⛧ NAT ⛧

Elizabeth Olsen

Hexed Hearts

Broken Reflection

Love's Fiery Trials +18

When The Storm Subsides +18

Distant Star

Soul Bounds — Disentwined, Entwined +18, Intertwined +18

The Outside World Has Failed You +18

My Ritual Playground (Coming soon)

➳ drabbles

Guidance +18

Tattoo Shop Visit +18

Scarlett Johansson

Treacherous

When The Storm Subsides +18

Bundle Of Luck

Bigger Than The Whole Sky

All Of You, All Of Me +18

The Things That — Haunt, Remain

Preziosa Marionetta +18

➳ drabbles

Personal Trainer +18

Tattoo Shop Visit +18

Preziosa Marionetta (Headcannons) +18

Random :)

Right Where You Left Me (Joyce Byers)

Once Upon A Dream (Sarah Sanderson)

Flowers And Pain (Vanessa Shelly)

SFW:

She will make you any piece of furniture, figurine, jewelry box, anything you’ve seen on Pinterest. When you officially moved in with her, she was surprised by how much clothes you had, so she spent hours building a new piece for the walk-in closet so you could display everything you own. It was way better made than any modern overpriced thing you had back home.

She noticed that Figaro had gained weight. And that’s because every time he saw you cooking, you’d set aside a little plate for him. She decided to turn a blind eye because she knew you were so happy that he trusted you now.

She’s willing to walk all the way to the other end of town if, at 10 p.m. you suddenly get a craving for a cake or pastry.

She made you get rid of your phone, because “you didn’t need to have a thousand contacts you never talk to, or post your whole life for strangers to see on social media”. Instead, she bought you a burner phone where the only people you had saved were your dad, if you wanted to call him, and her, of course.

She never opened up again after that day, and even though you were grateful that at least you had some sense of who you were dealing with, you wanted her to rely on you as much as you relied on her. Sometimes, during your walks, if a memory came to her mind, she’d just say things like, “My daughter also loved her ice cream with sprinkles,” or “My wife also used to wear this kind of accessory.” You learned not to dwell in the matter and to let it go if she did. Little by little, she even began to mention these things with a smile or in a very casual way. You realized that, even if she didn’t speak to you, your presence was more than enough.

She HATES it when someone walking by you two stares at you more than they should. Since it’s a small town, those who did so eventually ran into both of you again, and they already knew they had to look down at the ground and walk quickly if they didn’t want to end up with a broken nose or a black eye like the first time. You accepted it because you were afraid of what would happen if you told her it was too much.

She bought a TV after she noticed she was your only source of entertainment. You’d get upset and throw a fit if she spent more than three hours straight working on a project without taking a break to pay attention to you. She’d usually get so absorbed that her hands physically couldn’t lift a single piece anymore, and it was therapeutic for her, so to get you to leave her alone and let her unwind, she once came home with a 55-inch TV.

She even built you a TV stand, where you placed the romantic crafts she gave you, or your collectibles and decorations that previously had no place because the house was so sparsely furnished. Aside from clinging to you for dear life because she’s still afraid you might decide to leave her, her love language is building you nice things.

She adores your intelligence, and you’ve had deep conversations until 3 a.m. about every imaginable topic. As a former Avenger and S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she’d seen so much and was so socially aware that she broadened your political views even further with her perspective. It was like opening a third eye.

She adores your intelligence… as long as it’s not directed against her. If you beat her in an argument or confront her in any way, you can be sure you’ll be sleeping on the couch, or she’ll throw out personal insults like, “I wish you’d treated your friends that way back then, but with them you were easily tamed. It’s not fair I get worse treatment than them”. That always makes you back down.

NSFW:

She LOVES cockwarming. Sometimes she just likes the feeling of having her cock buried inside you, reveling in it because she hasn’t had any of that in way too long. She closes her eyes and just feels your walls clenching, desperate for her to move.

She loves having you on top but micromanages you if you do something she doesn’t like: “Don’t you like my cock? Why are you in such a hurry then? Slow down.” But really, you’re just a desperate little thing.

If you’re bothering her by demanding attention while she’s working, she unzips her pants, pushes your head down to eye level with her cock, and makes you suck it so you’ll shut up.

She sticks her head between your legs at the most inopportune moments imaginable. It’s a form of control. Once in a blue moon, when your dad calls to ask how you’ve been, there she is. If you’re cooking, she would kneel, lift your leg to rest on her shoulder, and eat you out, making it impossible for you to focus. If you’re in a very isolated booth in a restaurant where no one ever approaches, she takes the opportunity as well. If you dare to make a noise, she pulls away and leaves you all needy until bedtime.

You realized she might be a bit of an exhibitionist when she took you shopping and the store clerk was being a little too friendly. You told her she maybe just wanted to sell all those clothes and earn a commission. But that did nothing to calm her down. Instead, while you were trying on the clothes, she bent you over the bench, took out her always-hard dick, and fucked you from behind in front of the mirror until you inevitably made noise despite how much you tried to hold back (that was the point). To top it all off, when you paid and left, all flushed and sweaty, Natalia said, “It’s true, you look amazing in that.”

You were banned from the store, and you were mad at her for about three days because it was the first store where you’d genuinely liked all the clothes, and they weren’t just selling whatever was trendy. On the first day, she got upset and started making comments like, “You’re a slut, you probably just want the clerk to give you compliments. Since you’re all love-deprived.” Two days later, she started having small panic attacks that you’d leave her for good, so, she came hugging you from behind, with her aching cock brushing against your ass for you haven’t fucked since then, and suggested you order online from wherever you wanted, whether from this store or international ones. For someone who hated ordering just because of the thought of strangers at her door, that was a huge sacrifice.

She loves slapping it on your tongue while you look up at her. She also loves when you’re catching her pre-cum with your mouth open, tongue stuck out as she jerks off in front of you, and then painting your face and chest with her release. Nothing beats coming in your mouth or inside you, but for foreplay, this is her favorite thing.

She can't stand it when something else grabs your attention after she's already finished with work. If you’re watching a show or a movie, so engrossed that you don’t even notice she’s sat down next to you, she’ll just slip her dirty, calloused hand into your pants, play with your folds and clit, until you have no choice but to abandon whatever you were watching to straddle her lap and have her make you cum on her fingers while you moan against her mouth.

Her work room, the armchair, and her bedroom were the most common places, but the kitchen was no exception. No matter which one of you was cooking, she’d pin you up against the counter and fuck you while holding you up, with your legs wrapped around her waist. Or on the floor, with you riding her, her fingers in your mouth. Or against the counter, with her pounding you from behind.

In the charming region of Tuscany, Italy, there was a small village called Collodi, nestled among majestic mountains and surrounded by trees. This place, isolated from the hectic society, seemed to yearn fervently for the trees to consume it completely, wishing that only the memories and debris of what once was will remain in the end.

But that was not possible.

Collodi would have been in the penumbra of oblivion if it wasn't for the pen of a blissful author to pay tribute to it through an immortal fictional story. It was as if it was destined to shine in the vast darkness of the commonplace.

Because it was not as visually captivating as Monterosso al Mare, for example, a town that was part of the five villages that, in perfect unity, formed Cinque Terre.

Monterosso al Mare did not long to be consumed and forgotten. It enjoyed its own prominence along with its neighboring towns.

From miles away, its structure could be seen standing tall with dignity on the seashore, and the palette of colors that it had was a delight for the eyesight, like a canvas painted by the hand of an expert brought to life. Collodi, on the other hand, appeared as a spectrum between shades of yellow and brown, and didn't stand firm, it seemed to be on the verge of falling at any given moment.

But Natalia Romanova found beauty in Collodi.

You see, Monterosso al Mare was always displaying its vibrant colors, there being no room for exhaustion or rest, and its neighboring towns shared that quality. Totally exposed to the scrutiny of others, it must always stand firm, clinging to the reputation it had so painstakingly cultivated.

Collodi didn’t have such an obligation, for it was simply Collodi. Yes, it may have had a history that was inevitably inherent, but this town was still completely detached from the demands of appearance and expectations. 

Natalia Romanova found beauty in Collodi, because having been Monterosso Al Mare, cost her the life of her wife and daughter.

And in Collodi, she found you.

“What a boring town!” Exclaimed Kate, one of the two people who were once considered your friends.

“No way, the House of Butterflies was amazing,” you countered, as a smile instinctively plastered on your face as you recalled the memory of the previous day.

You had seen species of butterflies that rarely appeared in everyday life, and the best part, you had the opportunity to befriend some animals! When you offered them food, they would offer you their trust and appreciation, confirming once again that pattern so rooted in your being.

The concept of love you had was limited to material. Both Kate and your other friend, Carol, sensed that nature within you, and decided to take full advantage of it, knowing that your concept of normality made you vulnerable, albeit oblivious to their intentions.

“Yes, and that was it,” Carol intervened, and the boredom so palpable in her voice made your smile fade at once. True, you had only walked around town and gone shopping, but hadn't the previous day been enough? Was it necessary to do something extraordinary every day?

It did sting a little, given how thrilled you still were about the previous day’s activity, but from what you were hearing, your friends no longer shared that enthusiasm. Nor did they settle for at least one single calm day.

"Get us some of that good gelato, at least," Kate spoke up, after noticing your silence.

You nodded obediently, "Sure thing. Be right back."

You knew the bitter taste of disappointment as if it were your old arch enemy.

It was a feeling that has been with you since childhood, specifically the day your mother's life was snatched away by a terminal illness, robbing you of the joy that should have characterized any child's early years.

As life went on without that important figure by your side, you longed for the warmth and comfort of your father. However, instead, he taught you a raw truth, that absence in life was more painful than the absence due to death itself, for the soul departs without leaving the physical body.

You dreamed of his protective embrace, of his deep voice telling you bedtime stories, of feeling his loving hands tuck you into bed each night. But your father was not your mother, nor was he the father you used to know.

This new man, consumed with his work as a way of coping with grief, became obsessed with the expansion of his business. In his mind, securing a prosperous financial future for you was the best way to demonstrate his love and care, for if only his then small business had the resources to cover the costs of treating the illness, your mother would still be with you.

So, instead of the human safety you needed so badly, you received an insane number of expensive gifts and unnecessary luxuries. Every one of them being his way of saying "I love you, I'm not going to fail you".

Oh, but he failed you. Every time he chose his job over you. Every time he missed your birthday, every promise he broke. With the expensive gifts and lavish vacations he offered as compensation, you learned that affection was shown through material goods, and not necessarily through presence and emotional connection. It became your only way to express and receive affection, because it was all you had known your whole life.

It never occurred to you that maybe those animals were drawn to you because of the admiring and respectful energy you gave off, and not because of the food. They didn't approach any of your friends, and they had food too. It was never transactional. 

Carol and Kate were quick to notice how your brain was wired. 

At first, they just wanted to compliment you on your fancy bag and strike up a conversation with you to gain your trust, hoping that, when the time came, they would know you well enough to borrow it for a party where they could show it off as their own. However, after only a week, when you gave them each a bag just like yours as a thank you for sitting down with you for lunch and chatting, they realized that it was in their best interest to keep pretending to like you, as it would benefit them.

That's how they even ended up in Italy without spending a single penny in the first place.

It was a birthday trip that your father financed, once again rewarding the fact that he had forgotten about it. He also agreed to let you invite your “two best friends” in the hope that you would forgive him.

And so, as you returned with three ice creams in hand, you felt like you carried with you the key to keep harmony among the three of you. But the ground, capricious and uneven, laughed in your face, with a prominent stone lurking to trip you up. In your haste to please, you did not see it coming.

Your body collapsed, crushing the ice cream cones, and the cold, sticky mess spread all over your clothes. To top it all off, the rough cobblestone also scraped your delicate arms and hands.

You winced in pain as you pushed yourself up, noticing the red marks and small cuts that adorned your once-flawless skin.

Embarrassed and hurt, you looked up, expecting to see concern on your friends' faces. Instead, you were met with sneers and poorly concealed laughter.

"Oh my God, (Y/N)," Carol scoffed, her voice evidencing nothing short of disappointment. 

Kate joined in, her eyes showing a cruel amusement, “Great job,” she remarked, as she mock-clapped. “You can’t even run an errand. What are you good at, seriously? Aside from spending your daddy’s money.”

Your cheeks burned with shame as you struggled to your feet, your now wet and cold clothes clinging uncomfortably to your body.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, fighting back tears. "I'll go get..."

"Don't bother," Kate snapped, rolling her eyes. "You'll probably just drop those too. Jesus! And now we must be seen with you looking like that!"

You felt small, insignificant, and utterly alone as your so-called friends tore you with those hurtful words. The beautiful day in Collodi, which had held so much promise, now felt tainted and ugly. 

Was this what true friendship was supposed to feel like? Was this the essence of the connection? Or were you just getting what you deserved?

Tears, hot and stinging like acid rain, began to stream down your cheeks from all the questioning that invaded your mind in a matter of seconds.

"Oh, great. Now you’re crying,” Kate's exasperated sigh cut through the uncomfortable silence.

"All right, come on," Carol’s voice now dripped with annoyance. "You need to pull yourself together. This is beyond embarrassing."

"Look, if you can't stop whining like a baby, at least walk a couple of meters behind us," Kate ordered you. “We don’t want anyone thinking we’re with… you.”

You.

That one-syllable word spoken so contemptuously and coldly, as if you were enough to make any accompanying insult seem redundant.

And you, meekly nodding, prepared to follow their cruel order.

But as you took a step to follow behind them, a gentle but firm hand grabbed your arm, stopping your movement.

Startled, you looked up to find yourself confronted by a striking woman with flame-red hair and soft green eyes.

There was something in her gaze that invited you to resist, to question, to not let yourself be carried away by the current of contempt that surrounded you.

And when she spoke, your ears were delighted by her raspy and smooth-as-honey voice.

“Do not follow them, solnyshko,” she said, dropping the unfamiliar word with a slight accent. “They are not worth your tears or your time.”

For the very first time, there was someone willing to protect you, to remind you of your worth in an environment that seemed to want to erase it.

Your unconscious mind, conditioned by years of neglect, sounded alarms at this strange kindness. It screamed insidiously, urging you to retreat to the cold yet familiar comfort of abandonment and life-draining complacency.

That made you gently pull your arm from Natalia's grasp, your eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"No, you don't understand," your voice trembled like a leaf in autumn's chill. "It was my fault. They’re my friends, I just pissed them off but I’m going to fix it.”

Natalia's eyes flickered with sudden comprehension. That sentence alone allowed her to decipher you completely.

The vulnerability you exuded, the eagerness to please despite mistreatment, it all spoke to something deep within her. It would be a crime to let you go, knowing you were perfect material for satisfying her needs.

She glanced briefly at the retreating silhouettes of the college girls you were with, a flicker of indignation crossing her features. They were merciless, cruel in their treatment of you. Natalia knew she was different. She wasn't going to make you suffer like them, because she was far from mean.

Instead, she would shower you with the warmth of genuine care, something you had clearly been deprived of for so long. In time, she would become as essential to you as the air you breathed. You would need her, finding it impossible to abandon her. And in return, she would have someone who needed her, someone she could protect and nurture, someone she could mold to her liking to fill that void that had been devouring her insides like a ravenous parasite.

"Your fault that this town's ground is made of stone? Is it your fault that it's dark already?” She asked gently. Instead of offering empty reassurances, she aimed to give you some autonomy, allowing you to discover the truth for yourself. 

Her smile became unavoidable as she noticed your wide, innocent eyes intently analyzing her questioning.

"Could you have predicted every uneven surface? Every shadow?" She continued, her tone encouraging reflection rather than accusation. "And these friends of yours," Natalia pressed on, scoffing with contempt so palpable it made you flinch. She made your terrifying friends seem insignificant in the face of her formidable presence. “They have never stumbled? Are they always perfectly graceful?"

This question hit home. You had a fair share of memories of Kate tripping over her own feet at parties and Carol passing out in some stranger’s backyard. You had never blamed them for their clumsiness. So why were you holding yourself to an impossible standard not even they could meet?

How silly of you, taking blame for something so clearly beyond your control.

A small, rueful smile became clear as you realized the absurdity of your self-accusation.

"You see, detka?" Natalia chuckled at your adorable smile, but it faltered abruptly when she felt something between her legs reacting as well through a painfully, intense throbbing. Every fiber of her being screamed for release, so overwhelming it threatened to consume her entirely, to break through her carefully constructed walls. But not yet, she reminded herself, her fists clenching with the effort of restraint. "Now, let's forget about them. Let's get you cleaned up, I don't live far from here."

Her invitation, or rather, command, caught you off guard, "But I don't know you," you gently declined. 

She didn’t budge, for she was more than sure that it would be a piece of cake to convince you beneath her roof in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, right, my name is Natalia,” she introduced herself. “And your name is…?”

Unbeknownst to you, she had long ago stopped using the name Natasha Romanoff. It was an alias she'd adopted during her time as an Avenger back in the United States, but she had renounced that life, therefore, she no longer needed that identity. As for "Black Widow", the mere mention of it now filled her with loathing.

“Nice to meet you, I’m (Y/N),” you replied, trying to sound polite even after your small rejection.

Noticing your slight discomfort, Natalia decided to lighten up the tension that was beginning to build up, going ahead to reach into her pocket and show you a small, perfectly carved wooden figurine.

It was a cat! You adored cats.

"This is Figaro," Natalia introduced you to her little piece of wood, a fond smile adorning her lips. "He's my dear cat. Well, a miniature version of him."

Your eyes were drawn to the marvelous craftsmanship of the figurine. "Wow," you gasped, and your curious fingers itched to touch it, but you held back. "Did you do this?"

"I did,” she confirmed with pride. This woodworking hobby, alongside her tuxedo cat and golden fish, seemed to be the sole source of joy in her miserable existence. “I do this for a living. My house is filled with pieces like this.”

"That's amazing," you replied, genuinely impressed. "I bet they're all as stunning as this one," you remarked, gesturing to the figure in her hand.

Her smile expanded, almost impossibly so. It had been ages since she smiled like this, and perhaps it was twisted of her that the reason was the anticipation of all the plans she had for you.

"Not as stunning as real-life Figaro," she countered, her eyes softening with affection. "Oh, just imagine the softest cloud you've ever seen, now picture it in black and white colors. That's Figaro."

The way Natalia described him with such genuine warmth and affection made your heart squeeze in tenderness, and your defenses were slowly crumbling, just like she predicted. After all, you reasoned, how could someone who talked so lovingly about their cat possibly be dangerous?

"Well,” she concluded, with a small sigh that feigned disappointment. "If you went to my house, you could see him in person. But I understand. It's dangerous to go to a stranger's home. That’s wise of you.”

The thought of letting down such a kind-hearted woman was intolerable. How could you possibly walk away after she had been so sweet and kind to you? You finally met someone who treated you with respect, and this was your response? How ungrateful!

"You know, actually," you finally spoke, so quickly they successfully interrupted your recurring thoughts. "I think I'd like to meet Figaro now, if that's okay."

Natalia's face lit up, her emerald eyes sparkling with an intense delight. Everything turned out exactly as she wanted, making her feel like an expert puppeteer effortlessly manipulating the strings of her most treasured marionette.

"Of course it's okay, solnyshko," she replied cheerfully. Anyone with an ounce of reasoning would wonder why she seemed so eager to bring an unknown person home, but not you. Certainly not you. "You won't regret it, I assure you."

In the small village chambers, lanterns flickered softly, casting shadows in people that danced and twisted. Initially, these shadows appeared as large, intimidating figures, but upon closer inspection, they transformed into friendly faces with wide smiles. And when their eyes met Natalia, they seldom did not recognize her.

"Natty! Buona notte, cara mia!" They always exclaimed, their voices brimming with enthusiasm and eyes aglow. A dull ache settled in your chest. It seemed wrong to feel that twinge of envy, yet you couldn't recall the last time anyone appeared that delighted to see you, and you couldn't help but long to be greeted that way.

Unlike your friends who always insisted on walking ahead, leaving you trailing behind like a bodyguard, Natalia walked alongside you. Her emerald eyes occasionally glanced your way, a gentle smile gracing her lips.

The ice cream stain on your clothes was still visible, your eyes, though no longer wet with tears, remained red and puffy. Yet, Natalia radiated an intrinsic pride in having you by her side, as if your presence was something to be cherished rather than hidden away.

“Well, here we are,” Natalia exhaled a deep sigh of relief as she turned the key and pushed open the door to her home, inviting you to step inside. The comforting embrace of warmth following the biting chill was a welcome relief.

Unlike most homes, there was no central overhead light. Instead, small lanterns perfectly scattered throughout the space illuminated it cozily.

The entire first level served as Natalia's workplace, living room, dining room, and kitchen, all in one. Though there were no walls dividing these areas, the transitions were clear.

To your left, Natalia's creations dominated the entire corner, making it a challenge to navigate without stepping on something. Positioned by the window was a long table with a variety of well-used tools, including hammers, a saw, screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches.

On the opposite end, to your right, there was a kitchen, equipped with just a fridge, a sink, and vintage stove, alongside a small wooden table that could seat two people maximum, and you wondered if Natalia had crafted it herself. It was evident that neither her table nor any corner of her house was designed for lots of visitors, quite the opposite, in fact. Being there made you feel special, and your chest ached from the overwhelmingness of that long-forgotten feeling. 

The middle area displayed a fireplace with a two-seater sofa positioned in front of it, and on a side table, there was a round fishbowl containing a goldfish, which immediately caught your attention.

"Please, excuse the mess," Natalia remarked with a hint of guilt. She never cleaned her home more than necessary because she indeed never expected visitors, as she preferred to personally deliver everything to those who requested her work, from the smallest souvenir to the most unbearably heavy piece of furniture. You might never have realized it, but you were the first person to set foot in her home by her own will and not because people intrusively knocked on her door to request commissions or to drop off gifts as grateful gestures.

"No, no, it's great," you replied sincerely, having already scanned every corner of the place. Her old superhero friends might think this wasn't Natasha at all, but to you, who had only met this side of her, it screamed Natalia everywhere, and all those residents of Collodi could say the same.

"Please, do take a seat!" She exclaimed so energetically that her voice could have echoed throughout the entire neighborhood. Without a moment's hesitation, you went to sit by the fireplace, the gentle flames providing you with so much warmth that you almost forgot the ice cream on your clothes. "Stay here, I'll find you some clean outfit," she added, stepping away without taking her eyes off you, with fear that you might vanish or regret being there at any moment.

While awaiting the return of the red-haired woman, you swiftly took out your phone to send a message to your friends, letting them know that you were fine and that you would get back soon. In your noble heart, you believed that they might worry about you, even if they were angry at you, because that’s what you would’ve done. However, the way they abandoned you with a stranger and walked away without looking behind unequivocally proved otherwise.

"See if this fits you," the same raspy, indistinct voice made you look up, and you gasped in surprise when you noticed that, in the arm not holding the change of clothes, she was carrying the famous cat Figaro she had told you about. His pupils were dilated due to the dim light, yet you could still notice a faint yellow ring encircling those dark orbs. He stayed calm, allowing her to carry him without squirming or resisting.

"Oh, he's gorgeous!" You exclaimed. Just a few seconds were enough for this feline to capture your heart.

She chuckled softly, placing the little one on the couch beside you, "Clean clothes and a kitty, just as we agreed."

As if on cue, Figaro suddenly jumped from the couch, his black and white fur almost a comedic, straight-out-of-cartoon blur as he darted across the room and disappeared behind a stack of wooden carvings the first chance he got. 

“I should have mentioned, Figaro doesn't like strangers,” she admitted, with an apologetic smile and a shrug.

“It's okay, let's give him some space, seeing him was enough anyway,” you took the clothes she offered you, placing them where the cat had been placed previously. Even if the sticky cold of the ice cream was bothering you, you wanted to stay by the redhead’s side. Even if it was just for a minute, the thought of having to part from her was already unthinkable. There was something comforting to her presence, and you have been longing for someone to bring you said sensation for most of your existence. “You’re so lucky to have company.”

“Is that so?” she replied, catching you off guard without much effort. “I mean, I know, but why do you say it as if it’s a privilege I possess and you don’t?”

And there you were, desperate to be heard and understood, that it only took her one question to make you disclose your entire chapter and verses. 

“Because it’s true,” you admitted, and suddenly, your stained clothes began to have the effect they naturally would on anyone. The disgust and regret. “I have friends, I have my father, but I still feel hollow inside when I’m around them. I don’t know if that’s how it’s supposed to feel, but since my mother…” and there you stopped. Nothing to do with Natalia, who, with her body completely turned toward you, sent a clear signal that she was listening intently. Not to mention her face, which reflected deep empathy. It was just all so strange. Surely she had much better things to do than put up with your nonsense. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m now oversharing,” you backtracked immediately. “Uhm… I’ll go change and leave you alone. I’ll give you your clothes back first thing tomorrow,” you added, believing that the whole reason for this came down to this act of kindness, and nothing more.

Natalia didn't answer, at least not verbally. She simply pointed to the door you'd find as soon as you went up the stairs, where her bathroom was. 

She believed that all the things she could be doing right now instead of listening to you would simply never happen again in her life, such as carrying her daughter on her shoulders for a summer walk in the park, or driving with her wife to the top of a mountain to gaze out over the city and vent about how draining their jobs as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were.

Setting aside everything that was taken from her on that mission, truly, she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but with you. 

However, the stain on your clothes was starting to stress her out. It reminded her of her daughter when she’d go out to get soaked in the rain and spend the whole day covered in mud because she refused to change. Therefore, for you to go change once and for all, she remained quiet, otherwise she knew you would spend all night long with your clothes smothered in ice cream. 

As you changed, shame washed over you as you constantly replayed that interaction, where you’d rambled aloud about everything cluttering your chaotic mind, and when you finally decided to stop, not even out of politeness or pity, had she bothered to contradict your words.

“Stupid, stupid, nobody cares about you, nobody wants…” you repeated mentally as you walked down the stairs wearing your fresh change of clothes. 

But your thoughts were interrupted when you noticed two glasses of cold lemonade on the coffee table, and two Panforte di Siena neatly plated. 

“Perfect, now you have dry clothes, just as you deserve,” she smiled as if she herself had been the one spending all this time in stained clothes. As if your comfort were her own. “Let’s continue this conversation over some nice lemonade and pastries, come,” she invited you, patting the spot you had occupied.

And quite unlike her rebellious little kitten, you complied immediately, taking a seat next to her while holding your clothes in your hands. 

“Ah, give me that, I was going to put a load of laundry in anyway,” she took your clothes, and without waiting for you to object or agree, tossed them into the washing machine and started the cycle. 

She just took control, and it seemed like she assumed you wouldn’t put up much resistance. And you never did, with anyone. For the first time, however, you found yourself thriving in it. You could entrust your entire life and all your decisions to her, and in a way, you could be certain that she would always look out for your best interests.

“Your mother…” she picked up where you’d left off, and you could tell she was hesitating for a moment, wondering whether to say what came next. “She passed away, didn’t she?”

Your eyes widened, and your jaw nearly hit the floor in a pathetic attempt to find your voice. 

“How… how do you...?”

“Oh, solnyshko,” she murmured. “I saw no resentment in your eyes when you mentioned her, only sadness,” she indicated, ruling out a hostile or absent mother. “Regardless, only someone who didn’t develop their self-concept through a mother’s warmth and encouraging words would allow themselves to be treated the way those girls treated you today.”

Oh, how you broke down crying that night.

And she held you through it all, daring to occasionally kiss your hair and whisper soothing words, not enough to interrupt you, but to accompany you through this process you inadvertently fell into. It was a cathartic experience, a three hour long therapy session, everything you needed, wrapped up in a stranger who had given you the safe space no one else you knew had.

You felt so safe letting yourself go right there that you didn’t even notice when you fell asleep on her lap, breathing through your mouth because your nose was stuffed up from crying, or when she later carried you up to the second floor and laid you down beside her. It was too much, perhaps too intrusive for someone who had only met you that day, but she didn’t have the heart to leave your vulnerable, sobbing body on the terrifying first floor, on the cold couch all on your own. 

She promised to herself she was going to sleep and not disturb you. However, seeing you there, with your pink nose, parted lips, defeated next to her, made that erection she’d been holding back for hours finally become painful and unbearable.

Silently, on tiptoes, she made her way to the bathroom and pulled down her grey sweatpants and boxers in one go. Her cock predictably was rock hard and almost purple, begging for attention. You didn’t even flinch from your place when she started jerking herself off, not with her quiet gasps and the strength of her grip around herself moving back and forth, whilst thinking of the warmth of your tears and your body against hers, desperately seeking her out. 

She had to cover her mouth with her free hand to stifle her moans as stream after stream of semen shot across her tile floor, finally reaching the release she’d denied herself just to put you first. 

Very soon, she thought, all of that would end up inside you.

“S dnyom rozhdeniya tebya, s dnyom rozhdeniya tebya,” was the first thing you heard the next day, jolting you slightly out of your deep slumber until you recalled where you were, who you were with, and overall, what had happened the night before. “Happy birthday, dear (Y/N), happy birthday to you,” she sang to you, holding a small cake with a single lit candle.

You felt a physical squeeze in your heart at that sight. You’d mentioned to Natalia that this whole travel fiasco had been your father’s way of making up for forgetting your birthday, again, because he’d been so immersed in his work that he hadn’t bothered to check the date. 

And the first thing she did the next day? Wake up earlier, in order to get a cake to celebrate you properly. Just because your tear ducts were dry, you didn’t cry again. But oh, how wonderful it felt to be so cared for. 

It stung to imagine going back to the same old. You didn’t want your trip to end the day after tomorrow, you didn’t want to go back to being that person who settled for less than this. And that simple fact alone was already a sign that, in just a few hours, you were beginning to open your eyes towards what was beyond the cavern you’ve been considering your reality since your childhood. You started witnessing the wonders that fate could offer if only you refused to accept a life you did not deserve. You just needed someone to give you the courage to believe it. 

“Thank you so much,” you told her, completely moved. “This is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me. In years.”

“Well, wish for something just as nice,” she prompted you. 

Traditional belief dictates that you must make a wish before blowing out the candle, when in reality, fire is associated with extinguishing everything you no longer wish to carry with you, whether by writing it on a piece of paper and burning it to ashes, or in this case, telling it to the fire and then blowing it out. 

Needless to say, what it was that you wished to let go of. 

“Let’s go cut the cake, and then you can tell me where you’d like to have breakfast today,” she asked you. 

For a brief moment, that sense of shame and the urge to argue kicked in, but you remembered what you had let go of just a few seconds earlier, therefore you willed to just go downstairs and allow yourself to receive back what had been denied to you. 

“Oh, no way, it can’t be!” you exclaimed, covering your mouth with both hands, after bursting into laughter. Natalia placed a birthday hat on Figaro, and awkwardly on Cleo’s fishbowl. It was so sweet and so strangely at odds with the image she projected out there. 

“They wanted to join,” she shrugged, with a shy blush that made her feel like a silly teenager again, but she as well allowed herself to show it, only because you had shown her the most heartbreaking parts of yourself, and she felt she had to reciprocate somehow. 

The plan for the day was for Natalia to walk you back to your hotel so you could drop off your clothes, take a nice shower, and put on whatever outfit you liked best before you went to have breakfast together.

While you were enjoying all the attention and care, she, for her part, adored seeing your reactions of utter joy to things that she, and no one else, had done. She put that smile on your face, for she had gotten up early and begged the bakery owner to open the shop for her, she made the paper hats herself because she wanted to melt your heart. She was thriving in giving, in providing, it was something she so desperately needed.

“(Y/N), what the hell? We’re hungry! Are you going to take us out for breakfast or what?” Kate banged on your door with the palm of her hand just as you were finishing putting on your shoes. Natalia, wanting to give you some privacy, had gone for a walk around the hotel to wait for you. And all you could think was how much you needed her to scare her away with a single glance, because you weren’t capable of doing it.

“I already have plans,” you replied as firmly as you could bring yourself to sound. “Don’t bother me anymore.”

You heard a mocking laugh that made your hair stand on end. The fear hadn't gone away as you'd imagined, and maybe it was because a certain redhead wasn’t there to make you feel safe.

“Oh, you already have plans? Well, you’re the one who invited us on this trip in the first place,” she fired back. “We couldn’t care less about your birthday, but we’re tagging along because we’re the only ones who feel a little sorry for you, and this is how you repay us? By letting us starve?”

You really tried, within the little you’ve learned, to counter that cruel statement. 

It hurt to realize you were completely at a loss. You asked them to come with you, they could be anywhere but here, yet they chose, in their own way, to be there for you. They weren’t even enjoying this trip in the first place, least you could do… 

“Oh I feel sorry for you,” and she came to the rescue before you could do something that would take you back to ground zero. “Can’t go on vacation, can’t even eat, if it isn’t for someone else paying?”

“Shut up, lady, mind your own… oh, hey, no need for that,” and without another word, you heard Kate’s familiar footsteps retreating.

“Detka? Are you ready?” Natalia called from the other side of the door, as if she hadn’t pulled out her gun just a few seconds ago to threaten some daring “friend” of yours. She sure as hell could have resorted to other means, but she wasn’t going to cause a scene any longer than necessary on a day she wanted to make sure was special. 

“Yeah, coming,” you replied, grabbing your bag, oblivious to how she’d managed to get Kate to bolt without much of a fight. You didn’t give it much thought either, you didn’t want to give this situation any more power either. 

“Wow,” she exclaimed as you stepped out of your room, her eyes scanning you from head to toe and back again. “I love it. Shall we go?” she offered her arm for you to take.

Collodi had so much to offer to those who appreciated the simplicity of things, and you were certainly one of those people, after all, that was what you knew, and that was how you survived every single day. When you expect more, there’s always disappointment and unmet expectations, like the people who travel to Monterosso al Mare believing they’ll find a fishing idyll with astonishing views, only to be met with crowded private beaches, the roar of tourist trains, and the exorbitant cost of sunshine sold by the square meter.

Perhaps Collodi invited you to spend this week there because settling for less should never have been, and should never be, applied to people or to the horrible politics of a system, as is so often mistakenly done. It could be beautiful if, instead, it meant appreciating the value of what remains intact. Collodi was not a consolation prize, it was one of the very few places left in the world where stillness was not confused with oblivion, and where scarcity was, in reality, a clean space, free from the noise of others’ ambitions. How foolish of you to contaminate it with such lousy friends.

“There’s such a peaceful atmosphere here,” you remarked, with a full belly and a happy heart, having enjoyed a delicious breakfast at Alidoro. Even the air you breathed was fresher, for you had permitted yourself to inhale and exhale more steadily. Live in the moment instead of being on constant alert. 

As you devoured your breakfast without a care in the world, a couple of curious street cats came over to meow at you. Some people petted them, while others, a bit more aloof, simply ignored them. Natalia, on the other hand, ordered a small bowl of plain chicken breast, “because seasoned food is bad for them” and handed it to you so you could slice it and give it to them.

And in the blink of an eye, you had about eighteen cats at your mercy, and three plates of chicken breast already empty after fulfilling their demands. They didn't seem to leave you alone. And you didn't want them to, either.

“You got yourself into this,” Natalia had scolded you with a laugh, as she pulled out her phone, determined to capture that moment forever. Besides, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t found herself in the same situation as you on other occasions, and subsequently returning home to a jealous Figaro who could smell the scent of other cats hogging the attention of his beloved human companion.

“Peaceful indeed, right? No demands, no hectic bullshit,” the redhead agreed. She was eager for the next activity, the next big thing to do to please you, very uncharacteristic of someone who swore she’d broken free from those habits after having spent years under scrutiny, but your smile and gratitude made it worth slipping back into them just a little. 

You asked her that you both could just walk, breathe in the air, and soak up the sunlight, which was particularly faint. The conversation wasn’t as heavy as the night before, it consisted only of the stories about Figaro and Cleo that made her laugh the most, or the things you were passionate to do most when no one was watching and you had no choice but to keep yourself company.

You both realized just how much physical activity and talking you’d done when your stomachs began to demand their second meal of the day. For Natalia, it was a challenge not to resort to her usual spots, which were too far away and would require a walk she wasn’t willing to take. You went into the first dining spot you found, and for the second time, you heard the woman across from you order in a Russian-accented but fluent Italian that never failed to surprise you. Which made you ask her the following question.

“What made you move to Italy?”

This was the most personal question you’d ever asked her, and for a moment, her usual defenses went up, urging her to respond with a curt “because I wanted to, period” or “because of the weather” just as she used to brush off her nosy neighbors. She was the one who was supposed to tear you apart with questions, the one who was supposed to push you to open up until you crossed that point of no return where you would inevitably need her to put the pieces back together, not the other way around. Oh, but who was she fooling? All that twisted dynamic was, deep down, to satisfy her own need as well. The need to be needed. 

“I went above and beyond for my job, sold my soul to it, and it cost me dearly,” she began, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the floor, because even if her mouth faltered, her body still sought shelter in itself. “Every day, my wife and I went out to risk our lives on every mission. We believed it was for the greater good, to build a better and safer world for our daughter. But one day, I was too tired to go grocery shopping with my wife, so she took my daughter along to keep her distracted and let me rest. An opponent kidnapped them while she was putting the items in the trunk, in the most cliché way possible, no less. Stupid me... I thought it was blackmail. By the time I arrived with the ransom, I discovered they never wanted the money, it was revenge. They were already dead. If only...” She didn’t need to finish the sentence, what came next was implied. Self-blaming and guilt in its purest form. “And I thought, to hell with the world if my daughter and my wife aren’t in it. I woke up everyday to save it and I couldn’t save them. There are already enough world-changers out there, but that was the end of it for me. So I moved to the most secluded town I could think of, and cut myself off from everything that tied me to that country and that life.”

“I need a moment,” she murmured in a broken voice, just as the waitress set the steaming plates on the table. And you, after all she’s done for you, decided to give her the gift of space to fall apart without that selfish desire to do what you thought was best at the time. 

Little did you know that you were the first person in the world to hear that story from her own mouth. Not even Steve, Sam, Tony, or Clint found out firsthand. There were only cold reports from S.H.I.E.L.D., devastating news on the screens at the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, and the deathly silence of a Natasha who swallowed the weight of the world alone. 

The Earth’s Mightiest Heroes beat themselves up afterward, trapped in a cycle of collective guilt that ate away their consciences: “We should have broken that door down when she locked herself in.” 

Clint had spent sleepless nights tracking down the enemy faction’s origins just to give them what they deserved, even though Natasha was completely resigned, defeated, and not even resentful. Like an antelope that decided to let itself be eaten by the lion because fighting back was already useless if its legs were half-eaten. Steve, Sam, and Tony would sit for hours  at her doorstep, offering a listening ear that she rejected with curt one-word answers or absolute silence, until they realized the house had already been empty for so long and she was gone. Natasha had thrown herself into an insurmountable emotional void long before fleeing that country. She didn’t even leave them the comfort of saying goodbye to her or knowing where she would be. 

She didn’t organize a funeral with solemn speeches from people who meant not half as much to them as they did to her, nor the presence of those heroes who were supposed to save the world but hadn’t been able to save their own. Natasha took the bodies in their coffins to a nameless corner in the cemetery, dug the graves herself, feeling the shovel tear at her hands, actively seeking that physical pain to silence the other. 

She buried her wife and daughter completely alone in the utmost secrecy, denying the rest the right to mourn. They didn’t deserve it, she thought, and she didn’t deserve any comfort either. If anyone else bore even a fraction of that burden, divine punishment for her incompetence wouldn’t be pure enough.

Seeing her there, static in that defensive posture in front of a plate of food she wouldn’t touch, broke your entire being in two. A stabbing pain ran through your chest, an empathy so dense you could almost taste the salt of her held-back tears and the ashes of her former life. 

In that moment, you experienced the most primitive and desperate human frustration, which is not having divine power. Not the kind of power her friends used to bring down armies, but a creative, absolute power, capable of restoring to the woman sitting before you what the world had ripped from her. 

You wanted to empty your own soul to fill hers. But you were no god. You were just an ordinary human being, sitting in a restaurant in a remote town, facing the ruins of the strongest woman in the world. And you knew that an “I’m sorry” would be an insult to her tragedy. 

You intended to tell her, word for word, what you had repeated to yourself in front of the mirror all these years in an attempt to save the little child you once were. That small, defenseless version of you lived in your unconscious, who took the blame for what happened to her mother, believing that if only you had been kinder, quieter, or more perfect, things would have turned out differently. However, you understood, from your own experience, the voracious hunger one feels while waiting for forgiveness that never comes from outside. And you learned, as well, that true freedom resided in the forgiveness that came from within. 

You thought of him. You thought of how much you had longed, your whole life, for your father to forgive himself and get rid of the distance between you. Even now, after all this time, you would give anything for him to spend just five minutes a day with you, so you could tell him the following:

“Maybe you’ve heard this before… but it’s not your fault,” you said, holding her gaze with steady calm, refusing to flinch when her eyes narrowed.

Natalia let out a dry laugh, making her shoulders tensed immediately, adopting the combat stance her mind used when the truth got too close.

“Oh, no shit, really?” She retorted, and her voice, though low, carried a dangerous hostility. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand. I was the strategist. My fucking job was to anticipate. I knew who my enemies were, I knew what they were capable of, and I chose to let my guard down because I wanted to take a… fucking stupid nap. Don’t tell me it’s not my fault when I was the one who put a target on their foreheads the day I decided to love my wife and put a child on her. It’s my fault because I’m still breathing and they’re six feet under.”

You listened to every word, noticing how her voice hardened as she lashed out at herself. Normally, that rage would be enough to make you shrink back and stumble over your words, on the contrary, you understood that her anger wasn’t directed at you, but rather the shield protecting her right to suffer that was who knows how many years old already. 

And that’s when you understood everything. Kate, Carol, your father, all that harm directed at you was a projection of their disastrous inner worlds, it never had anything to do with you. And for that very reason, you weren’t going to sit back and accept the consequences of it as if you were. It’s over. 

“Look how you cling to that guilt, Natalia. Think about it for a second,” you used your own soft voice so that her unconscious mind wouldn't detect it as a threat, and that way, her conscious mind would be active and receptive. “You’d rather be the one with the guilt than accept that you did everything you could, that you were the best at what you did, and that even so, evil won that round. You prefer to blame yourself because blame gives you a false sense of control.” 

Natalia turned her gaze toward the window, her jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched in her cheekbone. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the table, a nervous tic of someone restraining to search for a weapon she didn’t want to use.

“It’s not an illusion,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last syllable despite herself. “It’s reality.”

“No…” you insisted with deep tenderness, leaning a little closer to her. “Punishing yourself every day, isolating yourself in this town, carving pieces of wood until your fingers bleed... it’s your way of continuing to remember them. You feel that if you stop suffering for even a single day, if you enjoy a meal or if you smile, you’re betraying them. Your pain is real, it’s immense, and you have every right to do what you have to do, but don't be mistaken, the monster who killed them is not the one from the mirror. That was definitely an evildoer who would sure as hell enjoy seeing you like this. But your wife and daughter? They wouldn’t.”

The silence that followed your words was intense and uncomfortable, it almost made you run, and you thought this would turn into a Socratic debate where she’d try to win at all costs, but no. The truth of your words had struck cleanly, devoid of condescending pity, straight to the core of the wound that had been secretly festering for years. You weren’t pitying her, you were truly seeing her.

You gave her the time she needed. A full minute where the only sound was the distant murmur of the voices and the clinking of cutlery at other tables. You knew that after an emotional shock of that magnitude, the worst thing you could do was keep pressing the trauma button. 

Lowering your voice, offering her the everyday normality she needed to get back to reality, you looked at the plates of food that were beginning to get cold.

“Let’s eat, the food is getting cold.”

The sun was beginning to set, casting a coppery glow over the hills. The journey back felt completely different from the lighthearted conversations that had brought a smile from ear to ear to both of you. If only you hadn’t asked that question, none of this would have turned out this way… but well, she decided to answer it. 

Suddenly, Natalia stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes scanned the landscape without really seeing it, as if she had just made an internal decision.

“I want to go home,” she said, her usual commanding tone was nonexistent. It was a feigned plea, a hook perfectly designed to tug at your empathy.

You looked at her, gauging the emotional distance that still separated you. “Well, do we part ways here, or…?”

“No,” she replied immediately. “Come home with me. Stay the night. I’ll pay… whatever it costs for a night at your hotel if you mind losing the money.”

“No need, daddy’s money, remember?” You offered her a joke, and fortunately, it landed briefly through an exhalation that closely resembled a half-hearted giggle.

As you crossed the threshold, the austere atmosphere of her home greeted you with the scent of cut wood and isolation, the reason for which you already knew. Natalia moved with mechanical steps up the stairs, waiting for you to follow her. Once you climbed the last step, she greeted you with a change of clean, comfortable clothes, again. She handed them to you without looking you in the eye. 

“Here. Go change.”

As you put on her clothes in the bathroom, clothes that enveloped you in a subtle scent of her, happily letting it smother your own identity, you heard her moving around her room. The only thing you could make out was the sound of Figaro’s meows and the faint sound of him eating. When you returned, you found her sitting on the edge of the bed, her back slightly hunched, staring intently at her cat. You understood even more how much he and her goldfish meant to her. They were evidence that no matter how much she tried to punish herself, deep within her, she believed she didn’t deserve to be completely lonely. 

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” she blurted out, with a frankness that was meant to sound casual but was betrayed by her tone. “Show me a movie I’ve missed all these years, on your phone... we can order takeout, I’ll treat you to dinner.” 

You sat down on the other side of the bed. The closeness of her body generated an almost magnetic warmth in the cold room, which would have caused the same reaction as the night before if it weren’t for the fact that she was emotionally wounded from your confrontation. 

You turned on your phone, selected a random movie whose plot you forgot the second it started, and lay down next to her, sharing the small screen in the dim light. Soon, Natalia settled in beside you, just a physical, almost desperate clinging. Her head sought the hollow of your shoulder, and her arm crossed over your waist with excessive pressure, successfully pinning you down against the mattress, as if you were her property. Little did you know that was the exact message she wanted to convey.

Only through your presence could she allow herself not to suffer, only if you were there, validating her and understanding her pain and coping mechanisms better than anyone else. You knew this, and you hadn’t run away, you were there, letting her hold you because you also found some benefit in this, you longed for human warmth.

She saw the broken things in you, the one whose friends humiliated, whose mother passed, she saw your pain over your father’s emotional absence. She was making you her new mission, the helpless child who would now depend on her, where you saved her from guilt and she saved you from abandonment. It was a perfect unspoken transaction. 

During that seemingly endless moment when Natalia stood with her arms crossed, her eyes so distant in the coldness of having finally spoken to someone, none other than you, you never would have imagined the night would end like this. So… cozy!

You lay down in her bed of your own free will, not because you’d fallen asleep and she’d had no choice but to carry you there, with her resting her full weight on you, perhaps seeking the comfort she didn’t dare ask for in words. And the truth was, words weren’t the way she needed you either.

When it was time for dinner, long after the tense lunch you’d shared had served its sole purpose of satisfying your hunger, you were already halfway through a comedy classic you’d chosen in the secret hope that it would lighten her heart. She ordered from a local restaurant no more than five blocks from there, and when the order was ready, she decided to pick it up herself. Not even in those situations did she like having delivery people or strangers hanging around her door, no matter if that meant walking in the dark street at eleven in the night, she couldn’t stand having people near her house. That was how special you were to her.

And you, once again, didn’t even begin to wonder why someone with that history, with such strict habits of isolation, would specifically want you in her most sacred space. You desperately clung to the romantic idea that you were special to someone, that was all. Your wounded ego and your own need for affection needed to believe it. And maybe you were, but not in the way you thought.

But as Hermes Trismegistus teaches, everything that goes up must come down. No state of bliss, no matter how intense, warm, and protective it may seem, is immune to the law of rhythm. The pendulum always swings to the other extreme with the same force with which it ascendes.

You had woken up with bellies so full from the hearty dinner and movies the night before that none of you even considered getting out of bed to make breakfast. Instead, you stayed there, trapped in that dense, heavy gravity of dawn. As you went through that transition from sleep to wakefulness, you simply rested your eyes, floating in a lazy half-sleep where it didn’t matter at all whether you actually drifted back to sleep. Natalia’s body remained close to yours, firm and possessive as she pinned you to the mattress, reminding you with each of her slow breaths that she had you right where she wanted you, defenseless, wrapped in her clothes, turned into the shield that kept her own demons at ease.

Your cell phone, abandoned on the wooden nightstand, emitted an alert. The device’s vibration sliced through the room’s golden twilight like a scalpel.

“Who on earth could be texting you?” 

The way her question possessed a harsh undertone, cut deep and hurt you in a very ancient place, an old wound that you never thought she would dig her finger in to make it infect. Her! Of all people. It hurt because she inadvertently reminded you that outside that room, off the radar of that broken woman, there was no one actually waiting for you. There was no father who would call to see if you were okay, no real friends who missed your voice, no one in your home country who would lose sleep over your absence. You were all empty. 

And that feeling burned even more intensely on said wound when you awkwardly reached out, looking away from her dark eyes to unlock the screen. 

ITA Airways | now

Ready for your return flight?

Check-in is now open for flight AZ312 from Rome (FCO) to New York (JFK). Your departure is exactly 24 hours away. Confirm your travel documents here.

That was it, a digital alarm announcing the end of the wonderful truce in Collodi with Natalia Romanova. Your ordinary lonely life was calling you from across the ocean.

“Stay.” 

It was a command, one that reverberated against your own chest and brooked no argument.

“I have college,” you replied in a raspy morning voice, feeling your heart pounding hard against your ribs. For the first time, you felt trapped beneath the rigidity of her body, which now felt like a slab of stone.

“Move here,” ahe insisted, as if it were that easy. “There aren’t any colleges nearby, but… you can take the train to Florence. We’ll figure it out. Or don’t go to college, I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need that place.”

“I have a whole life there…” Your defense sounded pathetic in the face of the immensity of her entire presence.

Natalia let out a dry laugh, such a humorless sound that made you swallow hard, and even almost back down, were it not for the nature of the matter. 

Her fingers dug into your shoulders with excessive strength, pinning you to the mattress again like you were a seven foot tall enemy to neutralize, beginning the systematic dismantling that was about to take place without you having the slightest idea. And neither did she, actually, her agent mind was too traumatized and panicked by the threat of another loss, that it had simply gone into survival mode. And out of said mechanisms, she employed absolute isolation, destroying your surroundings and your self-esteem so that you would see no other way out in the universe except her. For that’s how she felt about you. 

“No, you don’t have it. What do you have there?” she snapped, leaning in so close that you could feel her accelerated breathing, as well as her own desperation that she was projecting onto you. “What’s waiting for you in New York? Those friends who treat you like a walking wallet? A father who’s so addicted to his work that he wouldn’t even notice if you were gone for a month, a year, or a whole lifetime? A mom who…? Oh, that’s right. You don’t even have one to begin with.”

The impact of her words left you breathless, as if she’d punched you in the stomach. You physically clenched your abdomen at the remark. It was cruelty with the precision akin to a S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like her, using your most intimate and painful confessions as a knife to bleed you dry emotionally.

“Stop… please, stop,” you pleaded, feeling hot tears welling up in your eyes despite your pathetic attempt to hold them back, the only thing you had left was merely trying to turn your head away from her piercing gaze.

“Why? Because the truth hurts?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, creeping close to your ear. “Look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me who else on this fucking planet has looked at you the way I do. No one. Do you really want to go back to begging for attention from the wrong people?”

“I… I have to go back, Natalia. I can’t just disappear,” you said, feeling your own voice falter, losing strength in the face of the twisted logic she was weaving around you. 

“Of course you can. Nobody cares enough about you to come looking for you, and you know it perfectly well,” she countered, almost anticipating your responses so she’d have the rebuttal ready on the tip of her tongue. “You have a home here. You have Figaro and Cleo, and me… the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Why don’t you just accept it and stop fighting? You’ll be miserable out there without me. The world is cold, and it’s going to devour you the moment you set foot in the airport. No one’s going to love you in your ruined state. Only me.”

And then, when she saw the flicker of doubt and breakdown in your eyes, she let her guard down with utter vulnerability so that you would take responsibility for her sanity and her life. She let out a groan with a desperate manner that tore at your insides. You never believe a sound so animalistic would ever come out of a human being, let alone her who seemed so calm and collected the little time you’ve been knowing her. 

“Please… I lost my wife, I lost my daughter. I can’t lose you, neither. Don’t leave me alone in this hellhole. You can’t do this to me after everything I’ve opened my heart to you. It would be like letting me die in this damn house. Is that what you want? Do you want to be the one to finish destroying me?”

“No, I don’t want that… you know I don’t,” the lump in your throat felt like a slipknot now. You felt like a monster for ever wanting to board on that plane, a selfish and ruthless creature intending to abandon a woman who had just entrusted you with her deepest secrets. The knot had tightened perfectly around your neck. She had won.

“Then say it,” she pressed, her green orbs fixed on yours, shattering your resistance inch by inch. “Say you’re staying. Say we belong to each other. Please… I’ll make you very happy. You’ll make me very happy. We need each other to breathe.”

Before you could utter a single word of protest or your mind could remember that you had a plane ticket and a future that belonged to you, Natalia claimed your lips in a kiss.

It was an intrusive kiss, violent in its distress, lacking any kind of peaceful tenderness of a first kiss between two people. It better said a complete invasion of your senses, both a punishment and a plea. She kissed you with a painful passion, running her hands through your hair to pin you against the pillow, like a conqueror claiming property that didn’t belong to her.

She grinded her hips against yours, letting you feel the ultimate evidence of her longing for you, a very prominent erected member begging to fill you to the brim and thus claim you in all senses so you wouldn’t even bring up that nonsense of leaving her side. 

The contact forced you to part your lips slightly in a stifled gasp. There were no preliminaries, only the urgency to bury herself inside you, starting with her tongue forcing its way deep into your mouth, taking every corner.

You felt the edge of her teeth graze the sensitive flesh of your lower lip, trapping you in a frantic rhythm that left you inhaling for air every little chance you got. The taste of her saliva mingled with the heavy warmth of her breath, a thick flavor of stale tobacco, the salt of your mixed tears that seemed to seep straight into your lungs, making you dizzy into a trance where you no longer knew where you ended and she began.

“Stay,” she murmured between bites on the skin of your lips. 

Her large hand, with thick fingers and prominent veins, traced down your side until it reached your thigh, pushing its way between your legs with a determination that left no room for doubt. 

She wanted you to feel her even more, for the weight of her length pressed against your center to erase the space and time around you. And although your mouth didn’t utter any confirmation that you’d stay, instinct and emotional submission spoke for you, for your hips met her movements. Feeling that physical response, Natalia let out a small, teary smile amid the tears that still clouded her eyelashes. It was the smile of a hunter watching the net close in on her prey.

In one fluid motion, without of any delicacy whatsoever, but overflowing with an animal magnetism she knew you would eventually succumb to, Natalia shed her own clothes, revealing her firm breasts, her still slightly defined abs, and the trail of hair that began below her navel and grew thicker above the intimidating size of her cock. She was massive. 

Her mind, operating under that aforementioned blind and nonverbal panic, dictated that if guilt and pity weren’t enough to hold you back, absolute physical desire would chain you to that bed. It would keep you there, a prisoner of pleasure and her skin, which would make you throb and clench for her the moment you barely crossed the threshold.  

Seconds later, her nimble hands stripped away the change of clothes she had lent you, leaving you completely naked in front of her. This time she didn’t have to lift a finger, on your own initiative, you spread your legs, letting her contemplate your wetness, and the place where she belonged.

She didn’t wait any longer. She rested her elbows on either side of you, and once she aligned the thick head of her penis, she buried herself completely inside you in one go, uniting your bodies in a thrust that wrung a whimper from the depths of your chest, which she silenced with a gentle kiss.

And so with every thrust, with every heavy, rhythmic movement that made the wooden bed creak, Natalia pleaded for you like a broken record, collapsing on top of you:

“Stay… stay… stay…”

Your mind was clouded, unable to process the magnitude of what saying yes meant, but your body continued to send all the signals she needed to claim victory. Your hands rose reflexively to hold her rounded shoulders, sinking your nails into her skin, and your legs lifted to wrap around her waist, locking her in a grip neither of you wanted to break.

Feeling that tight heat, that absolute physical acceptance, Natalia experienced such an immense wave of peace that, as if everything that had come before weren’t enough, the way your warm walls swallowed her was the only thing left for her to finally make up her mind that you were the epitome of perfection in her eyes, what she had been missing this entire time. 

Since her wife’s death, her body hadn’t experienced the validation of being desired, held, and needed. She couldn’t imagine settling for her hand wrapped around her length to relieve those torturing erections again, and she considered herself incredibly brave for having endured so many years that way in the first place.

The emptiness in her chest began to fill, simultaneously, as she filled your needy hole, and her dick twitched inside you with the prospect of emptying herself inside you right now, as well as first thing in the morning and last thing at night. She would work on her wood projects with you sucking her off under the desk or with you sitting on her lap and impaled on her cock, until she ended up flooding you and spilling her seed out because your body wasn’t capable of holding that much of her. So she’d choose to collect it and shove it into your mouth, not letting a single drop end up anywhere other than somewhere inside you. 

And under the influence of those fantasies, she began to get too verbal, whispering words of need, promises, and desperate compliments into your ear while the rhythm under the sheets became unbearable. Your combined moans were in sync with the headboard hammering against the wooden wall. 

“Please, look how well you take my dick,” she remarked, accompanying each of the last three words with a thrust. You could feel her stimulating you so deep inside that it reached your lower abdomen, sending a current from there to your inner labia and your already trembling legs. She was marveling at the heat of your walls pulling her in as if they had a mind of their own, embracing her, and it seemed as though they were the ones begging her to stay, not the other way around. “I promise I’ll fuck you, feed you, and love you like no one ever has or evel will. I swear… please!”

The tension in the room rose to the point of no return. Just as the friction, the heat, and the passion were about to bring you both to a very messy orgasm, when the final spasm was imminent, and your walls, instead of pulling her in, began to push her away to make room for something greater, Natalia stopped the movement abruptly.

She remained motionless on top of you, suspended on the edge of the abyss, forcing you to hold your breath. It was painful for her too, but she wasn’t going to give you something you weren’t willing to receive every day. Plus, she was sure this would be your breaking point. 

“Say you’ll stay, and every day of your life will be like this,” she declared, her voice broken by effort and desire, holding back her own body’s urge. “We’ll be so happy. But if you say no, I can pull out right now, let you go, and tomorrow you’ll get on that plane and never see me again. Tell me. Yes or no.” 

Caught in that suspended climax, your body burning and trembling as if you’ve been tasered, and your mind completely disarmed, your resistance faded away. You looked at her, the woman who needed you to need her to stay alive, and the lonely soul inside you accepted the pact.

Your therapist sent you a quote about making the unconscious conscious, asking you what you thought about it, to discuss it in your next session. And when that session came around, you were speechless and promised you would respond eventually, because you didn't understand why she had sent you that quote in the first place.

But you understood that night, when after leaving Zora adrift as you had been doing, she didn't hold back with that saintly patience she had been displaying lately.

This time she followed you.

Consciously, you put all those security measures in place to keep her out, insulted her in every way possible, and drove away before hearing her voice any longer than you had to before you could break down. You really forced yourself to believe through these actions that you didn't want her back in your life, fighting with the unconsciousness you refused to confront.

And it was the fact that you had been waiting for this moment all along.

You understood that phrase when you saw her familiar car looming close behind you in your rearview mirror, and all you felt was fulfillment, not annoyance as you tried so hard to display.

You didn't get over her, you just got better at lying to yourself. Otherwise, why did the first reencounter cause nothing but agony for you? If you swore you had already begun to feel indifference…

Why were you always disappointed that she didn't try to convince you a little more, or beg you more persistently? If you swore you had already begun to feel indifference…

Why did your therapist send you that quote? If you swore you had already begun to feel indifference…

All this train of thought and you kept driving on autopilot, until you arrived at your apartment building without realizing it. Because yes, that was where you wanted Zora to be, close to you. Coming to terms with this, it brought you an inexplicable peace of mind.

However, you didn't get out immediately.

You let the engine emit its cooling sigh while you looked at yourself (her) in the rearview mirror. The dark circles under your eyes could have contained all the pain in the world if it had kindly asked.  

Once you got out, her silhouette was leaning back against her car, arms crossed, eyes on the ground, her entire body language indicating that she was giving you space, as if she already knew you weren't going to run away from her anymore.

Your pride couldn't have felt more wounded at that.

“I was almost sure you'd go to a police station,” she began, once she heard your car’s door closing. Of course, it wasn't enough for her to give you the benefit of the doubt, she had to taunt you. “I hope that if a car follows you, you take that measure. I'm happy to be the exception, though.”

Then, the mistake happened. The first flash of vulnerability you had shown in twelve months, as a reflex, not by choice.

“I can't run away from you anymore.”

Her smile faded.

She expected anger, a painful comeback.

She wasn't made to survive kindness, you were living proof of it.

“Good to know,” she replied, and it was your turn to be surprised, because you were expecting at least a cry of victory, which would break into tears of happiness, and then she would rush towards you and promise you that she would work hard to earn your trust, something!

You didn't respond, and before she could humiliate you further with her mere presence, you started walking toward the front door of your building. You gave her a chance to speak to you and that’s how she responded. Unbelievable.

She realized her mistake in a matter of seconds, and therefore she also took a few more steps toward you, carefully, reverently, as if you were a relic she had never earned the right to touch.

“If you don't listen to me, I'm lost,” she exclaimed without further ado. At last, she stopped playing games and finally showed some of that humanity you thought she never had. That was enough to get your undivided attention. “Some samples I have will end up with someone else. Someone who won't hesitate to put a price on every heart that fails.” She paused. “And... if you don't help me, my life will be over.”

You managed an indignant scoff.

“Ah, so that's the pitch?” You replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and your entire demeanor screamed ‘unreceptive’. “Somewhat familiar, that story, about working very hard for a good cause, and then a greedy, fucking...”

“No,” she interrupted you, her voice breaking, not from theatricality, but from an honesty so raw you could smell the iron in it. “I mean, they'll kill me. Literally. They want the blood samples. They know I have those. They know I won't sell them to them.”

Something in her face stopped you.

Compassion, love, nostalgia, all those feelings you had thrown into the deepest precipice behind your mind bounced back tenfold to crush you, much stronger and more powerful. Worst of all? You gladly let it happen.

Zora swallowed hard at your silence, because you both knew her life depended on the decision you made.

“You don't have to forgive me,” she insisted, bordering on desperation. “You don't have to talk to me again when we're done. You can keep the samples. Test them. Publish them. I don't care. Just... don't let them win.”

You stared at her, at the woman who once made you lose track of your life, now placing hers and the lives of millions of people in your hands and your knowledge.

If she trusted you to that extent, maybe, just maybe, what she said felt for you wasn't a complete lie. And you rejoiced at the fact that it was regarding your work, over anything else.

“Let's go inside so you can tell me everything about those blood samples, because I don't understand anything you're saying,” you concluded.

Zora didn't like coffee at all. She used to say that she needed to regulate her highly alert system, and that coffee would only make it worse by keeping her awake. So, you offered her a cup of tea and added a drizzle of honey instead of sugar.

It was almost instinctive to prepare it the way you knew she liked it, just like closing your eyes when you sneeze or putting your hands out when you trip over a rock while walking. You hated it because she was so ingrained in your brain.

You hated more that you hadn't even noticed, until she said it was as perfect as she remembered.

Of course it was, you had learned those little quirks of hers.

And she thought about how much it meant to have that familiarity after so much chaos, although she would never admit it.

Or so she thought.

But as she recounted missing her mother's funeral and that life-risking-almost-suicidal feat on Île Saint-Hubert, her defenses crumbled like a construction wall facing the heavy blow of a wrecking ball.

And she remarked that all this was only the beginning of the hellhole she got herself into, because right now, sleeping three hours straight was an achievement considering that the heads of corrupt corporations were after her now that they knew the value of what she had in that suitcase.

“And... oh, God! This tea is delightful,” she broke down crying, and all restraint of invading your personal space was overpowered by the grueling need to feel that she could let herself be weak in front of someone, along with the reassurance that she would be held with open arms or at the very least with a cup of tea.

And so, you allowed her to cling to you for as long as she wanted. To cry for the fear she suffered when facing ruthless, savage, hungry creatures... and dinosaurs, of course.

You understood that what she did to you was never personal, no matter how much it broke you. She was desperately trying to survive, as you tried to rationalize.

However, a slightly narcissistic part of you wondered if, among those reasons for her crying, you were there and the remorse you always wanted her to feel.

Although the question answered itself with her very presence. She had come to you for help, having given up a comfortable life so that others could have the chance of even a life. That spoke louder than any apology.

And so, you let her weight crush you when she fell asleep on top of you, and you settled in so that both of you could fit on that cloud sofa that couldn't have come handier than tonight. The lights were on, a warm blanket covered both of you, and despite your body protesting, your soul rejoiced.

Time hadn't passed, you could have sworn it.

It was as if it had all been a nightmare that ended in the blink of an eye, and in reality, things were just as you had left them before you went to sleep the night before Zora left you.

Like any other morning, you woke up to the sound of your alarm. Fortunately, you had left your phone in your pocket, so you were able to turn it off before the adorable blonde on top of you stirred. She was sleeping like a big baby, after all.

And she continued that way after you showered, made breakfast, and got your things ready for the workday. The care with which you moved around hadn't faded, nor had the affection with which you prepared her breakfast and stored it in the covered pan.

Every time you tried to rationalize these small acts of love with phrases like, “Everyone needs a plate of food,” or “I'm just being a good host, nothing more,” you ended up laughing out loud.

You loved that woman, and your whole system remembered it. Who were you trying to fool?

One thing was certain, and that was that she had to earn that second chance, despite your heart screaming that she had already earned it just by coming back, and you had stopped being so stubborn about it.

“It's weird to be escorted to your lab by the same guard who once threatened me with her taser,” Zora's voice interrupted your thoughts as you worked in the lab.

You had left Zora a note, asking her to come to your workplace with the samples, after she got up and had breakfast. You didn't imagine that time would be three in the afternoon, nevertheless, you were glad to see that she looked well rested and calmer.

“Believe me, they must be happy that they'll finally have to stop fighting you,” you chuckled, a smile from ear to ear plastered on your face. Faced with this, you cleared your throat. “May I?” You pointed at the suitcase in her hand.

“Please,” she replied in a faux-fancy tone, placing it on the table.

When you opened the suitcase, there they were. Straight out from real encounters with dinosaurs. Zora survived the impossible, and the bravest gesture of all was giving it up for free. Heroic, even.

Three test tubes in front of you, looking so inoffensive, but people had risked and lost their lives to obtain that blood, and that wouldn't stop unless you could decode them before someone else got their hands on them. That was your responsibility from now on.  

“All I could think about was you,” she whispered.

You didn’t soften. You didn’t look away. No, no way you'd give her the satisfaction.

“Don’t start with your blackmail or sentimentality,” you mumbled coldly. “Keep it professional.”

Her face faltered, but her voice, when it returned, was raw.

“It wasn’t blackmail. It stopped being so, because I loved you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head.

All this time, hearing that she loved you would’ve been the only thing it would take to undo all the damage. The justifications, the pain, the indignation, would come later. Because she loved you, after all. You longed to hear it.

Or well, hearing it was one thing, believing it? That was another story.

As much as you wanted to shout from the rooftops that you loved her too, what assurance did you have that this wasn't just another trick to hook you and then leave you once she had what she wanted from you?

Giving second chances meant willingly becoming Schrödinger’s cat.

And not trusting freely hurt more than the betrayal itself sometimes.

Were you willing to take that risk? That was yet to be known.

“Okay, love is not enough, how about misery? Wanna hear the shit I went through?” She continued, seemingly taken aback despite you having all the reasons not to fall for her puppyish green eyes. “When I delivered your files to them, they didn’t negotiate. They raised a gun at my forehead. Told me to get out, gave me nothing. No payment, no thanks. Just… erasure. I went bankrupt. I took every demeaning job I could find. I missed my mother’s funeral because I was trying to survive.”

And once again, something you needed to hear didn't necessarily make you feel the way you expected.

At some point, between your tears, you wished with all your heart that wherever Zora was, she would get back triple the damage she had done.

Knowing that this wish had come true left a bitter taste in your mouth, and with it, an unparalleled epiphany.

Perhaps you did heal during this year, you healed a version of yourself that wished ill on someone, because right now you couldn't bear to see the woman you loved suffer for the consequences of her actions, and that was a sign that you had regained your essence from before she broke it.

Even stronger than before, because you knew how to draw boundaries between work and personal life, between loving someone and protecting your heart.

There was progress, and her return, far from destroying it as you believed, made it visible.

“I risked my life, but I gave up on the money I was offered, because I learned that my mother, and people like her, died because treatment was a commodity,” she continued. “I don’t want a private drug for rich people. I want a cure that belongs to everyone. Help me undo what I almost ruined.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You simply looked at the blood again. Ancient blood with potential to heal human hearts.

“For you, for your mother, and for the people,” you concluded.

From that day on, you worked alone, and she gave you the space she had promised.

No shared access, no updates, no midnight calls, no “us.”

You placed the vials in cryostabilization, performed genomic sequencing, and isolated viable proteomes from the Jurassic cardiovascular matrix.

To say you had a hard time wss an understatement. This responsibility went beyond what you had studied or even experienced in your field. It was dinosaur blood, for crying out loud! It was a once-in-a-lifetime possibility for a regular scientist.

And if it worked, it would be the most important work of your career. It would become your 'Starry Night' or your 'Fur Elise'.

Sometimes, you preferred to sleep on the lab floor on an air mattress because you wanted to work as long as possible. The inspiration was overwhelming and you couldn't afford to be at home without your instruments at hand.

Other times, you didn't even want to think about the word “lab.”

You cried with happiness, screamed in frustration, celebrated with fast food, and considered telling Zora to find someone else.

You were doing the work of an entire team on your own, and the effort it was taking made you question whether it was worth it.

And with all this included, beyond the good, the bad, and the ugly, the anomalies became possibilities, through hypertrophic reversal, myocardial regrowth, and cellular complacency stronger than any line of mammalian tissue.

You created a therapeutic protocol. Not just some invasive medicine, but a living correction. A treatment capable of repairing a failing heart from within.

You sent Zora a simple text that said, “Done,” and you don't even remember how you got yourself onto the air mattress before passing out.

Five months later, you unlocked the lab at dawn and found an envelope taped neatly to your workstation, and there it was, a card containing that handwriting you knew too well.

Duncan Kincaid

Henry Loomis

Zora Bennett

And yourself, my love

You didn't cry, at least not at first.

You just sat there, and that was enough to feel, to internalize what you had done.

Your research was complete, and nothing could stop what was coming, not the fight from regulators, not the pharmaceutical companies offering millions in patents.

Just a treatment that belonged to the world. It was here.

When the global press conference arrived, not even in your most terrifying dreams could you prepare yourself for the bright lights, the cameras, the applause you never asked for, as you stood at the podium with clinical calm and a heartbeat that was not so clinical.

You spoke of methodology, accessibility, ethical reconstruction, while your hands shook as you held the flashcards you were reading from. You stuttered, used filler words, and every time your eyes fell on the audience, you used the technique of looking only at heads or looking only at one person in the audience in order not to lose it.

Somewhere in the back, Zora was standing with her hair down, her glasses on and wearing a black suit. Just watching proudly, looking stunning and restored in some way that didn't include possession. You knew that feeling, you were living it firsthand.

And when your eyes landed on her, you said it: “This was possible because three people chose humanity over economic gain. Duncan Kincaid, Henry Loomis, and Zora Bennett. They risked their lives so that others wouldn't have to lose theirs.”

You heard another round of applause flooding the room.

She gave you just one nod of acknowledgement, as she applauded along with the others.

You gave the world a cure.

And in return, you gave Zora the one thing she never asked for, and never thought she would receive, which was recognition for doing one thing right in her life.

The lobby was lit with warm lighting, much better than the usual white light bulbs in the lab that forced you to stay awake.

It felt cozy even though it was crowded, with live jazz music playing and the heather on, but more because your heart was warm and grateful, and you could feel the same in all the people who came up to congratulate you or ask you questions about your work with interest.

Zora didn't come over. She didn't even dare to hold your glance for more than three seconds. She just watched you from afar.

And when you approached her, you didn't say anything either.

You just walked out through the glass doors and she followed you, at a respectful distance of three steps. She had learned how much space your ribs needed to not collapse, back when she sneaked in your lab begging you to give her another chance.

The city was noisy, bright, and restless. She was none of those things anymore. She was just there. And that, strangely so, was what broke you.

You stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face her.

She stopped too, her hands visible, her shoulders straight, and her breathing controlled, like someone preparing for a verdict they already know will hurt, but still hopes won't.

“Why didn't you talk to me today?” You asked her. The closest you both had ever come to communicating this whole was your text and her letter that preceded. You hoped she'd break the silence today, but all you got were a nod, applause, and exchanged glances.

“Because every time I've tried to talk, I've taken something away from you. Today, you gave to the world. Today was yours. I didn't want to... contaminate it.”

When she uttered those words, suddenly you felt angry, not at her, but at the tenderness she had no right to display and yet did.

“You don't get to dictate what contaminates my days,” you whispered, moving closer to her until you could feel the warmth of her body, and your own reacted to it, especially because she was wearing that breathtaking suit.

“I know. God, I know."

There was a silence, of the fragile kind, suspended between two people who have finally stopped lying to themselves.

“Today was your day too, let's celebrate,” you whispered.

Zora didn't smile.

She broke silently, beautifully, resting her hand on your cheek and, without further thought, pressed her lips to yours.

You melted into her pink lips so pathetically that your arms found their place around her neck, otherwise you would fall to the ground.

And she, with her advantageous nature that never completely faded, held your waist with a firmness that bordered on claiming you. And yes, you were completely and indisputably hers.

“All right,” she murmured against your lips, her breath shaking in awe. “Drinks on me. And... nothing heavy. No past. Just... the present. If you'll let me.”

“Lead the way,” you responded with a soft smile.

This time, she moved beside you, at the distance of two people who crawled out of an abyss separately and are learning how to exist in the same air again.

“I love you,” she confessed, after three straight minutes of quiet strolling. “But I didn't know how to love without also destroying things.”

“So the lab,” you recalled, curiously. “The equipment, the microscope, that was love too? Or part of the heist?”

She chuckled in a different tone you could decipher right on the spot. Shame, not defense.

“I paid for everything with three credit cards,” she finally admitted. “Maxed them all. And when they froze those, I opened new ones. I paid balances with other balances. Debt on top of debt. Nothing was clean, nothing was smart. But it was worth that smile.”

Your heartbeat faltered.

For once, she hasn’t been trying to look noble.

“And that's what made what I did unforgivable. I didn't betray you because I didn't care. I betrayed you while caring more than I ever had for anyone.”

“You can be present in my life again. If you can do it without burning us both.”

Her eyes filled with something akin to humble relief.

The couple was a frequent visitor to your studio.

Natasha was the one who 99% of the time requested your services. You did all her ear piercings, and her full sleeve was your work alone. You rejoiced just remembering that she proudly wore several of your sketches on her skin.

The other 1% was when Wanda went for her nipple piercings, and Natasha couldn't have looked happier at the prospect of taking full advantage of her post-recovery sensitivity. You wished you could take part on that as well.

And there you realized, it was both girls who you had a big crush on.

This time, you scheduled Natasha's new tattoo appointment for 7 p.m. After 5 p.m. was the time when both of them were free after work, and you could have scheduled her for that time, however you pretended you didn't have any openings until 7 p.m.

Because at 7:30 p.m. your colleagues with whom you shared the studio had already finished their day, and you would have at least two hours after said time alone with them.

At first, you didn't know why you wanted alone time with them. They were a couple! They seemed too in love with each other to notice you. Nothing would happen.

But you soon realized that it was enough for you to simply watch.

To watch how Wanda held Natasha's hand and gave her sweet soothing words every time a trace you did hurt more than usual, or how Natasha sought her warmth, her comfort. You wanted to be part of it so badly.

Little did you know, that they noticed everything. Every longing glance directed their way, everytime your cheeks turned into a pink mess whenever they mentioned the slightest detail about their sex life, and even the way you purposefully scheduled them later at night to catch them alone. But they went with it for a reason, and it was that they liked you too.

At first, they sought to provoke you by flirting or getting touchy with each other in front of you, hoping that you would break down eventually and beg them to take you right there.

However, a better opportunity took place when you shifted in your chair after an hour in the same position. You swore it was accidental, and it truly was, you didn't mean for your breast to get perfectly positioned in Natasha's palm, which was facing upwards while you worked on her forearm.

Immediately, you pulled away, hoping with all your might that her girlfriend hadn't seen that. You had noticed firsthand how incredibly jealous and possessive she was of what was hers, because it had happened that some clients glanced at Natasha as they passed by her, and the look she gave them caused them to flee quickly, terrified, with their eyes fixed on the floor. You didn't want to imagine what would happen to you if she saw this.

And (un)fortunately, she did. And what happened to you, well...

"No, no, don't move," Wanda urged. "It will help her to have something to squeeze."

And you laughed, to hide your nervousness at the fact that maybe she was challenging you, see if you dared to be that reckless again.

"I'm sorry, Wanda, I didn't notice..." you began to falter.

"I know, sweetheart, but I'm asking you to help your very loyal client feel less stressed," she clarified.

"Please," Natasha added, her tone more pleading than Wanda's intimidating and imposing. That gave you the green light to go ahead and turn off all the warnings in your brain.

Then you shifted your position so that your breast was over her palm again.

You were a fucking good artist, otherwise you would have ruined Natasha's tattoo as soon as she squeezed it. But you did let out an almost involuntary moan.

You looked at Wanda, to somehow check if she was okay with it. Perfect timing, because looking into her eyes, you groaned again at another squeeze from Natasha.

Her eyes darkened and her gaze became more predatory, if that was possible.

"That's it, baby," Wanda stroked the back of Natasha's neck, but didn't take her eyes off you. "Squeeze all you want, that's a nice pair of tits, isn't it? Hmm, yes it is."

A whimper came out of your mouth, and before you lost any more control, you let go of the tattoo machine and turned it away from Natasha.

"Oh, well, if Natty's not in pain, there's no point in her continuing," Wanda commented. And what a cruel woman! She wanted to torture you, making you go through with your work if you wanted her girlfriend to touch you.

Even though you wanted to beg her, somehow you didn't put up much resistance and resumed the tattoo machine not even five seconds after. It was as if both you and Natasha knew better than to question what she said innately, and that all there was left to do was obey.

In your entire career, you had done from small doodles to the most disgustingly detailed designs. You had mastered every kind of technique and complexity, neo-traditional, watercolor, tribal, fine line, realism. You'd gone through clients who squirmed before the needle even touched their body, and others who fell asleep in the process.

But they all shared one thing in common, and that was that they left incredibly satisfied with your work. And Wanda and Natasha were not, and would never be, the exception. It didn't matter if it meant trying to maintain your trademark precision while being groped and stared at by the two most beautiful women who had ever set foot in your tattoo shop.

"Oh, what do we got here?" Wanda spoke after all that had been heard was the buzzing of the tattoo machine, Natasha's groans and your small moans.

You then watched out of the corner of your eye as Wanda's hand travelled over Natasha's jeans, between her legs where a huge bulge was already evident.

Oh, no... you couldn't take any more, but you didn't dare stop either. This was killing you. You longed for nothing more than for Wanda to let you focus solely on them and the sensations they were so eagerly bringing to every fiber of your being.

"All this from touching the tattoo artist?" she tsked with her tongue, a smile oh so sinister. How could she take pity on you if it brought her so much thrill to see you suffer?

And you broke down. You couldn't bear this any longer when Wanda pulled down Natasha's pants and boxers altogether and her cock sprung free, all thick, veiny and painfully hard. It was begging for attention.

"Fuck, Wanda, please!" You exclaimed, instinctively reaching out your free hand towards Natasha's length.

But she smacked your hand away, pointing at Natasha's almost finished yet unfinished forearm tattoo. That made both you and the redhead complain.

"If you finish and do a good job, I might let her fuck you," she stated.

"Oh, you'll let me do that?" Natasha asked, her little eyes turning puppyish and hopeful. Oh, you could already visualize that yearning face when she pounds into you.

Damn it!

"Of course, baby," her tone immediately regained its characteristic warmth. And ugh, if you couldn't get any more needy. "In the meantime, let's motivate you a little bit," Wanda turned to you, and started stroking Natasha's dick with slow movements, making her clench her eyes tight and moan, and in consequence, squeeze your breast out of pure excitement.

Wanda's movements remained constant, up and down, slowly, steadily.

It didn't matter if her poor girlfriend's eyes had started to water, and a prominent vein on her forehead was about to burst, she didn't speed up her movements. She kept her on edge.

Pre-cum stained Wanda's hand, giving a tantalizing sheen to Natasha's entire cock every time she went down to the base. You craved nothing more than to taste her, to feel her salty liquid invade your taste buds as your mouth was stuffed full of her hot massive cock.

And as if watching that sight wasn't enough to taunt you, Natasha's grip on you was beginning to border on painful, for Wanda simply wouldn't let her cum.

Not until you were done.

With superhuman speed, you wiped the already finished tattoo with a paper towel and applied the membrane. Wanda continued her movements, but turned her attention to your work.

"As always, so talented," she smiled approvingly, and that brought you a wave of relief and bliss, but you were hoping for something more. "Okay, you earned it."

And with that, she stopped with her hand at the base of Natasha's length, gesturing for you to join her.

You needed no more. Immediately you lowered your mouth onto her with an unmatched fervor.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull after savoring that glory. It was more perfect than you imagined.

Despite all the hell Wanda put you through, it was worth thanking, for her abused cock welcomed you so gratefully and warmly, celebrating with splashes of pre-cum painting your throat white.

"Fuck yes," Natasha gasped, the hand that had previously made your breast go numb, now entangled in your hair, not to guide you, but to encourage you. She already trusted you like that. "Mmm, you're both so hungry for dick, ain't that right?"

You moaned in response, your mouth too busy sucking her off to even bother reply.

Wanda, who coordinatedly continued stroking her, did respond, "Right, baby. I hope you have enough for both of us tonight."

"Of course I do," Natasha grunted, her breath hitching as finally, Wanda sped up her movements, and your head, as a whole, bobbed up and down more quickly to match her. It felt akin to one consciousness, different bodies, all thirsty to please and get pleased. "Fuck! That's right! I'm going to stuff both your pussies full until you leak! Shit..."

And without warning, Natasha let go all of her delicious semen in your mouth, causing your once-hollowed cheeks to get puffy in an instant. At that moment you knew, that this would be your favourite flavor ever, along with Wanda's surely addictive juices as well. You couldn't wait for what this night promised.

You tried to hold on as long as you could, while you rode down her high. Nevertheless, by the time you made sure you got every last drop out of her cock, some of it had already run down your chin.

After sitting back, you tilted your head up, letting them see the movement of your throat as you swallowed everything Natasha gave you.

"Good job," Wanda praised you, leaning closer to you until you felt the hot exhale of her labored breath. She then proceeded to gather with her tongue the cum that had fallen on your chin.

Natasha watched the scene with renewed greed. Seeing the two of you share the taste of her release you both worked so hard to achieve was enough to make her softening cock start to get hard again.

The lights in the laboratory began to flicker more frequently late at night, as if, after so many hours on, they were conspiring together to take the rest you denied them. It was a hint of rebellion in response to your demands.

You had thought about calling an electrician to fix them, but you ended up finding meaning in their imperfection. If the lights started to flicker, it meant it was late and time to go home. After all, no one works well under a storm of flashes, right?

With a sigh that emptied you inside, you took off your gloves and threw them into the metal trash can without looking to see if they fell inside. You clumsily folded your gown and left it on the stool, as if abandoning a body that ceased to belong to you once you decided so.

You treated yourself no better than you treated those exhausted poor lights. There was still a lot of inner healing to be done, but even so, when you decided that was enough for the day, work stayed at work. Neither the gown nor your worries followed you through the door. You became skilled at drawing that line. Someone forced you to.

You just needed to get to the car and do your brief five-minute meditation where a woman's voice guided you to tense and release your muscles in turns with binaural waves in the background. It had been a particularly rough day, and all you wanted was to lie back and sink your head into the new memory foam pillow that was delivered to your house today.

But your hope dissolved completely when you saw her.

Zora Bennett, again, in the parking lot, waiting for you who knows how long.

You didn't really care, she could spend the rest of her life there, and time would punish her, and you wouldn't care.

Unfortunately, waiting wasn't the only thing she knew how to be persistent about. She had to follow you, she had to talk.

“Don't you ever get tired?” You growled, your teeth touching.

You installed alarms, hired 24-hour security, warned every guard on duty that if Zora tried to approach, they should escort her—and drag her if necessary—away from you. Yet there she was, with her scolded puppy face, asking for another chance.

“You know I won't,” she replied, and the way it sounded, like a reassurance you didn’t need, twisted your stomach with rage.

A year has passed.

With two weekly sessions of humanistic and cognitive-behavioral therapy, you were finally making progress. And just when you felt like you were climbing out of a bottomless pit toward the light, two weeks ago, Zora reappeared and dragged you back down, and everything you had climbed came crashing down. One tiny misstep and your work fell apart.

It was the second time she had done that to you.

The “you know I won't” seemed like a mockery of all this. But it also gave you a strange sense of pride, because you went from crying in front of her and trying to run her over with your car, to cry after you left, to not crying at all.

“You should. You're wasting valuable time that you could be investing in...” You paused dramatically. “...destroying honest people's careers, returning good for evil, being a selfish, greedy bitch who will die alone and rot in hell.”

Zora didn’t budge. She even fought back with a smile at the fact that your insults were beginning to lose their edge. In her mind, it was just a matter of patience until you ran out of ideas and had to listen to her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, but listen...” she began, and you cut her off as usual.

“Not another word!” You exclaimed, opening the car door with animal speed. You left without looking back.

Zora had been patient.

She could find your address and show up at your house. She could pick the locks on your car. She had already overcome your barriers at work, and in two weeks, she only showed up six times, scheduling three times a week, when she could easily have been there several times a day.

In her mind, she was giving you space, believing you would appreciate it. Her goal was simple and monstrously difficult: your forgiveness. She wanted it more than air.

She had exposed herself to creatures for whom her life was considered a mere snack that would be over in five seconds, and all she could think about was not dying under your hatred.

She knew what she did was wrong. And she wanted to redeem herself before you. But also, before the world. Her greed had caused damage that even her mother ended up paying for.

And life, merciful even to those who don't deserve it, gave her a second chance.

Because you were the only one capable of deciphering the DNA from the dinosaur blood samples she brought back from Saint-Hubert Island. The only one competent and trustworthy enough to design the formula for a treatment for heart disease that would save millions.

A year ago, she didn't appreciate it. Now it has become her only beacon of hope.

At that time, you had been working for nine months at the only laboratory that had opened its doors to you when other companies only offered “experience” as payment. Being a recent biotechnology graduate was like pushing a car without wheels.

Not at the Vitalis Institute. Thanks to them, you got a job as a Junior Research Assistant at a pharmaceutical company that developed innovative open-source treatments for chronic diseases and genetic disorders. Free patents, no locks.

Your work was basic, consisting of tests, recording results, spreadsheets. But your curiosity never knew how to stay still.

At lunch, you refused to go to the cafeteria. It was too noisy, too crowded tables, too many indiscreet questions about your personal life that would only serve to create gossip. Once was enough for you not to return.

You preferred to eat in a corner of the lab, sitting on the floor, away from any fragile instruments, with music being the only noise you could tolerate.

One night, with your eyes barely open from exhaustion, you plugged in your charger incorrectly. Your phone died, your alarm didn't go off, and you were half an hour late to work. At lunchtime, while you let it revive after plugging it into one of the outlets, you took the liberty of browsing through the records of paused projects and found one that had been stalled for months. It was a formula to reactivate cell regeneration in damaged tissue. It showed great promise, but the compound was unstable, dangerous, unpredictable. Useless, in short.

Out of stubbornness and boredom, you stayed until late. You ran a parallel experiment, playing around with proportions. Against all odds, you stabilized it. The formula worked!

Your actions earned you the attention of your boss and the board, and six months later, a promotion. You were finally part of the project.

And you had only been a Junior Geneticist for three months when you met her.

Zora Bennett.

It was a day at the bookstore, near your apartment. Your body was exhausted, but your mind was crackling with formulas and theories like bare wires in water. You forced yourself to interrupt your ramblings with affirmations like “tomorrow is another day” or “not now.”

For now, you wanted to shut out the world, so you curled up on a cushion and lost yourself in To Kill a Mockingbird.

“It's my favorite,” said a husky voice.

You looked up. A blonde woman, a book under her arm, wonderful green eyes, full lips, tanned skin. You doubted your eyes, perhaps your exhausted mind was inventing fantastic beings, you thought.

She pointed to the book in your hands.

“Atticus Finch is the only man I would let win an argument,” she added, to get a few words out of you and not just that incredulous look which, as flattering as it was, did little to start an interaction.

And she succeeded.

The conversation drifted from the book to everything else, and time melted away. The employees had to warn you that they were closing, otherwise you wouldn't have noticed the arrival of nighttime.

It was the first time you had truly disconnected from work.

Since then, thinking about Zora and concentrating became incompatible. The first thing you did after just a moment of free time was check your phone, and you were never disappointed, because there was always a message from her. It became a sweet habit.

A week later, at lunchtime, you read, “See you in the parking lot.”

She picked you up to go grab something to eat. She took you to a huge garden, a secret hidden in the middle of the hateful city that colonized every glimpse of nature. She remembered when you told her about your childhood home with a garden, how much you missed it. You didn't even remember telling her that.

“This is too much,” you whispered, overwhelmed. A visit to a café five minutes from your work would have meant the world, especially considering that nowadays there are plenty of excuses not to make an effort.

“It's just lunch,” she said, as if it weren't the most tender gesture anyone had ever made toward you.

As she walked, she brushed your hand.

You didn't pull away.

She intertwined her fingers with yours.

The weeks passed, gently and inevitably.

She had already gained enough confidence to hug you from behind in lines, her chin resting on your shoulder.

Notes began appearing on the refrigerator:

“Drink water.”

“I left a decent breakfast inside.”

“Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you're Cu-Te.”

“I have my ion you.”

In her car, she let you play your music, even when it wasn't her favorite. It was enough for her to see you enjoy yourself. She even added some songs to her playlist so she could have you close through sound even when you were apart physically, and you got her to admit that your favorite singer was actually good.

She kissed you for the first time one day on her living room floor, with your back against the sofa, just as you were talking fervently about neurotransmitters and the impact that kind words had on them.

She started by touching your cheek, and your voice faltered until you fell silent, which made her laugh. Until she closed the distance between you.

“How do your neurotransmitters feel now?” she whispered against your lips, completely weakened by the moment, unable to speak at all firmly.

Longing doesn't boast. It was beautiful.

Your first anniversary at Vitalis Institute arrived. Zora showed up at your apartment with a box wrapped in paper covered with scribbles of laboratory instruments. You opened it and screamed without caring about the neighbors. It was a microscope. A damn microscope.

“Zora...” your voice broke.

“It's not fair,” she began. “You're so brilliant that you could conduct this research with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back, and yet... you don't have your own microscope.”

You kissed her passionately. She laughed into your mouth.

On your birthday, the spare room in your apartment (your makeshift science corner) was transformed. The microscope rested on a new and, at last, suitable table. There was brand new glassware, trays, scales, tubes, tools you never had time or money to buy. A whiteboard with equations copied from your notebooks, ready to follow your ideas at any time.

“It's no big deal,” she said, biting her lip, her eyes shifty with nerves and excitement. “But I thought, if you ever want to play at being a geneticist at home, this would be your space. All yours, with me.”

It was the first time you said, “I love you.” She said it back. And you believed her.

While you were falling in love and believing in open-source cures, Zora was recruited by a rival corporation to the one you worked for. Their goals were different: to privatize the regenerative formula, restrict it to the military, billionaires, and elites. Sell “miraculous recovery” as a luxury.

That night of your birthday was the last step that would bring her hundreds of millions. The home lab wasn't love, it was a clever trap to get you to take your work home without raising suspicion.

One day, you sat down to work in your new lab, went to sleep when the sky cleared... and when you woke up, all your files disappeared.

And so did she.

The news and media dragged your name through the mud. The same hands that applauded you became static, praying for your downfall.

You were clear of charges thanks to a public defender who, like you, amid her overload, wanted to do the right thing. She proved that you had no connection with the rival corporation, that you had been tricked. The court accepted that you were not an accomplice, and your freedom was the only thing left unscathed.

They fired you. Not because you were guilty, but because you were naive. “You should have known who you were getting involved with,” they repeated in response to every plea you could think of.

And it's true, you should have known better.

Five minutes on Google was enough to find the history of the woman you loved. Mercenaryism, data theft, corporate betrayals. All for money.

You hated yourself for believing. For looking at her for so many nights without mistrusting a little. You hated yourself because even on your worst days, with betrayal burning like exposed nerves on acid, you tried to understand her perspective. No theory made sense. Not even the need for money explained using abundant, devoted, wholehearted love as a weapon against you.

Maybe if you had had a shred of her coldness, you would have been less naive.

One looks at others through the prism of what one has inside, and you only had love. How foolish.

Science and doing things, even against the odds, gave you refuge. You started developing therapies and genetic tools in your home lab, at first as a distraction. Editing protocols, protein expression models, CRISPR-based diagnostics, projects you could sell as consulting services to medium-sized pharmaceutical companies and startups. Enough to survive. To stay in the game.

You found solutions, overlooked alternatives, possible therapies for rare diseases, and you never found the cure for a broken heart.

And that's why your own lab made you sick. You knew full well who had set it up, so you bought an old mechanic's workshop in a quiet corner and turned it into your space.

It was cheap and dilapidated, with oil-stained walls, a roof that leaked when it rained, windows that rattled at night. You spent weeks demolishing, painting walls white, reinforcing floors for the weight of equipment, rewiring everything with your own hands. You didn't consider yourself handy, but learning was a distraction and a band-aid for your bullet holes.

Some days you were a machine, nothing could stop you, not back pain or minor injuries from awkward posture with tools. Other days, you would drop everything and break down crying while sitting on the floor, and that's what you did all day instead.

When the place was finally up and running, you hired security. Cameras, reinforced locks, firewalls, triple backup, guards always patrolling. It was an investment that would take you a lifetime to recover from, since you had six-digit debts from bank loans. You didn't care. If you were going to bleed again, it wouldn't be because of a robbery.

This time, what you built was yours. Everything.

And now she showed up as if nothing had happened? As if the sweat of your labor, the sleepless nights, the tears you paid to rebuild yourself belonged to her.

What you didn't know was that Zora had already found her punishment.

It was your resistance that revealed something to her. You weren't just brilliant, you were hard to break, unlike her, who succumbed to the mention of a few zeros. That perseverance was just what her new mission needed.

She wanted to work with you, not against you, but you wouldn't listen.

Zora was patient. God knows she tried, but she got tired. She didn't survive that island, she didn't dodge death at every turn, she didn't smuggle those impossible samples across a sea that wanted to swallow her whole, just for you to ignore her.

She hated herself for coming on so strongly, for seeming desperate. Who was she kidding? She was.

She tried some corporations, former partners. They all wanted to privatize the treatment, put a price tag to salvation. She left those offices disgusted, mostly because they all reminded her that a year ago, she was one of them.

Not you. Never you. With your heart and that integrity, you wouldn't let that happen.

That's why you became a stubborn last resort, who found it hard to forgive, but who would never sell the cure.

You were not going to endure another god-awful day in that abyss you called life. You simply could not. Nothing particularly happened, you simply collapsed.

Your job in this economy did not allow you to support rent, food, services, all that went with being independent. So many exhausting hours for so little pay. Just so when you finally returned home, the first thing you saw were multiple eviction notices on your door, reminding you that you were on the verge of being homeless.

So, when you opened your door with push, the inside was not very welcoming either, as the holes in your furniture and under your broken sink were the perfect place for cockroaches to breed in droves, causing you to find a few over here and there. At least they lived rent free, you thought.

You ate microwavable or precooked food, the cheapest you could find, and proceeded to go to sleep, hoping the bedbugs wouldn't cause you any more health problems than you already had from the quality of sleep and food you provided your body with.

And then, you slept four hours, you got up to work, you came back home, you repeated.

Well, the sole exception was your upstairs neighbor, Natasha Romanoff. A Russian immigrant on the run from the authorities for her involvement as an accomplice to Clint Barton, a notorious contract killer. Barton, lacking the courage to face imprisonment with dignity, betrayed his loyal partner, declaring, "If I go down, you go down with me".

Now a fugitive, Natasha cut and dyed her hair blonde and resorted to phone scams to survive. “Fucking cyber education”, you could hear her yell from downstairs, usually followed by the sound of her cell phone hitting the ground (your ceiling). You deduced it was because fewer and fewer people were falling for the bullshit of a $500,000 prize.

The sex with her was good, too good to be true. You weren't happy about her misfortune, but you were grateful to whoever was smart enough not to fall for that classic scam, because you knew that after that, she would get to take out her frustration on you as soon as you got home from work. That was the only means by which you could secrete a little dopamine, a little... happiness.

“I hate this life,” you once commented, clinging to her as she rode out the ground-breaking orgasm she gave you.

“Hmmm, bullshit,” she growled. ”I can't go out and buy fucking cigarretes without the fear of some asshole recognizing me from the wanted signs and ratting me out,” you could feel her back muscles tensing again. “I can't engage in anything too scandalous, legal or illegal, because any false move will take me back to Russia. And don't make me detail what prison is like in Russia,” she added, quickening her movements and panting slightly. Your eyes rolled, and against your will, the need began to simmer inside you once again. “Don't come and tell me your life is difficult. Figure it out! God... damn it!”

“What do you propose I do?” You asked her, once the overstimulation of two orgasms in a row had subsided enough to allow you to formulate something more than whimpers and moans.

“Go to the nuns congregation,” she shrugged, as she buttoned her pants. They were somewhat tight, which made visible the bulge formed by the strap-on she used on you.

“Fuck you!” You exclaimed.

“I'm serious. They love to feel like they're saving souls,” she justified. “Tell them you want to let God into your life, and just like that you get three meals a day and a warm bed. You deserve a chance in life."

Okay, maybe you could have gone on to apply for other jobs and in one of them you might've been lucky to get hired, but your day-to-day life had mentally drained you so much that you didn't think you were capable of making one more effort to survive.

It wasn't fair. The people working in the church enjoyed every comfort simply by feeding people's beliefs in something greater. They stood before crowds reading teachings they often didn't apply to their own lives, but that didn't matter. All they needed to do was make people feel good about themselves for sacrificing one hour of their Sunday to listen. People gave money to the church for this. They granted the church privileges for this, like tax exemption. Meanwhile, you did pay your taxes.

Natasha was right. If a simple practice of a religion was going to give you all that, more than your skills or abilities would, you might as well take it. After all, it was divine justice to privilege yourself from the church that privileged itself from the people.

Everything went smoothly, for you were a master in words and conviction. If only you had the opportunity to go to college, you would be using those skills to build a career of your liking, maybe laws or literature. But there you were, reorienting the reason for the misfortunes in your life to a motive to strengthen your faith. You even talked about a dream where you received a message where God commanded you to serve Him, and you dropped a couple of tears to make it believable. They loved it!

From then on, your days were consumed by correspondence lessons, spiritual readings that stirred nothing within you, and the hollow act of pretending to pray mentally. It was excruciatingly monotonous, devoting yourself to something that doesn’t align with the core of who you were. However, the only solace came from the feeling of a full stomach, the embrace of a bed where you could finally surrender to real rest, and the relief of having left behind the life that once tormented you.

If that weren’t enough, Natasha remained present in your life. There was no love, perhaps not even affection, but there was familiarity. You were each other's person to look forward to after an exhausting, unsuccesful day.

Therefore, every night, she would appear at your window, her wide smile showing beneath the shadow of her hood.

She would fuck you hard, keeping in mind the exciting fact that, despite covering your mouth with her firm hand, a moan could probably be heard if she dared to let go or if you didn't control yourself.

The danger of someone discovering an Aspirant being thrusted deep by another woman whose reward for finding her exceeded a million dollars gave you the most delicious orgasms you had ever had in your life.

All your needs were taken care of, and all you had to do was pretend that this was your calling.

Until Sister Wanda Maximoff noticed your lack of interest. The other Aspirants glowed with marvel, their eyes burning with the will to learn during every lesson. They bombarded her with so many questions that each class stretched at least an extra half hour. But overall, they worshiped her as the living embodiment of what they could only dream to become.

But you remained sitting quietly, your gaze steady but lacking the usual awe radiating from your classmates. It wasn't shyness, for Sister Wanda had taught many shy Aspirants before, it was as if you existed on a separate plane of existence, observing from a distance instead of immersing yourself.

So she deliberately picked on you, persistently directing her questions at you regardless of your ‘fellow’ Aspirants' raised, insisting hands.

What exasperated her the most was your response to her gentle reprimands when you answered incorrectly, your attitude matched, perhaps even surpassed, the apathy you showed toward her lessons. The sole thing you were eager about was to demonstrate how little she mattered to you.

How wrong she was to believe private lessons would change anything. She assumed whatever shit show you were trying to pull would crumble when it was just the two of you, face to face. She thought you showed defiance only because you were among other Aspirants, who would devastate at the sight of their sweet, dear Sister being justifiably hard on someone. But no, you were insolent and that was all there was to it.

Unfortunately for you, Sister Wanda didn't have her group of adoring students around to see her now, leaving her free to do whatever she pleased with you.

"Damn you!" She slammed her Bible shut, after she made one last attempt to kindly ask you to make an effort to pay attention. You barely had time to register her words before she was standing—no, looming in front of you. "Listen," she hissed, her breath sharp against your face. The smell of cigarretes was evident. "I don't care why you're here. I only care that you are here. And as long as you are here, you're going to listen to my lesson. You're going to care. And one way or another, you're going to love me for it.”

That was the heart of it, wasn't it? You hadn't knelt, hadn't lapped at her heels like the others, and that was enough to wound her. Enough to make her angry. You could see it in her eyes, controlled fury, a slow-burning arrogance that refused to be challenged.

"Bend over," she ordered, signalling towards her desk with her emerald-green eyes.

You met her eyes, and in that moment, you knew she saw your rage, your disgust, your perplexity barely restrained beneath your clenched jaw.

"Excuse me?" Your voice was trembling of pure impotence, as the room itself seemed to contract around you.

"Bend over," she repeated. “Or… don't. You can always go back to that job—”

And before she could even complete her sentence, you were bent over her desk.

"Normally, I’d let you choose," she mused, her voice thick with condescension. "But you’ve been so bad, you don’t even deserve that.”

The closet doors creaked open behind you. Wooden. Heavy. Old.

The sound pierced the silence, a whistle of something cutting through the air, followed by a firm whip exploding across your flesh.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

It stuck in your throat, strangled by disbelief, both from the action and the inimaginable pain.

Your body jerked forward against the desk, as a high-pitched cry escaped your lips before you could stop it.

The wooden cane struck again, and again, and again.

Sister Wanda was known for being methodical, and her punishments weren't the exception, for she let each strike sink in before delivering the next.

Your fingers clawed at the barnished wood of her desk, intending to stay still, to deny her the satisfaction of seeing you squirm and suffer.

But it was impossible. The burning sensation radiating from your ass across your whole body, had you sobbing openly, with your pride as bruised as your skin.

"Please," you whimpered, choked with pathetic attempts to inhale some air. "I‐I'm sorry, please...”

She hummed with indifference. The same indifference you once gave her during her lessons. Divine justice.

Her cane tapped thoughtfully against your tender flesh, making you flinch. You couldn't take another single one.

"What did Christ say to Peter after the resurrection?” Just another cynical test. You should've seen it coming.

The answer was somewhere within the depths of your distressed mind. But the sting of open skin, made your thoughts slow.

"Well?" she pressed, and the cane lifted from your ass.

"Simon son of John, do you love me?”

Through your sobs, you heard the creak of the cabinet opening again, the soft sound of the cane being returned to its place. Your flesh throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and you knew you wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for days.

With gentle hands that moments ago had wielded the cane, she carefully smoothed down your tunic, her touch now impossibly tender.

"There now, sweet girl," she murmured, her voice honey-like and soothing. Her fingers traced the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of the evidence of your sorrow. "You took your punishment so well.”

Every alert in your rational mind that would scream at you to stay away was turned off. You knew it when you found yourself melting into her touch, craving the comfort she offered. And she looked down at you with adoration when she found nothing but submission in your eyes, as she cradled your face between her palms.

"Such a good girl for me now, isn't that right?" She whispered, and the praise… the praise had your earlier fear dissolving under her careful ministrations. "This is all I wanted from you, darling, just to see you truly present, truly here with me."

She drew you closer, letting you rest your forehead against her shoulder as her fingers threaded through your hair. The scent of chapel incense and that hint of cigarettes enveloped you, and you found yourself breathing it in deeply, letting it ground you.

“This is what happens when you let yourself be guided, when you submit to proper instruction," her lips brushed your earshell as she spoke. "Will you be good for me from now on?"

You nodded against her shoulder, unable and unwilling to resist the tempting implication she made. If you behaved, you would have more of these precious moments.

And this alone gave you more purpose than anything else since you arrived to the monastery.

You became aware of it in the same way a candle becomes aware of fire, at first, just a taste of heat, then a flame that tangles in the wax until it consumes it all.

You became an active participant in her lessons, a constant presence who made sure to be seen, to be noticed. You knew Sister Wanda liked your enthusiasm, but it wasn't just her approval you sought. You wanted her recognition.

And so, when you weren't taking her lessons, you were reading, studying, making sure your application made you stand out among the other Aspirants. All so that you would be her favorite girl.

She usually saw you reading under one of the garden's trees. You had chosen the one that was the closest to the hall, she noticed. She couldn't miss it if she was walking out of her office. It was adorable.

If she had time, she would stop by your side, looking at the book in your hands. She would take the tome gently, making sure that her slender fingers brushed yours, even if for a second, and her arm subsequently found its around you in an almost unconscious, protective manner.

"Do you have any questions?" She would inquire. And even though you didn't, unsurprisingly so, you pretended to need clarification, any excuse to let her closeness linger a few seconds longer, not ready to be apart from her yet.

It had taken hold of you. The need of her touch.

Before, reading and prayer were mere obligations, automatic routines that you did just because you had to. Now, they had become rituals charged with intention, directed towards something greater. Her.

If you prayed fervently, if you participated enthusiastically, if you were everything she expected of you, rest assured she would seek you out every time, just to remind you that you did not go unnoticed by her.

"It was so good," she purred, her hand sliding over your lower back.

And, of course, she noticed your every gesture. Every held breath, every tiny tilt of your body in her direction.

She had conditioned other students to obey her in the same way, but they did not respond to her touch as you did that day after she bent you over the desk. Not only did you not flinch, you melted.

They obeyed for fear of being punished again. But, it seemed you had even forgotten all about it.

You didn't look at her with terror. You looked at her with longing.

Sure, it was normal to look for approval. That's all it was. A conditioned reflex, a survival instinct. To make sure you didn't get any more punishment.

But you... you weren't just looking for her approval.

You were looking for her.

And she didn't know which was worse, the reverse effect it had inadvertently caused in you, or the one it was causing in her.

She should have stopped when she had the chance, when she noticed that her threatening attempts to impose fear, meaning by grabbing your face, squeezing your shoulder or resting her hand on your back, for you were, in reality, caresses. Caresses that you evidently lacked throughout your life.

"One way or another, you're going to love me for it," she had established, but the another way was not the one she usually applied, the one she used to know so well.

The admiration of others fed her ego, and gave her that sense of power and control to which she had long ago become addicted. But you had made that seem insignificant compared to what you provided her.

She was fully aware that you didn't want to be like her. Hell, she knew exactly why you joined the congregation.

It was something far more significant than the admiration she had initially tried to kindle within you.

It was submission.

And therefore every slightest caress became a bottomless pit for her, for both of you. And both, without fear, fell.

It was everything you were looking for.

So much so that, when Natasha touched your window, you felt nothing. And you had reached the point of believing that there was no point in continuing to do something that no longer had any meaning for you.

So, as she was about to climb in, you stopped her.

"I'm reading," you said without looking up from the book in your hands, signaling to her that you weren't going to move from there.

Natasha paused for a second, just long enough for doubt to seep into her expression before pulling herself together.

"I can see that. Good for you.”

And still, she walked in. She did so as confidently as she always did, expecting no more permission than she believed belonged to her.

"I can't do this anymore," you stated, firm this time.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, somewhere between mockery and skepticism. She swept her gaze over you, that quick, almost bored assessment. Then, she chuckled.

"What?" She asked in mock disbelief. "Are you going to tell me that you received a calling from the Lord to give yourself to him? Is this what it is? Are you going to practice chastity?”

You denied quickly.

"No, don't be ridiculous.”

It wasn't faith, not in the way she implied. It was devotion, but to someone who was there, who did respond. There was something greater than mindless pleasure, something more real than the filling of your needy hole. You had found someone to exist for, someone who saw beyond the fleeting instant and looked at you, not just what she could take from you.

She tilted her head, with the same expression of one who already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it anyway.

"You met someone else," she asserted.

"No..." it was an instinctive reflex that, upon reaching your tongue, lost its form, dissolving into something uncertain. "Maybe. I don't know."

Had you, really? Wanda hadn't touched you in that way, the way Natasha did, urgently, hungrily. And yet what she did to you had been more than anything you'd ever felt. Her fingers glided over your skin with a lightness that didn't demand, that didn't take. There was something in the way she looked at you, not with possession, but with recognition. As if you were someone, not something.

You didn't know if it was equal, but it was better. Much better.

There was a second of silence. Then Natasha let out a dry laugh.

"Well, I'd be damned," she muttered with a half-smile, not taking her eyes off you. "Just... think about her if you want. I had a long day.”

And you agreed. It was the only way to know if this bordered on a level of attraction that was new to you.

When Natasha fucked you, you closed your eyes, and you imagined those pink lips, those big emerald green eyes, that unseen body hiding under that habit.

No. Not like this.

If you were doing this with Wanda, she'd be stroking your hair. She'd kiss your cheeks. She'd make sure you felt how much she appreciated having your presence beneath her, pleasing her. Overall, she'd make sure you were enjoying yourself too.

Because you were somebody.

You opened your eyes, and you pulled Natasha's hand away from your mouth, with a movement that was not abrupt, but definite.

"Caress me," you commanded.

Natasha frowned.

"You're insane," she panted between thrusts. You didn't blame her for saying it. Maybe you were.

"Do it," you insisted, with the certainty of one who has made a decision with no turning back. "Or this will be the last time.”

She rolled her eyes impatiently. But she agreed. Without love, without affection, with a mechanical manner that barely mimicked what you had asked.

"No, this isn't working," you growled, nudging her gently. You didn't want to make her feel like this was her fault, it really wasn't. You simply began to crave for something she was no longer capable of giving you.

"I agree, let me do my thing," she replied, slamming deeper inside you to reassert her dominance. You knew she knew what you were referring to, the fact that her flings during the night were no longer working for you. But she wasn't going to admit it, because she wanted to keep using you, seeing you.

And no, you had a say in this.

"Natasha, I don't want you anymore!" You exclaimed, perhaps louder than you should have in the middle of the night when everyone was supposed to be asleep.

She pulled back, just enough to glance in your direction, as if to silently confirm the truth of your words. Within the depths of your eyes, she found the answer. Therefore she stepped back with deliberate nonchalance and adjusted her pants, maintaining her composure in the shifting tide of the moment.

You thought she was going to refute, as it seemed very important to her to leave her house, to risk being found just to 'take out her frustrations on you'. She could have looked for anyone, but she wanted you. And perhaps the reason would remain a mystery.

"Call me when that cheesiness wears off," she stated matter-of-factly, and retreated from your room through the window.

And with that, you thought you were off the hook.

You thought.

You were under your tree, your now shelter, when you saw Wanda come out of her office. Her footsteps echoed on the floor, quick and heavy, so different from her usual gait. She was furious, you knew.

You didn't alert yourself, you thought it wasn't about you, that if you were doing what she expected from you, without fail, why would she be angry?

But then, instead of taking the path to the hallway, as she always did, she walkes you. Her eyes showed no gentleness. There was no tenderness in her face. But what had happened? Everything seemed to be in order. Why... this?

In one sudden movement, she bent down and, with a violence that made you lose your breath, she lifted you up suddenly, pulling your hair towards her, forcing you to stumble, to stagger, all the way to her office. She didn't care about your whines, and, your desperate pleas to explain what was happening.

And once inside, the door closed with a clang that chilled your blood, and proceeded to bend you over the desk by slamming the side of your face against it. There were no orders. There were no requests. There was no room for choice.

No explanation, not a single word spoken, like you didn't deserve any of that. It couldn't be real. Not again. Not like this. She was treating you... badly. And you didn't know why, or what you had done wrong.

"I took you for so many things," she began, and the sound of the closet doors where she kept her canes chilled your skin just like the last time. "Insolent, disdainful, opportunist... and I thought I'd fixed you."

You choked, your throat closed up with unshed tears. You didn't understand. You couldn't understand.

The prospect of getting caned didn't even occupy your mind at that moment. It was the torture of knowing that you let her down, that everything you had done, all your effort, had been in vain, that consumed you to the core.

"Y-you did!" you cried, trying to cling to some hope, some justification, looking for some way to explain what you didn’t even know you did. "I've done everything you asked, and more! I don't understand!"

The way she dismissed your words with a curt hum, and proceeded to lift your tunic, was a silent communication that everything you did for her wasn't enough to forgive nor forget what she was about to punish you for.

"Yes," she said, caressing your bare cheeks, which still held the memories of your first punishment. "Except for the fact that you're a filthy slut, fucking a criminal every night in your room."

Your skin bristled at her accusation. She felt it under her fingertips, and that made her more relentless. There was no point in applying those impeccable lying techniques that had brought you to this point, if ultimately, your body was at her mercy, and it did not lie.

"Who told you?" you could barely articulate. How could anyone ever dare to touch something so sacred to you?

"No one!" She exclaimed.

It had been one of your fellow Aspirants. She was heading to the bathroom that night, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, when she heard the hushed moans and accelerated breaths through your door.

And when she heard your apparent fling was about to slip out of your window, she followed.

She didn’t go far, just enough to reach Natasha out, grip her shoulder, and turn her around to reveal her identity. That cost her a broken nose. However, it was worth it. So worth it.

Because she hated you, everyone hated you. Why were you Wanda's favorite? You hated her lessons, you were rude to her, and when you started doing what everyone did, you got praised for it?

She was supposed to belong to all of them! Equally. So if she had to sabotage your relationship to take back what was theirs, then so be it.

First thing in the morning, she told Wanda everything.

"I don't understand you, (Y/N)!" She continued, whipping you three times in a row, the contact coursing through your entire body. You could have sworn you felt an electric current run from your head to your feet. And worse than the first time. Much worse. Oh, compared to what you felt now, those moments seemed like paradise. "Here, you have it all!"

Wanda's jealousy, the shadows of her anger, made her apply way more force than she intended to. And from your end, the realization that you had failed the one person who had ever made you feel you were worth anything, who had made you believe you weren't invisible, made you the perfect recipient for her fury.

You were vulnerable, not resistant, for you defeatedly accepted this as just a little bit of the hell you deserved for having disappointed Wanda. Your Wanda.

"You got everything you wanted," she continued. "Everything you wanted in exchange for being my good girl. And isn't that enough? You had to look outside for what you could have here, with me?"

Before you could apologize, or beg for mercy, you felt the touch of her face against the fabric of your panties, where she inhaled deeply.

"I should have known my baby girl wanted to be fucked, hm?" She commented, more softly than before. The scent of your involuntary arousal soothed her unlike any other. "My bad.”

“I… I'm so… I'm so stupid,” you whimpered, your words laced with embarrasment. Your tears had already formed a small, glistening puddle on the surface of her desk, reflecting the dim candlelight.

"Shhh, nothing to be ashamed of," she whispered in your ear. Her body pressed against your back with almost reverent care, as though she wanted to hold you rather than crush you. After all, you were someone fragile, someone precious that deserved protection from the claws of the outside world. "Oh, my darling," she cooed, with a gentleness so sincere that it made you forget, if only for an instant, the trust that had been broken. "No more tears," she commanded softly.

She stuck out her tongue and slid it tenderly over your cheek, gathering the salty trace of your regret.

She extended her tongue, moving it with deliberate tenderness across your tear-stained cheek, collecting each salty droplet that marked your sorrow.

The warm, wet sensation of her tongue against your skin, the taste of your regret, provoked her to elicit a deep, satisfied moan that resonated through her whole body and into yours.

It shouldn't have felt like salvation, but it did. And naturally, you yearned for more, as you did with form of contact that she could offer you.

And, with the same quiet desperation of a sinner seeking absolution, you turned your head, parted your lips, and let the tip of your tongue meet hers. She stilled for a moment, just a moment, before answering you kindly. A gentle meeting of tongues, tentative at first, but then so natural and carefree. Like you had done this a thousand times before. In a previous lifetime, perhaps.

The kiss deepened, her tongue exploring yours with the same careful attention she gave to every aspect of your being. Her mouth moved against yours with a rhythm that spoke of ownership, of belonging, each sweep of her tongue claiming territory that had always been rightfully hers. Not anyone else’s.

The taste of her, sharp and sweet like consecrated wine, filled your senses until there was nothing else. No past mistakes, no future uncertainties, just the perfect present of her mouth commanding yours.

Your heart thundered against her desk, no longer from fear but from the raw intensity of being truly seen, truly possessed. Each sigh you drew was heavy with the innate air of submission you emanated, sweeter than any prayer you'd ever offered. And she inhaled it blissfully.

"Out there, they only know how to take from you," she whispered against your lips. "But here, my precious girl, I'll make sure you get everything you need. No need to look outside ever again."

“Yes,” was the only thing you needed to say, and it was the only thing she needed to hear.

She left a kiss on your cheek, both as a thankful gesture and as a silent assurance before she knelt to the level of her desk where you were still bent over, now in front of her.

You felt her warm breath clash against the sensitive skin between your legs as she pushed your underwear to the side.

She trailed her tongue against your folds, making you gasp at the sudden foreign intrusion. No one has ever tasted you before. Natasha thought it was too intimate.

But screw Natasha. There you had everything you’d ever needed.

Her eyes widened in awe. She had just discovered a flavor so intoxicating, so essential, that she couldn’t imagine life before tasting it. And the last ounce of self-control vanished as she lunged forward, devouring your pussy with the desperation of a starved creature finally set free.

She wanted you to interiorize with every fiber of your being that this was where you belonged, under her ministrations, receiving the divine attention only she could provide.

It was overwhelming, not just physically, but emotionally. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes shut tight and your head struggled to process the intensity of it all.

"Oh, Wanda!" You whimpered, your voice thick with need for more. Always needed more of her, didn't you? The words barely made it past your lips before dissolving into desperate gasps.

It was all too much. The cool surface of the desk against your heated skin, the warmth of her mouth claiming you so intimately, the sting from your punishment mixing with rising pleasure until you couldn't distinguish between the two.

"Tell me where do you belong," she demanded, pulling back just so she could speak. The sudden absence of her tongue made you whine pathetically. You felt hollow inside.

"With you, only with you!" You vowed, proudly. "I've always been yours."

Your admission seemed to ignite something animalistic in her. She growled against your flesh, the vibrations making your thighs tremble.

Your hands fisted helplessly against the polished wood, seeking grounding as your body threatened to collapse under the assault of her mouth.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only her mouth working you with devastating precision, only the building pressure deep in your core that threatened to tear you apart. Your consciousness narrowed to a singular point of pure feeling.

"Give it to me, my sweet girl," she murmured, her words muffled against your flesh.

Your body responded to her command before your mind could process it. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, manifesting itself through your release, and she swallowed every drop of it. She wasn't going to stop until she made sure to dry you out.

Your vision blurred, spots of light dancing behind your closed eyelids as you succumbed completely to her dominance, that didn't seem to cease despite your surrender.

"Oh, p-please..." you gasped, though you weren't sure what you were begging for, to stop or to continue.

Regardless, she didn't stop, didn't even slow down. If anything, your pleas spurred her on, her tongue moving with renewed vigor as she worked you through your release. Your legs shook violently, and if not for her firm grip on your hips, you would have fell down like a ragdoll.

"Mine," she established, finally pulling back to admire her work. Your swollen, pink pussy throbbing with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

A rustle of fabric caught your attention, followed by the cool touch of silicone against your worn out hole. She leaned over you, pressing soft kisses along your spine as she aligned herself.

"My precious girl," she whispered, intertwining her fingers with yours on the desk. You turned your head to meet her gaze, overwhelmed by the tenderness in her eyes.

She pressed forward slowly, letting you adjust to the feeling of being filled. Her other hand caressed your cheek lovingly, wiping away the remnants of your tears. You leaned into her touch, turning to kiss her palm.

"Please, I want you," you breathed, squeezing her hand. "Only you, always you."

She began to move with gentle, measured thrusts, each one accompanied by sweet words of praise and affection.

She leaned down to press her lips against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The new angle made you gasp into her mouth as she hit a particularly sensitive, spongy spot inside you.

"There, my love," she encouraged, maintaining the steady rhythm that was slowly building you towards another peak. "You're doing so good. Always making me so proud."

Her thrusts became more purposeful, but never lost their tenderness. One hand remained firmly clasped with yours while the other wrapped around your waist, holding you close as she fucked you thoroughly.

Your breath hitched as she increased her pace, each thrust now hitting deeper inside you. Her lips found yours again, swallowing your moans as she drove you closer to the edge. The feeling of fullness, of being completely possessed by her, was overwhelming.

Wanda's embrace tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against her body as she continued her relentless rhythm. She delivered sloppy pecks on your lips, gentle brushes against your cheeks, tender touches along your jawline. Despite her agitated breathing, not for a second did she halt her worshipping.

"Let go for me," she whispered against your ear, her accent slipping out.

Her order, combined with the perfect angle of her thrusts, sent you spiraling into another intense orgasm. Your walls clenched around her as waves of pleasure coursed through your body. She held you through it all, her arms secure around your waist, her lips pressing sweet kisses to your temple.

"Good job," she cooed, slowly bringing you down from your high. "You're perfect, absolutely perfect."

As your breathing steadied, she carefully withdrew, turning you in her arms to face her. Her eyes were full of adoration as she cupped your face, thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. She pressed her forehead against yours, sharing the same breath, the same space, the same devotion.

"No more fucking that girl, understood?" she asked. It was clear you were never going to let Natasha lay a hand on you again, not after this. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear you say it.

"No, never again," you assured her. "I know now, I shouldn't look outside what only you can provide for me.”

Your thumbs gently ran over the once smooth skin of your beloved, now stained by a few scrapes and bruises to which she gave very little importance.

The woman before you was immune to any stimuli, except your caresses, or you as a whole, for that matter. It was obvious from the way she sighed and closed her eyes as soon as you had placed your hands on her cheeks.

After each life-risking mission, the only thing she needed was to feel your touch, and she wouldn't let some silly superficial wounds to deprive her of this delight.

"Oh, baby," you cooed, tracing a path with your hands from her cheeks to her ears, ending at her red hair. It was tangled, and you could even feel the powdery texture of dirt within. "Would you like me to run you a hot bath? Or would you prefer me to bring the first aid kit? Or would you rather rest?"

"Don't 'baby' me," Natasha grumbled, pulling you closer and wrapping her hands around your waist. "I'm not fragile, I don't need to rest," her tone indicating irritation, as if it was an insult that you simply offered to give her the care she deserved after such hard work. “I just want you, okay?” She added lowly.

You hummed disapprovingly, scratching her scalp in circles to soothe her usual high-defense demeanor. She rolled her eyes slightly, and threw her head back so your hands could continue to run through her scarlet locks.

"You're like a kitten," you commented with a chuckle. "A kitten that needs a bath, a massage, and a good night's sleep."

"I don't need any of that, you know I've had worse," she protested, stubbornness shining through. And it's true, Natasha's been through worse. Much, much worse. "What I need is to get you out of these clothes in the next five minutes...—" she stated, her lips moving to kiss your neck as her hands gripped your hips, pushing you tighter against her.

"Whatever makes my love feel better," you agreed, and it was your turn to tilt your head back to give her more access to that area, to let her slowly give in to the intoxicating need for more of you.

Natasha had given you a fair share of small heart attacks whenever she returned unexpectedly from missions at the most ungodly, unpredictable hours known to human kind. The first time, you had given her a bruise on her torso when you felt an extra weight on your shared bed, thinking someone had broken in.

It took some time for you to become accustomed to the fact that an additional weight no longer signified danger, but it rather indicated the return of your partner from another successful mission.

"I want to touch you," she pleaded, mewled against your ear.

"Well, nothing's stopping you," you whispered, your voice full of desire.

"Damn right!"

One of the things that characterized your relationship with the redhead was her ability to elicit a strong physical response from you, regardless of whether you had been sleeping, or had experienced a rough day, she just had to say the word, and that was sufficient to prompt a readiness on your part to comply.

Natasha's hands exerted pressure on your shoulders, guiding your back against the matress. She observed your body from an arm's distance, her eyes tracing the outline of your skin.

"You have no fucking idea how badly I've longed for this," she murmured.

Her lips captured yours for the first time in three weeks, her tongue exploring your mouth passionately. Said kiss was deep and hungry, chanelling all the longing that had built up during her absence. Her hands desperately traced the contours of your skin beneath your shirt, roaming up and down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

As the kiss intensified, Natasha nibbled at your bottom lip, pulling it gently between her teeth before releasing it with a soft pop, proceeding to begin a journey southward, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paused at your pulse point, sucking the sensitive spot, and in consequence, eliciting a soft moan from you.

Her hands, meanwhile, had found their way to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it upwards. As more of your skin was exposed, the redhead's kisses followed, intending to cover every inch of your upper body with her touch.

She paused for a moment, looking up at you with a brief vulnerability.

"I've missed this," she whispered, her voice raspy with need. "And I've missed you."

With a gentle but quick maneuver, Natasha gently turned you onto your stomach, her hands caressing your back as she did so. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs.

When the fabric pooled at your ankles, her hands returned to your hips. She leaned down, pressing a trail of kisses along your exposed skin, from the small of your back up to your shoulder blades.

"You're beautiful," she murmured against your skin, her breath warm and even comforting in comparison to the already present winter. "So perfect,” she added, as she lifted your hips to position you on all fours.

Natasha sat back on her heels, her eyes never daring to leave your ready body as she slowly began to undress. She started with her sweatshirt, pulling it off to reveal her toned abdomen and the simple black bra underneath. Her fingers then moved to the clasp behind, unhooking it with ease as the garment fell down.

Subsequently, she stood up, taking out of her pants, letting them pool at her feet before stepping out of them. Her underwear followed, sliding down her toned legs to join the rest of her discarded clothing on the floor.

Now fully naked, Natasha stood before you, her soft skin adorned with a few bruises and scratches. Perhaps it was wrong to admire the marks of such physical exertions such as her soul-draining missions, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way she wore those bruises with pride.

She allowed you a moment to appreciate the sight of her, a small smirk playing on her lips at the obvious hunger you displayed shamelessly.

She then reached for a strap-on dildo from the bedside drawer, and fastened it around her hips, your all-time favorite black silicone perking up and adding to her already alluring form. And so, like a lioness eyeing her prey, she positioned herself behind you.

She started slowly, easing the toy into your hole with gentle, shallow thrusts. Your body welcomed the intrusion, already primed and prepared due to her earlier teasing.

Her hands then gripped your hips firmly as she began to thrust with more force, each movement driving the toy deeper. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

"Mine, mine, mine," she remarked accompanied by each thrust, making you cry out in response.

They became deeper, more forceful, each movement causing waves of pleasure to drown you more and more, threatening to leave you breathless and defeated. The only sound present in the room was that rhythmic, familiar one of skin meeting skin.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" You cried out, followed by high-pitched gasps.

Your eyes were shut tight, your hands gripping the bedsheets with such force your knuckles turned white, anchoring you to reality.

Your back arched involuntarily, pushing you further onto Natasha, seeking more, always more. The clenching on your walls, and the tension on your core built to an almost unbearable level, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Hers, hers, hers. Utterly and completely hers. With each thrust, each caress, each burning kiss, she once again branded you as her own.

“Nat! M’ gonna…” You weren't able to finish the sentence, for your body went rigid, as the pleasure of release overcame you.

Nevertheless, her hips continued to move, albeit slower and gentler as she helped you ride out your orgasm.

Her lips found the sensitive skin of your back, trailing soft kisses along your spine. This moment, this connection with you, was what she had craved during every lonely night on during her mission.

The feeling of your skin against hers, tte sound of your voice, your addictive scent that was uniquely you, it all reminded her of why she fought so hard to come back home in the first place.

As the aftershocks subsided, you collapsed onto your back, and Natasha took the opportunity to snuggle against you, the last bit of energy gone.

She had the presence of mind to be slightly embarrassed by how quickly and intensely you'd managed to affect her, excessively so, if she was being honest. But she was too drained, too satisfied to care much about it.

"Feeling better, baby?" You asked, your voice soft and filled with affection. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on her back, soothing and filled with tenderness.

Instead of a verbal response, Natasha managed a weak nod against your skin.

Her hands moved languidly, cupping your breasts in a delicate manner that contrasted with her earlier fervor. She let out a contented sigh as she settled her face more firmly between them, nuzzling against your soft skin. She could perfectly fall asleep right there and then, all spent and completely at peace.

It was a big step, considering that you failed to enjoy every time you explored yourself with your fingers alone. As much as you tried to play music, lie down, and imagine exciting scenes, you ended up frustrated because it wasn't enough. So you opted to buy a little help. Maybe this way you would be able to explore your tastes and to please yourself properly.

Your best friend, Wanda, had recommended an online site. It had all kinds of artefacts, many of which you didn't know existed, or considered too potent a level for a newbie like you. So you went with the safest option; a simple ten centimeter vibrator, with three levels of intensity.

And nothing...

You felt the tingle of the vibration inside you, but nothing built up. It was just a pleasurable sensation that led to nothing.

You had sent a message to Wanda, telling her that you had already received it, and just when you turned off the toy and put it aside, your phone notified a message from the redhead, where she asked you to tell her about your experience.

"It's useless, Wanda!" You answered, such a simple message but all your frustration could be transmitted in this one.

"What do you mean it's useless?" She replied.

"Maybe I'm anorgasmic or something, because I can't finish. I didn't feel it helped me."

You were perplexed when your phone screen displayed her name, indicating that you were receiving a call. This was unusual of her, but you didn't hesitate to answer.

"Honey," she let out a giggle, as soon as you picked up. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Well, when I feel needy, no matter how much I stimulate myself, I don't orgasm. Not even with the toy. It's horrible," you answered honestly.

These kind of talks were frequent between you, and that was something you loved about your friendship. No judgments, no prejudice, much less in the face of topics that, at the end of the day, were completely normal.

"Yeah, but what did you do with the vibrator?" She inquired.

"Well, I put it inside, the usual," you replied matter-of-factly. You didn't understand why other girls did get to feel something when they had something in there, and you didn't. Why you were more complex about everything?

"Just like that?" She exclaimed, and at your confirmation, she let out another laugh. "No, darling, you have to tease yourself, make yourself desperate for your own touch."

"And how do I even do that?" you asked curiously, but also with a hint of relief. She seemed to have the solution to your problem.

"It's complicated, do you want to try it now? I'll guide you through every step," she proposed.

The thought of hearing her voice guiding you, that she would be listening to you as you pleasured yourself, made the anticipation take over, again initiating that feeling that was begging to be satisfied.

When you thought of Wanda, or when you spent many hours together with her, that feeling came no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. It was no surprise when you realized that this was not something usual and that you definitely felt attraction towards her.

But you didn't want to ruin the friendship you treasured so much.

"No, that would be weird," you replied, feigning aversion to such a thing, when really, that was all you needed.

"Oh, come on!" Wanda exclaimed. "It wouldn't. I'd be helping you get to know yourself, please yourself. I won't even see you."

You sighed softly in resignation. She was right, maybe a lot of friends have given each other advice like that.

"Okay, fine," you agreed. "What do I do?"

Wanda was glad you couldn't see her smile of victory when you agreed, or else, she would've also given herself away.

"First, spread your legs, and place the tip of the vibrator on your clit," she instructed you.

You did as she asked, and no sooner had you pressed, when you felt an electric current run through your body in a matter of a fraction of a second.

"Oh, shit!" You exclaimed, withdrawing it as if by reflex.

"What do you feel?" She inquired curiously. She was aware such a cute little thing like you wouldn't be able to take it first time. But that was what she was there for.

"Weird, like a swift current!"

"Exactly! Please try to place it again, and little by little, apply pressure," she replied. "At your pace, there is no rush, darling," she purred, making your core throb in desperation at her raspy voice calling you that pet name.

Again, you did as she asked.

The intense vibration made all the nerve endings in that area react deliciously to the stimulus, and again, it sent that current through your body.

You let out a little murmur of pleasure, feeling yourself lose control over your body. Your back arched, your eyes closed, and your free hand fisted your sheets in an attempt to keep you grounded and resistant.

"Good girl, apply more pressure for me," Wanda added, noting from your murmurs that you were becoming familiar with the sensation.

Applying a little more pressure caused you to emanate your first moan since forever. That snapped you out of your trance briefly, and you realized you moaned with your friend on the other end of the phone.

"I'm sorry," you apologized, beginning to feel your cheeks heat up.

"None of that," she countered. "Don't hold back, let me hear you."

In a matter of minutes, you alone learned to listen to your body. You explored different areas and found your most sensitive spots. You were so focused on not leaving a single inch untouched, that you even forgot that Wanda was listening to the mess of moans, whimpers, and murmurs of her name that you were letting out.

"Mmm, Wanda!" They became more audible tones, signaling that you were close. There was too much to process, but Wanda decided to quiet her thoughts and allow herself to be delighted by the wonderful sounds you were making.

Hearing you cum for the first time was the most beautiful of all, by far.

A scream of pleasure too desperate, even animalistic, for your own good. Your so innocent set could not withstand that longing finally reaching its highest exponent, after so much stagnation. She was even surprised your little lungs allowed you to scream like that.

Wanda provoked all that in you, without having touched you... yet. But she made up her mind that it would change.

It all started when a thief had taken your handpurse from you and ran away quickly.

You barely felt it being snatched from you, and as you turned around, you realized that the thief was already at a considerable distance, so you opted to simply mutter a curse under your breath and continue on your way.

The thief was going to be disappointed when he sees its contents anyway, and you weren't going to run in heels for lipstick, a crumpled five dollar bill and your student ID.

Although it wasn't a particularly shocking event, your mother, with her tendency toward overprotectiveness, was convinced that this event had irreversibly scarred you. As a result, she decided to ask her best friend, Natasha Romanoff, to teach you self-defense classes.

From the beginning, you made clear your disinterest in attending. You arrived intentionally late for every session, and at the redhead's scoldings, you would simply roll your eyes and dismiss her words with disdain. During training, you often interrupted her instructions with snide remarks, and refused to follow her directions, preferring to improvise moves that lacked technique. There was something magnetic in her determination and in the way her green eyes flashed with frustration that made you purposefully act even more insufferable than usual. You loved to see it.

During lessons, there were times when she would restrain you from behind so that you would repeat the technique she had taught you, and you could feel a bulge in her pants rubbing against your ass. It was such a yearning feeling, that you would pretend to do it all wrong, so that she would make you repeat it, and in that way, prolong the contact.

"Your mom just wants to protect you, you know?" Natasha remarked, once another not-so-successful session was over.

You were so exhausted, you preferred to sit on the floor with your legs crossed rather than even get up to help Natasha put the equipment away.

"Come on," you scoffed from your spot. "The thief barely touched me. He just took my handpurse and left."

"Fortunately," Natasha replied. "Imagine if he'd had a knife, or worse, a gun. Imagine if you had been alone, at night."

She took your silence as if you didn't really care to understand your mother's point of view, but in reality, you were reflecting. She just wanted you to know how to take care of yourself, in case something worse than that happened. And Natasha had been so nice and patient to you.

But before you could respond, she spoke up, "What am I bothering to convince you for? You probably are so selfish, that you'd let someone stab you just to worry your poor mother."

You weren't sure if her words had hurt or offended you, as perhaps you had taken your attitude to such an extreme that you had actually caused her to have a twisted perception of you. It was true that you possessed certain difficult qualities, but you were not evil. Sometimes you simply felt that your mother's overprotection was excessive, and that made you more irritable than usual.

What you said next was the result of not having slept at all the night before, for you had been studying intensely for an exam. Despite all the sleeplessness, you didn't manage to answer it as you expected, leaving many questions blank. All that you had accumulated, added to her hurtful words, led you to say the following...

"And you probably have a tiny dick," you snapped. "And maybe that's why you're bitter and miserable, because no one wants you."

Natasha was silent for a moment, too peacefully that it was scary, but her intense, darkened eyes were the only thing that allowed you to realize that she was indeed impacted by your words.

"Dare to say that again?" She challenged you, the tension in the atmosphere becoming more palpable every second.

"No one wants a woman with a small dick," you crossed your arms over your chest, arching your eyebrow in that defiant manner she was already more than sick of.

Natasha began to laugh, but it wasn't the sarcastic kind of laugh, no, it was one that was beginning to terrify you and hindering your ability to maintain your composure.

Natasha approached you with firm steps, her commanding presence filling the space between you both. She was so close that you could watch her green orbes, deep and piercing, burning with such intensity that you felt that at any moment, she was going to set the whole room on fire.

She simply pulled down her pants and boxers at the same time, at the level of her thighs, and seeing the massive size of her member, made you swallow your words.

"Is this a small dick for you?" She asked, seemingly satisfied at your shocked expression.

And as if the situation wasn't humiliating enough, Natasha used a quick and precise maneuver, where she grabbed your shoulders and, in an instant, had you face down on the floor, making you groan in discomfort. She proceeded to restrain your wrists against the small of your back, and by straddling the back of your legs, she prevented any movement from them as well.

"Come on, defend yourself like I taught you," she groaned, pressing you harder against the cold floor.

You tried to free yourself from her grip, but every move you made only brought you more pain, because Natasha, with her keen perception, detected every attempt to escape and prevented it with ease, adjusting her grip to make you feel even more trapped.

The whimpers you emanated were so delightful to her ears, making her cock grow more erect. She didn't know who was suffering the most, whether she for not filling your bratty hole right there, or you, who were being physically and verbally degraded.

"That's what I thought," she chuckled, grabbing the shaft of her cock and smacking it softly against your covered ass.

With one hand, albeit clumsily, she managed to pull down your pants and panties just like she did a few moments ago, and released your wrists so that, with her two hands, she held your waist and positioned you on all fours so firmly that you felt as if you had no control over your own body.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you pretend to be dumber than you are, just to feel my cock against you," she remarked. Obviously, she was able to understand the workings of incredibly complex, criminal and dangerous minds, how could she not detect yours? A clueless, spoiled, college student. "You probably said that just so you could see it, hm? So desperate for Daddy's cock."

But it was very double standards on her part, calling you desperate when she always ended up in the training facility bathrooms after you left, grunting your name between longing gasps as she pleasured herself.

She ran the tip over your awaiting hole, but as she noticed how it contracted in anticipation, almost imploring to be filled, the last ounce of reason left her body, letting her full length inside you. And better than she had imagined, your warm, wet pussy welcomed her deliciously.

In unison, you let out a prolongued moan of pleasure, both of you mitigating that unspoken desire that had become so unbearable.

Her movements began slow and safe, intending to feel for as long as possible how tight you felt around her, and to hear those low moans you vocalized every time she entered and exited you, complemented by the sloshing sound your hole made in consequence.

But that same action was what provoked her breath to quicken, and along with it, her rythm. Her hips were working overtime to match her cock's desperate needs, but it was impossible when said needs increased every passing second with the way you were whimpering, now high pitched and more frequent.

"Can a small dick fill your hole this good, hm?" She groaned, tilting her head back as she felt her climax approaching.

"No! No!" You cried out, and just like her, you could feel it coming. Your head was growing fuzzy for the pleasure altering every fiber of your being, like the most powerful drug ever made. "I'm sorry, Daddy! I lied! I love your big, fat cock! Please!"

She swore to herself that she was going to be strong and proud enough to stop when you admitted it, having already achieved her goal, but your words made her cum involuntarily erupt inside of you.

That sensation of being completely filled with her seed made your orgasm follow hers a little later, yours and her release leaving her cock shiny and dripping with your mixed juices.

Natasha was aware that even the most intense masturbation would not match how wonderfully your pussy embraced her cock, and how mesmerizing was the sight of your ass bouncing whenever your bodies clashed together.

Imagination was not going to overcome reality, in this case.