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“I don’t think Natty will mind just one missing.” 

Wanda has always been entranced by how softly you exist. The windows are open throughout the house; Natasha has the air-conditioning off everywhere besides the recently refinished basement permissively. The heatwave that had settled over New York for the last two weeks had cleared abruptly last night for the forecast today, and you’d all been in agreement to take advantage of the breeze that drifted through the branches. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail preemptively, though your cheeks were flush regardless of the attempt to stay cool. The kitchen counter was your chosen sanctuary from the heat — you’re learning that your medication hates anything above seventy-eight degrees fahrenheit. You’re going to ask Natasha for two french braids later, you’ve already told Wanda all about it, but for now you sit on the counter sporting a messy ponytail and baby hairs that cling to your temple, naked feet swinging against the white oak cabinets creating hollow thumps with an undeniable rhythm to them. You look soft as Wanda looks up from her cutting board to assess your seriousness. It takes her back a breath; leads you to believe you’d gotten somewhere. 

“See, and I think she will.” Wanda waves her knife around with a kind of finesse you’ve only seen exaggerated by Mother Gothel in the tower. If her hips weren’t concealed by the island she leaned against, you’d be sure they were swaying with a seductive taunt. 

She’s cutting up strawberries for the fruit salad Yelena requested. It’s the last fruit before she’s done. She’s placed you in charge of making sure no flies sneak into the big mixing bowl before she can put the lid on and stick it in the refrigerator. Yelena will know if a fly has touched even one diced peach. 

Your clammy cheeks fill with air. The glittery lipgloss you’d lathered on thick settles into the wrinkles of your lips as you purse them petulantly. Your eyebrows that she’d plucked meticulously last night furrow downward cutely, though she supposes they're meant to convey your anger; dejection clear as day on your porcelain features. Wanda Maximoff envies your complexion. The sun bounces off your high points angelically, the sheen of heat that tints you pink effortless and charming. “I’ll take a cherry one!” It’s a good tactic. Nobody likes the cherry one. But Wanda’s not in the business of breaking to you. 

Her eyes cool. The delicious green that reminds you of the center of a fresh and perfectly ripe kiwi becomes emerald; dark, captivating, albeit chilling. The pucker of your lips becomes a pout as your shoulders sink beneath the weight of her gaze becoming a stare. “What did Natty tell you?” 

Your arms cross over your belly. The only tell that it's an act of protection and not defiance is the way your open palms wrap around your midsection, nervous fingernails digging into soft flesh that pools over white-knuckle digits from the pressure. What is an act of defiance is the way your heels kick harder into the cabinets off rhythm. The thumps are less hollow now, but they fail to deliver the attitude you’re suddenly convinced you can emulate. Wanda wants to laugh. She will laugh later. Just not right now. 

“Do that again and you’re off my counter.” It’s not a threat but a promise. Your chest swells with something tight and convincing. It wants to act. To lash out. It’s warm and you hate it but it feels like you have to listen to it. “What did Natty tell you about the popsicles?” She can see the frustration welling up inside of you like helium filling a cheap latex balloon. She chooses to take pity on you as your nails dig harder into your sides, a habit they’d both tried every method in the book to try to help you stop. 

“That I had to wait until the party because there wasn’t anymore of the kind that I like at the store if I ran out before the end of the night.” Somehow, you’ve found a way to keep the air in your cheeks as you answer her, and Wanda doesn’t try to fight the wrinkle of amusement that tugs at the corner of her lips as she watches you try to figure out how you can control this situation, still not entirely willing to just let her be the one to think. 

 Wanda hums, looking back down at her strawberries. Yelena really is lucky she loves her. There’s at least five pounds of hand diced fruit sitting between both counters in the kitchen now. “And the last time we didn’t have any during a pool day, you passed out in the pool. So having one right now is not an option no matter how cute you look all grumpy.” 

Wanda notices the way your eyes roll, but she chooses to let you think you’ve gotten away with your attitude as she uses the back of the knife to clear more space on her board for the last handful of strawberries. Natasha had done an impeccable job picking them out at the store. Years of heated lecturing had seemed to finally pay off. 

The grey shorts you’d chosen to throw over your bathing suit gap around your thighs as you sit on the kitchen counter, occasionally glancing down at the large glass bowl. Your hands shoved a couple of flies away in the time you’d been sitting out here with Wanda, but nothing extensive or stimulating. Wanda peaks at the ties of your bikini bottoms poking out from between the fabric, the festive color scheme you’d chosen perfect for the holiday ahead of you. Your attention is waning as the minutes seem to take longer to pass the more your mind thinks about how your head is spinning and your face is hot and a popsicle would taste so good right now. They’re some fancy kind that Natasha buys at this specific shoppe in Manhattan. She’d introduced you to them the first week of summer, just six weeks after you’d started medication. They’re the only popsicles you’ll eat, and the only cold treat you can stomach when heatstroke is beginning to claim you as a victim. Their avoidance of you having one isn’t malicious. It’s tactical. But you’ve been nervous about this party for weeks. It’s the first time you’re throwing a party as a couple. It’s the first time they’re throwing a party for all of their individual and combined friend groups since getting back together. They’re convinced there’s nothing to prove by keeping appearances up, but you’ve been overworked for days just thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. 

“Get your little fingers out of my fruit.” Wanda chastises without even glancing up. Her knife slices through the last strawberry top just as your foot kicks the cabinet beneath you. Your cheeks fill with air again, but this time anger is portrayed clearly across your face, as is a glint of something innocent and traumatized beneath your eyes. Wanda wants to kill all the people who made you into this, even if it heals something inside of her that’s broken at the hands of similar treatment. “You’re all done. Go sit on the couch and wait for Natty to come inside and braid your hair.” 

“But I was just—” You try to argue, panic rising in your chest as Wanda sends you away. Natasha’s out in the backyard fixing the last of the tents she’d dug out of storage. Apparently, there was once a time her company hosted a lot of barbecues for the families. Regardless of why she has them, assembly had taken almost the entirety of the morning, her appearances within the house coming few and far between

“Testing limits that you know won’t budge.” Wanda cuts you off, setting her knife down on the cutting board and pressing flat palms into the island. It’s a move of subtle dominance. Her chin twists as she tilts her gaze at you, almost daring you to tell her she's wrong. “Go wash your hands and wait on the couch.” 

“Can I go sit with Natty?” You shrink into yourself as your hands grab the edge of the counter, tears feeling like they want to well up in your eyes as you stare back at Wanda with an innocent hopelessness. You’re almost there. Almost past the verge of trying so hard to protect yourself from emotions you just need the space to feel and let pass. 

She shakes her head. Her hair is in a bun at the top of her head. There are a couple curly strands that fall to frame her face and cover the single studded piercings she has in her lobes. She wears a button up as a coverup, and it’s splashed with pineapple juice that exists with a yellow-hue, but she still looks perfect. “Where did I tell you to go?” 

“B-But—”

“You do not want to bring butts into this, Sunshine. Yours will be mighty pink if that's the route you want to take.” Wanda warns and your cheeks redden from heat, but not the kind brought by the brightness of the sun that shines without clouds to cover its rays. Butterflies bloom in your belly and up through your chest, a soft and sweet whine crawling up your throat as you shake your head. 

“No.” You whisper, plead. Your soft eyes match Wanda’s stare, teary and bright as they glisten from across the room. Wanda has no intentions of spanking you. She’s never laid a hand on you in this state. But you’ve expressed that it’s not a hard no. That you trust them both enough to decide when you’re showing signs of needing something more than your brain can handle giving you alone. “No please.” She can see the panic becoming desperation, but she can’t get the words out fast enough. You’re dissolving into a headspace that she cherishes, but knows you need guidance to see through, otherwise it gets messy, and it takes days for you to pull yourself out of a darkness that consumes your soul miserably. 

She smiles softly, nodding her head toward the living room with a look that you’ve been yearning for since you started pushing buttons. “Then get that little butt on the couch and take a couple of minutes to breathe with Monkey.” 

“Okay.” You whisper, sliding off the counter with your head pointed toward the floor. God, Wanda loves you more than words can even describe. 

“Come give me a kiss first.” She commands and you don’t have to be told twice, making a b-line for her warm body that’s standing between the kitchen and the living room. Her body is warm as you wrap your arms around her waist and lean into her chest. She holds you up as you collapse into her, possessive hands feeling the muscles and soft skin on your back. Her lips are warm and void of any kind of chapstick as they press into yours. She tastes only of coffee, but unlike Natasha, her cups always swirled with sugar and half-and-half. She tastes sweet. “Good girls don’t need to be told more than once, right?” She questions inches from your lips, her warm breath fanning across your face as she pulls away from the kiss. You can only manage a nod, your doe eyes blinking up at Wanda lazily. “Natty’ll come get you when she’s ready. Go show me you can be good.” 

“Okay.” You whisper, dazed.

Wanda smiles, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “Okay.” She repeats. 

-

Natasha comes inside half-an-hour later. You’ve forgotten that you were supposed to be waiting for her by the time she stumbles inside, red faced, braids frizzy, skin gleaming. Your fingers comb through the soft fur of your companion, eyes fixated on a television screen that plays a movie from the early two-thousands you haven’t seen in a couple of years. Your legs are curled up to your body, thighs damp with sweat that continues to build as you produce and subsequently trap more and more heat. 

Natasha’s filthy. There’s dirt caked beneath her nails, mulch clinging to flyaways at the nape of her neck, and something suspiciously green around her left kneecap. Wanda’s almost twitching from the kitchen where she watches you fondly as she preps another jug of lemonade; this request per Kate Bishop, but she pauses to acknowledge the recognition that washes across Natasha’s features as she takes in the sight of you so anxiously perched on the couch. 

They’ve told you a million times this party isn’t as big a deal as your brain has made it out to be, but it seems you’re failing to ground yourself in that comfort even still. 

“Ona boretsya s etim. Izo vsekh sil. (She’s fighting it. Hard.)” Wanda informs. Natasha frowns as the lick of russian wets her ears and provokes goosebumps across her clammy skin abruptly. Her attention bounces to Wanda, an understanding heaviness settling in her almost-blue almost-green eyes. 

They’ve gone down this road with you before. The road that is watching as past traumas haunt you even decades later. They’ve equally and individually learned how fear will sometimes freeze you like a baby deer in headlights — fawn and freeze; at the same time. They know you want to believe them about this party and its casualty, but your brain won’t let you without help. 

“What’re we watching?” There’s a slight pant to Natasha’s smooth tone. Wanda catches it from across the house, but you’re indifferent to her exhaustion as your eyes stay fixated on the screen. 

“I dunno.” Your shoulders shrug on their own. It’s a nervous habit you’ve said you acquired in middle school. You settle farther into the couch cushions with the unintentional movement, and subconsciously you bring your nail to your lips. 

Natasha watches you fondly, wanting so desperately to stay here a while longer in the sunlight, but a bead of sweat falling down her spine dismantles the image she romanticizes. “You don’t know, huh?” Still she taunts you gently, a mischievous twinge to her thin voice. She needs water and a cold shower desperately, and by the flush in your cheeks she can tell you wouldn’t mind one either. 

You don’t answer her immediately, eyes locked on the television screen, one hand brushing through the fur of your stuffed companion, and the other at your mouth, remnants of an unpainted nail chipping onto your tongue. Natasha waits patiently. Wanda puts the lemonade in the fridge and begins conquering the dishes that piled up in the sink. You never end up answering. Wanda lets Natasha be the one to tackle that.

Natasha clicks her tongue against her teeth as she watches you melt farther and farther into the couch cushions, your grip on your stuffed animal getting tighter and tighter as your focus narrows. “I asked you a question, Sunshine.” 

“Mhmm.” You nod, humming sweetly around your thumb as your eyes blink. You don’t notice the bead of sweat that drips from your hairline. Natasha does. 

“Three. Two—”

Your eyes widen, bottom lip quivering as your eyes snap to find Natasha’s figure in the room as the second number registers in your brain. “—No! Why! I wasn’t even doing anything!” Your voice is high, whiny. Wanda quirks an eyebrow at the sink but keeps her eyes on the dishes that sud beneath the water pressure. 

Natasha shifts her stance, her hips swaying as she turns her head at you. “That’s the problem, solnechnyy svet. (Sunshine.) I asked you a question.” 

“Oh.” You frown, biting harder on your thumb as your cheeks flush with defeat, your eyes glancing down at your tight hold on the monkey in your lap. 

“Fingers out of your mouth.” Natasha chastises. She expects you to whine, but instead you comply with a pout she’ll allow, resuming your nervous fiddling with both hands now. “Turn your movie off and come take a shower with me. You feeling like you need a snack?” She’s hoping to soften the blow of redirection with the promise of a snack, and it works enough to get the television off but not your butt off the white cushions. 

“Popsicles?” You question, eyes bright, so innocent as they blink spritely. 

“I already told you to wait for once we get outside, right? It’s going to be a hot day today. You don’t want to have to eat Wanda’s yucky healthy ones later, do you?” Natasha makes a face of disgust that’s meant to appease your sadness, but her eyes snap back to Wanda across the kitchen when the sokovian can’t keep her commentary to herself any longer. 

“Mommy also just told you no. Twice.” Her voice is sharp. The title rolls off her tongue heavily. Your core clenches, heat burns in your belly, your cheeks flush with something you can’t quite name or explain, just feel. And oh, do you feel it. Your eyes drop to your lap. Natasha’s silly expression settles into stone. 

“Up the stairs. Now.” She demands strictly, leaving no room for argument in her tone as she points a finger toward the large wooden staircase. Your heart sinks into your belly at the harshness. “Bring Monkey.” She adds when you stand without the companion, fingers curled into nervous balls at your sides. 

“Monkey.” You repeat softly, unconsciously. Your hand juts out to grab Monkey, shaky fingers curling around a plush tail instead. Wanda watches from the kitchen. Natasha watches from the stairs. They both shake their heads at your insistence to carry him by his tail. Natasha’s already sewn it back on twice. 

“Hold him nicely.” She corrects. Clearly they’ve allowed you too much control. If you’re going to show them you can’t handle it anymore, she’s happy to take it back. There’s nothing she loves more than filling this role for you; with you. It heals something in her too to be the one that teaches emotional regulation. To be the one that's chosen when somebody else is dysregulated.

You hold his arm, specifically the left one, the one that looks like it’s going to be the next limb to fall off the decades old stuffed monkey. Natasha exhales, “Hold him nicely, or Daddy will hold him.” 

Your brows furrow as you adjust your hold for the third time, squeezing Monkey’s brown body to your chest instead. “Thank you.” Natasha doesn’t emphasize her appreciation like she typically would, and she watches how your bottom lip pouts just the slightest bit as you stand beneath her fiery eyes. “Our bathroom. Let’s go, we’re running out of time if you want two braids.” 

Natasha waits for you to step in front of her before she begins climbing the stairs, shooting Wanda one last look over her shoulder before her attention narrowed solely to you. She wants to laugh at how you walk aimlessly up the stairs, the muscles in your biceps bulging as you distract yourself with Monkey’s matting fur. You’ve either completely forgotten where she’s asked you to go, or you’re not paying attention to the surrounding areas because you stumble past the bedroom with a dazed indifference that makes Natasha question where you’d end up going if she let you continue on. 

“Our bathroom is this way.” Natasha quips sharply, her voice echoing through the quiet upstairs hallways. A couple of doors are open — the guest bedroom, both bathrooms, and the laundry room — but the ones that are closed shoot her strict tone right back into your little ears. 

You scamper back to her, cheeks red, eyes glassy and dazed. Monkey looks like he’s suffocating in your tight, anxious hold. Natasha’s heart breaks at the sight of you so worked up over something you’d once thought was going to be so much fun. You’re almost there. Almost drowning in the trust you’ve spent years establishing with them — with her. But it seems she still needs to play her hand harder. Still needs to remind you how deeply you’ve accepted the purity and genuinity of their intentions. 

Her hands grab your face without warning. Your eyes widen, starry and glossy as you look up at her. Her thumbs holding your cheeks force your lips to pucker and separate the slightest bit. You look delicious between her touch. Your tongue sweeps against your bottom lip. The muscle is wet, pink. Natasha waits to speak for a moment. She lets silence sit between your bodies as she watches you try to keep yourself together miserably. Your shoulders relax and then tense. Your eyebrows furrow and then ease. You’re fighting yourself, not her. She takes a moment to ground herself in that quiet confirmation. 

“Be a good girl.” It’s all she says. All she expects from you right now. It weighs a ton. Maybe two. It hits your lungs like a bullet. Air seems to seep from your lips like a punctured balloon. You deflate in Natasha’s hold. 

Her thumb pulls at your bottom lip as she changes the way she holds your face. It’s strong still, but less controlling, more passionate, dominating. Your tongue juts out to taste the pad of her digit as she teases your mouth, pushing in just slightly enough to bring saliva down into the cracks in your lower lip. She pulls her touch away before skin makes contact with muscle. Her hands leave your face all together. 

“Go put Monkey to bed. We don’t want Lucky getting him. Again” Natasha adds beneath her breath as you already begin to dip into the room, antsy to obey, to see where being good takes you now that she’s persuaded you with something you want. She knows how you work, how your body best responds; how to get what she wants from you without saying a word. 

“Lucky only got him because Kate—” You gasp softly when Natasha pins you to the bed, walking up behind you with those stealthily quiet footsteps she knows you hate. You like hearing who's coming, when they’re coming. Monkey-Monkey falls out of your hands when her fingers squeeze your hips, guiding you to turn back toward her. 

“Are you going to keep talking back or are you going to let me check the state of those bottoms you’ve got on?” Natasha tsks, unimpressed with your rebuttal that fell so quickly off your lips she thinks it was almost planned. You just can’t seem to help yourself today.

You swallow dryly, eyes glassing over more if that were in any way possible. Your lips part to answer but no words make it out. They close again loosely, eager eyes watching Natasha desperately, full of innocent anticipation. 

“Tell me what you want.” Natasha demands evenly, not bending, not even so much as wavering beneath your doe-eyed stare. She never had. She never will. But it tempts her every time you bestow it upon her pent up form. ”What you’re going to let me do to you.” 

“Let m- you— Let you check.” You stumble over your words, trying simply to reiterate them back to her before you realize the grammatical errors in that approach. Your cheeks flame as she laughs at you. It’s not a sweet laugh. Not a laugh that adores and cherishes you. It’s a laugh that demeans. A laugh that taunts. You wiggle on your naked feet. Thighs pressing together needily. 

“Can’t even get the words out, can you? That embarrassed already?” She pauses for a moment if only to let you sit with the acknowledgement that she knows you’re embarrassed; with the confirmation that you should have something to be embarrassed about. “What do you need me to check, sunshine? What can’t Daddy trust you to take care of yourself?” 

“My… my kitty.” Your cheeks flame brighter, hotter. Natasha’s eyes have a cruel sheen to them as her brown hair sticks to the drying sweat on her forehead, slowly beginning to peel away from her wrinkled skin that looks at you harshly, hotly, but not quite succeeding. Your voice cracks at the end of the admission, a shyness overcoming you that makes you quiet, softer. Natasha wants to take pity on you, her sunshine girl, but you know better than to fight it— them — like this. 

“Say it like a big girl.” She insists, chin raising, veins and esophagus bobbing with the motion. Her clavicle pops, the muscles in her biceps flex. “Daddy wants to hear you say it like a big girl.” 

“My pussy.” You whisper, eyes casting downward. Wanda needs to vacuum the rug. It’s losing its lines and stiffness. You know she’s been thinking about throwing it out anyways. It’s more upkeep than payoff anymore, she says.

“Put it together now.” Natasha’s unrelenting. Your thighs squeeze together harder, your cheeks burn hotter. 

“I-I’m gonna let you touch my-my pussy.” You kick at the floor sheepishly, feeling small beneath her strong gaze, so small. She’s not all that tall. Wanda’s taller. But she’s big, defined, sure of herself. 

Wanda shaved your pussy preemptively last night, and while bearing a bald cunt isn’t abnormal to you, it’s been a while since you’ve been so smooth you can feel every trickle of arousal as it leaves your clenching, pulsing, aching, empty hole. Your bottoms are soiled. 

“Who am I?” Natasha croons, eyes evil. You whine, wiggling in your place. You shake your head, pleading with her to take mercy on you. She won’t. “Who am I, sunshine? What’s my name?” 

“Daddy.” You answer, eyes finally looking up to meet hers again. 

“Good girl.” Natasha concedes, giving you the briefest glimpse of genuine adoration as her eyes soften just the slightest and her posture becomes less tense; dominating. “On your back, knees to your chest.” 

Goosebumps roll up your spine, you shiver with anticipation. It’s been a while since she’s pulled this card. Reminded you of your place so thickly. 

The bedding is expensive, and it feels as such beneath your body as you ease your back into the center of the bed. Your bones shake as you reach for your knees, pulling them up to your chest with a flush to your cheeks and your bottom lip bitten in utter embarrassment. This position never gets any less humiliating. Her eyes on you like this never get any less unnerving. Your shorts that had been giving Wanda a show all morning do the same now, but gravity aids this time, and the draft that comes in from the central air provokes goosebumps across the innards of your thighs. 

You keep your thighs together initially, but Natasha doesn’t let you seek comfort where it's not been permitted for long. She pries your thighs apart with a cruelness that weakens you, another pathetic whine slipping off of your lips and tongue as you writhe on the bed, entirely untouched aside from her fingertips dancing around your kneecaps. 

“Don’t hide yourself from me.” She chastises, disapprovement clear in her eyes. “Little girls who don’t listen to their Daddy’s or their Mommy’s do not get to hide how slutty and misbehaved their little pussys are.” Her hand slaps down onto your cunt, your aching, quivering pussy before you can even register she’s let her attention fall away from your knees that bare the faintest scars from childhood. 

Your hands jump to cover your core despite the layers of clothing that dampen the hit. Natasha tsks, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, hovering over your quivering frame with a quiet stillness that speaks enough before words catch up to her. 

“Try that again and Daddy’ll tell everyone when they get here that you’re finishing up a work call and we’ll see how long it takes you to remember you don’t touch what's mine unless I give you permission. I think we could get away with it for what? Thirty? Forty minutes?” Natasha drones on cynically, sadistically. “And the party doesn’t start for another hour. So that’s what? Over an hour and a half with your little pussy filled with Mommy’s red rabbit and your hands bound to the headboard? Wanna try that instead of what Daddy’s planning on doing to you now?” 

Your head shakes, tears welling up in your eyes as your belly does a flip, so impossibly tight you can’t help but squirm beneath her, trying so hard to find friction for your aching clit. 

“Words.” She’s relentless. 

“No.” You stamper to respond, a single tear leaking out from your left eye as you shake your head in time with the trembling of your bones beneath Natasha’s hot grip. “No please.” It’s a desperate beg, a beg that quivers your voice and finally breaks Natasha’s reserve the slightest bit. 

“I didn’t think so.” She tuts, standing up again to peer down at you. You look so beautiful like this, spread out on your back, your pussy and asshole only hidden by thin layers she’s about to strip. “Lift your hips.” She taps your hipbone gently, guiding you out of the shorts you’d slipped on sleepily that morning with Wanda. It’s no loss to you to be losing them, but you feel the slightest wave of upset crash over you as Natasha hums at the sight of your pussy beneath its bathing suit for the day, knowing you’re about to lose this too. 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you had an accident, malen'koye solntse. (Little sun.)” She tsks, trailing a finger over the center of your bathing suit bottoms. She doesn’t apply any pressure at all, just lets her finger slide against the dampness of your bathing suit that looks like it's already taken a dip in the pool.

If you weren’t already embarrassed that would’ve done you all the way in. You whine pathetically, thighs trembling to close around her hand but she stops you with her body that she angles over top of you dominatingly — challengingly. 

“Is that what this is, sunshine? Did you have an accident? Did Mommy not ask if you needed to go potty before she started cutting up fruit for Yelena’s salad?” Natasha’s faux sympathy fills you with something deliciously sweet and unbearable. You wiggle on the bed, eyes desperate, pleading. Your belly is so warm it feels like you’re going to explode. The hands that she’d pinned above your head race to cover your eyes, pathetic whines falling into the air. “Use your words.” 

“I didn’t.” You whine, unable to help yourself, unable to stop it as you writhe on the bed, still untouched, only further achy and sore now. The slap still rings in your mind, and thus, your pussy still burns with the memory 

“You didn’t what?”

Your little leg kicks petulantly, tears so pathetically close to falling brimming in your waterline as your breath hitches, your red cheeks filling with air the same way they had toward Wanda in the kitchen. Oh you need this, bad. “I didn’t have an accident!” You bellow, sounding so close to sobs Natasha wants to concede, but she doesn’t. She won’t.

“I don’t know who you think you’re raising your voice at, little girl, but it’s not going to be me.” She says instead of scooping you up into her arms and soothing the ache in your pussy that’s causing half of this fussiness from you. She’s not about to give in. You’d only be brattier if she gave in. You don’t want her to give in. You love every second of this. “Get up. Go to the bathroom. We don’t have much time anymore because someone’s wanted to make this difficult.” 

Your belly sinks even further. Natasha meant for it to. She’s got twenty more minutes to get you down as deep as she can safely attain, and the rest is on you to choose what gets maintained, or how far you end up floating upward by the start of the party. She’s going to make the most of it while she can have you anyway she pleases. It’s not just your vulnerability on the line with this. It’s hers, it’s Wanda's.

“You come.” You croak, your lips pulling downward into the saddest pout Natasha’s ever seen

Her heart softens just a little, her lips pulling upward. “I’m coming. But we both need new bathing suits. Daddy’s not gonna let you walk around in those sticky bottoms.” She reassures, seeing the worry that comes from something deeper than just getting laid beneath your eyes that almost look through her from across the room. Your hands twitch at your sides. Your brain is working slow, hardly at all, the actions come before the sentences do. Natasha’s not needed the latter for a while though. “I know you wanted to wear that one, sunny.” She coos softly, knowing that yet another change and element of lost control wouldn’t be helpful, but genuinely trying to look out for you. Wanda had just shaved you clean, staying in wet fabric all day could only result in what Natasha would call diaper rash. “But, that leaky pussy of yours had other plans. So daddy’s going to pick out the red one that Mommy likes so much, and it’s going to be fine. Just a little hiccup. Blame your pussy.” 

“I don’t want to blame my pussy.” 

Natasha took it too far. She knew she did the minute she started teasing you lightly, humorously. Your brain is working overtime to catch up on the jokes, the changes, the lightness in the air. You’re so spaced out but coming to the light at the same time, and that’s the opposite of what she wants right now; what you need right now. 

“If we’re going to start getting mouthy again, I can try my best to match your pussy to your suit. Do you want to start the part with a red, puffy, spanked pussy, sunshine?” Natasha snaps suddenly and she wishes she had a camera to capture how your whole body flinches with delight at her tone, looking like it's been sparked by a firework nobody knew had been set. 

“No, Daddy.” You whisper, cunt clenching around nothing, more arousal leaking out, trailing between your pussy lips that glisten with what's already formed and only been made worse by pressing fingers. 

“Naked by the time I get in there. Otherwise we’ll just have to test that theory anyway.” Natasha wants to see how you react, but she knows it’ll drive you crazy if she pretends not to care, so instead, she spins on her heels, finally taking off to look for the bathing suit she intends to wear, and the one she intends to dress you in. It’s a shame. The one you liked had been cute, but she’s not all that perturbed about the arrangements that led to this wardrobe change. 

It’s cold in the bathroom, but your perception of time and fine motor skills are so out of whack at the moment that it takes you as long to strip as it does for Natasha to find the bathing suits she wants. Your ass is fully exposed when she comes in, your body bent in half as you carefully step out of the drawstring bottoms she’d preferred if you'd of pulled off that way. She doesn’t say anything about it, just takes in the sight of your ass presented so innocently, so unknowingly. Your pussy drips too. All the way down your thighs. You don’t realize that there’s a string of arousal leaking from your pulsing hole, too concerned about staying upright on your feet as you undress, but Natasha focuses on how it gets lower and lower to the floor, staying strong, unbreaking. 

Her hand catches the middle of your back before you can stand up. You gasp, surprised by her presence again. Her hands are warm, soothing, dominating. 

“Arch your back for me a little bit, sunshine.” She doesn’t tell you what she’s doing, doesn’t tell you that your pussy is so wet, there’s a string of wetness dripping from between the gap in your thighs. If she does, she knows your body will ruin it without meaning to. She knows the second she comments about how filthy her little girl's pussy is, you're going to flinch, tense, jerk, and your pretty thighs are going to smother that creamy string of arousal before she can see its limits. You don’t need to know. It may be your body, but it is her pussy. “Just like that, oh fuck, good girl. Good fucking good.” She moans when your skin curves away from her hand before her pressure follows you down, your ass pushes upward, your pussy flipping more toward the light, catching a draft that the simple motion of your body creates. 

Natasha moans when it continues, growing longer and thinner as it leaks from your hole. Your body acts like nobody has touched you, like Wanda’s strap wasn’t buried to the hilt in your core last night. It marvels Natasha how you still act like it's the first time every time they touch you. 

You whine when she continues to remain silent, just watching, not telling you anything nor allowing you to move. She shushes you, taking her hands and spreading the globes of your ass apart. It’s a subtle flex of ownership, established control. Your hole clenches, and this time, Natasha sees its tightness in all its glory, translucent arousal leaking from you mixed with that creamy delightfulness she’s watching bounce between your shaking thighs. 

“Stay still.” She warns, unimpressed by the growing strength of your quivering. One wrong knock of your knees and her show is over prematurely. She spreads your ass farther, puckered hole opening just the slightest bit, round globes becoming white beneath the press of her fingers into your skin, like they’re searching for muscle, or maybe bone. She hums when it finally falls, landing on the floor with the soft splat that catches your attention and makes your cheeks burn brighter. Natasha smirks, satisfied with herself. “You’re so wet, sunshine.” She teases, letting go of your ass to dip her fingers into your pussy instead, scissoring them open just once before she curls them deep, keeping them scooped as she pulls out, leaving you with only a taste of what you could’ve had. 

Natasha stands in front of you, sunlight cascading upon her and the slick that coats her fingers as she holds them up to the light, scissoring them open as she watches them fondly, hungrily. 

“Such a messy girl.” She chastises, rubbing her fingers together. She leans forward finally, letting your body go, and reaches for the faucet, letting the water start running as she undresses carelessly, not sparing any careful consideration before spreading her cum covered fingers all over her shirt. 

Your eyes watch as they join yours in a pile on the floor, but your attention is quickly brought back to Natasha as she guides you into the tub before the water fully warms. You whine, shivering as you step closer to her instinctively, shuddering as the lukewarm bursts paint you frigid. She giggles softly, not because she’d meant to startle you, but because she forgets not everyone grew up without access to hot water all the time. She still forgets it's okay to abuse that privilege now that she has it. 

“Sorry, sweet girl. It’ll warm up soon. Let Daddy take your hair down while we wait, hm. Turn around for me.” Natasha coaxes you to face the wall, her damp hands easing the elastic out of your hair. It falls heavily, and she wastes no second to bury her fingers into your scalp, massaging away the tension that’d formed since early morning. 

She eases you into washing your hair, and then conditioning it, lathering it thick with a hair mask she swears will keep it nice even with the salt water exposure. You don’t really pay attention much, taken away by the feeling of her fingers pulling and tugging at your hair, sometimes harder than they necessarily need to. 

“Doing such a good job for me, angel. Such a good job, sunshine. Daddy’s just gonna wash your body now, okay? Stay facing the wall, don’t want any soap to get into your eyes.” Manipulating you into doing what she wants is so easy, especially when you’re like this. You don’t question that she’s already washed the shampoo out of your hair and the highest she’ll drag the wash cloth is your shoulders, just stay facing the wall as she reaches beside your head for the soap Wanda bought that smells like coconut and raspberries. 

You gasp when you realize it's not a wash cloth she’s lathering your body with but the palm of her hand, her own body scrubbed to shit with her red loofa that hands besides Wanda’s black, though yours doesn’t receive the same treatment. Even though there's a yellow one of the same variety hanging beside theres, even though there’s a washcloth draped over the shower bar.

She pinches your nipples with a teasing disinterest, and your chest rises to meet her touch until she pulls away too soon. Too dreadfully soon. She leaves your nipples, now pebbled and aching, to smooth her touch beneath your breasts and down the valley of your tummy. Your breath hitches when her hand dips between your legs, massaging your wetness with explicit softness that turns your belly and warms your cheeks — both sets; every part of your body is alight with sparking light as Natasha pries your lips apart and massages her soapy hands into your core. She runs them down your thighs like nothing happens, and then back up to your cunt that weeps so pitifully. She tsks quietly, allowing the water the privilege of washing the soap and your arousal off of her hands and digits before she urges for your thighs to be spread wider again.

Her fingers are almost hot as they pinch and roll your clit with delicate interest. Your hips twitch when the rough palm of her hand catches it as she sinks the tip of her pointer finger into your cunt, twirling it around before pulling it out and repeating the process. “Shh, stay still baby. Stay still. Daddy’s gotta clean you up before we can get you ready for the pool.”

Your mind is too fuzzy to comprehend what she could mean by that, or what she could intend to be doing with her fingers between your legs that are only creating more wetness, but before you can ask, or even begin to formulate your own wild fantasies, Natasha walks you into the corner until your tits meet the cold tile, your hands bracing against the wall in shock as she wrestles the showerhead between your thighs she’d directed you to spread just moments ago. That makes sense now. It all makes sense now. As much as it can anyways. 

Your hips thrash wildly the second she places the showerhead onto your clit, the jet set stream like a bullet shooting through you at full force with no mercy. Her chest keeps you still for the most part, her breasts, so full yet perfectly round on her chest, small enough to look flat beneath her button ups when she wears those bras from Nike, but plump enough for you to feel every raised bump and spec on her similarly puckered areolas that are pressing into your spin demandingly. 

“Someone’s feeling jumpy, huh?” Natasha teases, directing the stream of water to your hole for only a moment, but enough of a moment to have you desperately pulling at her grip, arching away from her boobs as you whine and whimper at the sensations she’s causing while actively clearing away any traces of arousal — for now. “Oh, are you close, sunshine? Is Daddy getting you all nice and clean turning you on? Naughty girl. So naughty getting off to this. It feels good doesn’t it? Oh I know, sweet thing. I know it does. That little head doesn’t need to think about anything, it just needs to feel what Daddy’s doing. There you go, there you go.” Natasha drops her head into the crook of your neck, desperately sucking a decent sized hickey into your skin in a place that no bathing suit or photo angle would cover unless it was miraculously taken from the complete opposite angel in the dark. 

“N-No! No p-please!” Your voice is quiet and dismayed as your hips cant to chase the showerhead she pulls away at the very last moment before an orgasm tears through your body. You were quivering before, you’re trembling now. The lick of sadistic enjoyment that filters through Natasha as she holds your denied body between her hands and smirks against the soft skin of your damp and sweet smelling neck.

“I told you, sunshine. We were just cleaning you up before the party starts. Did you forget?” Natasha mocks pitilessly, nipping your neck before she pulls away, turning the shower off too soon. “Silly girl.” 

It gets cold immediately, like a blanket being torn from your body in the middle of a fall morning. You shiver, immediately turning on your heels and stammering to step closer to her again — magnetized to her warmth in every sense that she delivers it upon you, even in denial. 

“Only good girls get to cum, sunshine, and you haven’t listened to Daddy one bit this morning. Let’s see if we can turn that around this afternoon, hm? See if that pussy deserves a reward or if it’s gonna be left all achy and empty until tomorrow.” There’s a finality in Natasha’s tone that brings the tears back to your eyes, but they blend into the droplets of water that drip down your face from your hair as she helps you out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around your still trembling body. “So reactive.” Natasha hums when she brushes over your nipples as she tucks the corner of the towel in between your breasts, changing her approach to something soft, wistful as she handles you. She has you where she wants you now, there’s no reason to overplay her hand when you’re so willfully pliant.

“Braids. Two.” You remind Natasha dazily, blinking at her slowly, sweetly. The demand you utter isn’t meant to be harsh, controlling. You’re just thinking in blocks, choppy thoughts appearing in blurbs that Natasha finds quite charming. 

You’ve always been quiet. Since the day you started with her, to this very moment, the silence that passes between you two isn’t unfamiliar, but it holds a certain warmth to it that Natasha wants to frame and put on the bedroom wall every time she feels it. 

She laughs softly, shaking her head as she reaches for your pile of clothes on the floor. “I know you want braids, sunshine. I’m getting to that, we’ve gotta get you dressed first.” 

“Dressed first.” You repeat back, a soft parrot between Natasha’s fingertips as she dresses you innocently, her fingertips only scraping upwards against your skin as often as necessary. You welcome it fondly, sinking into her warmth, her presence, her promise to stay. Ever so slowly, excitement toward this party begins to bubble in your belly again alongside the arousal Natasha’s amplified since dragging you upstairs, and she can tell as her fingers fix the strap of your bathing suit top that's twisted over itself. 

“Do you want to wear your shorts now, or are you going to go hop in the pool the second I let you go?” Natasha questions with an amused smirk, wet brown hair dripping down her shoulders and between her freckled back bones. 

“It’s ready?” You question with shy anticipation, giving Natasha enough of an answer to know wrangling you into a pair of shorts isn’t worth her breath right now. 

Either way, she smiles at you fondly, nodding her head in quiet confirmation. “Everything’s ready. I’ve got the campfire all set up, and the floats are inflated and in the pool, and all your favorite drinks are in the cooler by Fanny’s water bowl.” Natasha kisses your head before she breaks away, stepping farther back than she’s been for a while. You whine at the loss of warmth radiating off of her skin and onto yours, but she shushes you with fond exasperation, rolling her eyes as she steps into a pair of black swim trumps and a white sports bra looking top. It’s not her most festive attire, but you know that her, amongst a handful of the guests attending, are majorly rioting against the American government. Your festivities only reside in the color palette and aesthetic, but you know this is something personal for Natasha; something like a wound that’s never healed. 

“No shorts.” You decide with finality as she fixes the last of her hair that was caught beneath the band of the bathing suit top. Natasha’s smirk seems to broaden if possible, her eyes filled with a lightness you hadn’t seen so unearthed across her features in a while. 

She chortles shortly, shaking her head. “I figured that, sunny.” She assures, making you blush in embarrassment she cherishes to witness. “Come stand in front of the sink. If you’re going to beat Yelena into the pool, then we only have a couple of minutes.” Natasha redirects and you allow her to, letting your body be guided toward the countertop that holds every hair utensil you could think of. Knowing Natasha, the woman who likes you in the slickest braid known to man, she’s going to use every instrument in the room until she’s satisfied. It’s a miracle nobody beneath the roof is balding yet. Her fingers are beautiful things, but they’re also dangerous weapons. 

You’re not paying attention to how she parts and pulls and tugs at your hair, only whining when something is too harsh or you’re just missing the sound of her voice coaxing you through the momentary, and entirely worthwhile, pain. You never regret the end result — or the fact that Wanda will forgo making you shower and restyle your hair before bedtime when they’re in. 

“All done.” Natasha smiles proudly after a few moments, tapping your hip as she reaches behind her to begin her own hair in a hurry, not too fussed about making her own style perfect, just manageable for the activities at hand. 

“Said two.” You frown when your eyes focus on your reflection in the mirror and catch sight of the singular french braid that runs down the center of your head. This is not what you asked for; not what you wanted. Natasha knows you only let her braid your hair like this before bed. She knows that for some reason, you like two braids better. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

That doesn’t change the fact that your hair is still only braided in one slicked and tight french braid, secured by a little red elastic she’d laid out on the counter between spraying your hair with a leave-in conditioner and pulling the first sections taut. 

Natasha chuckles as if something is funny, dropping her hands from her hair once she’s satisfied with the bun tied up toward the middle of her head. “And Daddy said no popsicles. Seems like we both forgot to listen, and we’ll both live through the disappointment.” 

“I wanted two.” Your shoulders drop in dejection, eyes staring at your reflection in the still somewhat steamy mirror. 

“And I wanted you to make a good choice.” Natasha isn’t settling, but she meant what she said about not needing to overplay her hand anymore, so she nods toward the door with an ever so gradually lightening expression. Her eyes flicker to the small, gold analog clock Wanda insisted on putting in the corner at the end of the countertop that runs across the side of this wall. Fifteen minutes or less until Yelena barges through the back gate with Fanny on a leash, Kate and Lucky tumbling in behind her flush faced and disheveled. You’re running out of time if you really have a goal of being the first in the pool. She takes one more moment to look at you though; really look. Your cheeks are pink from the heat of the shower, your eyes are wide, doe-like and glassy as they peer back at her with a sort of cluelessness behind them. Your shoulders look gentle, your skin soft as evaporating water allows them to glisten naturally. You look so little. So soft. “Go tell Wands you’re getting in the pool.” 

Your eyes brighten at the reminder of pool time, and you don’t waste a second scrambling out of the bathroom with a bounce. Natasha watches you for a moment, shaking her head as she watches your eyes flicker between Monkey and the door as you slow down just slightly in your descent to Wanda who's still in the kitchen. You can hear her doing something now that you’re out of the bathroom. 

“Uh.” Natasha scolds with a glimmer in her eyes, no real malice in her tone. “Leave Monkey-Monkey. He’ll be here waiting for you when you come back.” 

“Okay.” You whisper softly, continuing down to Wanda. It takes you until the third step to forget about your upset, Natasha can tell as she listens to the growing prance in your footsteps as you regain your speed, your little voice calling out to Wanda before you round the corner of the kitchen. 

“Wands, I’m all ready for the pool!” 

Your feet carry you across the floorboards quickly, still naked, but padding audibly against the hardwood that Wanda had meticulously mopped three days ago while Natasha dusted every shutter and baseboard in the house. You can’t remember what they’d had you doing, maybe the dishes or folding the laundry, but either way, the floor feels squeaky clean and polished beneath your feet. 

Wanda’s putting away the last of the dishes in the kitchen, all the food spread out between the kitchen island and the dining room table as you peer around the corner as you stalk closer to her body. She takes up so much room, so much space, her presence is so large, but she’s really not all that big. She’s still taller than you, more commanding than you. 

“We’re in a better mood.” Wanda notes, and though you’re dazed, utterly delicate in front of her, you catch the way her eyes rake up your body, assuring every curve and inch of exposed skin gets the heat of her stare cast upon it at least once. That burning sensation spreads through your clit and belly again, your cheeks hot as you look down at your painted toes, feeling shy; so shy. “Natty changed you too, hm? What happened there?” 

Natasha might’ve conceded about overplaying her card, but Wanda had barely had a chance to sink her teeth into you and she wasn’t feeling so kind. You knew better than to ignore what she tells you and expects from you. 

Your cheeks blush and your feet kick at the floor again, desperately hoping for it to swallow you whole and save you from this encounter. Wanda wants the full truth. If she asks Natasha later and she finds out you held something back, you’re only in for more. 

“Was too wet.” You admit sheepishly, your voice quiet. “U-Um, looked like I had an accident.” 

Wanda hums, satisfied with your answer though she knows you could’ve been more descriptive. She knows a hell of a lot more than that happened upstairs. She lets it go for now. If only because the choppy manner of your sentences tells her Natasha’s already completely dismantled every panic setting in your little brain, and with it, the right headspace for making you verbally humiliate yourself descriptively. 

“You looked like you had an accident, huh?” Wanda tsks, shaking her head as she turns her chin to glance at the counter, content to find the sunscreen she’d brought down from the bathroom still in its place from last night. “Oh, sunshine, do I have to start taking you to go potty myself. Is my little girl too lost in that pretty head to do it herself?” She teases smugly, knowing that her condescension is only further smothering you into the headspace Natasha’s created in private. 

“I didn’t!” You argue weakly, desperate for her to believe you, for somebody to believe you, because you’re not entirely convinced that Natasha does. “Didn’t have an accident! Mo-Wands I didn’t!”

“You didn’t, what? Tell me sunshine, what didn’t you do.” Wanda backs you into a corner before you even realize you’re caged in, and if your cheeks weren’t already positively glowing, Wanda knows they’d have turned this shade a pink in a moment now that you’ve been tasked with the obligation of clarifying yourself to her; she’s sure Natasha’s made you say it too. She’s certain if she strapped you to an MRI machine, they’d find a million little butterflies all fluttering wildly inside your belly and bones. 

“Ididn’thaveanaccident.” You grumble in one breath, eyebrows innocently furrowed in dismay as you sink your gaze to the floor, still wishing for it to swallow you whole, still absolutely buzzing from every nerve within your body. 

“Slower. And louder. You know better than that.” Wanda chastises with a look of disbelief on her face, your belly sinks to your knees, your legs knock together as you tremble beneath her domineering glare. She’s entirely unimpressed with you this morning. You may have wormed your way back into Natasha’s good graces, but you’re only digging a deeper hole with her. It’s truly a wonder how she hasn’t lost all self control and bent you over the counter until your ass matched the swimsuit Natasha picked out tediously. “If I have to repeat myself you will tell Maria explicitly how you’ve disobeyed both your Mommy and your Daddy in the four hours that your pretty eyes have been open. Do you need to be reminded how much Masha likes to see you cry? Have you forgotten how sweet she sounds as she convinces Mommy to spank that little cunt harder just one more time.” She’s playing mean now. If Natasha were in the room to see how she steps closer to you, impeding on your personal space with a cruelness that would shake a seasoned battle warrior, she’s drag Wanda away by her hand, telling her she’s playing a dangerous game, that this wasn’t supposed to become an all day scene, but Wanda likes danger. And she likes reminding Natasha that they’ve agreed to let her take the reins every so often and today, she’s decided it's everyone at her mercy. 

“N-No!” The way your body reacts before your brain is so pleasing to see. Wanda preens as she watches you break, the one final straw snapping like it's been dry rotted for a decade coming undone completely as you stamp your feet into the ground, body bouncing with so much pent up dismay the vibrations tickle your clit. You sob gutterally, tears sinking down your cheeks as the last of your reserve crumbles, your ability to hide even the slightest reaction from them entirely gone now; probably not to come back until at least the early hours of the morning. 

Good, Wanda thinks, still just watching you have your meltdown, your lips wet with saliva as you blubber nonsensically. There’s no stopping your meltdown without intervention at this point, but she’s content to let you get out at least a couple of the tears she knows you’ve been fighting all morning. You need this. She knows that you need this. The old saying from her childhood sneaks up on her like a paranormal chill. ‘This hurts me more than it hurts you’. It hadn’t been true back then, she’s not so sure its really true now, she knows that this crying helps, heals, highlights all the trust that’s been shared and built, but there’s a twinge deep in her heart that knows just how much trauma and pain it’s taken to get you to this point of emotional regulation and protection. 

“So tell me again. Nicely.” She finally decides to take pity on you when snot bubbles from your nose. You’re quick to use the back of your hand to wipe it away, a whine that’s fully embarrassed tumbling from your lips as you visibly try to sink into the floor. It’s officially surpassed fun and healing for both parties. She knows that you need softness now. That her hand has been played as hard as it needed to be. 

“I-I didn’t have an acc— Mommy I didn’t have an accident!” You sob, your hands coming up to cover your face as you can’t handle the heat of her eyes on you. They’re so soft now, so comforting, so patient. You’re running out of time to get in the pool, but Wanda’s willing to yell at Yelena to wait if it really comes down to it now. You’ve been good enough. She’ll see to it that you get a reward. At least partially. 

“I know, moya milaya, luchezarnaya devochka. (My sweet sunshine girl.) I know.” Wanda pries your hands away from your face gently, the pads of her thumbs that are soft from the pounds of fruit juice she’s squished between her digits wipe away your tears tenderly before her lips kiss your slightly damp cheeks. “Enough of the tears. That’s enough, sweetheart.” She coaxes gently, smiling warmly at you when your eyes blink drearily, your lashes heavy and wet. “Did Natty put sunscreen on you?” She tries to pull you back up a little bit, if only because she knows neither you or Natasha would appreciate outing your mutual Daddy kink so vulnerably. Wanda’s pretty sure everyone knows about her Mommy kinky to some extent, but you and Natasha, you keep things close to your heart in ways she both adores and pities. She wishes the both of you could just love yourselves as openly and encouragingly as she’s learned to love herself.

“No.” You mumble, trying to shake your head that’s still being held between her hands. Wanda smiles sweetly at you, her green eyes sparkling. 

Wanda rolls her eyes, smile gleaming. “Of course she didn’t. Natty’s silly.” Wanda’s proud of herself the second she recognizes the soft giggle that fills her ears at the reprimand of your mutual partner. If one thing always works with you, its using Natasha as the brunt of the joke, if only because outside of this relationship, this opportunity to be wrong and messy and stupid, she’d picture perfect. “We’ll get you all lathered up and then I’ll stop keeping you from the pool, alright, sunshine?” 

“Yours.” You demand weakly, your little voice sounding oh so croaky as you bring a fist up to rub at your eyes. With or without the sunlight that beams down brightly on the backyard, unhidden by clouds that obidently roll around it, you’re going to crash tonight. Wanda can’t remember the last time you let yourself feel and express so freely; that always tends to wear you out. She remembers what it was like to first start feeling and getting in touch with her emotions. She knows how much of a weight it is to constantly be feeling and processing things you haven’t before. Selfishly, empathetically, she can’t wait for the cuddles that are to come when the house finally clears out. 

“I know you want mine, sweet thing.” Wanda laughs, reaching for the sunbum lotion she’d brought down from the bathroom last night. “Always want mine, huh? My body wash, my shampoo, my suntan lotion. You smell like a little version of me!” She teases fondly, opening the cap and squirting a generous amount into her palms. She took her rings off when she started cutting up the fruit, and you’re thankful for thier absence now as she drags her hands down your arms adn across your chest, making a point to almost finger the dips in your clavicle as she works the white lotion clear into your expose skin. 

You giggle when she dips her fingertips beneath the hem of the bathing suit top, coating just the slightest bit more of your boobs before she asks you to turn around, lathering your back and your neck and the backs of your legs with meticulous pressure and gentleness combined. 

“Does that tickle?” Wanda hums fondly as she finishes rubbing in the last of the sunscreen around your ankles, not bothering with your feet now if only because she plans to spray you down every two hours with the spray version she has. “We’re almost done, sweet girl. Just let me get the front of your legs.” 

You don’t question why she saved the front of your legs for last, you should, but you don’t, mindlessly turning around in her grip again, your eyes fixated on the pool that drifts and ripples with the warm breeze that travels in through the open doors and windows. 

You hum when her thumbs press into the muscles of your upper thighs, her fingers really working the lotion in harder than she had been now. She travels high and then low, but your attention is particularly peaked when she reaches the crevices of your thighs, her slickened palms and fingertips continuing to explore your body more than protect it with sunscreen now. 

You squeak when her fingertips breach the sides of your bottoms, her fingers that are barely covered in anything anymore brushed against your lips and then your clit before they dare to dip inside, finding a puddle of wetness that leaks against this swimsuit now too right beneath your pulsating hole. She laughs cynically, plunging a finger inside with interest, working it into an arch and then straightening it out again. 

“Oh.” You gasp, not expecting the intrusion or permissive pleasure you’re receiving. Wanda smirks, setting another hand on your hip. 

“Stay still, baby. I’m just making sure everywhere is nice and covered.” She tells you deceitfully. She pulls her finger out and away too soon, and your face flushes when she adds more sunscreen to her dirtied hand, rubbing that into your stomach before she hums, satisfied with herself. “Natty didn’t let you cum, did she?” Wanda asks eventually, not even daring to bring up how she’d just rubbed your arousal into your belly with the remnants of her sunscreen and your shower water. 

You shake your head, words hard, your eyes reflecting your silence as they glimmer and gleam. 

“I can tell. That little pussy was just clenching on my fingers so tight. And it’s still making such a mess. Better go get in the pool before Natty wants to check for herself again. I don’t think you want to have her pick out another bathing suit when Yelena and Kate are going to be here any minute.” Wanda teasingly redirects, but you’re too oblivious to realize she’d very pointedly just taken your mind off of the second edge of the day. 

“Bye-bye.” You blink at her before you turn, both clumsily and frantically scrambling out of the door. Wanda watches you, almost certain you’re going to bust your ass before you make it into the heated pool, but by some miracle you avoid tripping over your own two feet or the chairs Natasha’s fixed out with towels. She watches you dive in with a splash, grateful that your attitudes already seemed to improved already. She wants this to be a good day. She knows that its going to be.

-

Wanda’s been watching you for a while now. The sun has tarnished your skin already, the salt water has tugged pieces of your braid free, but your eyes gleam with a lightness she hasn’t seen so exposed in a while. Your earlier frustration and arousal has been clearly forgotten, your little mind too occupied with the game of chicken going on between you, Kate, Yelena, and Sharon. Nobody’s really sure who invited Sharon, it definitely wasn’t Natasha or herself, but she hasn’t perturbed the vibe, so nobody’s asked her to leave. 

Your cheeks are pink now from a delicate burn thats going to burn and tighten your skin within the next handful of hours. You’ve got a dark crisp across the bridge of your nose from where the suns hit you most, a telltale sign of the laughter you’ve let bubble from your chest as Yelena throws countless quips at Natasha from the water. She hasn’t left the pool since she arrived, demanding drinks and plates of food from the sloshing waters that she’s crawled so deep into they lick at her collarbones. 

It seems Natasha’s been bringing you drinks as well each time she’s been beckoned over by her excitable little sister finally getting the chance to live out a little bit of her childhood dream if the empty cans of tequila seltzers are any indication. Natasha’s shared a considerable amount about Yelena’s childhood with the both of you, but Wanda especially. They both still have their secrets, neither you nor Wanda confidently know the majority of their most tragic events, but Wanda knows how desperately Yelena had wanted a pool as a child. Wanda knows how many times Yelena had been waterboarded by a drunken Alexei when she’d hopefully asked, never quite getting the hint that the no wasn’t due to money, but willingness. 

Wanda almost feels bad pulling you away from the game thats happening, but unlike everyone else in the pool, they’ve all gotten out to periodically hide from the sun, or in Yelena’s case, at the very least sprayed the top half of their bodies. Wanda knows you won’t want everyone seeing her lather you up, but she’s not quite willing to let you do it by yourself yet, even if you’ve floated up from the very bottom of a soft headspace the slightest bit since fleeing the kitchen and her controlling grip.  

“You gonna bring her in?” Natasha stalks up beside Wanda quietly, but there’s a stagger to her steps that give hints of how much she’s had to drink already, or how little she’s had to eat. Wanda can only have her eye on so many people at once, and you take precedence over your girlfriend who wouldn’t let anything happen to her even shitfaced. Natasha has the skills to defend herself. Wanda fears every day that somebodys going to kidnap you.

Wanda hums, glancing down at the beer in Natasha’s hand. “She’s a lobster.” She comments, slightly amused, slightly horrified. It hadn’t been this bright of a day in a while. She takes the long neck bottle from Natasha’s loose grip, gulping down a mouthful that she realizes is lukewarm too late. “That’s fucking putrid.” Wanda’s nose wrinkles, and she shoves it back into Natasha’s grip with disgust. “It’s piss warm, Natalia.” 

“Yeah well, I haven’t really had time to drink it between watching her boobs bounce every time she falls into the water and being Yelena’s little bitch. I’m one beer away from making her get her own damn drinks.” Natasha takes a gulp of the beer if only to further defend her frustration and Wanda rolls her eyes, not sure why the brunette questions where your attitude is coming from when this is how she acts. “I think she’s just hot. You know how she gets now that she’s upped her meds.” Natasha reasons, watching you fondly for a moment as Kate pushes you back into the water off of Yelena’s shoulders. 

You know Sharon’s not allowed to pick you up. She’s been respecting that rule so far, maybe because both Kate and Yelena have claimed you as quick as the waves of the pool let you find your footing after a spill. 

“She’s going to be pissed when I tell her she can’t take the trazadone tonight.” Natasha comments out of second thought, thinking about the pill bottle you’d rhinestoned blue just a few months back. 

Wanda scoffs, “You should’ve thought about that before you started feeding her, what even are those, Sun Crusiers or High Noons?” She squints her eyes, trying to determine what Natasha’s even been feeding you in the few moments she looks away to socialize with everyone else. Pepper’s done a good job at keeping her busy, the strawberry blonde unable to ever end a conversation after one topic. 

“Sun Crusiers.” Natasha hums, “She gave me the eyes. What was I supposed to do?” She throws her hands up, looking like the depiction of a useless lesbian as her eyes bounce between Wanda and your breasts that bob with the current of the water that drags and pulls you as you try to swim away from Kate, shrieking with glee. Somewhere along the lines, the game of chicken you’d been playing had turned into something else, and neither Wanda nor Natasha know what that games supposed to be. 

“Say no.” Wanda mutters dryly, but her attention isn’t really on Natasha anymore. She watches as Sharon lunges forward in the pool, her fingers just slightly catching your waist though its clear your body wasn’t her intention. It’s enough to encourage Wanda to beacon you over to her though, not willing to take any chances with you. Not with Sharon. Half the people at this party could tell you why she’s a bad idea. “Sunny!” Wanda’s voice reaches across the backyard somehow, startling your attention away from Yelena who’d finally managed to grab your shoulders and onto her. You look at her like she’s hung the stars for you in every lifetime that you’ve lived. It takes her breath away every time. “Come help me!” She nods inside, looking almost mischievous as if that will help to ease you out of the pool without a fit or dramaticized pout. 

She watches your mouth move as you say something to Yelena, and she can almost guarantee the blonde mocks your obidence because your cheeks flush and your head tilts downward as you climb the steps of the pool, shyly throwing your soaking wet braid off of your shoulder. 

“Get me a beer and meet us in the kitchen?” Wanda asks as she moves to grab your towel that she’s left sprawled out across a chair in the sun, but it’s not really a question at all. Natasha rolls her eyes at the demand, but leans forward to press a kiss into the Sokovians temple before she stalks away, chucking her lukewarm beer into the garbage as she moves with stealth.

“Having fun out there, my little fish?” Wanda asks queerly when you’re close enough for the question to reach only your ears. You don’t answer, choosing instead to stumble into her open and outstretched arms, letting her wrap you up tightly in your sun warmed towel. Your head buries itself in her chest, inhaling the ebbing scent of her perfume that disintergrates as she sweats and moves beneath the suns beams. Her fingers brush flyaways away from your face as she guides your eyes up to hers, still finding that hazy softness swimming in your stare when she looks at you. How far you’ve come to trust these people with this part of you. How far you’ve come to understand at all that Wanda and Natasha will only ever have you around people they know will accept you fully and with flaws. Sharon may be a horrible girlfriend and a wicked flirt, but she’s one of the most accepting people Wanda’s ever had the displeasure of calling a friend. Still, she wants to hide this part of you. She wants to keep your softness to herself for a while. “Lets get you inside, my sun. I’m sure a popsicle would make swimming even better.” 

Your eyes brighten at the promise of a popsicle. You’ve been waiting all day, and while you’ve found patience much to Wanda’s enjoyment, it had slowly been killing you as the sun, water, and alcohol wore away at your energy. 

“Popsicle time?” You question bubbly, pulling away from her chest to stand fully on your own two feet, sunburnt cheeks bright and squeezable. 

Wanda nods, “Popsicle time. And sunscreen time. You’re gonna be as pink as a poppy by the time we get you all wrapped up in bed tonight.” She teases, guiding you into the house with a wave at Maria over her shoulder, silently telling the brunette woman to give her a minute. Maria understand more than most at the party do, and she smirks cruelly back at Wanda and sips her cup of… whatever has been created from the open bottles in the kitchen. “Careful. One of these days I’m going to wrap you in bubble wrap for real.” She teases as you trip over the end of the towel just feet away from your destination. Wanda really questions why Natasha thought it was a good idea to fill you up with alcohol when you’re already incoherent on your feet, stumbling and falling about in the pool like you have no idea how your center of gravity works. 

“Not my fault.” You mutter cheekily, a shy blush crawling up the back of your neck as you spin to look at Wanda. 

“And whose fault was it?” Wanda quirks an eyebrow, her chin lulling to the side as she stares at you. 

“Natty’s.” You say, evidence of how much time you’ve spent unsupervised with Yelena. Wanda wants to laugh, she really, really does, you look so cute with your little head titled back at her, your eyes sparkling as you know full and well you shouldn’t be blaming Natasha for things she’s not even around to see or find her own humor in. 

“Don’t start lying again now, little girl. I’m still quite interested to see if Natty could really get that pussy the same shade as your suit.” You didn’t know Wanda knew Natasha had said that upstairs while you’d been getting ready, you’d forgotten all about it yourself, but the heat of your pent up and continuously denied arousal comes back quick and at full force. Wanda can see the sheen of heat that comes over you the moment it crashes, and she smirks knowingly, silently adding another talley to her list of wins. 

“Sorry.” You avert your eyes bashfully, holding onto the edges of the towel tighter. 

Wanda smiles at you softly, reaching for the bottle of sunscreen she’d left on the counter. She was just going to spray you down, but she doesn’t trust that enough now that she’s seen how easily you’re showing evidence of your time outside right now. She doesn’t aim to tease this time though, working your body over rather roughly as she just tries to do the best job she can. There’s a white cast to your cheeks when she’s finished with you, but at the very least, she hopes you wont burn any further. The UV should be dwindling soon, the summer sky beginning to change hues as the day ages quicker than anyone wants or can notice. Burning is only going to be a risk for another hour or so more, but you’re her baby, and quite honestly, she doesn’t want the three am waking when your brain clears and you realize how badly you hurt. 

“That’s alright, sunshine.” She promises quietly as she sets the sunscreen back on the counter, turning to look at the fridge just as Natasha comes inside with three drinks. The neck of Wanda’s beer is between Natsha’s pointer finger and middle finger, and somehow she balances two solo cups in the other hand, her pinky and index finger supporting a lottery ticket Wanda has no idea where she got, or who she got it from. 

“Alright, I have your beer. Maria poured me a 3 finger of whiskey, and for you, baby love, we have a red hawaiian punch.” Natasha plays up her delivery, hoping she’ll be able to sell you the drink despite its lack of alcohol. You take the bait, reaching for it out of her hands with an excited smile. You chug mindlessly, finally aware of how thirsty you were for something not carbinated. “I can’t believe Clint stayed back with the kids. We have two gallons of hawaiian punch we have nothing to do with.” Natasha adds as a second thought once she’s sure you’re content with your drink, following Wanda over to the freezer as she searches for a popsicle for you.

“Just tell Laura to take them with her when she goes. You know she never turns down food for those kids. They’re worse than you and Clint.” Wanda muses with an amused scoff, and Natasha makes a sound that insinuates she hadn’t thought of that solution of her own. “Alright, a popsicle for you, my little lady.” Wanda turns around with a bright smile, handing you an already open popsicle with the tips of her careful fingers. You grab it with your fist, lapping at it with a pink tongue that they both can’t help but watch. You don’t know what your’e doing, too enthralled by the flavor that melts across your tongue, but they watch you the whole time, even as you teeth bite down and break off half of the frozen treat in one go. 

Natasha has to swallow a moan when your tongue pokes out to lick up a trail of juice that spills from your lips, and she really almost loses it when you miss, only smearing the red-pink evidence across your face a little bit more. 

You finish the popsicle in record time, evidence of your inebriation and need of real sustiencence as the heat and your medication begin to make a real effect on you. 

“Come here, let me fix your bathing suit messy girl.” Natasha tsks. Wanda doesn’t comment that theres nothing wrong with your suit, or that Natasha’s pupils are entirely blown with lust, just watches silently, wondering how this is going to play out for the both of you who are still beneath her thumb. You move when she wants you to move, and she hasn’t given either one of you permission to dive into the deep end yet again. 

The tips of Natasha’s fingers are still white from digging around in the coolers outside for a beer. It takes only four second for Wanda to realize the russians intentions, but your brain doesn’t catch up until Natasha is worming her touch beneath the fabric of your tankini cups and pinching your nipples between her fingers. You jump, and Wanda’s not sure if its a reaction to the sudden cold or pain, but she enjoys the sight of you straining away from both sensations on your tippy toes, failing miserably to truly relieve the ache or temperature. 

You splutter on a cough when Natasha pulls her hands away, smirking posessively as you as she glances toward the window, her eyes locking on a blue eyed individual who bears a smirk of sheer enjoyment, still stocily sipping whatever drink she’s mixed together. Your eyes find Maria’s after a moment, and you only cough again, cheeks flushing as you choke on air and saliva. 

“Take a drink.” Natasha giggles, not all that concerned as she turns back to Wanda, letting you sit in the embarrassment of her disinterest. She’s very interested, but this is as far as Wanda’s letting her extend her hand right now, so she’s taking full advantage of the inches she has access too — even if she wants the miles Wanda has and hasn’t touched. 

Neither one pay attention as your hand reaches for the cups on the counter, mindlessly thinking you were grabbing your hawaiian punch as you splutter for relief from the combined ache, burn, and scratch in your throat as your eyes water. Your nipples are pebbled beneath the ribbed fabric of your tankini’s cups, and they poke out proudly, unwilling to stay hidden for your modesty or mindset. 

You’re still not paying attention as you raise the cup to your lips, taking a big sip that tastes nothing like you expect. You choke even more, not expecting the bitter taste that coats your throat with a persistent lingering. It takes only a moment, a single second for your brain to catch up to what you’ve just drank, and when it does, when you realize that its whisky, a smile tugs at your lips, your coughing and spluttering subsiding as you go in for another gulp before either Wanda or Natasha can reach across the island to snatch the cup from you.

The second wash of whisky against your throat is kinder than the last, but it still burns, it still twinges your insides, still forces you to swallow thickly a second time after it falls down your throat, but you anticipate it, expect it. Even if its not really, it feels like something you can control now; pain that you can limit and amplify at your own means. 

Natasha catches your wrist in the middle of your third swig, your eyes watering as a few drops splash against your uvula and the roof of your mouth. You can feel it in your nose as you swallow, whining pitifully as she drags your hand away from your mouth. “I meant, take a drink from your juice.” 

“Thought it was that one.” You shrug, pulling your wrist out of her grip if only to actually grab your juice and dunk the remnants of your popsicle into it, a truly adorable grin taking over your features as the different hues of color blend and swirl together. Natasha’s only a little bit bothered that she didn’t get to steal a bite before you submerged it. 

“And it took you two more tries to make sure, huh?” She looks at you with a twinkle in her eyes, not truly perturbed but willing to take a few seconds to scold you anyways, adoring the way you seem to wiggle in your skin beneath her attention. “You’re going to have quite the headache tomorrow morning, little lady. Might even be glad I did your hair in one braid when you don’t have to hold it back as your puking over the toilet.” She sings in a teasing tone, taking the last bits of her whisky down in one go as she finishes her taunt. 

“I can go play with Yelena again?” You question with indifference to her droning, not in the appropriate headspace in any capacity to comprehend or play into her taunting. Wanda chuckles into her hand as she raises the neck of her beer to her lips, always amused with the bantering that ensues between the both of you. She wonders what it had been like in the beginning, when you’d just been a secretary and Natasha couldn’t be so brazen in her flirting. She’d heard the stories from both of your perspectives a few hundred times, sometimes at two pm, sometimes at three am, but nothing would compare to getting to see the way she’s sure you blushed and Natasha twitched with concealed nervousness with her own two eyes. Neither one of you know how beautiful she finds you. Neither one of you know the things she truly cares about within those moments that you both let slip by unnoticed. There’s no way to make it happen, to rewind time and let her witness whats now history, your personal, intimate history, but she hopes, and that’s always gotten her through. 

“You can go play with Yelena, but Natty’s gonna start grilling soon and then we’re going to put some clothes on and sit by the fire. No whining when I tell you it’s time to get out, right?” Wanda takes the opportunity to remind you of your place, your role, their expections and perception of you. Your cheeks flush at the display of dominance that’s uttered so sternly, your heart skipping just a single beat as you nod your head obediently, unsure of what has butterflies roaring in your belly so horridly. 

“Cheeseburger.” You nod decicively, letting you gaze flicker to Natasha who watches you and Wanda fondly. You’ve concluded a long time ago that all this relationship can really be chalked up to is taking turns admiring each other. Someone is always staring, always memorizing new features they’d never noticed before. It’s sweet, but in times like these, it reminds you of how expode you are now, how unhidden you’ve made yourself. After years of builiding a repore within your small town, the quiet girl, the lonely girl, the abandoned girl, it would never quite feel right to have nowhere to hide when you’re with them. 

Natasha’s head lulls to the side as she laughs, muscles in her abs flexing as her trunks slip lower and lower on her hips. Your eyes watch her skin as it ripples like the water in the pool, taken away from your mental rabbit hole by her undeniable (and unintentional) hotness. It’s almost annoying that she can look so good so easily, so carelessly. 

“Yes, I know you want a cheeseburger. You always want a cheeseburger.” Natasha coos fondly, pulling open the cabinet beneath the center of the island for the trash can. She tosses her cup in mindlessly, using her hip to give it just enough momentum to propel closed without her fingertips. She takes full advantage of her free hands that are still kind of cold, colder than your skin at least, and settles them onto your hips, letting her fingers press into your ass beneath the waistband of your bottoms. “Are you having a good time with Yelena and Kate?” She asks quietly, dropping her forehead onto yours, slotting your noses together; taking a moment to just appreciate and hold you, something she hasn’t really done all day, even in the moments she’d had you all to herself. There’d been a mission then, a time constraint. 

You nod your head softly, forgetting its against hers, and grin shyly when your foreheads bonk, her eyes closing in a soft moment of gentle exasperated humor as her shoulders shake with chortled laughter. “Yes.” You whisper decisively, and Natasha’s heart skips a beat knowing she and Wanda are the reason your autopilot setting is blunt responses. They don’t care for the cushions when you’re like this, like putty between their fingers, they just care that you’re able to express what you need and how you feel. They’ve taught you well; you’ve learned well. 

“That’s good, sunshine.” Natasha pecks your lips sweetly, letting you taste the whisky on her lips and selfishly tasting the ice pop and juice spread against you. You’re sweet, like you always are, but you have your own edge to your tongue now as she taste the whisky hidden beneath your misleading invitation of cherry and strawberry. “Get back out there before it’s too late.” 

“One more. Please.” You bargain, eyes fluttering as you lean in close to chase Natasha’s warmth as she backs away. You don’t need to clarify what you need from her, and she doesn’t make you ask a second time as she steps up to you fully and captures your lips in a real kiss now, pressing herself against you as harshly as she can without losing balance, not caring about the wet impression you leave against her or the fact that until now, she’d been perfectly dry by choice. She’d never deny you a kiss like this, not when she knows you’ll wrap around her like a monkey without shame, falling into a tunnel of black as the only light shines on her. You don’t disappoint now as you wrap your arms around her neck and attempt to make it seem like you have any power over her, it’s not intentional, but its still a subtle move of possession, one that has Natasha grinning against your lips like an idiot, effectively breaking suction for the first time. 

You gasp for breath with raspberry cheeks, not red, not pink, wiping damp baby hairs out of your face with childish discordination. Your eyes sparkle with a few million stars, and Natasha takes a few seconds to try and count each one, matching constellations that feel like home to her after all this time, all this closeness. 

“We agreed on one more.” Natasha pets your hair back affectionately, smothering your face akin to the way an aunt would a small, squishable child. “Go kick Yelena’s ass for me, kay?” She encourages, eyes sparkling with mischief that races through your veins at lightening speed with the assistance of alcohol in your system. You’re utterly fucked for tomorrow, that’s absolutely certain, but for now, you’ve never felt lighter.

“Okay.” You whisper, leaning in close and rising up on your tippy-toes to sneak attack her with a kiss before you skip away, eyelashes batting as you make eye contact with Wanda who smirks teasingly. 

“No kiss for me?” She preens, jutting her hip out with a teasing attitude that makes you giggle with schoolgirl kind of charisma. “Go have fun, baby girl.” Wanda hums when you’re close enough to grab, linking an arm around your hips with one possessive grip as she balances her beer in the other hand, keeping it just out of your reach before your little drunk mind can lead you to anymore creative ideas. “Listening ears on when I tell you its time to get out, right?” She repeats again, her eye contact heavy and suffocating as you get lost in the vibrant green of her stare. Her eyes get so much lighter when she spends time in the sun. 

Your head bobs, just like it did the first time she asked, but she shakes her head, clicking her tongue against her pearly white front teeth. “Words, detka.” She corrects, strictness settling into her gaze that reminds you silliness is only permitted occasionally.

Your expression sobers, your belly shrinking inside of you again. “Right.” 

“Good girl.” Wanda’s eyes sparkle, a delicacy refilling the emerald voids. Right now, you don’t know why you were ever nervous about tonight. You don’t want it to end, you’re not ready for it in the slightest. If you could, you would stay in this afternoon forever, replaying every small moment — even the torturous ones. 

-

The fire crackles. Ambient orange and yellow light licks at the air and your back. Natasha’s fingers trail up and down your spine. Goosebumps. Beads of sweat. Warmth. There are so many sensations captivating your focus, but what you choose to settle on is the tickle of her nails scratching at your skin beneath the flowy fabric of your tankini top. You’re not sure you can even call it that really, it dawns on you now, with your head against her collarbone and your legs straddling her waist in front of all of her friends. You can’t remember how you got into this position — how your legs ended up no either side of hers or your how your head was tucked into her neck like it had always belonged here, but you don’t pull away from its warmth and weight, even as you feel stares on your back that spark warmth somehow hotter than the fire that licks at you.

 You don’t think this top counts as a tankini. It doesn’t really cover your belly at all. All it does is flow around your curves, concealing the figure that Wanda and Natasha love so much until you shift just right or the wind blows. It’s a lace-like mesh, a thin flowy detail that brings femininity to the otherwise just red bikini, and it brings you confidence, but your not so sure you have its classification in your wardrobe right. 

“It was Wentworth, Yelena.” Natasha rolls her eyes, stilling her scratching of your spine to shoot a deep glare at her little sister who sits across the fire holding an empty leash. 

Fanny and Lucky had been put inside hours ago, sometime before the sun had fully set beneath the trees and nightfall coated the sky thick and black. Sparklers have already begun being shot off and burned in the distance, and while no big fireworks have been shot off yet, you think Kate’s insistence to get it done ahead of time was a good call. You remember the dogs from your childhood always freaking out, and while these are city dogs, ones that are used to the constant chatter and noise of the city, you don’t think they’ll take kindly to the rapid and consecutive exploding still. 

Despite the dogs being inside, probably in the kitchen lapping frantically at their water bowls making a mess, or lounging on the couch in the living room like they love to do, Yelena hasn’t relinquished her grip on the leash since she’d climbed out of the pool soggy and soaking, stretching her legs on land for the first time since she and Kate had turned up to the party ten minutes early. 

You turn your face farther into Natasha’s chest, muffling the sound of your whine as it crawls up your throat, but directing the vibrations directly into her body. You wiggle in her lap, arching your back just enough for her to get the hint that you’re not pleased about the lull in attention to the notches in your vertebrae. Natasha doesn’t draw attention to your action, but her hand starts scratching your back again, her eyes never leaving Yelena’s sprawled out form. 

The blonde sits on a camping chair dug out from the shed in the back of the yard. Natasha had spent the better half of an hour pulling all the appropriate fire pit chairs out from storage that morning, but Yelena had been insistent on wanting one particular army green chair that she swears Natasha initially inherited from her back in college. She throws her right leg over the armrest, reclining her spine partly over the back and edge of the chair as her hips cant with an upright angle. The position looks both incredibly comfortable and like something a prisoner in a straight jacket would be made to occupy for cruel and unusual punishment. 

Natasha’s not finished ragging on her sister who she finally has an opportunity to get back at after all that bitchign and bossing around by the pool. She takes a swig of the beer in her hands, coating the back of her throat before she opens her mouth to groan again. “Why are you always so insistent on telling this story? You never remember her name.” 

“Because I find it very funny, sister. It is comical to me that you would react so passionately to a high school basketball game. Remind me again, how long was it you were on that team?” Yelena, unfortunately, is not easily bested by her older sister, though Natasha, who remembers her as a gullible little bright eyed seven year old, can never seem to get that straight until she’s staring her straight into the eyes challenigly, willing her to keep going. 

“Three weeks.” She grits out, unwilling to let Yelena walk away victorious. She wants Natasha to falter, to admit that she’s done something impulsively or embarassingly. Natasha isn’t fond of the anger she was quick to as a teenager, she isn’t fond of the lack of commitment to teams and extracurricular, buts she’s even less fond of allowing Yelena to feel like she’s won something she started. “And how long we’re you on the swim team, ‘Lena? How long did you have a crush on Antonia—”

”Geez! Alright, alright, alright, you mention one funny story and suddenly it is a full blown war.” Yelena sinks into her camping chair, taking a swing from the beer she’s been nursing since Kate brought her one on her way back from the bathroom and checking on the dogs. 

“Antonia, huh? Who’s Antonia?” Kate questions, leaning forward in her chair thats far more comfortable than the one Yelena’s dug out thats probably littered with cobwebs and spiders. She takes a sip from her solo cup indifferently, arching a single perfect brow over the rim at her girlfriend of seven months. Apparently they’ve known each other since college, but Natasha says it took them both forever to get over themselves and actually go out on a date. They’re two of the most brazen, stubborn, head strong women you know. And yet somehow, that makes perfect sense for the trajectory of their lives as you know them. 

“Oh, it is nothing. I do not even think I remember an Antonia from high school. Definitely not. Deidre Wentworth though, I remember her. And how Natasha punched her in the nose because she missed a three-pointer—”

“—it was a two-pointer, I really don’t know why you’re always so insistent to tell this story, and I really don’t think that’s going to save you right now.” Natasha gestures toward the pointedly curious brunette beside her sister, Kate’s bright blue eyes stormy and interested as she leans on the edge of her seat, the cushion beneath her ass providing little support as she neglects to use it appropriately now that Yelena has her so wound up. Her refusal to just answer the question that had stared as simple teasing was only working an emotional drunk Kate up more, her grip on the solo cup tightening to something crushing, the plastic looking like it threatened to give way between her white-knuckle fingers.

“It’s not.” Kate’s jaw clenches, a sheen of intimation coming across her features that you haven’t seen so genuinely before. You peak out from Natasha’s chest to catch the encounter, curious little eyes so hazy from alcohol and submission watching the scene with a grimace of curiosity. Your little heart clenches at the hostility, the tension, but your mind loves the drama that you know will spill in through a series of texts from Yelena once she, and Kate, sober up in the morningtime. “Who’s Antonia, Yelena?” 

“Don’t look at me. I’m certainly not going to save you.” Maria scoffs, shaking her head when Yelena’s gaze falls upon her similar to that of a begging puppy. You wonder if she picked up the habit from Fanny. It would be just like her. 

“Maria’s more of a sadist than your sister.” Wanda laughs, shaking her head in amusement. 

Yelena grimaces, expression sobering. “Okay I did not need to hear that about my sister even if I did already know she is a bitch and a sadist.” 

“Oi.” Natasha scolds, suddenly harsh, suddenly cold. You whine in her lap, turning your head back into her chest as her reprimand turns your bones cold, so used to being the only one on the receiving end of that tone. Everyone gathered around the campfire is too enthralled with Yelena and Kate to notice the bristle of immediate submission and sorrow in your reaction, but Natasha feels it in her lap — how you get heavy and tense on her skin. She drags her nails down your back with firmer pressure, reaffirming that you’re not the one in trouble. This time. Though for such a good girl, you’ve found quite the bit of trouble on your own today. “Watch yourself, Yelena. YA naderu tebe zadnitsu.” You don’t know what that means, Natasha’s never said it to you, nor has Wanda ever taught you, but it brings comfort to know that she’s really not addressing you. Her scratching nails hadn’t been enough. 

“You’re not getting out of this now.” Kate kicks her leg out, tapping Yelena’s shin with more force than necessary. The blonde frowns, groaning as she lowers a hand to nurse the ache. 

The Russian, who you’re learning is the epitome of a dumb blonde despite her gruff and edgy outer appearance each time you see her, looks at her girlfriend with eyes filled with betrayal. “My shin.” 

“Not helping.” Pepper groans, dropping her arm to the side of her chair, wine sloshing out of the solo cup she’d poured it into. 

Sharon scoffs, seemingly knowing that the response Yelena chose was a bad call even with her track record with women and dating in general. “Yelena. Really?” She scolds, shaking her head in disappointment as she bites off the end of a hotdog she’d been holding over the flames of the campfire. 

Kate kicks her again. Harder. The orange flames lick brighter and higher as Wanda throws more firewood in from her seat, losing interest in the arguement as her eyes turn to watch you instead. You’re entirely unaware, lost in the comfort and presence of Natasha as your heavy eyelids remain closed and exactly as stated; heavy. She can see the effects of the alcohol and the sun combined on your features, but you’re not ready to call it quits yet, you’re not ready to crawl up to bed alone, without them. 

“Antonia Dreykov.” Yelena admits with a reluctant scowl, and you’ve offically lost interest in the story now, familiar with how much of a villain she (and her father) had become in Natasha and Yelena’s lives. You’re glad they can talk about her, and him, with ease now, but it lights a fire beneath both you and Natasha on their behalf each time. 

You don’t want to listen, too drunk, too sleepy, too emotional. Your fingers tap Natasha’s wrist, dizzy eyes finding hers with a timidness that stops the world around her for a moment. She smiles at you with her own drunken charm, her skin tinted with evidence of her inebriation now as the fire glows against her skin. She’s always warm. She’s warmer now. 

“Hi sunshine.” She whispers, leaning down to peck your lips softly as she shares a moment with you and only you, though she’s acutely aware of Wanda’s eyes on the both of you from across the firepit. You’re not sure why she chose a seat so far away, but Natasha knows it has everything to do with her testing the bounds of her control, willing to see how well Natasha can handle herself as she gets you all cuddly and to herself by the fire. It’s a dangerous game you don’t even know you’re apart of, but if she fails, you’ll know. Oh, you’ll know. 

“Sip.” You request sluggishly, blinking at her with innocent wonder. She wonders how you can handle the weight of your eyelashes. They look so full and heavy as you bat your gaze at her. 

“Mommy’s going to kill me for getting you so drunk.” She whispers against your lips, too drunk to be phased by your quiet, bossy demand, too captivated by you to realize she’s the one slipping farther down into a quiet, fuzzy headspace now. The world gets so quiet when she has you like this; when she gets to act and assert control like this. “You’re going to be such a little nightmare in the morning.” She continues to talk about you and you’re none the wiser, fixated on the beer that sloshes around the bottle as she condescends you with affection. 

“Sip.” You repeat, tugging on her wrist now as your slim little fingers wrap around her wrist, fingertips not even touching each other as you attempt to pull her close.

“Yeah, yeah. Sip, I know.” She breaths through her mouth before she uses her free hand to tilt your chin upward, holding your jaw between careful fingertips as she pours the beer straight into your mouth. You gulp with an urge, letting your throat bob tantalizingly as Natasha watches. The drips that leak from your lips when she pulls the bottle back catch her eye just like the juice from the popsicle had, but Wanda clears her throat from across the fire, stealing her attention before she can forget the instructions given to her. 

Things had definately changed since Wanda and Natasha’s go at this. Maria can tell as she watches them watch you and each other wordlessly. 

“All done.” She tells you firmly. You shake your head, trying to pull her wrist back to you. “Yes, we’re all done. You’ve had enough. Just relax against me now. Just close your eyes again and let me rub your back.” Natasha chastises with a gentle guidance, lowering your head back into the dark pocket of her neck. You want to fight, you try to fight as its happening, but the second your heavy head finds a place to rest again, your brain realizes how good it feels to just be heavy against her body. “Good girl, there you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? No. No, it wasn’t. You just like to give Daddy a hard time, just like to be reminded that she cares. It’s alright, sunshine. Daddy cares. Daddy will always remind you she cares.” Natasha buries her face in your head as she drops the bottle beside her, knowing she’s going to have to come back here with a garbage back tomorrow afternoon anyways. One more bottle isn’t going to hurt anything besides her landscaping as beer sloshes onto the grass, but she thinks her fates already been sealed anyways. 

Her hands continue to rub and scratch at your back at first, getting higher and lower, lighter and firmer. She takes you away from the conversation happening around you. You don’t hear Yelena droning on and on, not helping herself with Kate as she explains the slow burn of her relationship with Antonia in a way that could make even the most composed women shake — Kate Bishop is not a composed women, she never stood a chance at staying in her camping chair as Yelena admits to sharing her very first kiss with the scar-faced blonde beneath the chlorinated water of the high school pool. You miss the way the brunette stands and drags the blonde away from the fire, huffing and puffing something about ‘thinking B was the only love affair’ on her way to the house. The sliding glass door slammed closed so hard Wanda felt the vibration in the ground beneath her chair, but you remained passively indifferent, only making faint cooing and humming sounds as Natasha works your skin warm. 

Her trailing gets bolder without your noticing, her hands that once started on your back innocently scratching skin trailed down to your thighs before they staked claim where they really wanted to be on your ass. Natasha massages the globes between her palms, still humming along to the conversation, vibrating your cheeks as she pipes in from time to time, but paying the most attention to the way the muscles in your ass twitch and jump in response to her kneading and prodding. 

Pepper is in the middle of a story pertaining to something about Stark Industries when Natasha dares to dip her fingers beneath the fabric of your shorts and bottoms, Her fingers are only slightly warm, the chill of the beer keeping them from truly absorbing the warmth of the fire as she sits closer to the flames than anyone else around your small but plentiful circle. You whine into her neck, being shushes carefully moments later. 

She doesn’t stop until she’s satisfied, and certain that if she goes on any longer, she’s either going to finger you right there, or Wanda’s going to leap out of her chair and drag you both up the stairs and to the bedroom without so much as a word to the guests slowly losing their energy around the fire. But, even when she retreats, she jostles her thigh just enough to brush your core with the fabric of her trunks, never letting herself be perceived as anything less than a menace. 

The party doesn’t drag on much longer. Sharon clears out, then Pepper. Maria offers to stick around and clean up a little bit, but Wanda brushes her off with a well hidden urgency, just wanting to strip herself and fall into bed with you and Natasha for the night. Her emerald eyes are pink with exhaustion around the edges, the days events and emotions finally catching up to her as the first pop of fireworks shoot off from the distance. 

Maria promises to send pictures of the ones she sees on her uber ride home, and Wanda thanks her as Natasha coerces you out of her grip and into Wanda’s, telling her girlfriend softly that she’s going to fish out a pair of pajamas for you before they lose you to the calling of sleep that’s going to ring as soon as you make eye contact with your bed. 

“Did you have a good night?” Wanda asks quietly once it’s just the two of you in the backyard, the sound of Maria climbing into an uber at the end of the driveway in time with the fireworks in the background confirming your completion of the event and the day. 

You nod against Wanda like a sack of potatoes, your arms wrapped around her waist as you seek every bit of warmth and support she’s willing to give you. Your head is heavy, spinning. Your belly doesn’t quiet feel right. You’re running on fumes, well past the point of no return. 

“That’s good, my little sun.” Wanda hums, dropping her forehead to the crown of your head, inhaling the mixed scent of her shampoo, your sweat, saltwater, and the sunscreen she’d lathered you in once more before settling around the fire just for precautions. “I’m so glad to hear you had a good time. Maybe next time we won’t have to be so scared abuot it first.” 

It takes so much, but somehow, you find the strength to lift you head and find Wanda’s eye, grinning at her bashfully, drunkenly. “Maybe.” You parrot, blinking slowly. If she stands out here with you any longer, she’s almost certain you’ll fall asleep standing up. 

“Come on, my love. Let’s get you into your jammies and all cozied up in bed.” 

-

Natasha sighs when she makes it through the sliding glass door, the mask she’s worn for the crowd all night finally dropping as she takes her hair down, assessing the damage of the kitchen for a moment with tired eyes. She massages the center of her scalp where the hairtie pulled pieces of her hair the tautest, a shudder shaking her shoulders as the delicious pressure she applies tickles her nerves. 

The platters of food Wanda prepared have been destroyed. The salami and bologna she’d laid out in spirals that resembled roses looked like mutiliated blobs on the wooden charcuterie board now, browning and wilted as they sat in two lonely little balls, the surrounding cheese and crackers eaten to crumbs. The fruit salad was lacking too, only a scoop or two left out of the entire bowl Wanda had filled with tender love and affection. Natasha’s glad it got eaten, but she hopes Yelena had gotten her fix, because she can only remember brining a cup of fruit salad out to her twice, and she doubts the blonde had remembered to grab a container for herself whenever she’d left with Kate.

She had to of left, Natasha thinks, suddenly unsure about whether or not Kate and Yelena still linger in the halls or guest bedrooms of the home. It wouldn’t be the first time they stayed behind to release some pent up frustration or sleep over a hangover, but the dogs are eerily quiet too if they remain inside, and the booming of fireworks she tastefully tunes out is incessant enough to at least set Lucky off; he’s always been the least tolerant of the two, but Natasha firmly stands on the belief that it has everything to do with Kate Bishop being the most permissive pet parent she’s ever encountered despite the interest in archery and black belt karate status. For a woman that knows a thing or two about discipline, she has no knack for implementing it in any category of her life. 

She drops her hands, more concerned about taking adequate count of the heads in her house than assessing the damage of the party anymore. Her footsteps aren’t as quiet as they had been in the morning, her exhaustion and inebriation corrupting her learned reflexes that remind Wanda so much of a spider. 

“Yelena?” She calls out, stepping farther into the kitchen only to stick her head between the opening in the wall and direct her tone toward the staircase upstairs. Nobody’s in the living room, and the hallway leading toward the outdoor linen closet is dark, but her doubt isn’t gone yet as she turns on her heels and walks back toward the dining room, thinking about how Kate prefers the water pressure from that wing of the houses half bath for some reason. 

The floorboards creak beneath her clumsy step, but she’s coherent enough to look out for any signs of Lucky or Fanny barreling toward her at the sound. “Kate?” She shouts, rounding the corner into the dining room. She reaches for the light switch, almost certain that she’d left them on to begin with, but only knowing that now, they’re off and the room is painted in darkness that extends until it reaches the bathroom through the room and down the hall. 

“Lu—” Natasha’s in the middle of trying to call for the dogs themselves when she catches something she least expects on the table. “Fuck.” She curses, rushing toward it with intention. She can tell from across the room that something’s not right with Monkey-Monkey as he sits on the dining room table slumped over. The last time she’d seen him was in the bedroom, propped up nice and high overtop of the covers. The shadow of his tail seems too far away from his body, and when she gets close enough to understand why, her heart sinks to her feet. 

‘The girls must’ve found this in the toy box. 

Sorry for the tragedy.

Went home. Grabbed salad.

Suka’

”If anyone’s a bitch it’s fucking you.” Natasha shakes her head as she throws the note she’d found on the table beside your beloved stuffed animal to the floor, trying her hardest to retrace the last place she’d seen her needle and thread. It wasn’t the first time Monkey-Monkey had suffered a tragedy, that was for sure, but tonight was not a night that Natasha wanted to test your ability to regulate your emotions without your fuzzy friend. “I swear, that kids broken everything she’s touched si—”

“Daddy?” Natasha jumps at the call of your voice, and Wanda knows something is wrong before she even sees the ball of matted browns in her girlfriend hands. Her breath hitches when she makes eyes with it though, knowing immediately what had distracted her always alert girlfriend so direly without needing to ask. You giggle, blinking sleepily at Natasha from the doorway of the dining room, swaying on your feet a bit as you stand away form Wanda’s body. “What’re you— Monkey-Monkey. Oh.” Your soft eyes flicker between Natsaha’s face and the stuffed monkey in her hands. It takes only a moment, a single moment, for your face to crumble, pitiful and soft sobs shattering the silence Natasha had once been seeking comfort in. 

“This isn’t quite the way you left him, huh.” Natasha doesn’t know what else to do, how else to approach you, this was most definately not on her long list of things that she had mentally prepared for going into today. She’d told you to leave it in the bedroom explicitly so this didn’t happen. She thought she closed the door behind her when she walked out. She thought she did. She was almost certain she’d closed that door, they always close that door. Apparently she didn’t. The evidence is in two pieces in her hands. 

He’s relatively unscathed beside the detached tail, that thankfully is its own seperate seam, no stuffing exploding from his butt, but relatively unscathed isn’t what you want to hear right now as Wanda sweeps you up into her arms and tries to console you softly. 

“We’ll get him fixed up, sunshine.” Wanda assures, pressing her lips to your temple thats warm from the proximity of the fire even with your face turned away from the flames into Natasha. “We’ll fix him.” 

“B-Bedtime!” You sob into the Sokovians chest, reminding her of your routine that hadn’t changed since before you’d even offically moved in with Natasha way back when. One of them always tucks you into bed, then puts Monkey in your arms, and then crawls in after you if work constraints allow. They’ve never dared to mess with that routine. Not while visiting Clint and Laura on the farm they have in Ohio, not while on work trips to LA, or Montana. Never once have either of them ever dared to get you to rest those eyes without the fourth member of your california king sized bed. 

“We will have him by bedtime. Nobody is going to make you close those pretty eyes without Monkey. Can you tell me him full name? Huh, can you remind me of what it is?” Wanda remembers it fully, if only because she can’t help but giggle at what was once your imagination when you’d first received the cuddly toy. 

You sniffle, glancing up at her with teary, bright red eyes. “M-Monkey-Monkey Ophelia Plum.” You stutter, but the words make you think, make you breathe, and Wanda uses the distraction to usher you up the stairs, leading her questioning into that of what pajamas you want to pick out for yourself tonight, and whether or not you want the fan pointed at you again, or more toward her. 

You want the pink pair with the scallops on the sleeves, and you don’t want the fan on you again. Wanda doesn’t fight. She doesn’t argue over the pair of jammies that she helps you into even though you get frustrated with the way the tags rub against your neck in the middle of the night but won’t let be cut out, nor does she remind you that the heatwave is meant to strike again tomorrow, and the humidity is known for sneaking in through the gaps in the windows. She lets you have your way. She lets you whine, and boss, and demand, and she lets you pucker your lips and beg for kisses wordlessly, if only to stall, to make time for Natsaha to pull off a miracle downstairs. 

“You did so good today. So good for me and Dady.” Wanda coaxes gently as she drags a wipe between your legs, shushing you softly when you whine at the cold. “Mommy’s gotta clean this little kitty up, sunshine. It’s been so leaky all day. Mommy just wants to make sure her little girl goes to bed nice and clean. You might be too drunk to understand me right now, but you’ll thank me for sparing you from the rash that would’ve happened.” Wanda talks to you in a manner that only dumbs you further, your eyes blinking closed and not opening as you lounge on the bed, spread out and pampered. 

Wanda tries not to moan as she wipes down your core one last time, a string of arousal clinging to the wipe and your cunt before it breaks and you’re deemed as clean as she can get you. She wiggles your shorts back up your thighs, thanks her lucky stars that she’d coached you through brushing your teeth and washing your face before she’d undressed you and gotten you changed, and somehow manages you get your heavy, deadweight body beneath the covers just as Natasha creeps into the room holding a companion thats seen better days. 

“He’s not perfect. I can make him better tomorrow.” She starts warningly, and your little eyes blink open, the last of your concieousness given to her in this moment. “But, I have someone here who wants to say goodnight to you.” 

“Mmm.” You try to hum, and your fingers wiggle against the mattress as you attempt to reach for him, but you’re unsuccessful and Natasha can only laugh endearingly as she stalks closer to the edge of the bed, more than happy to hand him over to you. 

She leans forward and kisses your forehead softly, her hair falling forward and tickling your skin slightly. You’d giggle if you could but instead you groan, suddenly very aware of how sick you feel despite the advil Wanda made you choke down with some water in the bathroom. The bathroom. You’re drunk, but you remember all that had gone down in there this morning, and you whine as you wiggle in bed. Natasha shushes you, smoothing her hand down your back. 

“Nigh nigh time for you, my sweet girl. Close those pretty eyes. Go to sleep with Monkey.” She’s talking to a wall by the time she finishes coaxing you, your breaths even and soft as she continues to pet your head, running her palm over your messy braid. She’ll give you two tomorrow if you still want them. 

Wanda throws a t-shirt and a pair of boxers at her from across the room, already naked and rummaging through her own drawer searching for good enough pajamas. Natasha doesn’t grumble at the old t-shirt or holey boxers she’d been intending to throw away for the last three wash cycles, just glad to have something different and less constrictive on her body after so long in the sun and humid heat. She’s sure she smells. She can feel the thickness on her skin of perspiration thats dried and remelted and dried again, but her and Wanda seem to both be on the same page as they knock elbows while brushing their teeth, both forgoing showers in favor of just crawling into bed with you and each other. 

“Lock up and I’ll fix that fan and see if I can get her into another shirt. We’re going to have enough meltdowns tomorrow.” Wanda yawns, rubbing her eyes as she flicks the bathroom light off behind her. 

“Come ‘ere first. Barely got to hold you all day.” Natasha grumbles, closing the space between her body and Wanda’s as they share a kiss just feet away from your peaceful sleeping frame. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I never stopped loving you.” She whispers, meaning every word. 

The coffee shop doors open with a chime. The barista taking orders looks up immediately, but the one behind her remains unfazed, focused on the espresso machine. Natasha enters, baseball cap pulled down enough to cover her eyes, a mask covering the bottom half of her face. She’s greeted with a smile at the front, while the second barista continues their steady rhythm of making drinks.

The aroma of coffee beans fill the shop. The hints of earthiness and cocoa notes fill the air, bringing a sense of warmth and comfort. Light wooden tables with matching chairs are occupied by customers, whose chatter settles in the background acting as a backtrack. Sunlight streams through the windows that go from floor to ceiling. The sunlight stretches across the floor where it naturally brings her eyes to the white marble counter where the barista who greeted her stands, taking orders and writing them on cups or stickers for the mugs for those staying in the shop to drink their coffee.

Natasha walks to stand at the back of the line, carefully deciphering the chalkboard resting behind both baristas even though she knows she’ll get a black coffee in the end. The chalkboard is haphazardly written but somehow charming—just barely readable. Doodles span across the margins, including a hand-drawn loaf of bread with eyes, declaring: ‘Look out day. Bready or not, here I crumb!’

The line moves forward steadily until she’s standing at the marble counter.

“Hi there! What can I get for you today?” the barista at the register asks with a bright smile and voice to match. Natasha's eyes drop to the name tag pinned to the light brown apron.

Meg, she notes.

“Just a small black coffee to-go, please,” Natasha requests politely. She reaches for her credit card as Meg taps the order into the system.

“Of course! May I get a name for that?” Meg asks. 

“Natalie,” she responds smoothly

Meg scribbles the name and order on a white paper cup with a marker before placing it behind her. The second barista reaches for it with a fluid motion, before glancing at the order.

“You’re all set,” Meg says while pointing to the end of the counter where a small group waits. “The drink will be at the end when it’s ready. We put them in alphabetical order so there’s no confusion.” 

“Thank you.” 

Natasha walks to the end before looking around the space again. The shop is full of the sounds of low conversations and clinking of mugs. Her attention is drawn by the barista behind the espresso machine.

The barista is moving with a rhythm that is almost hypnotic. A stray beam of light glints off the name tag pinned to the apron, catching her eye.

Y/N, mouths Natasha beneath her mask. Your name rolls off her tongue, melodic and smooth—just like your movements. You grab a pitcher with practiced motion, pouring milk into it before bringing it to the steam wand. You stare intently at the heating liquid, tucked away in a world of your own.

Your black shirt and blue jeans compliment the warm brown of the apron. She can barely make out the side of your face where your hair falls forward, just your eye staring intently at the pitcher. You pour the espresso into a mug before pulling the pitcher of steamed milk off the steam wand, wiping the metal clean with a swipe.

Maybe a trainee? Natasha wonders, watching how focused you are on the milk. The intensity seems a bit much for a simple latte.

But the thought vanishes the moment you tilt the mug. 

She watches, mesmerized, as you pour the steamed milk in a hypnotic pattern. With a delicate flick of your wrist, the milk melds with the espresso—the foam transforming into a perfect, delicate swan.

Definitely not a trainee. 

You carefully slide the finished mug into the section labeled “A-F,” before pressing the order sticker next to it and tapping the call bell. 

A man steps up, reads the sticker, before claiming the mug. Natasha watches from her spot at the end of the counter, noticing him scanning the area for something. He looks up at you, but you’ve already turned away, starting the next drink.

“Can you sprinkle some cinnamon on top?” the man directs towards you.

It’s as if he hasn’t said a word. You continue your task, slowly pouring hot water over a fresh bed of medium roast grounds. She can see the beginnings of her own name—Natalie—on the side of the cup that is beneath the filter holder.

“Hello?” The man’s voice rises as he waves his hand choppily next to your face. 

You jolt, the stream of hot water breaking. Droplets of scalding water skip across the white marble, narrowly missing your arm. Natasha’s hand tightens on the strap of her bag, her eyes narrowing at the man. Meg’s eyes flick toward your sudden movement.

“One moment,” Meg says to the customer at the front. She takes quick strides toward the end of the counter. “What can I help you with?”

“I need some cinnamon on top,” he says, gesturing to the mug frustratedly, his eyes casting towards you with impatience. 

Natasha’s jaw clenches, tension growing. Meg offers him a smile but Natasha notices it looks tighter than the one she received when she ordered earlier.

“I’m happy to do that for you. Though, next time just ask at the front when you’re ordering, it’ll be done for you so you don’t have to ask here.” 

Meg moves into your line of sight, her shadow stretching on the counter beside you. She grabs the cinnamon duster in front of you, bumping her hip against yours with a playful nudge. You offer her a small, grateful smile before turning back to the pour-over—the light catching the conflicted expression slowly settling over your features.

Meg sprinkles a hefty amount of cinnamon over the foam before pushing it towards him.

“Have a great rest of your day,” Meg says. Her voice is flat, the customer-service tone gone, and her smile not even attempting to reach her eyes. She turns away before he can even respond. 

The man casts one last glance at you—noticing how you don’t even bother looking up again, before he turns away with a huff.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He makes sure it’s loud enough for you to hear, but your focus never wavers from the pour-over in front of you. You don’t even blink.

She watches as you click the lid into place on her drink. You take a slow, deep breath—as if resetting, before turning toward the end counter. You tap the call bell, the metallic sound echoing throughout the shop, and place the cup gently in the “N-Z” section.

Natasha approaches the counter to claim it. As she reaches for it, your eyes drift to hers in acknowledgment. You give her a radiant smile. The corners of your eyes crinkle and the curve of your lips show nothing but warmth. It’s as if you’re thanking her without a single word, a silent hope that she enjoys the coffee.

Her hand pauses mid-air. She feels like she’s stunlocked from the brightness of your smile after the tension with the man before. You give her one last fleeting smile before giving her a nod and turning back to the espresso machine, picking up the next cup.

Natasha snaps out of it, her fingers curling around the cup sleeve. “Thank you,” she says, voice slightly muffled behind her mask.

Your hands never miss a beat, already pumping syrup into a new white cup and unscrewing the cap of a milk jug. You don’t acknowledge her thanks. You don’t even flinch.

She frowns, the paper cup feeling heavy in her hands. Maybe she didn’t speak loud enough.

“Thank you,” she says again, her voice louder, projecting through the mask.

You continue pouring the milk into a fresh pitcher, while an espresso shot pulls in front of you, a soft smile playing on your lips as you watch the components of the mocha latte come together.

She sighs, a flicker of disappointment in her chest when you don’t look her way. She takes one more glance at you, before she goes. You look serene—unbothered by the honking cars outside and booming laughter in the corner of the shop. Like you’re living in your own quiet world.

No point in bothering her, she thinks, fingers tightening around her cup as she turns away and walks out the door. 

The cold Manhattan air wraps around her, but the warmth in her hand keeps the chill from permeating. She pauses, looking back one last time. She can only see your back through the glass of the door, the elegance of your movements is visible even from the sidewalk.

It feels like she’s looking from the outside into your world. Yet she knows that even if she were to enter the shop again, she’d still be an outsider.

What does the world look like to you? she wonders, the thought lingering as she finally turns to walk back toward the Tower. — Natasha’s hands burn in the biting cold, until they’re numb. Snow swirls around her boots and drifts into her red hair before slowly melting, dampening her strands. Her cheeks are flushed a raw, wind-burned pink, her skin feeling rigid and freezing as she felt about herself. 

Cold.

She had just returned from a two week long mission. Bruises that were beginning to purple cover the expanse of her torso, where she had taken a brutal fall that she didn’t have time to break. A square of medical tape plasters her right cheek, where a piece of glass had cut her skin.

She was forced to go to the med bay, where she was brought face to face with the very person she was running away from. Bruce. Seeing him was a constant reminder of what was broken about her—of why she’d never be accepted for who she was.

She needed to get away. From the Tower. From him. From the team, who looked at her with barely hidden pity at how her and Bruce had turned out. She needed to be somewhere where she wasn’t expected to speak. Somewhere she didn't need to explain herself.

The golden light from the coffee shop door spills across the snow-covered sidewalk. The sun had set an hour prior, the early winter stealing the light before the day was truly done. Winter was here in full force, and on the sidewalk, where the only other light comes from distant lampposts, the warmth of the shop feels like a welcome sign.

The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks closer, pausing right in front of the glass. The air is still biting, but at the sight of your back—still focused, still moving with unexplainable grace—she feels the first bit of warmth since she landed.

Constant.

She pulls the handle to the door, the bells chime muffled from the warm air rushing to greet her. It’s a slow night with only two tables occupied, the threat of piling snow keeping most people at home. Her hands begin to hurt from the heat rushing back into them. The pain is a distant reminder that she can feel.

The hanging lights cast a warm glow over the shop. She glances up at the chalkboard, the doodles had been changed. A cookie with bulging muscles proclaims: 'You’re a tough cookie.' A small, involuntary smile tugs at her lips, the movement stinging against the cut on her cheek.

She walks up to the marble counter, noting that Meg was nowhere to be seen. You’re alone.

A hand-written sign taped to the marble catches her eye, the messy handwriting reading, “Give me a wave to order.” An ocean wave with sunglasses is doodled next to it.

She waits until you finish the drink you’re working on, seeing that there are none after. She slowly reaches out her hand before giving a hesitant wave in your peripheral vision.

You turn towards her, a warm smile already gracing your lips. The biting cold feels distant standing here in front of you. You tilt your head at her.

“Hi,” she says, voice sounding small. “Can I get a…latte? For here.”

 Her voice falters towards the end. Her usual “Black coffee, to-go” script veers completely off course. She doesn’t want to leave yet. She wants to bask in the warmth and stillness she’s found here even if it’s just for a little.

You nod, tapping her order into the register. You grab a sticker, scribbling her order before finishing with her name—Natalie.

“You remember me?” she asks, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

It had been two weeks since she’d last been here, she’d worn a mask and a baseball hat that barely showed her eyes. She’d gone out of her way to be just another face in the crowd.

You nod, giving her a small, confused smile. It’s as if you’re wondering why she would even ask.

She’s still in shock as she taps her card against the card reader. How? She hadn’t done anything worth remembering.

By the time she looks up to see if you’ll explain, you’ve already turned away. A ceramic mug in your hand and a jug of milk in the other.

She’s used to being the one who does the recognizing. Used to being the ghost that no one remembers, but having the burden of remembering everything.

She takes slow steps to the end counter, your practiced movements never falter. The quiet hiss of the milk steaming and the low hum of the espresso machine settle between you two, filling the gap where words usually fill. Your focused gaze on the heating milk is identical to her last visit. Just by sight, you know when it’s done, pulling it off of the steam wand.

After pouring the espresso, you don’t let her watch. Instead, you turn away, blocking her view of the mug. Natasha tries to crane her neck to see, trying to catch a glimpse of the hypnotic movements from the last time, but you’ve built a wall with your shoulders. 

She’s about to say something when you turn around. Carefully placing the cup in front of her. It’s not an intricate swan or a simple leaf. Instead, a perfect smiley face made of foam looks back up at her.

Her fingers curl around the mug, its warmth permeating through her skin. She glances up at you to see a smile—one that matches the cheerful foam, awaiting her.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She watches as your eyes drop to her lips, tracking the movement of the whisper. Your smile widens, the warm lights making your eyes shine a golden hue. You don’t say a word. Instead, you open your hand, tapping your middle finger to your chin before extending it gracefully toward her. 

Before she can even ask what the gesture meant, you’ve already turned away. Brushing off stray espresso grounds and clearing the steam wand a few times.

She watches as you clean the counter, mesmerized, before Meg appears from the back and snaps her out of her trance. Her hand curls tighter around the mug before she makes her way to a small corner table.

She sips the latte, the foam smiley face slowly fading away with each sip, but she feels lighter with every swallow.

Delicious, she thinks, staring down at her cup. Across the room, she catches the movement of Meg speaking to you. Meg is animated, hands moving constantly as she talks to you as if she’s acting out a story. Natasha is about to look away when she sees you reach up, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

Earbuds? she wonders. Maybe that’s why you didn’t hear her the first time. She squints, eyes narrowing to confirm her observation.

She freezes. 

The light catches the sleek curve of the device nestled in your ear. She’s seen it before. A similar model to the one she’s seen on Clint’s nightstand after a loud mission.

They’re hearing aids.

The realization hits her like a wave. The lack of reaction to the door chime, the way you jolted when the man’s hand invaded your space, the ignored thank you. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t that you were simply focused on the task at hand. It was just silence.

Beneath the table, she slowly extends her hand, palm up. The image of your gesture earlier replays in her mind. The gentle way your finger tapped your chin and the soft extension of your hand toward her. She copies your motion, not being able to replicate the gracefulness in which you moved. Her hand feels heavy in comparison to yours.

Her eyes drift to you again, where you’re smiling and nodding at what Meg is saying. Your gaze darts between Meg’s lips and her eyes. Your eyes are bright and comfortable. The kind of expression you only share with someone you trust.

Your expressions tell a million stories that words could never begin to explain. You aren’t broken by the silence. 

How? 

Ever since meeting Clint, joining S.H.I.E.L.D, then the Avengers, she’s spent every waking moment running away from the quiet. Silence is dangerous—the memories of the things she’s done wait there, jumping at the chance to drag her back down. It’s where she’s forced to face herself.

She watches as you tilt your head, your lips curved into a small, soft smile as you look at Meg.

She finishes the last sip of her latte before standing up. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound echoes throughout the shop. Meg turns to her immediately. It takes a moment longer for you to react, following Meg’s gaze.

Natasha walks to the bin, carefully placing her mug on the rack before turning towards the counter.

“Have a great rest of your night!” Meg calls to her, her voice bright even after a long shift.

Natasha offers her a quick smile, already starting to turn away when she sees you raising your hand.

You wave at her before bringing both your index fingers to the corners of your mouth. You lift them into a smile, mirroring the latte art you’d made earlier.

A genuine, uncontrollable smile takes over her features. The cut on her cheek doesn’t sting anymore. The cold she felt within her no longer resides. She doesn’t feel apprehensive about returning to the tower.

Natasha waves back at you before bidding Meg a goodnight.

She walks onto the sidewalk, the biting Manhattan air stopping just at the surface of her skin. She turns back one last time. Your back is turned, disassembling the espresso machine for the night.

She turns in the direction of the tower, beginning the journey back with light steps.

I want to know your world. — Natasha pushes the door open to her room. The common room had been empty when she arrived—Tony and Bruce were probably in the lab, and Steve was either in the gym or turned in for the night. Clint, the one person she needed to talk to the most, was still on a mission with no clear end date.

Part of her felt relief. It meant she wouldn’t have to explain the recklessness of her injuries or why she didn’t greet the team when she returned. 

She sheds her outwear, hanging it up. Every motion tugs at the blossoming bruises surrounding her ribs, forcing a wince. She sinks into the chair at her desk, leaning back and closing her eyes. The passing image of your smile clouds her thoughts.

She shakes her head, flipping open her laptop to start her mission report. The blank report stares back at her, waiting to be filled out, but a flash of the gesture you had given her at the counter steals her attention.

Her fingers hover over the keys. Instead of inputting the first steps of her mission, she clicks on a search engine.

What does it mean in sign language when someone taps a flat hand to their chin before extending it towards another person?

The answer appears in front of her instantly. Thank you. Or: You’re welcome in response to a thanks. 

It wasn’t just a random hand motion. You were acknowledging her in the only way you could. The realization settles in her chest—you had “heard” her whisper, not with your ears, but by watching the movement of her lips with focused, deliberate care.

You had seen through her facade of indifference. You hadn’t pitied the wound on her face or the exhaustion in her eyes. To you, she was just Natalie. A returning customer who looked like she could use a smile.

Natasha raises her own hands, bringing her index fingers to each corner of her mouth, pulling them up into a mimicry of your smile as she had left. She removes them, realizing a genuine smile had taken its place

She wants to bask in it—a warmth that doesn’t burn. A heat that melts the ice within her without scorching her as a whole.

She deletes the previous search from the bar. The mission report is long forgotten. She types a new question.

How do you learn sign language? — Natasha walks slowly across the sidewalk that is piled with fresh snow that has accumulated overnight. The snow illuminates the streets, giving a natural light in the otherwise darkness. 

Her hands are buried deep in her pockets, but they’re far from idle. Even as her fingers ache in the freezing temperatures, she wills them to move, clumsily copying the motions she had studied on her laptop screen until 4 AM. Flat hand. Near forehead. Palm facing outward. Extend hand away. Like a salute—a soldier’s movement. Should be simple. 

The sign, designed to be a beginner’s gesture, feels anything but that. The woman in the video made it look fluid and natural, but when Natasha had tried to replicate it in the mirror, it was like her hand was made of lead. The movement was choppy, a stark contrast to her usual lethal grace.

She catches sight of the coffee shop door, the glowing warm lights shining through the glass. Every step closer sends a jolt through her chest, her heart rate picking up with nervousness that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Through the glass, she sees you restocking cups and lids. The shop is empty, the late-night quiet settling over the shop with an hour left before closing. Her hand shakes as she settles it on the handle, pushing through her nerves as she opens the door, the familiar chime of the bell signaling her arrival.

The visit feels identical from the last two except for one thing. Your back isn’t turned away. You’re already looking at her, eyes meeting hers the moment she steps inside.

She watches as you put a sleeve of paper cups down, walking to the register. You’re already grabbing a sticker, writing her name on top before looking up to give her a gorgeous smile. She can see the tiredness in your eyes—but even so, you’re radiant. The warm glow of the lights feel brighter with every expression you make.

Her breath catches, her thoughts momentarily freezing as she gazes back at you. You tilt your head to the side, a silent, curious question in the way you watch her.

“Double shot vanilla latte for here, please,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

You nod, tapping the order into the register before popping the cap off a marker to write the details on the sticker.

She mentally facepalms, the weight of disappointment at the missed opportunity sinking into her chest. She had missed it. The chance to sign a simple Hello to you. The very sign she’d been practicing all day for this moment.

She taps her card against the tablet as you turn away to start the drink. Her feet feel heavy as she makes her way to the end of the marble counter.

You’re grinding the espresso beans when you suddenly turn to her. She meets your eyes as you lift one of your index fingers, hovering it over the corner of your mouth before pulling it up, mimicking a half-smile. 

You had noticed. Even through the practiced mask she wears to protect herself, you had seen right through her.

You turn back to the coffee grinder as if it were nothing, tamping the espresso grounds with a fluid motion. Even with the currency of time always depleting, you had chosen to spend some of yours on her. She feels warmth bloom inside her, melting the disappointment she felt earlier. 

She watches, mesmerized, as you assemble the latte. The pump of the syrup, the hiss of the steam wand, the rich, smooth pull of the espresso shots. She wonders if you’ll make it a surprise again tonight. Her thoughts are answered when you bring the steaming pitcher and the ceramic mug over to the marble counter, right where she can see.

You glance up at her, a playful smile on your lips, before tilting the mug. She expects the same, hypnotic movements that she’s seen before, but this time, the pour is simple. A plain white circle of foam sits atop the mixture of espresso and milk.

She quickly looks at you when you make no other moves, trying—and failing—to hide her surprise and slight pang of disappointment at the lack of art. It’s as if you can read the “Where’s my swan or leaf?” written across her face, your smile turning into a wide grin. You grab a toothpick, dragging it through the top two sides of the circle. You turn, grabbing a pinch of cocoa powder, dotting on what appears to be eyes, before rotating the mug toward her.

It’s a cat. One with lopsided ears and one eye slightly larger than the other. It stares up at her with a clumsy sort of charm.

Natasha looks up, her eyes finally breaking away from the lopsided cat to meet yours. A smirk crosses over her features, her voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “I guess you’re not perfect at everything.”

You gasp, mouth dropping open in a feigned look of insult. You can barely hold the expression long enough before morphing into a silent laugh.

Natasha has to catch her breath, forcing herself not to stare at you in awe. She watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crinkle in the corners, and the genuine joy you exude. You look adorable. It’s a word she doesn’t use often, but there’s no other way to describe the sight.

You turn away, walking back to the register, and her heart drops. The interaction had lasted a few minutes, but to her, it felt like seconds.

Her thoughts are beginning to spiral, wondering what she could’ve done or said for you to continue the interaction, when you return. You’re holding a scrap of sticker paper. You scribble something quickly before sliding the paper across the marble to her. 

She looks down, recognizing the messy handwriting from the one on the chalkboard. 

Nobody’s perfect - H.M.

She stares at the slip of paper in disbelief, the emotional whiplash hitting her with full-force. 

“Hannah Montana?” she asks, her voice a mix of incredulity and confusion.

You nod, giving her that same adorable, soundless laugh that makes her breath catch. You gesture to the mug, your eyes urging her to have a sip.

She brings the edge of the ceramic to her lips, the scent of vanilla and rich espresso enticing her. She takes a slow sip, savoring the velvety warmth of the liquid.

“Delicious,” she whispers in awe before taking another sip.

You smile at her proudly before turning to clear your workspace. She glances down at her watch, realizing she’s probably stopping you from doing your closing tasks.

She waves her hand gently near you, catching your attention once more.

“I’m sorry, can I transfer this to a paper cup? It’s gotten late and I don’t want to hold you up.”

You give her an appreciative look before grabbing the mug and transferring it. You hand it to her before sliding the scrap of paper from earlier back to you. You scribble something down before sliding it back to her.

Her eyes track the newly added line.

See you again!

She peers up, a smile tugging at her lips. “See you,” she breathes out quietly. She lifts her hand hesitantly, trying to remember the gesture you had given her the day prior.

Her open hand moves rigidly to her chin, her fingers tapping it, before heavily dropping down and extending it to you.

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before offering a small, genuine smile.

You repeat the action back to her, though yours is filled with grace and an ease in your movements. You’re welcome.

She gives you one last fleeting smile before grabbing the paper cup along with the scrap of paper. 

She passes the trash can on her way to the door, the logical side of her telling her to toss the note into the bin since there’s no further use for it. It’s a messy scribble with a pop-culture joke. There’s no tactical use for this.

But her fingers won’t loosen their grip. She wants to remember this—the lopsided cat, the silent laughter, the look of surprise on your face.

She pushes through the door, the chime of the bell echoing through the shop that is now truly quiet. Outside, her footsteps from earlier have already been covered by a fresh wave of powdery snow. She takes her first step, breaking the untainted white canvas.

The sound of crunching snow echoes through the street. The moon reflects off the peaks of the snow while the cold air bites at her skin. Everything is the same as when she first arrived, yet she feels different. 

She clutches the paper deep in her pocket, thumb rubbing grazing your handwriting, already thinking about when she’d be able to see you again. — The elevator doors slide open, revealing the dim, luxurious common room. Natasha can hear the low drone of the TV playing quietly. She keeps her steps light, trying to pass by without being noticed.

A head pops up over the back of the couch, messy hair catching the light of the TV.

“You’re back late,” Clint notes, his voice rough with exhaustion.

She freezes for a fraction of a second before her composure snaps back into place. “So are you, apparently,” she responds, her voice level.

“Just got back from a mission. Turned into a simple recon.” He sits up, shifting so he can observe her properly. “Out late with a secret boyfriend?” he asks, a teasing lilt clear in his voice.

She rolls her eyes—a gesture she reserves almost exclusively for him and Tony. “No, Clint, I just had some stuff to do,” she says, her tone dismissive.

He points a finger to her hand. “Things that require a vanilla-scented latte past evening? Also, since when do you do sweet? Double also—” his eyes narrow, tracking the way her other hand hasn’t moved from its position, “—what’s in your pocket?”  

 “Sometimes I like something a little sweet,” she responds, her annoyance flaring to sound convincing. “And there’s nothing in my pocket. My hands are just cold. It’s snowing outside, in case you didn’t notice.”

She pauses, the edge of the note in her pocket brushing against her fingers. She meets his eyes. “You know American Sign Language (ASL) right?”

“I mean, yeah,” he says while gesturing towards his hearing aids. “It would be a pretty big disservice to the deaf community if I didn’t. Why?”

“Teach me,” she says. It’s not a request. Her gaze is unwavering.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing in disbelief. “Tasha, you already know enough. Between the military signs and the tactical handspeak we use in the field, you’re practically fluent”

“Not those,” she says, her impatience slipping through. “I mean…for a conversation. Real words. Not just target on your right or breach on five.”

He squints at her, head tilting. “Why on Earth would you need to know that? Need to ask someone how their day is?”

“Forget it,” she snaps, turning on her heel and heading to the hallway.

“So, it’s a deaf secret boyfriend?” he yells after her, his grin audible. “I know you admire me but there’s a lot of fish in the sea!”

She can still hear his boisterous, annoying laughter echoing down the hallway as she closes her door shut.

She leans her back against the door, the cool wood a stark contrast to the warmth still present. She finishes the rest of her-now cold latte, savoring the sweetness of the vanilla before walking over to the trash. She hesitates for a moment before dropping the paper cup inside, but keeping the note firmly in her hand.

She smooths out one of the corners that had bent in her pocket, her thumb tracing over your charming handwriting. She reads it over a few times. Just two lines, but she can still picture the focused look in your eyes as you wrote them.

She looks around her sterile room until her gaze settles on the small wooden box on her dresser. It’s where she keeps her jewelry she rarely wears—necklaces and rings that serve as disguises more than pieces she adorns herself with willingly. She pulls the drawer open, tossing the gold and silver aside without care. They feel cold and meaningless compared to the piece of paper in her hand.

Carefully, she places the note down against the red velvet. It looks out of place. A piece of paper in a box meant to hold priceless jewelry. Somehow, in her eyes, it fits perfectly. She closes the drawer, finding herself wondering how many notes it would take to fill the box. — Natasha wakes to a room flooded with a translucent glow. For the first time in months, she had slept through the night. Usually needing a mission that pushed her to her absolute limit to have a full night’s rest. She stretches her arms above her head, the tension in her shoulders easing, before standing to pull back the curtains.

Below, the city has transformed into a winter wonderland. Cars struggle through the heavy accumulation of snow, tires spinning in place futilely. Snow flurries drift through the grey sky, landing freely wherever the wind takes them. The city feels quiet, the usual bustle muffled by the heavy snow blanketing every surface.

She moves through her routine, changing into a pair of leggings and a hoodie for her workout. She pulls open her bedroom door, stopping when she sees an object resting in front of her living space door.

It’s a book—a hefty, thick one that looks untouched. She leans down, fingers brushing the spine as she picks it up carefully. American Sign Language for Beginners. 

She flips open the front cover, finding a purple sticky note stuck to the first page:

I don’t know why you suddenly have an interest in learning ASL, but here’s a guidebook for idiots like you. -Clint (aka your favorite friend)

A small, endearing smile tugs at her features as she looks down at the sticky note. She can feel the weight of the book, heavy and solid in her hands. It would be a commitment, a steep learning curve, and even then, this would just be the beginning. 

She flips to the first chapter: Introductions.

An image of the steps to say Hello appear in front of her, identical to the ones she had studied in the videos. The very sign she had let slip through her fingers at the counter. Her fingertips trace the picture, following the lines of the printed hand before dragging them down the edge of the book, feeling the texture of every single page as she skims them. She taps her finger against them in quiet contemplation.

Slowly, she reaches her hand up. She follows the steps displayed, her movements still rigid, still lacking feeling. Even so, her decision had been made. — The workout had long since been forgotten. Natasha sits on the hardwood floor of her living space, back pressed against the foot of the couch and the heavy ASL guidebook propped open against her knees. She rubs her eyes that are laden with exhaustion. The room was dimmer than it had been hours ago, though the snow still casts a soft, ghostly glow throughout the room.

She tries, for what feels like the hundredth time, to go through the alphabet without a single mistake. Her hands that are usually so precise seem to have developed a mind of their own.

She constantly keeps mistaking S for T. They are so similar, yet completely different in meaning. Both require a closed fist, but while S demands her thumb to rest directly across her fingers, T requires her to tuck it tightly between her index and middle finger. It’s a slight nuance, but it can mean the difference between spelling tight and sight.

She has mastered a multitude of languages throughout her time as a spy. She can blend into a crowd in Paris, Beijing, or even Berlin without suspicion. Her undercover operations have always benefited from her ability to mimic and adapt. But somehow, sign language isn’t clicking with the same ease. It was one thing to speak a language—it was another entirely to put her words into motion.

She stares at her fist, her thumb flipping between the two positions until her joint aches. In the Red Room, a mistake in form would result in a beating, a sharp, physical reminder that being anything less than perfect was unacceptable. It made any girl who wavered in her posture tense with a deep, systemic fear. 

But here, in the quiet safety of her quarters, the consequences are different. There’s no one to hit her if she misplaces her thumb, but the silence feels heavier.

A mistake here means failing to even catch a glimpse into your world. It means continuing to stand at the other side of the marble counter, watching as you navigate a world of silence and still offer a smile. She doesn’t understand how you can do that. How you can accept the quiet without it destroying you. She doesn’t want to just watch. She wants to be a part of that world.

She looks up at the cream-colored ceiling, the restless motion of her thumb finally stopping. What’s the point?

She hardly knows you. Even calling each other acquaintances would be a stretch. She was just another customer and you, a barista. Your worlds had collided by pure chance. It didn’t have to mean anything. She didn’t need to be sitting here on the floor, making a fool of herself for someone who was probably just being nice. Her fists clench tightly, her nails digging into her palms.

She takes a deep breath. 

But then she remembers the shine in your eyes when you smiled. Your silent, breathless laugh, that she could somehow hear in the way your shoulders moved. Your gentle movements. Your messy but charming handwriting. The smiley face. The lopsided cat. The silly pop-culture joke. The way you looked at her head-on, gently removing her mask without her even realizing.

She breaths out, her fists slowly unclenching as the tension drains from her shoulders. She doesn’t know why yet, but she’s mesmerized by you. And she wants to find out why.

She sighs, looking down at her hand, crescent shaped indents littering her palms. She looks up at the guidebook still resting against her knees. Her hand moves into a fist again, thumb resting on the side of her index finger.

Alright, she thinks, her focus sharpening. Let’s take it from the top.

Starting again from A. — The streets and sidewalks have finally been cleared of the heavy snow that had encapsulated the city. Piles of snow cover the sides of streets while snowmen stand guard in the front of buildings. A week has passed since the storm, and Manhattan was slowly beginning to return to its usual frantic energy.

The cold, grey sidewalks lead Natasha forward, the remaining snow at the edges acting as a pale guide under the dark sky. She’s bundled up this time, having learned her lesson from the past visits. Warm boots, fleece-lined leggings, and a heavy black trenchcoat over a thick sweater. She can see the fog of her breath against the night, pulling her bag closer to her to conserve heat.

The familiar warm glow of the coffee shop seems to shine brighter as she nears. Her hand hovers over the handle, the cold metal grounding her.

She lets out a slow, nervous breath. Just do it like you practiced, she chastises herself, her fingers twitching in her pocket. 

She pushes open the door, the bell chiming with a sound she knows you won’t hear. She looks up from her boots, her eyes scanning the space. There’s only three tables occupied, already seated with their drinks half-finished. And there, behind the marble counter, you stand alone again.

Her eyes are drawn to the chalkboard above you, where a coffee bean with a flirty smile says: ‘I’ve bean thinking about you.’ She recognizes your handwriting, smiling despite herself when she realizes that every doodle she’s seen in the shop has been yours.

She walks up to the marble counter, her heart hammering in a way she can’t suppress.  She notices the same wave sign from two visits ago taped to the counter. She’s mid-way through raising her hand to catch your attention when you turn towards her, meeting her eyes. The shift in your expression is instant—transforming from deep thought to bright recognition.

Before she can second guess herself, she turns the wave into a mock salute. It’s the beginner's greeting from the guidebook and videos. Forcefully etched into her mind after failing to do it the last encounter and the countless hours she’s spent studying the guidebook. 

You tilt your head, eyes widening as the realization: the gesture was intentional. You give her a small, breathtaking smile, raising your own hand to repeat the motion back to her. Where hers was rigid and hesitant, yours is fluid, seamless and practiced.

You’re already reaching for a sticker, writing the first letter of Natalie, when she reaches out. Her fingers cover the back of your hand, stopping you from continuing.

“Um—my name.” She pauses, her cheeks heating up as she quickly releases your hand. She tries to remember the signs for ‘My name is,’ but the guidebook pages slip through her mind like sand. Instead, she says aloud, “My name is actually—”

She raises her hand, her knuckles turning white as she forms a fist, tucking her thumb between her middle and ring fingers. N. 

Her fingers move slowly, her green eyes staring daggers at her hand that is lifted. Every letter feels like a battle she’s struggling through as she tries to recall them, until she reaches the end. She presses her index and middle finger together, pointing them outward to the side—H—before finishing with the oh-too-familiar, A.

Natasha.

You stare at her as the silence in the shop stretches. Her thoughts immediately begin to spiral. Did I just do everything wrong? Did I confuse the S and the T again? I swear I double-checked the—

Her frantic internal monologue is interrupted by the fluid movement of your hand. 

You begin fingerspelling her name back to her—N-A-T-A-S-H-A—your fingers moving much faster and more assured than she did. You tilt your head, your eyes searching hers with a silent, playful question, as if asking: Was that right?

She nods, her eyes fixed on your hands as you resume writing from where she had stopped you, carefully writing her actual name onto the sticker this time. You glance up at the chalkboard menu, a silent prompt for her to order.

“Oh, um. I’ll just get a plain latte this time. For here,” she says, her voice a little breathless as she realizes she’s been standing at the register for a while now.

You tap in her order, a small smile playing on your lips. You turn towards the espresso machine the moment she pulls out her card, ceramic mug already in hand. She quickly taps her card against the tablet before rushing to the end counter to watch you work. 

The milk is already steaming and an espresso shot is pulling in front of you. It feels like a mirror of the previous time when you bring the mug and steaming pitcher over, placing them right where she can see. But this time, you have the espresso shot glass next to you, a dark amber residue remaining at the bottom.

You tilt the mug, pouring the milk in a slow, steady stream until a perfect white circle of foam rests atop the dark liquid.

A cat again? Or maybe a bunny? she wonders, watching as you grab a toothpick.

You dip the tip into the leftover espresso, coating it. You begin to move it across the foam like a pencil, dipping back into the glass occasionally with a focused expression. With a final flick of your wrist, you rotate the mug towards her.

Natasha :)

The handwriting looks a bit shaky, the letters blooming slightly into the foam, but there is something so you about the effort.

She’s about to take a sip when the sharp scrape of chairs echo throughout the shop. The remaining customers stand, as if sensing that she wants to be alone with you

You’re still looking down at the mug, your eyes tracing the name you wrote on the foam, when Natasha taps her finger against the marble. The motion catches your eye, forcing you to look up at her. She points toward the door, where the departing customers are waving their farewells. You break eye contact with her instantly, offering them a radiant smile and a wave that feels entirely too familiar to her.

She feels a sudden, sharp pang of irritation in her chest—one that she can’t logically explain. It’s the realization that she isn’t special, you offer that same warmth to everyone.

She is still trying to process the sting when you turn back to her, your hands moving in a quick blur of signs. She tries to replay the motions in her mind, desperate to connect them to diagrams in the guidebook but she finds nothing. You’re looking at her expectantly, head tilted like you’ve just asked a question she’s already failed to answer.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice sounding small in the quiet shop. “I only started learning a week ago. After… after I spoke to you.”

Your expression changes in an instant. The comfortable, playful look in your eyes vanishes, replaced by the same conflicted, guarded look she’d seen when Meg had stepped in to help you with the man at the counter when you couldn’t yourself. It’s a look of tired endurance.

She feels like she’s said all the wrong things. Your eyes drop to the marble counter, making it impossible for her to say anything with the limited knowledge she has right now. The silence between you hangs heavy, thick with the implication of pity that she never intended to give.

You turn away, grabbing a piece of sticker paper. You write slowly, tiredly, like you’ve had this conversation dozens of times before. You slide the paper across the marble.

Why did you decide to learn sign language?

She pauses, a part of her recoiling at the thought of being vulnerable. But as she looks up and sees the genuine exhaustion etched onto your face, she decides to be honest. “I wanted to be able to talk to you.”

Your expression doesn’t soften. You scribble a new line, pushing the paper back to her tiredly.

It’s okay to talk to me normally. You don’t need to go through the trouble.

“I—I know.” She struggles to find the words. She still hasn’t figured out what it is about you that made her this way—why she studied videos on sign language until 4 AM after only seeing you twice, why she spent an entire week obsessively trying to memorize every word, every diagram in the guidebook. How all the tiredness she felt from staying up all night studying and practicing signs washed away when you smiled at her. How can she put that into words?

She didn’t want you to think that this was pity. That she was just another person who felt sorry for the deaf girl.

“I know I don’t need to.” Her hands move instinctively as she speaks, a restless, upward motion to enunciate her point. “But I don’t want to just be another customer. I want to meet you where you are.”

She meets your eyes, feeling vulnerable, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Her eyes filled with determination and honesty.

You look down, pen hovering over the paper as if you’re deciding. Finally, the pen touches the paper. You write slowly—even slower than before—carefully considering every word. You finally slide the paper to her.

Sign language isn’t easy. It’s a long journey.

She knows. She already searched for the numbers, finding it would take two to five years at a minimum to reach fluency. It would be a hell of a journey, a steep climb through a language that she was struggling through just the basics of.  It’d be easy to quit now.

She nods, and for a split second, she swears she sees a flicker of disappointment on your features. A shadow of expectation that she was preparing to give up like everyone else.

“You’re right,” she says, her mind having already been made up a week ago when she sat feeling helpless in the silence of her room. “It’s a long journey. But I’ll get better. I’ll keep practicing until one day, we can have a conversation where spoken words aren’t needed.”

She meets your gaze, her green eyes steady and unwavering. “You won’t have to keep meeting me where I’m at. I’ll keep going through this journey. Every day. Until one day, we’ll meet in the middle.”

The silence between you is heavy and charged, both caught in each other’s gravity when the chime of the door opening shatters the moment. She turns, seeing a man taking long strides to the counter. She reaches out, gently tapping your hand that is holding the pen.

“Customer,” she says quietly, over-enunciating the word before pointing in the direction of the register.

You shake your head, as if clearing your thoughts, offering her a quick, appreciative smile before turning to tend to him.

Her fingers curl around the ceramic mug, clenching tighter than necessary. She brings the rim to her lips, carefully avoiding the foam that is adorned with her name. She can’t bring herself to ruin it. The latte is past the point of being hot, more lukewarm than anything. She glances at her watch, noting that the shop would be closing soon.

She watches you interact with the man—the way you tilt your head and nod in practiced understanding. The same flare of irritation from before surges through her, stronger and sharper this time, until the puzzle pieces finally click into place.

Jealousy. 

She was jealous when you looked at others. Wanting your radiant smile to be just for her alone.

“I only want you to look at me,” she breathes out in realization.

You and the customer move toward the end counter, a paper to-go cup in your hand. She finds herself sighing in relief—he isn’t staying. She wants a bit more time with you. 

She watches as you prepare the simple mocha. Your hands move faster than usual, yet remain perfectly precise. You slide the cup to him with a smile, and he offers a quick thanks before the bell chimes behind him.

You turn to her as she finishes the rest of her lukewarm latte, setting the ceramic mug down gently against the marble.

She doesn’t know what to say. The air in the shop still feels charged with the truth she’s just admitted to herself. She wasn’t sure if her honesty had reached you, if  you truly understand that this isn’t a fleeting whim or pity.

Your arm lifts, your flat hand touching your chin in a gesture she recognizes as the beginning of Thank you. But then, you move it down, landing it softly on the palm of your other hand. Your lower arm steadily moves into a horizontal line across your chest, while your other hand curves over it in a slow, graceful arc—like the sun dipping below the horizon.

“What does that mean?” she asks, her face a mixture of confusion and pure admiration at the fluidity of the movement.

You tilt your head, a challenging, playful smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. You meet her gaze, your eyes screaming:  Try to figure it out.

You turn away, effectively dismissing her for the night and begin disassembling the espresso machine. She stands there, lingering for a moment. She feels a strange mix of emotions she can't quite categorize yet—half-impressed by your skill, and half-tethered by something deeper, something she hasn't quite figured out how to name.

She reaches out, fingers curling around the scrap of paper left on the marble counter. She tucks it deep in her jacket pocket, careful not to crumple it.

It’s more than just a note now. It’s a promise.

She pushes through the door, the chime of the bell echoing behind her as she steps back out into the biting New York winter air. As she walks the familiar route back to the Tower, her hand rests in her pocket, tracing the ink. She’s already mentally flipping through the pages of the guidebook, already trying to commit the sign you had shown her to memory. She was going to show you that this wasn’t just words. She’ll meet your challenge.

“Well, Clint,” she breathes out, a crest of white fog blooming from her lips into the cold night. “It’s definitely not a deaf boyfriend.”

— Numba 4. I wrote this on a whim while I was practicing ASL since it's been a minute since I used it. I'm not sure if I'll do a part 2 to this, make this a series, or just let it stay as a one-shot. Let me know!

I know most people who've read my other stories might be wondering where the POV switches are. My thought process was that since many people don't know sign language, you'd be able to relate to Natasha a lot here. If I do end up doing a part 2, it'll be Reader's POV and you'll learn more about them (us?). Thank you as always for reading! 😊