue for you to suck. She’s still fucking you, a little faster now with desperation, but you know how to do this, how to use your mouth, Natasha taught you, so you suck on her fingers with little whimpers trapped behind them.

The hand at your waist slides to your hip, steadying your bucking with a firm grip as she picks up the pace. Her fingers stifle your desperate moans as your tongue swirls around them. Her cock keeps hitting the spot that makes your limbs tighten and your stomach flutter, and now you definitely know you’re drooling down your chin. 

You can tell she’s close from the way her eyes screw shut, her brows knitting. The heat in your abdomen is coming to a head, too, but her hips impossibly speed up, fucking you raw and gasping, and suddenly your orgasm hits you full force, washing over you from head to toe.

Your eyes widen. You moan as loudly as you possibly can with Natasha’s fingers still in your mouth. You’re squeezing around her cock and Natasha lets out a whimper, her lower lip trembling before she lets out one, two soft gasps, and she’s cumming inside you, your legs shaking with the sensation. 

She lays on top of you for a moment, gasping for air greedily, before she slowly slides her fingers out of your mouth, saliva cooling in the warm bedroom air.

“Fuck,” Natasha says, her lips twitching into a real grin now. Her cock is still warm, throbbing gently inside you, and the sensation makes you tingle a little. You’re smiling a little too now, even with your lips wet with spit, but Natasha leans down to kiss your mouth clean anyway. When she rests her head on your shoulder, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, you almost want to wrap your legs and flip her over, but you’re falling asleep yourself.

“Was I too loud?” you ask in a sleepy mumble, now much, much quieter. Natasha hums against your skin, and you can almost hear her smile.

You knew it was a risky idea. Your stepdad said she’d be going to the store to pick up a couple of things and that she’d be back soon. You should’ve known then that it was a dumb thing to do.

But you don’t care. The all-consuming heat in your lower belly is too much to ignore. Every shift of your legs spreads wetness down your thighs, your cunt aching with the need to be touched, so you’ve thrown caution to the wind. She wouldn’t be home that soon, surely. Enough time for you to touch yourself until the tension in your tummy uncoils.

You lift your hips off the bed helplessly as your fingers work yourself, your cunt aching and weeping for your touch. You try circling your swollen clit, hiding a gasp with a bite of your lip, but the angle’s just not right, it’s never right.

Huffing with frustration, you spread your legs a little wider. Your fingers slowly circle your entrance, gathering arousal until they’re slick enough to slip inside. A groan rumbles from your chest without you realizing, and distantly you hope you aren’t being too loud. Your fingers try to curl against the spot you like, but this time you really are loud when a moan slips from your mouth. You slowly build up a rhythm, hips lifting off the bed with every curl of your fingers, until you can just about feel your release starting to crest–

“Am I interrupting something?”

Cold runs through your veins. You scramble upright, desperate to cover yourself with your sheets, and look up to find your stepdad standing in the gap of the door, arms crossed across her chest and failing to suppress a grin on her face. 

When did the door open? You swear you’d made sure to close it before you started.

You squirm under your sheets, mortified. You’ve always liked Natasha, even back when she was just one of your mother’s ‘friends’. She’s the ideal stepfather, you think. Easygoing, but kind and protective enough that she easily slot into the role of father in your house.

Not to mention handsome. You aren’t blind, after all. With her short hair, the ripple of muscle under her skin whenever she was reaching into a cabinet too high, the raspiness of her voice before she’d had her morning coffee, it was a small miracle that you hadn’t accidentally revealed how you felt about her.

“N-Nothing happened,” you stammer, and Natasha raises her brows. She steps into the room, quietly closing the door behind her with her foot, and you’re suddenly aware of how small your bedroom is, because she's already standing at the foot of your bed.

You wriggle uncomfortably. Your cheeks are hot enough to burn. “Kiddo, I’m not blind,” she says, a note of teasing in her voice. You want to melt into the floor and die. “I’m not telling you what you can and can’t do in your own home, but at least keep the door shut, yeah?”

“You’re the worst,” you huff, but a smile twitches on your lips and then Natasha’s smirking too. You kick one of your stuffed animals at her, which she catches with one hand and places back down on your bed.

“Hey, I got that one for you. Don’t kick him around like that,” she tuts, but there’s no admonishment in her voice. She gestures to your bed, and after making sure the sheets are covering you properly, you nod, and she takes a seat.

Her hands are on her knees. Natasha looks at you after a long moment. “You always do that whenever the house is empty?” she finally asks. Her brows are raised like she’s being genuine about it, but the question makes your lungs constrict. You’re already regretting letting her sit down.

“You’re so weird,” you say, because it is weird, she’s your mother’s husband. She’s known you for most of your life. You still remember the way she cleaned the scrapes on your knees when you were a little girl, when she helped pick your dress for junior prom, and now it’s all culminated in her walking in on you touching yourself. Wonderful.

“Hey, I’m not shaming,” Natasha replies, a little grin on her lips. She pushes the hair back from her eyes, and, fuck, did she always look that handsome or is your brain still foggy with arousal? “It’s normal for a kid your age. Healthy, probably.”

“I’m an adult,” you frown at her, though you feel less like one right now, with the way you’re pouting so petulantly. “And it’s– ugh, it’s just weird, okay? I don’t need my stepdad coming in and giving me a pep talk about sex.”

“It’s not sex, though,” Natasha replies smoothly. She shifts onto the bed, crossing her legs. It feels strangely like you’re a little girl again, sharing secrets at a sleepover. “Touching yourself is different to sex.” Then she leans back again, her grin turning teasing. “Not that you’d know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you’re demanding, though now you’re grinning too.

“I mean,” Natasha says, then pauses. She’s got an expression on her face that looks like she’s mulling something over, something you can’t decipher. “No, never mind.”

“What?” you demand, a little hotly now. Your stepdad’s never kept secrets from you, as far as you know, and the thought makes something twist in your chest. She’s supposed to be open with you, she’s your stepfather, after all. What kind of secrets could a parent have from their daughter?

Natasha pushes back the hair from her eyes again. Her demeanor isn’t nervous, no, she’s never nervous, but it’s like she’s contemplating. “You’re doing it all wrong,” she finally says with a sigh.

“Doing what wrong?” The feeling in your chest tightens, though not uncomfortably.

Nataasha looks at you like you’re playing some kind of joke on her. “What– what do you mean, ‘doing what wrong?’” she scoffs. She shifts a little bit more so she’s closer to you. Her voice drops into something just an octave below a murmur. “I mean you’re touching yourself wrong.”

The tightening in your chest catches your breath. Your mouth goes impossibly dry, and you almost forget you’re naked from the waist down underneath your sheets. For a moment all you can do is blink, swallowing in an attempt to wet your throat while your brain gropes for words to form a sentence. Eventually, your brain settles on, “I-I am?”

Now it’s Natasha’s turn to look embarrassed, her brows furrowing in thought. “I mean, you… it’s not bad, but from that angle you’re not going to be able to touch your clit right.” Then she chuckles a little, shaking her head, already opting out. “You’re not gonna get it, kid, forget it.”

“No,” you reply almost instantly. Your stomach feels like it’s doing flips. “No, I…” The words falter in your throat. If you don’t do something now, you’ll never get the chance again. 

“Show me,” is what you force from your mouth, and you instantly stiffen at the way Natasha’s brows raise, her bouncing knee going completely still.

For a long, horrible moment the room is still, and you think you’ve ruined everything. You’ve ruined your relationship with your stepfather, and she was going to get up and leave and wait until your mother came home so she could tell her.

That isn’t what happens.

“Baby,” Natasha finally breathes, and, fuck, she’s not called you that since you were little. She’s staring at you with that indecipherable expression again, her lips twitching like she’s trying to say something but can’t quite choose the right words. Finally, after a pause, her lips press into a serious line. “I need to know if you’re fucking with me right now.”

She’s giving you a chance to take it back, you realize, and the thought makes your heart swoop stupidly. Even now, presented with some impossible situation, Natasha was considering your feelings above all. The knot in your chest tightens. “Not fucking with you,” you say, more breath than words. “I… I’m an adult, I know what I’m asking for.”

“I don’t think you do, baby,” and the pet name makes you clench around nothing. Her chest is rising and falling with every low breath. “You’re not thinking right.” And you watch, your stomach lurching, as she moves to stand, to turn and leave, but you can’t let that happen. If she slipped from your grasp now, she’d never look at you the same again.

Your hand desperately grasps at her wrist, pulling her back. You’re grasping for words but coming back empty, your brain like a leaky faucet, but Natasha’s looking at you with something like confusion in her eyes, and you can’t stand it.

You pull her hand closer. It rests on your cheek, her thumb at the corner of your lip. You blink up at her.

“Dad, please,” you whimper.

You’ve never called her Dad before. First it was Aunty Nat, back when you first met her as just your mother’s friend, then Natasha, and now Nat, only Nat — she never pushed you into calling her something else, even when she became your stepfather.

Natasha’s eyes flicker with something. Her lips part with soft, deep breaths, steadying herself, and then her thumb brushes your lips, slow, like she’s trying to memorise every ridge. “I need you to– you have to say yes,” her voice comes out a little shakily, nothing like how unflappable she usually is, always in command of every situation. “I need to know it’s your choice.”

“It is,” you mumble. Your heart feels like it’ll burst out of your chest. “Please, I’ve never–”

She doesn’t let you finish. Natasha practically lunges at you, pulling your sheets away until she could press right up against your naked body, already hot like a live wire. Her face finds your neck, nosing against your skin as she holds you delicately, both hands on your waist. 

“You’re a tease, you know that?” she mumbles against your neck, and one of her hands comes up behind your back to find the clasp of your bra. Her lips ghost your skin, and then your bra is sliding down your shoulders like it melted off. “Let me look at your pretty tits, baby.”

You mewl softly when her hands cup your breasts gently, almost reverently. She’s looking up at you, gauging your reaction to her soft gropes and squeezes. “It feels better when you play with them,” Natasha murmurs, a thumb circling over your nipple until it pebbles just enough to take hold of. She pinches gently, watching it turn rosy, and you whimper in lieu of agreement. She smiles softly. “Like this. Play with them for me, baby. It’ll feel good.”

Natasha moves your hands to where hers had just been, watching you shyly squeeze at your own chest. She nods slowly when you roll your nipple between your fingers, and when a moan slips from your mouth, Natasha hums. “Feels good?” she asks quietly. You nod wordlessly, heat tickling your lower belly, and she grins. “Sit back for me, angel, let me show you something.”

You scoot backwards, your thighs still pressed together with some sliver of shyness, and Natasha leans back on her knees, settling between your legs.

Her hands find your thighs, warm and calloused from whatever it was she did at work, and squeeze at the soft fat. “Jesus,” she says, punctuating it with another pinch. Your legs instinctively spread apart, a moan cresting in your throat just from the sheer roughness of her touch.

“Nat, please–”

“I’m your dad, baby, don’t call me that,” Natasha murmurs, and then her hands are pushing your legs apart, thumbs pressing into your skin hard enough to bruise, and her teeth find your inner thigh. She bites at your flesh like a hound, and your hips instinctively jut upwards.

“N– Daddy, please!” you whine like a child, the new word clumsy in your mouth, and Natasha groans against your skin.

“Fuck, it sounds so good when you say it,” her breath comes hot against your thigh. “Gonna teach my big girl how to touch herself.” Her tongue next, licking the teeth marks on your thigh that thrum painfully. “Daddy’s gonna make you feel good.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing. You can feel her breath against your cunt, so close to where you need it yet so far, and again your hips lift off your bed desperately. “Daddy, please, I can’t…”

“Need it bad, baby?” she asks, voice soft, and you nod dizzily. Her hand creeps closer to your thigh until you feel her fingers brush against your labia, slow and achingly soft, a parent’s touch. And then her lips are wrapped around your clit, your stepdad’s first time kissing you, and the tickle of heat in your stomach flares wildly.

“Oh god,” reflexively slips from your mouth, and Natasha grins. Her tongue licks a stripe from your quivering entrance to your clit, circling it slowly, and your legs are almost jelly. “D-Daddy, it’s– oh god.” Her other hand is still on your leg, and you blink blearily as she slips it over her shoulder.

“You got a vibrator?” she asks you, punctuating her question with a suck of your clit, and you shake your head with a whine. “That’s okay. Next time I’ll just bring your mom’s.”

Next time?

“Pay attention,” Natasha says, her voice a deep rumble, and your syrupy thoughts snap back to her. She shows you two fingers on her left hand, her middle and ring finger. Her wedding band, gold and guilty, glints in the light. “These two. You were using the wrong fingers earlier. Pay attention, baby.”

You watch, enraptured, as she slowly pushes them in past the initial tightness. You gasp at the thickness, the way your cunt widens around them immediately, legs trembling, but Natasha kisses your clit gently through it all.

You tremble when you feel the cool metal of her ring against your entrance. Your abdomen feels fluttery now, not used to this new touch, but then her fingers curl and you’re trembling for a whole different reason. “Fuck!” you’re almost shouting, and Natasha has the audacity to laugh quietly.

“It’s good, right?” Her fingers curl again, so deft and precise with its angle, and you nod giddily.

“Please, Daddy, more,” you’re moaning, and Natasha finally shows some mercy. She takes your clit between her lips and starts fucking you with an unfaltering rhythm. She’s got her wrist bent at an angle you could never achieve by yourself, pressing hard against that sweet spot every time she drives her fingers entirely into you. Your head is foggy with pleasure and your tongue dumb in your mouth, the only sounds from your lips being whimpers and gasps.

Natasha looks up at you, her eyes piercing, and your cunt clenches around her fingers when you meet her gaze. Her tongue circles your clit again and again, and something like a knot tightens in your abdomen, so much stronger than usual. Your hips are following the rhythm of her thrusts even though you’re trying to be good and keep still, but Natasha hums softly against your wet cunt and suddenly you can’t even think of trying to hold back.

The knot in your abdomen twists itself tighter. The hot, wet heat of Natasha’s tongue on your clit makes your brain feel like TV static. Any thoughts of guilt, wrongness, disappear like wisps of smoke as you feel something stirring in you, a jolt of electricity.

“Daddy,” you whimper, and Natasha moans at the sound, mouth still on your clit, and the vibration wrenches a gasp from your chest. Your cunt flutters wildly around her, heat tightening even more, and you realize you’re close, like a lit match held too close to a firework. “N-No, Daddy, I’m gonna… please, Daddy, it’s–”

But your words are wasted, because Natasha already notices the way your walls twitch, the way your pulse thrums against her fingers, and her thrusts speed up relentlessly. Her lips curve into a smile even while she lavishes your clit with teasing licks that make you feel like you might burst.

Your cunt flutters harder and you squirm, hips lifting off the bed wildly. The stimulation almost hurts but you’re too eager, too desperate to chase your release from earlier, and you feel it all come to a head.

“T-Too much, Daddy, I’m– fuck– I’m cumming, Daddy–”

Natasha doesn’t slow.

Your release bursts through you, thrumming through your entire lower body until your toes are curling, heel of your foot digging into Natasha’s back, leg still draped over her shoulder. Your mouth is open to scream but nothing comes out, and then the heat subsides, leaving you in little waves that make you squeeze around Natasha’s fingers weakly.

You pant, little gasps for air, and then your body goes completely slack, boneless like jelly.

Natasha’s fingers slide out after you finally catch your breath, and she lifts her head up, letting your leg slip off her shoulder. Her hair is a mess, stray hairs stuck to her forehead with sweat, all mussed with effort, and with her clean hand she pushes it out of her eyes. The sight, so mundane even after this, makes you laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, though her lips are twitching into a smile too.

“You need a haircut,” you mumble tiredly, looking up at her with half-lidded eyes, and she smiles.

“Yeah?” Her voice is so handsome, you think tiredly as your eyelids ache with exhaustion. She leans backwards to grab your sheets from where they’d been kicked onto the floor and pulls them over your legs. “Wanna cut it for me, baby?”

Usually your mother cuts her hair. Natasha always sits on the edge of the bathtub as her hair gets cut, always the same boyish length.

She takes you out to lunch as well. It's a little hole-in-the-wall Italian place that she's come to often enough that the waiters know her name. Wanda gives you about twenty different recommendations, and insists on having you try some of hers as well.

"Come on, open up," she says as she pushes her fork toward you. You laugh and open, wrapping your lips around the morsel. "Oop, you got some on your chin, baby."

Wanda swipes her thumb across your skin and brings it to her mouth. You let your gaze linger on the way her lip wraps around the pad of her finger. She catches you watching and gives you a little smile. Your face heats up, and you drop your eyes to your food again.

When you get home, Wanda asks if you want to watch T.V. with her. You end up curled up on the couch together, nestled against her side as she strokes your hair and the sitcom she's addicted to this month plays.

"Are you dating anyone, sweetheart?" Wanda asks casually.

"No," you shrug. "Been too busy with classes."

"That's a shame. You're such a pretty girl. Anyone would be lucky to have you." Wanda sighs and pauses before she continues. "You know, I love your father. But I think he took this trip because he's avoiding me."

"Really?" You furrow your brows. Since they got married last year, you hadn't seen any signs of issues. "Do you think something's up?"

"Nothing too bad," Wanda reassures you. "I think he's annoyed I've been extra needy lately."

"Maybe. He's not exactly the most affectionate, but I assumed you knew that when you married him."

"I did, and he's actually fine in most aspects." Wanda chews on her lip as she decides how to phrase her thoughts. "I started taking something to help with my…arousal. And it's been working, but now I've been pretty eager for it."

You swallow. You suddenly are acutely aware of how close you are to Wanda and that you'd been resting your arm in her lap.

"Well, he should appreciate being able to get laid more often," you try to joke to break the tension.

"He should," Wanda chuckles. Her hand lingers on the back of your neck, her nails scratching softly. You lean into the touch. "I put myself in a silly position today, though."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I didn't really expect us to spend the whole day together, so I took a pill before we left thinking I would get some time to myself…" Wanda licks her lips, eyes falling to her lap. You sit up a bit, finally noticing the bulge tenting her dress a bit.

"Oh, if you need to go take care of that, I don't mind." You fluster.

"I wouldn't want to break up our girl time together," Wanda whispers. You're so close to her that her breath brushes against your cheek. Your breath catches in your throat, held in anticipation.

Even now, inches away from getting it, you don't know if you could admit out loud that you've wanted this, wanted Wanda, for a while. Every logical part of you says to pull away, and you can see the way Wanda's expression shifts as if she's debating whether to push further.

Right before you pull back, Wanda finally murmurs, "Do you want to help mommy?"

The "yes" barely leaves your mouth before her lips are on yours. What follows is a total adrenaline fueled blur. A flurry of clothes being tugged off, lips and teeth on bare skin, panting and groaning filling the living room.

As Wanda nudges your thighs apart and rubs the tip of her cock against your slick pussy, you break through the haze a bit.

"This is wrong," you mumble. The way you're bucking your hips up against her is not very convincing.

"It's okay." Wanda pats your thigh. She moans softly as she collects your wetness and strokes it along her shaft. "We're both adults, and we both want this, right?"

"Yeah, but you're married. To my dad."

"Oh, honey. It's okay. It's not cheating as long as I don't slide my love all the way in, see?" Wanda purrs as she rocks her hips, sliding her cock through your folds but never pushing more than the tip inside.

The phrasing makes you moan, your head falling back against the couch.

Maybe she's right. You're not really fucking, right? It's just foreplay at this point.

The problem is you want more. You want her inside, you want to go all the way. You want to feel her cock pushing into your cunt, the curve of it making her brush against your most sensitive spot with every thrust.

No matter how weird the situation feels, your body is screaming for it. You want every bit of Wanda's love that you can take.

"Please."

"Hm? What do you want, honey?" Wanda pushes her tip a bit further into your eager cunt. You clench around what little she's giving you, and she grunts, hips jerking. "What do you need?"

"Need you, mommy. Need you to fuck me," you whine, fingers digging into her back and legs wrapping around her waist to pull her further into you.

Wanda's lips crash into your as she finally pushes her cock into you. As she starts thrusting, you realize that there's no going back from this moment. But her mumbled words against your lips make you forget about all of that for now.

Years ago on the day you're currently living, July 15th. You were hers. That was until the day she teased, told you that if you ran past the river you would be free. That day you've never run faster, sprinting through the woods towards the rushing sound of water. Eyes strained, pained as you watched her above the water look around for her, expression tight.

If she had just stayed there a few seconds longer you would've drowned, but atlas you fled the area, coughing up your lungs as you stumbled out of the forest.

A week after the day you fled, you were sick. Throwing up every morning, feeling as if the world had crashed down on you seeing as you were so very tired each day. You blamed it on the one in a life time terrorizing experience you just had when you knew it was something else.

Unfortunately for you, ignorance didn't lead to bliss. You soon or later came to terms, though dazed, you did run into a gas store and bought yourself a pregnancy test. Two lines. Each test you took, two lines. Another may cry, toss the test onto the ground. You? You stared at it, calmly placed it into the trash, and moved on. Numb.

8 months later you gave birth to a healthy baby boy, who's now one year old crying in his crib beside your bed. You jostling awake woke him up as well. You breathe out a sigh, shifting out of bed to hold him. Eventually his cries soften, the room becoming silent yet again as you rocked back and forth.

You press a kiss to his forehead, soft and familiar, before lifting him into his chair—the same routine, the same quiet morning rhythm. The stove clicks on, vegetables diced with practiced ease. Every few moments, you glance back, offering him a smile, watching his little legs kick in rhythm with the hum of the kitchen.

But when the meal is ready and you turn around, the warmth drains from your body like a pulled thread.

The bowl slips from your hands—crashing, splintering into porcelain shards across the floor. You don’t flinch. You can’t move. Every muscle locks in place as dread floods your chest, cold and electric. The air feels thick. Heavy. Wrong.

And yet, beneath the fear, something in you stirs—pulls. An ache. A want.

You swallow hard, forcing the name out like it still holds power, “Natasha…”

She’s standing there, silent and steady, your son—her son—cradled in her arms, eyes a perfect match for hers, staring straight through you.

“You ran away too far, детка.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, laced with something heavier than accusation. Something more permanent. Her eyes don’t waver, not even as your knees buckle and you grab the edge of the counter to keep upright.

She steps forward.

Your son—her son—rests against her shoulder, fingers curled in the fabric of her black coat like he’s known her his whole life. Like he trusts her more than he trusts you.

“How did you…” Your voice falters. “No one knew. No one could’ve—”

“I did.” Her tone is quiet, but final. “I always would.”

You don’t know if it’s the heat from the stove or the terror climbing up your spine, but your skin feels like it’s burning. You can’t look at her. But you can’t look away either.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I should’ve been here a long time ago.” She glances down at the baby in her arms. “You kept this from me.”

“I didn’t know if I was running from you, or from what I felt when I was with you.”

Natasha hums, low in her throat, something like amusement—or warning.

“I told you once,” she says, stepping closer, “if you made it across that river, you were free.”

“I made it.”

“You did,” she nods. “But freedom,” her voice lowers, “was never the same thing as gone.”

She stands just a breath away now. The scent of her—cold air, leather, something underneath that never left your skin—hits you like a punch to the gut.

Then, softly, she shifts the child in her arms and murmurs without breaking eye contact:

“Tell me, детка… did you ever really want to be free of me?”

You shake your head, a shuddering breath slipping past your lips as you meet her gaze. Your eyes burn, full of conflict, of truth you wish you could bury.

Yes, you did want to be free. You have wanted it.

But God, you missed her. You missed the quiet steadiness of her arms around you in the dead of night. The way her voice dropped when she called you detka, like the world outside didn’t exist. You missed her touch, the illusion of safety she wrapped around you like a blanket too soft to question.

No one else has made you feel that kind of warmth since. No one else has tried.

It’s been so hard, doing this alone. Carrying a child, raising him in shadows, looking over your shoulder, haunted by both fear and longing. You need someone else. You need… her. But at the same time, another voice inside you—cold, rational, unrelenting—screams the truth: She took you. She chose for you. And now she’s standing in your kitchen like she never stopped being yours. Like she never stole you in the first place.

Your voice cracks as you say it, "you didn’t give me a choice, Natasha.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Not guilt. Never guilt. But maybe something close.

“I gave you freedom,” she says slowly. “You just didn’t know what to do with it.”

You glance down at the broken bowl, then to your son—still calm in her arms, like he senses none of this storm. Or maybe like he’s used to it.

You whisper, almost too softly to hear, “and are you here to take it back?”

Your hand stays frozen on the counter, knuckles white, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. She's so close now, her presence wrapping around you like smoke—heavy, suffocating, familiar.

Her eyes search yours, slow and steady, as if waiting for you to flinch, to say no, to push her back, but you don't. Because some part of you has been waiting, too.

Her hand lifts, brushing your cheek, trailing back into your hair with careful fingers. Gentle, almost reverent. She leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. And then she kisses you.

Not rushed, not rough. Just quiet. Intentional. It’s not a question, it’s a memory, a return, a promise left hanging in the air for too long. Her lips meet yours with the weight of everything you tried to forget, everything you tried to outrun. The kiss is brief, but full—full of years left unsaid, of warmth you still crave and fear in equal measure. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, your breaths tangled.

“I told you,” she murmurs, voice barely audible, “you ran too far.”

You swallow, eyes closed, and whisper back, “And you still found me.”

Your son makes a soft sound against her shoulder, and for a moment, none of it feels dangerous. Just inevitable.

notes ✶⋆.˚ thank you to the anon who sent in this request!! would you, or anyone else like a part two?? send an ask.

The sky above you is a deep, violent red, streaked with clouds like claw marks. The sun setting in the distance, a sight you're too Your ears ring. Your limbs ache. The wind is warm but heavy, thick with the scent of brine, fire, and something sweeter like burning flowers.

And then you feel her. Not the sound of footsteps. Not a shadow. Just a presence. Weight. As if the entire island shifted its breath. You blink up blearily, and there she is. A woman stands a few feet away, half-silhouetted against the molten sky. Her robe flutters in the sea breeze, deep crimson and gold like blood in sunlight. She’s barefoot on the wet sand, but she moves like she belongs here. Like the tide stops for her.

And when you see her, it’s as if the air itself hums—each movement a pluck of invisible strings, her presence a delicate symphony caught between silence and song.

Her gaze locks with yours. Still. Sharp. Watching. You try to sit up. Your elbows tremble beneath you. She tilts her head slightly, not moving closer.

“Where—” Your voice breaks. Too dry. You try again. “Where am I?”

The woman’s eyes don’t soften. If anything, they grow darker.

“The sea brought you to me,” she says, voice low and smooth, with an accent you can’t place. “You belong here now.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—I didn’t mean—”

Her expression doesn't change. If anything, it hardens — not cruelly, but with certainty. As if your protests are merely the buzzing of an insect: expected, insignificant.

“You were meant to come,” she says. “The tides don’t make mistakes.”

She steps toward you, just once, and it’s like gravity shifts. The sand beneath you almost sighs. Your breath catches, but not out of fear. Not exactly. She’s striking, yes. Otherworldly. But it's more than that. There's something pulling at your chest, at the space just beneath your ribs, like an invisible thread has found its tether. She kneels down beside you, the hem of her deep red cloak trailing softly over the wet sand. Her presence presses down, heavy and undeniable. You can feel the weight of her gaze, calm but unyielding, as if she’s already made up her mind.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she says, voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “You’re not lost. You’re here because you belong.”

You pull back, panic bubbling up. “No. You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not what you think I am.”

Her eyes flicker for a moment—curious, maybe amused—but she doesn’t respond.

“I was just a passenger,” you say, voice trembling. “Caught in a storm. I don’t belong here. Please… let me go.”

She studies you quietly, then leans in close enough that you catch the faint scent of salt and something wild beneath it.

“You’re freezing,” she murmurs. “Shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, pulling your soaked clothes tighter around yourself.

Her gaze softens—not with kindness, but with certainty.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can react, her hands find your arms—warm and firm—and she lifts you up effortlessly.

“No, please,” you whisper, trying to push her away, but your strength is gone.

“You’re coming with me,” she says simply, her voice a command wrapped in a promise. "Don't fight me."

She carries you away from the shore, each step measured and unhurried. The village sprawls before you, a collection of dark wooden huts, smoke curling into the crimson sky, and shadows flickering between torches. Eyes glance your way as you pass, villagers wrapped in earth, toned cloaks, faces weathered and unreadable, but no one stops her. No one says a word. It’s as if you belong to her now, and that is enough. Your body presses against hers as she moves through the silent crowd, her grip firm but not cruel. The weight of her presence makes the air thick, charged with something you can’t name. At last, she pauses before a large hut, its doorway carved with symbols you don’t recognize. The scent of burning wood and herbs drifts out.

She sets you down on a wooden chair, rough-hewn and cold against your wet skin. Her gaze lingers on your trembling form, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Drops of seawater drip from your tangled hair, pooling silently onto the worn floorboards beneath you. The salty scent clings to your skin, mixing with the faint, earthy aroma of burning herbs that hang heavy in the air.

You turn your head, eyes darting toward the open door. She left it wide open, whether by carelessness or cunning, you can’t tell. The night stretches beyond like a velvet curtain studded with cold stars, inviting and vast. The cool breeze slips inside, brushing against your soaked clothes, making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I’m going to grab supplies to warm you,” she whispers without looking back. Her voice is low, almost gentle, but carries an unshakable command. Without another word, she slips down a narrow hallway, her footsteps fading softly on the creaking floor.

Your heart pounds in your chest like a frantic drum. The moment her back is turned, your muscles coil tight with desperate energy. You don’t hesitate. You’re on your feet in an instant, the wooden chair scraping sharply behind you.

You race down the dim hallway, every echo of your footsteps bouncing off the walls. The air smells faintly of salt and smoke, the scent of the island wrapped around you like a cloak. Your soaked clothes cling to you, slowing you down, but adrenaline burns hot in your veins, pushing you forward.

You burst through the main door, the night air crashing against your face like a cold wave. The village lies silent, cloaked in shadow. Flickering torches cast long, twisted silhouettes of huts and trees. You don’t look back. You don’t dare.

Your bare feet pound against the damp earth as you sprint toward the shore. Not a thought in your mind but to flee. The breath in your lungs burns, each stride fueled by raw panic and something deeper. Grief, maybe? Or the last, dying flicker of freedom.

You reach the black shore, the same one you washed up on not long ago. The sea stretches out before you, dark and endless, its surface smooth as glass. The moon hangs low and red above it, its reflection smeared across the waves like blood on steel. The tide whispers, pulling at the sand like it remembers you.

You freeze, staring out into the water. There’s nowhere to go.

No boats. No ships. No lights on the horizon. Just water and the weight of the sky. You don’t even know where here is—an island that may not exist on any map. A place that feels older than memory. Like the world forgot it, and now it won’t let you forget.

And worse: something inside you pulls back. A quiet thread deep in your chest tugs softly—not painful, just persistent. A whisper without words, murmuring stay, stay, stay. Not in her voice. Not exactly. But of her. It curls in your lungs, in your stomach. You want to run. You should.

You feel her before you hear her. The air changes. Thickens. Warms. You turn your head slowly, breath catching as she steps out from the tree line behind you, barefoot on the earth. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes dark and endless, reflecting the moonlight. She doesn’t speak, just extends her hand.

And you hate how easily your feet move. How your body turns before your mind agrees. How your hand lifts—trembling, uncertain—and brushes hers. Her fingers curl around yours.

She steps closer, until you can feel the heat radiating off her skin, the scent of wild herbs and salt clinging to her like a storm not quite passed. Then she leans in, lips brushing just above your ear, her voice velvet-soft and devastatingly final.

"This is your home now."

It’s been… days? Weeks? Time slips strangely here. The sun rises blood-red and sinks into purple seas, but there’s no clock, no calendar. Only the rhythm of the island. And Wanda.

You’ve stopped asking to leave. You've stopped asking, period. You've just stopped caring. Not because you’ve given up, at least, that’s what you tell yourself, but because it doesn’t matter. Every path leads back to her. To the hut. To the sea. To the edge of something you can’t name.

The villagers call her Bloodmother. You still don’t know what it means.

She doesn’t sit on a throne or bark orders. She doesn’t wear a crown. And yet, when she walks through the village, the air bends around her. People move aside. Bow their heads. They bring her offerings. Herbs, blood-red fruit, polished bones, feathers soaked in dye. They speak in a dialect you still don’t understand. Sometimes she disappears into the woods with them. Sometimes they return without her.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you stay in her home, her sanctuary carved into the earth like a living thing. You sleep on a bed of furs near the hearth. You wear the clothes she gives you: soft, woven things that smell of smoke and cedar.

She doesn't keep you locked in, not exactly. You can roam around the island at all, but there's no way to leave the island. You sit along the shore at times, staring out at the water like it might remember who you were before.

Sometimes Wanda joins you. Quiet.

She never pushes. Never touches without invitation. But her presence is constant. The gravity of her draws you in, even when you try to resist it. There are moments—fleeting ones—when she looks at you like you are something sacred. Like the sea gave her a miracle, not a stray or mistake.

And it’s in those moments that the numbness wavers. You’re not sure if you hate her for that. Or yourself.

BREAK

You don’t remember falling. One second, you were pushing through the thick underbrush, your thoughts a thousand miles from your feet, and then something gave. A root, a stone, something sharp. The earth tipped. Your knee slammed into rock, and you went down hard. Pain flared white-hot. You hissed, clutching your leg. You try to stand. You can't. You're not far from the village, but the shadows between the trees already feel deeper. Thicker.

And then you hear her voice, low and clear behind you.

“I told you not to come this far alone.”

You twist, heart lurching, and there she is again. Wanda, red cloak brushing the earth, eyes unreadable. She moves toward you calmly, not rushing, but with that same quiet inevitability you’ve come to know too well. She kneels beside you, gaze dropping to your leg.

You look away. “It’s not bad. I just—fell.”

“I know,” she says simply. And then, softer: “Let me see.”

You hesitate, but the pain flares again, and you give in. Her fingers are deft as she rolls up the torn fabric. The wound is shallow but messy, already swelling.

“I should’ve paid more attention,” you mutter.

Wanda doesn’t reply at first. She pulls something from the pouch at her hip — a small clay jar, sealed with wax and wrapped in twine. She breaks the seal with one hand, dips her fingers into the salve inside. The scent of crushed herbs and smoke drifts up — warm, clean, earthy. You flinch slightly as she presses it to your skin, but the salve cools the pain almost instantly. Her touch is gentle, slow, careful in a way that doesn't quite match the woman the village calls Bloodmother.

You glance at her, expecting to find her watching you, but she’s focused entirely on your wound, brows drawn in faint concentration.

“There,” she murmurs after a moment, brushing the last of the salve across your skin. She wraps a strip of cloth around your knee, knotting it with quiet precision. “That should hold.”

She sits back on her heels, hands resting lightly on her thighs. Her eyes meet yours. You’re the one who speaks first.

“…Thank you.”

The words come out quieter than you meant them to. Honest. Something flickers in her face, not surprise, not quite, but it softens her somehow. The line of her mouth eases. Her gaze warms just a fraction, like a fire banked low but steady.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

The fire crackles low between you. You sit cross-legged near the hearth, a bowl of something warm and spiced in your hands. Wanda sits opposite, her cloak draped over her shoulders like a shadow half-shed. The room smells like cedar, herbs, and ash. Outside, the night hums with distant waves and the occasional call of something winged. The island feels almost gentle tonight.

You haven’t spoken. She hasn’t asked you to. So why tonight? Even you're unsure.

“…Where are the others like me?” you ask suddenly, not even looking up from your bowl. “The ones who washed up. The ones who didn’t belong.”

A long pause. You wonder if she’ll answer at all.

Then. “Some stayed,” Wanda says. “Some left.”

Your brow furrows. “Left?”

She nods once. “When the island let them go.”

“And me?”

Another pause. She doesn’t answer.

You set the bowl down, the taste suddenly bitter. “Right.”

“I don’t know,” she says gently. "There's no mistakes, but if both parties choose to accept the they can leave if they so choose."

You glance at her. Her eyes are steady. Not cold, just… still.

“I thought you always knew everything,” you mutter.

A smile touches the corner of her mouth — small, barely there. “That would be exhausting.”

You snort. It surprises both of you. She tilts her head slightly, almost amused.

You study her face in the firelight. She looks… younger in moments like this. Or maybe just less made of stone. The flicker of the flames softens the sharp edges, paints warmth where cold used to live.

“You never ask me anything,” you say after a while.

“I don’t need to,” she replies.

“Because you already know?”

“No.” She leans back slightly, eyes fixed on the fire now. “Because you don’t want to talk.”

Silence again. But not uncomfortable.

You look down at your hands, flexing your fingers slowly. “Would you like to?"

The nights had turned colder. The wind that once moved like breath over the sea now curled through the trees and into the bones of the hut, bringing with it the sharpness of something changing. You lay curled on your side beneath the thick furs, the fire a faint breath behind you, its glow no longer enough to warm the air. You didn’t sleep. You only breathed, shallow and slow, your eyes fixed on the rough-hewn wall and your thoughts drifting like seaweed—untethered, directionless.

She entered without sound. Just the soft pad of her bare feet against the earth-packed floor, the whisper of wool and leather as she shed her cloak, and the soft, familiar exhale as she settled onto the bed behind you. She never spoke at night. Neither did you. There had never been need.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet. The crackling of dying embers. The hush of wind through wooden slats. Her breath behind you, steady, a rhythm you pretended not to notice most nights.

But tonight, something in your chest refused stillness. Some small, aching thread inside you tugged against the distance. And so, without thinking, without letting yourself think, you shifted back—just a little, just enough.

Her back met yours. The contact was soft, clothed, warm through layers, but it landed in you like a stone dropped in deep water. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. But you could feel the subtle stillness in her, the awareness of it—the tension, the deliberate choice not to pull away.

A moment passed, and then another. You closed your eyes.

Somewhere beneath the blanket, her foot brushed yours. Just the barest touch, light as breath. She didn’t retreat from it, didn’t shift to correct the accidental contact. It stayed, quiet and real and impossibly human, like the sea touching shore not out of force but inevitability.

You let your breath settle into hers. And for the first time in a long time, sleep did not feel like surrender. It felt like permission.

Wanda said she wanted to show you a place.

You didn’t ask why. You only followed, up through the winding path carved into the cliffs, past ferns heavy with mist and stone slick with moss. The air was thick with the scent of rain before it even fell.

Halfway up the ridge, the sky broke open.

The storm moved fast, sudden and heavy, and by the time either of you thought to turn back, it was too late. Sheets of rain lashed the path behind you, turning earth to mud, the trail down already a river of roots and runoff. Wanda led you higher, saying nothing, her cloak dark with water, and you followed without question, legs aching, soaked to the bone.

Eventually, she guided you beneath a shelf of rock, a shallow cave tucked into the cliffside, half-sheltered by twisted trees and salt-crusted stone. The sea spread out below like a drowned world, mist crawling up from the shore, swallowing the horizon in soft, gray fog. The rain had driven you both into one of the higher caves along the ridge, a shallow pocket in the rock half-sheltered by twisted trees and salt-crusted stone. The island spread below like a drowned world, mist crawling up from the shore, clouding the sea into nothing. You were both soaked—your clothes clinging to you, hair damp against your neck—but neither of you seemed willing to move. Not toward each other. Not away.

Wanda sat near the cave wall, one knee drawn up, arms folded over it. Her eyes stayed on the sea. Yours stayed on her.

“You knew I didn’t want to be here,” you said finally, your voice quiet but not gentle. “You knew I was just… pulled in. And you didn’t care.”

She didn’t look at you. “I cared,” she said simply.

“Then why not let me leave?” you asked, sharper now. “Why hold me like—like I’m part of some story you already decided the ending to?”

Wanda turned her head slowly, eyes catching yours. “Because the island doesn’t give back what it keeps.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

You stood then, pacing toward the mouth of the cave, the air cold and wet on your face. “You talk about fate like it’s a fact. Like it excuses all of this. The kidnapping, the manipulation, the—” You stopped, jaw tight. “The soulmates bullshit.”

Her voice came low behind you. “You think it’s bullshit?”

“I think it’s convenient.”

Silence.

You turned toward her again, and there was something taut in your throat, something raw and angry and scared. “Do you want me to love you, or do you just want me to stay?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do you think I don’t know the difference?”

You took a step closer, heart beating too hard. “You say you feel it. That pull, that thread. Maybe I do too. But I didn’t ask for it. You keep acting like it’s already happened. Like it’s done. Like I owe you something because of it.”

“I never said you owed me anything.”

“You never had to.”

Wanda stood slowly, the lines of her figure sharpened by the firelight and the storm beyond. Her eyes were dark, unreadable—but her jaw was clenched, her breath shallow. She took one step, then another.

“I didn’t want this either,” she said quietly. “I didn’t ask to feel this. I didn’t call the sea. But it brought you to me. And when I saw you—when I felt you—I knew I couldn’t send you back.”

You shook your head, mouth opening, some new retort clawing its way up. But she reached you first.

Her hand came to your face, firm but not rough, and before you could say another word, Wanda kissed you.

It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t careful. It was sudden, sharp with something desperate, like silence finally breaking under its own weight. Her mouth was warm, tasted faintly of salt and smoke, and for half a second you froze—caught between resistance and inevitability.

Then you kissed her back.

Your hands found the front of her cloak without thinking, pulling her closer, and she leaned into you like the moment had been waiting for its cue. It wasn’t soft, not yet—it was edged and breathless and too much—but it was real. Real in a way nothing else had been since the sea took you.

When you finally pulled apart, your forehead rested against hers. Your heart pounded like it belonged to someone else. Wanda’s eyes were half-lidded, her breath uneven, as if she, too, was caught in the same tumult of feeling.

Before you could say anything—or even think—you felt her lips brush yours again, softer this time, a quiet insistence that left no room for doubt. She kissed you slowly, deliberately, as if trying to speak without words what had tangled between you for so long. And despite every ounce of anger still simmering inside you, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned in, matching her, letting the moment fold you both into something raw and unspoken, a fragile truce forged in heat and storm.

You didn’t realize it had happened until it was impossible to ignore. The numbness you carried since the sea washed you ashore had slowly, almost imperceptibly, softened into something else. Something raw and alive. Now, when you caught sight of her moving through the village your heart would leap, stutter, like you were meeting her all over again. The dull, hollow ache inside you had bloomed into a riot of colors you hadn’t thought you’d ever feel again.

That morning, she left with a handful of others from the village, slipping into the forest like smoke drawn away by the dawn. You stayed behind, watching the sky as it shifted from bruised purple to pale blue, a small knot of worry settling low in your chest. When she returned hours later, wet and tired but unbroken, your concern showed—just for a moment—in the way your eyes searched hers, your posture stiffened. You caught yourself, pulling the moment tight and folding it away before it could spill out.

She noticed, of course. Wanda always noticed.

Her expression softened, something tender and unguarded flickering in her eyes like the first flicker of dawn. Without a word, she stepped close, and before you knew it, her lips brushed yours—a quiet promise, a gentle claim. You kissed her back, tentative at first, then with more certainty, as if you were remembering something long forgotten.

You could get used to this.

When she pressed her hand against your cheek, her fingers warm and sure, she slipped her lips down to your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each kiss a whisper against your skin. The world narrowed to the heat of her breath, the steady beat of your heart tangled with hers. In that moment, you felt the impossible: belonging. Not to the island. Not to the sea. But to her.

The day had unfolded slowly, the kind of quiet stretch of time you’d grown to crave with Wanda by your side. She led you through tangled groves of twisted trees and mossy stone, stopping now and then to show you small wonders hidden beneath leaves or tucked in cracks—bright fungi glowing faintly, delicate herbs with healing scent, shards of seashells worn smooth by the tide. There was a gentle rhythm to it, the two of you moving in tandem, wordless at times, each step weaving a deeper thread between you.

As the afternoon waned, she guided you toward a cave carved deep into the cliffs—a hollow sanctuary warmed by a small fire crackling against the damp stone. The shadows danced in the flickering light, casting the cave in gold and dark. You settled beside her, the heat washing over your chilled skin, and for a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Wanda’s voice cut through the quiet, steady but soft. “Do you feel captive?” she asked, eyes fixed on the flames as if seeking an answer hidden there. “Do you wish… that you could leave?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the smoke curling above you. You swallowed, thinking of the endless sea, the strange island that had claimed you, and the strange pull that kept you here. It was a question you hadn’t dared ask yourself, but now, faced with her gaze—so open, so unyielding—you found the truth.

“No,” you said finally, voice low but sure. “I could leave. But I don’t want to. Not anymore.”

Her eyes lifted to meet yours, sharp with something almost like relief, or hope. A slow smile curved her lips—a rare softness you’d only seen when she thought no one was watching. She reached out, brushing a stray damp lock of hair from your face, her fingers lingering.

Then, almost without warning, her lips left a trail of fire along your neck, each kiss a slow, deliberate promise. You felt her breath hitch against your skin, warm and uneven, as her hand slid down your side, fingers trembling ever so slightly. The world outside the cave faded—the rain, the sea, the storm—until there was only her. Only this.

“Wanda—” you started, voice breaking, but she silenced you with another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue brushing against yours in a way that made your knees weak. Her hands were everywhere—threading through your hair, gripping your waist, tugging at the damp fabric of your shirt until it gave way, falling to the cave floor in a heap.

You gasped as the cool air hit your skin, but her warmth followed quickly, her lips moving down to your collarbone, then lower still. Her teeth grazed your nipple, and you arched into her, a moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. She smirked against your skin, the expression barely visible in the dim light of the cave, but you felt it—that quiet, confident satisfaction that only Wanda could pull off.

“You’re too loud,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing, but her hands were already reaching for the waistband of your pants, tugging them down with a practiced ease. “Someone might hear you.”

“There’s no one here,” you breathed, though the thought of being caught sent a jolt of heat through you anyway. “Just you.”

“Just me,” she repeated, her fingers skimming over the curve of your hip, trailing lower until they brushed against the wetness between your legs. You shuddered, your breath catching in your throat as she pressed a single finger against your entrance, teasing but not pushing in. “Good thing I don’t mind hearing you.”

Her touch was maddening—slow, deliberate, agonizingly light. You whimpered, hips bucking instinctively, but she held you still, her other hand splayed across your stomach like an anchor.

“Patience,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear. “I want to savor this.”

You groaned, frustration and desire warring inside you, but before you could protest further, she finally pushed inside, one finger sliding into you with torturous slowness. Your breath hitched, nails digging into the stone floor beneath you as she curled her finger, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

“There it is,” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. Her thumb circled your clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan. But Wanda wasn’t having it. Her free hand came up to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at her. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

You obeyed, gasping as she added a second finger, the stretch overwhelming but delicious. Her pace was relentless now, her fingers moving in and out of you with a rhythm that had you teetering on the edge of oblivion. Her thumb never left your clit, pressing and circling in time with her thrusts, and you could feel the coil of pleasure tightening in your stomach, threatening to snap.

But then she stopped.

Your eyes flew open, wide and desperate, and you found her watching you with an expression that was equal parts hunger and amusement. “Wanda,” you pleaded, voice cracking. “Please—”

“Shh,” she soothed, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you could respond, her lips were on yours again, swallowing your whimpers as her fingers resumed their torturous pace. But this time, something shifted. You felt it—a strange, tingling warmth radiating from her touch, spreading through you like liquid fire. Your eyes widened as you realized what it was. Magic.

Her lips curved into a smirk against yours as her thumb pressed harder against your clit, the sensation amplified by whatever energy she was channeling. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt—electric, overwhelming, perfect—and you couldn’t help but cry out, your hips bucking against her hand as the pleasure spiraled out of control.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

It was too much. The coil snapped, pleasure exploding through you like a tidal wave, and you clung to her as your body convulsed, waves of ecstasy washing over you in relentless succession. She didn’t stop—her fingers kept moving, magic pulsing through you until you were gasping for air, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

When the last of the tremors finally subsided, she withdrew her fingers slowly, gently, leaving you boneless and trembling on the cave floor. She leaned over you, her eyes dark with something unreadable as she brushed a thumb over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “Beautiful,” she murmured, her voice almost reverent.

You tried to speak, but your voice failed you, so instead you reached for her, pulling her down into a kiss that was softer, gentler, but no less intense. She let you lead this time, her lips moving against yours in a rhythm that was achingly familiar, and when you finally broke apart, there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill your lungs.

“Wanda,” you whispered, your voice raw and broken. “I—”

Slowly, your foreheads came to rest together, a breath shared in the dim firelight. She smiled then—a small, genuine curve that reached her eyes, softening the fierce intensity you’d known before. You found yourself smiling back, the tension between you melting into something quieter but no less profound. In that moment, connected and unspoken, it felt as if all the distance and fear between you had been washed away.

Then her finger pressed gently against your lips, silencing the words you hadn’t even formed. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held an impossible softness. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

Her lips brushed yours once more, fleeting but tender, and then she pulled away, rising with slow grace. She offered you her hand, steady and sure. You took it, trembling, and let her pull you to your feet. Outside, the storm had softened—the rain now a gentle patter against the rocks, but inside the cave, something lingered. Something had shifted between you, fragile and fierce and real.

As you stood there, something unexpected stirred beneath your skin—a warmth spreading, delicate but unmistakable. You glanced down and saw it: a faint symbol glowing softly on your wrist, intricate and alive, like delicate veins of fire tracing your flesh. Your breath caught as you noticed the same symbol mirrored on Wanda’s wrist, glowing with the same steady light.