#adele writes

You’re both half-draped on the couch, leftover takeout boxes between you, some indie film playing quietly in the background, the kind that’s more vibes than plot.

Natasha leans her head back on the cushion, lazily glancing your way. "You're staring," she says.

You scoff, "I’m not."

"Mmhmm," she shifts, her knee bumping yours. "So it’s just your eyes naturally drifting in my direction at every possible opportunity?"

Your voice is quieter than you mean it to be, "maybe you’re the one sitting in my line of sight."

She grins, "maybe I just like being in it."

You look down at your hands, your hoodie sleeves pushed over your knuckles, "you’re annoying."

"And yet-" Natasha nudges your sock-covered foot with hers once again, "-you keep inviting me to your part of the couch.”

You don’t answer. Not immediately. Your cheeks are warm and you’re too aware of how her presence is making you feel. "I don’t remember inviting you to my part of the couch," you murmur.

"Oh," she hums, tilting her head, red hair falling over her shoulder. "So this is not your part of the couch? Interesting."

"Don’t start."

"Too late." She grins. "I claim diplomatic immunity as your roommate."

"You’re not diplomatic."

"I am after two beers." She lifts her half-empty bottle. "Which you opened for me, by the way. So caring."

You mutter, "I was being polite."

"Polite and gentle." She taps the rim of her bottle against yours. "Chivalrous, even. Be still, my heart."

You roll your eyes, "you’re insufferable."

"But cute," she adds, shifting closer to you.

You hesitate for a second, "yeah. You are."

She goes quiet.

Then, "say that again."

"What?"

"That I’m cute." Her eyes are bigger.

You blink at her, "no."

"Why not?" She grins slowly, "afraid I’ll take it too far?"

You look back at the screen, trying to act casual even though your pulse is sprinting. "You always do," you say softly.

Natasha shifts again, her voice quieter. Even closer, putting away the take-out. "You never stop me."

You dare and glance at her. Her arm’s stretched along the back of the couch now, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"I know," you say. "That’s the problem."

The air between you changes. Grows still.

Her smile slips a little, turns softer. "You know I’d never mess this up, right? Us."

"I know," you whisper, heart in your throat.

"You’re not just some… fun person to flirt with." Her fingers touch your sleeve lightly. "You’re my favorite person."

You swallow, "you’re drunk."

Natasha smirks softly. "They say… sober thoughts are drunk words. Or the other way around. Whatever. You know what I mean."

You do. Too well.

But neither of you says anything more. She doesn’t press. You don’t pull away. You sit there, still touching at the edges, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, while the movie flickers on, long forgotten. It’s not the silence that’s loud. It’s the awareness. The unspoken things between the two of you.

And you don’t sleep much that night.

The Next Morning you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, one of Natasha’s hoodies hanging loosely over your frame, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing just below your thighs. The place still smells like popcorn and whatever candle she lit last night.

You’re trying to focus on making eggs.

Trying not to focus on her.

But she sneaks up behind you anyway. She always does.

Her arms wrap around your waist, her head resting briefly on your shoulder. She’s warm. Always warm. Sleepy and barely awake, in a tank top and joggers, with one arm lazily tugging you closer.

"Is that my hoodie?" she mumbles into your hair, voice still rough from sleep.

"Mhmm," you say, like you don’t care. Like your heart’s not punching your ribs.

Her hands tighten on your waist just slightly. "You look better in it," she says. "Unfair." Before you can open your mouth and say something, she continues, "and I mean it, pretty girl."

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. She doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even pretend to. "Let me make breakfast."

"You are breakfast."

You groan, "please stop, it´s early for those jokes."

"Can’t. It’s in my nature." She grins into your shoulder, humming softly like this is normal, because it is.

That’s the problem.

Living with Natasha Romanoff started out like some college housing accident. A randomly assigned craigslist miracle. It means all those little things put together. Of course it´s only some friendly banter, right? Just two roomates clicking instantly. Having fun. Loving eachother in a friendly way, of course.

You didn’t expect her to become your person honestly. But she did. Slowly. Softly. Stupidly. And till this day, it is still the same.

Well... maybe a little worse.

Like now, for example. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing that obnoxiously low-hanging tank top and your favorite sweatpants, that you like to see on her.

"I should make you pay me everytime you stare at me like that, I would be millionare," she smirks, sipping her iced coffee.

You roll your eyes and turn back to the stove. "You like being stared at, so I´m doing you a favor."

"I mean… yeah." She shrugs. "Especially when it’s you. I always aim to impress."

You stir the pot a little harder than necessary.

She walks up behind you, rests her chin on your shoulder, and lets out a deliberately dramatic sigh. "God, you smell good. Is that my body wash?"

You smirk, "no. It’s mine. The one you keep stealing."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," she hums against your ear, way too close, way too casual. "But if you want to shower together to conserve it, I’m happy to be eco-friendly."

You bump her with your hip, and she laughs, stepping back just enough to avoid your spatula.

"Two can play this game, Romanoff."

"Oh?" She grins like the devil and perches on the counter, legs swinging. "I love when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Push back." Her gaze dips to your mouth and then back to your eyes, she´s once again cocky, teasing, "it’s hot."

You huff, "you’re ridiculous... as always."

"And you’re blushing."

The worst part is, you flirt back. You always do. With your smart comebacks. Your lingering looks. You like this banter, you live for it and you desperately wish it would lead to something more.

Later, she steals the last snack from you and winks at you with chocolate on her lip. You grab a napkin. She leans forward instead.

"You gonna wipe it off," she asks, voice low, "or kiss it?"

You deadpan, "I’m gonna throw you out the window."

Her smile stretches, slow and smug, but you don’t look away. Instead, you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, and lift your index finger. Curl it once.

"Come here."

Her brows lift, but she obeys. Because of course she does. Natasha Romanoff never says a no to you. She leans in closer, cocky and confident.

"You’re gonna wipe it off like a good girl?" she teases, tilting her head toward you, lips parted just enough to be dangerous.

You reach up slowly. Her breath stills.

Then you lean in and, instead of wiping, you press your lips to the corner of her mouth. Right where the chocolate is. A soft, deliberate kiss. You feel her breath catch against your skin.

When you pull back, you lick your bottom lip and smirk. "Like I´ve said two can play this game, Romanoff."

She blinks. Just once. Like her brain short-circuited for a second. Then she huffs out a laugh, low, flustered.

"Shit," she mutters, voice suddenly raspy. "That was good."

"Thank you," you grin, patting her cheek as you walk past her to grab your drink. "I aim to impress."

Behind you, she’s still in her place, stunned, eyebrows raised, and 100% whipped.

"You’re so evil," she says.

"And you like it," you call back.

"Oh, I love it."

Later that week you’re halfway through fixing your hair, when Natasha leans against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and gaze heavy.

"You’re going to a party," she says, not a question.

You smirk at her in the mirror, "sharp as ever, Romanoff."

She pulls a mock-wounded expression, lower lip jutting out, "without me? That’s cruel."

"Oh my god," you groan, "don’t pull your straight frat boy voice on me, it’s disturbing."

She grins, all teeth and danger, "but I´m so good at it."

You roll your eyes and brush past her, "I’m leaving in ten. You can come if you stop being annoying for five consecutive minutes."

That gets her moving fast, "give me three," she says, already peeling off her shirt as she rushes to her room.

You should look away. You really should.

But you don’t.

You never do.

You catch a glimpse of her back, smooth muscle shifting under pale skin and then she’s pulling on a black tank top, tugging it down over her abs like it’s nothing. Like it’s not killing you.

Then comes the jacket. Leather. Of course. And the hat ,a black cap, which she turns around and wears backwards like she’s trying to end you personally. You’re standing by the door, keys in hand, and zero thoughts in your head.

She throws you a wink, "ready?"

"I-" you clear your throat. "Yep. Uh-huh."

"You okay?" she asks, cocking her head with a smile that’s way too smug.

"I’m fine," you say, too quickly.

She steps closer, adjusting your jacket collar like she’s not absolutely toying with you. "You’re acting weird," she murmurs. "You like the hat, don’t you."

You scoff, "you wish."

"I know," she says, grinning, "that you were staring when I changed."

"I was not."

"You were."

"You stripped in the hallway! That’s public indecency."

"This is our apartment."

You glare, "technicalities."

She hums and reaches out like she might tuck your hair behind your ear, but doesn’t. Just lets her fingers hover there. And it’s stupid. It’s soft. It’s everything. It makes your chest tighten, because you know she’s playing. Probably. Mostly.

You head for the door before you say something dumb like I wish you’d kiss me already.

The party is packed, heat clinging to your skin the second you step in. Music’s too loud, someone spilled something sticky near the door, and you already lost Natasha in the crowd twice. But her hand kept finding yours again, fingers brushing, tugging, like muscle memory.

You’re halfway through your drink, leaning against a kitchen counter and making small talk with some guy in a denim jacket who’s trying to flirt but can’t quite land it.

He says something like, "so, are you seeing anyone?"

You raise your brow, "I live with someone."

"Oh," he grins, leaning in like that’s a challenge, "roommate situation?"

You look over his shoulder and there she is. Natasha.

She’s talking to some girl near the window, all dimples and charm, arms crossed and stance wide. The girl is clearly very interested, laughing too hard, touching Natasha’s arm with a little too much intention.

You barely hear denim guy say something else before you shake your head, "not interested. Sorry."

He backs off, surprisingly polite, but you’re already moving. Already threading through the crowd like a storm brewing. You find her still talking. Still smirking. Still looking way too good.

And something in you snaps.

You walk to her and reach out, grab her gently by the front loop of her jeans, and tug.

She turns, eyebrows raised in surprise, but her mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile, "well, hello."

"We’re dancing now," you say, louder than you meant to, but the music is thumping too loud to care.

She steps closer, her breath brushing your cheek. "Bossy," she hums, eyes gleaming. "I like it."

You don’t answer. You just drag her toward the crowd, into the flashing lights, into the sea of people and when she spins to face you, she’s still laughing softly.

"I was having a nice conversation," she teases, hands settling on your waist like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You slide your arms around her neck, closing the gap, "she was annoying."

"She was complimenting my tattoos," Natasha says, clearly enjoying herself.

"She was touching you."

Her brows lift, "oh?"

You lean in just enough to smell her perfume, something clean and sharp and distracting as hell. "And only I get to do that."

Natasha stills for half a second. Then she grins, low and slow, like you just made her whole week, "you jealous?"

You smirk, there is no way of denying this, "maybe."

She leans in like a secret, "good."

The song shifts into something bass-heavy and fast, but you stay close, pressed together in a way that’s not quite dancing and not quite anything else. Her fingers flex against your waist, your nose brushes her jaw, and neither of you says a word.

You barely remember the Uber ride home.

Just the blur of headlights, the warmth of her thigh pressed against yours, the low thrum of bass still buzzing in your veins. Natasha had her arm slung over the back of the seat, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder, like she needed to stay touching you.

You didn't say a word.

Now you're both inside your apartment. Kicked off shoes. Left jackets somewhere on the floor. The silence is thick and humming.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You barely make it five steps before Natasha grabs your wrist, not hard, just enough for your breath to hitch and spins you gently so your back hits the wall.

Her hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing exposed skin under your top. You lean into the touch instinctively, your body already buzzing from the leftover adrenaline, the dancing, the way her eyes haven’t left your lips since you stepped inside.

She presses closer, slow and sure, her thigh sliding between yours like it belongs there. The air between you practically sparks. Your hands fist lightly in the fabric of her tank top. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly your foreheads are touching, breaths shallow.

Her voice drops even lower, "can I- ?"

"I need water," you interrupt, dizzy, breathless.

Natasha pulls back, blinking, "what?"

You duck under her arm, making your way to the kitchen, avoiding eye contact like your life depends on it. "If I don’t drink something, I’m gonna wake up with a migraine and hate myself."

Behind you, she scoffs, "we were about to have a moment and you pull hydration?"

You grab a glass, filling it quickly, "I’m being responsible." Natasha stalks over slowly, voice rough and amused. "You should drink too," you say, trying to keep it light.

"I want to do a way different thing right now," she says, unapologetically.

You turn, and she’s right there, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you, caging you in. Her eyes are darker now. Heated. Focused. You take a sip just to ground yourself. She watches your throat move.

"You’re killing me," she says softly, half-laughing, like she’s not even sure what to do with herself. Her knuckles brush your hip. "You always do this."

You set the glass down slowly, "do what?"

"Make me want you. And then walk away."

Your pulse stutters, "I never walk far."

She leans in, "then come closer."

"Why don´t you get closer yourself, hm?"

Oh, and she does.

She presses you back into the counter, your breath hitching as her mouth finds the curve of your jaw, your neck, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. Her lips brush your skin like a dare, soft one second, commanding the next.

You don’t back down. You grip the front of her tank again, dragging her closer like you're in charge, but she just lets you think that. Her muscles ripple under your hands as she moves, slow and sure, chest to chest.

"You’re so full of attitude," she mutters, smirking against your collarbone. "Always mouthing off."

"Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes."

Her hands slide under your thighs and you barely have time to yelp before she lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing, her biceps flexing, making your head spin. You blink up at her, wide-eyed.

"You gonna behave now?" she asks, voice low and dangerous and so fucking hot.

You grin, "not a chance."

Her eyes darken, "you really want to play this game, baby?"

You tilt your head, "afraid I’ll win?"

That’s all it takes.

She kisses you hard, none of the slow teasing anymore, just lips crashing into yours with heat and hunger and control. Her hands grip your thighs tighter, spreading them open as she steps between them. Her tongue slides against yours, confident, dominant. She’s tasting you like she earned it.

You moan into her mouth and then laugh, breathless, because she groans in frustration. "You think this is funny?"

"I think you like when I get under your skin."

She breaks the kiss to look at you, her smirk curling dangerously, "And I like putting you in your place."

Your stomach flips.

Her hands trail up under your shirt, palms hot and greedy, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” she says, dipping her head to suck a mark just beneath your jaw. "Fuck... you´ve been teasing me the whole time I know you."

"I didn’t do anything," you whisper, barely able to think.

"Oh? So princess over here is all innocent, hm?" she growls. "You’re gonna take what you were begging for."

You try to sass her, some quip, some pushback, but she shuts you up with her mouth, biting gently at your lower lip, pulling a gasp from you that has your whole body arching into hers.

One hand grips your throat, not tight, just there, while the other slides lower, tugging your hips forward until you’re pressed to her. You’re soaked. She knows it.

"Say please," she whispers against your mouth, smug, cruel, playful.

You swallow hard, "make me."

She laughs, low and lethal, "fucking brat."

You don’t get to speak after that, because suddenly she’s dragging your panties down, kissing every inch she uncovers like she’s been waiting forever. And when her fingers slide in, when her mouth finally moves lower, you forget your own name.

“So fucking wet,” she smirks even more, “cute.”

She ruins you. Slowly. Beautifully. Like she owns the privilege.

And she knows it, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs, every sound that slips past your parted lips just makes her smirk.

Her fingers move just slow enough to drive you mad. Her mouth hovers, teasing, tasting, but never quite giving you what you want. It’s deliberate. Torturous. Perfect.

"Still so mouthy now?" she mutters, her voice low and velvet-dark as she presses a kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh. "Didn’t think so."

You moan, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers slide deeper, curling just right. You try to grind against her palm for more pressure and she pulls away immediately.

"Ah ah." Her voice sharpens, commanding. "You don’t get to take what you want, baby. You earn it."

You whine, breathless, trying to chase her again.

"Oh, you’re so needy now." She laughs, rough and soft at the same time. "Where’d all that attitude go, huh? You were so brave a minute ago."

Her fingers return, even slower this time, her thumb circling just shy of where you need it most. You arch. Squirm. Cry out.

But she doesn’t let up. Just keeps you right on that edge, dancing there, trembling.

"Tell me when you’re close."

You nod frantically, gripping the sheets, thighs quivering. "N- now. I’m close. Fuck, Natasha-"

Her breath hits your skin like a brand as she murmurs, "Ask me if you can come."

You choke out the words, "can I come, please? Please, I need it-"

"No." Her voice is honey-sweet and cruel, "not yet."

Your whole body jerks like she slapped you with that word. The tension rips through you, you ache.

"Oh, baby," she coos, her mouth brushing your ear, "that was mean, hm?"

She kisses you hard, biting your lip as your whimper gets swallowed by her mouth.

"But you love it", she whispers, tongue grazing your lower lip. "Say it. Say you love it." Her fingers keep moving, building again, slow and maddening.

"I love- fuck- I love it!" You can’t think. Can’t breathe.

Every second she doesn’t let you come is fire under your skin. Your hands claw at her arms, at her tank, at anything you can touch. You’re begging again without meaning to, raw and desperate.

And she just eats it up.

"Look at you," she groans. "So fucked out and pretty, just for me. You gonna be good now? Do what I say?"

You nod wildly, gasping, "yes. Yes. Anything, please, just-"

She pushes in deep. Her mouth finds your pulse point, sucking a bruise into your neck. "Then beg again."

You do. And you do it so well, so Natasha lets you cum. Your climax hits like a wave crashing over your whole body, shaking, blinding, unraveling you completely in her hands. You cry out her name, broken and breathless, as everything inside you burns and then melts into trembling stillness.

Natasha doesn’t let go. Not even for a second.

She slows her pace but stays close, grounding you with her touch. Gentle now. Worshipful. Her mouth brushes against your skin, your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, like she’s memorizing you again now that you’ve fallen apart.

"Good girl," she whispers, voice hoarse and unbelievably soft. "That’s it. You did so good for me."

You can’t even speak. Just cling to her, legs still twitching, chest rising and falling too fast. She leans in, kisses your cheek, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. Kissing you like you´re hers.

Which maybe you are.

You don’t even realize she’s picked you up until your bare skin is cradled in the softness of her sheets, your body gently placed in her bed like it’s something fragile.

Her bed smells like her, clean linen, amber, a hint of something warm and woodsy and faintly spiced.

She’s hovering over you, brushing your hair back from your face, "still with me?"

You manage a nod, dazed and ruined and so in love with the way she’s looking at you right now.

She smiles. It’s lazy, warm, a little cocky.

"What about you?" you whisper, blinking up at her. "You didn’t…"

Natasha smirks, leaning in to press her forehead against yours. "I had a great time," she murmurs. "Such a fucking great time."

You let out a breathless laugh, swatting weakly at her bicep. "That’s not what I meant."

She hums, clearly unbothered, sliding under the covers with you and tucking your body into her chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re basically lying on her now, legs tangled, your cheek pressed over her heartbeat.

Natasha runs her hand over your back slowly, soothing. "What, you worried about me now, brat?"

You nuzzle into her neck, "mhm. Brats have hearts too, you know."

She snorts and kisses your hairline. "Yeah, well… mine belongs to one."

You freeze. She stiffens too, barely.

And then she just keeps stroking your back. "That was… not supposed to come out. Forget I said it."

"No," you whisper. "Say it again."

She exhales, chest rising beneath you. "Mine belongs to you," she says, lower this time. "If you want it."

You look up at her. She’s flushed. A little nervous. Still impossibly attractive in her half-on tank top and messy hair and ruined voice. "I do," you say softly.

Natasha exhales a shaky, quiet little sound like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Relief pours from her like warm rain, her hand curling protectively around your waist as she presses a kiss into your hair again.

"Good," she murmurs, her voice still low, husky with post-bliss honesty. "Because the moment you said: ´only I get to touch you´ on the dance floor? Yeah… that’s when I was almost one hundred percent sure you’re into me."

You lift your head just enough to give her a look, "oh, that was the moment? Not when I kissed chocolate off the corner of your mouth? Or, I don’t know, when I kept stealing your hoodies for months?"

Natasha smirks, clearly enjoying herself. "Mmm, those were cute. But those could’ve been, you know…" she shrugs, tilting her head smugly. "Affectionate roommate things. But getting all jealous and bossy over some girl I didn’t even know?" Her hand drifts down, playful. "Now that was intimate."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, "so you’re saying I could kiss you, share your bed, steal your clothes, and fall asleep in your arms, but jealousy is what gave it away?"

"Mhm," she says, grinning. "You could be affectionate, but not this jelly over some random girl asking about my tattoos."

Your cheeks heat, "okay, first of all-"

Natasha cuts you off with a lazy kiss to your jaw, hand slipping under the blanket, warm and unhurried. "Careful," she murmurs against your skin, "brats don’t get rewarded."

You give her a mock innocent look, "who’s being a brat now?"

"You." Her hand slides lower, fingertips ghosting down your sensitive skin until she cups you fully, not moving, just holding, teasing. "You’re being mouthy, baby."

Your breath catches, heart thudding as you press into her touch just slightly, "mouthy?" you echo, tilting your head. "I’d say...honest."

Natasha smiles wickedly, eyes dark and gleaming, "honest is cute," she whispers, brushing her lips against yours. "But you better behave."

You tilt your head, biting your bottom lip like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. "Yes, daddy," you say, all sass and defiance.

It’s bratty. It’s on purpose.

And it works.

Her breath catches for a second, eyes narrowing in that dangerous, hungry way that makes your stomach flip.

She leans in so close her lips nearly brush your ear. "If you’re not ready for round two," she murmurs, voice low and sinful, "don’t tempt me."

Your heart stutters. Yeah. Another round doesn’t sound so bad.

you let toji do whatever he wants with you; you’re a young college student, you’re lonely, and you think he looks at you like you’re the center of the universe. electricity crackles down your spine when you see his dark eyes glimmer in the blue-light of phone screens and LED lights and street lamps and car headlights. they’re dark and menacing eyes, not unlike a rattlesnake looking for the kill. it’s a gaze that should threaten you; it’s a gaze that sees you like prey.

it’s a gaze that forces you to press your thighs together on instinct. toji knows it, you know it – you both know that all he has to do is look at you with a certain feigned softness to make you lift your skirt and take off your clothes for him.

(some might call you easy. you call it love.) 

you met toji in the back of a dirty bar the night you told your boyfriend you loved him and he told you he’d been hooking up with your roommate for the past six weeks. toji, with his disheveled hair, his chesire grin, the fitted black t-shirt that told you everything he had to offer. you wanted him, badly. you wanted his love. you wanted the protection he looked like he could give.

he took you home with a sly grin, fucked you hard and merciless in his one-bedroom apartment next to the subway tracks, where, if you hadn’t been fucked unconscious, you might have heard the rumble of a train blow through every eight minutes. toji, who made you call him daddy before he would finger you, fell asleep within minutes and left you to find the bathroom to clean yourself up. 

but you love toji because you think he looks at you like you’re the center of the universe, especially when you’re spread underneath him and his hand is playing games between your butterflied legs. he tells you you’re so fucking hot, princess when you’re creaming around his cock, when you’ve come so many times you can’t remember where you are or what your name is.

toji looks particularly pleased when you cry; he loves it when you tell him it hurts and still pull him closer anyway. he gets off on your tears, on the way daddy slips past your lips in a tangled whimper and you no longer know what’s good for you. 

(he thrives on the way you sob when he ruins your orgasms, too. he loves it when you clench around nothing, when you pathetically whine because you crave him and he won’t give it to you.)

toji will take you in whatever position and whatever location he feels like. he likes you because you let him, being the good girl you are. toji’s hobby is ruining you, fucking you and forcing you to show your fucked-out face and shaky knees in public, fucking you in public and humiliating you for falling apart under his touch while someone’s watching you, naughty girl.

fucking you in his car with the windows rolled down is his personal favorite; he gets off on the sight of your ass in the air, face buried in the leather backseat of his ex-wife’s old car. he likes how you scream so loud anyone with ears could hear you. he likes when you squirt all over him and ruin the seats. he likes it when people see you struggle to give him head. he loves when they stand still and watch. 

(he particularly loves it when he fucks you from behind and he puts his fingers in your mouth. you always clench like a vice.) 

your pussy is an addiction, toji says when he’s zipping his jeans back up and watching you wipe away the mascara running down your cheeks. you think he means it with love – you know he means it with love, he must. 

sometimes toji even tells you about himself when he lights a cigarette afterwards, and that’s how you know what you have is true. he’ll tell you about his bitch of an ex-wife who he’s currently preparing to file a divorce with. he’ll tell you abut his two-year-old son, who his bitch of an ex-wife won’t let him see because she thinks he’s a bad influence. he’ll tell you about the people he hates at work, about the heavy lifting he does at the gym – he always lets you feel his biceps, then. 

but you, you fill in the gaps yourself, you’re sexy, young, fun. you’re better than the ex-wife. you’re everything toji needs. 

you love toji because you think he cares about you; he tells you how college boys are foolish and childish and lame; he tells you how you need a real man to take care of a tight pussy like yours; he tells you how you’re just an ignorant girl who needs someone to guide her.

(and he’s right, you think. he’s always looking out for you.) 

you, you always tell him, then, blissed-out and drunk on his attention. you, daddy. you take care of me. he always eats you out when you say that.

you love him, you do. and so when you see him with his bitch of an ex-wife and his son at the grocery store, you make yourself invisible, because you know that toji doesn’t like when you show up uninvited. you tell yourself that he has to do it, that he needs to take care of his son, that just because he’s in love with you doesn’t mean he can suddenly leave his first family behind.

and when toji tells you after you suck him off and swallow that he’s moving back in with his ex-wife because he “can’t afford the rent at my apartment anymore,” when he stops talking about getting the divorce, you keep the stars in your eyes and the slick on your pussy because he promises that he’ll fuck your brains out in his master bedroom when his son is asleep. 

(and toji does: in six different position, four different orgasms, and your daddy was even kind enough to rail you as you were bent over the kitchen counter in his bitch of a wife’s newly remodeled kitchen. you came so hard and so violently that your screams woke up daddy’s two-year-old son.) 

toji owns your body, and you let him. maybe he’s bad for you, maybe he’s cheating on his wife and slowly ruining your life in the process, but when he’s kissing your cervix, you don’t have it in you to care. 

because you’re my daddy, you tell him, crying. i need you.

You’re quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet that Natasha has grown to appreciate, when the two of you share space, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence. This is the heavy kind. The kind that drags on your shoulders and stiffens your jaw. The kind that says too much without saying anything at all.

She notices it the second you walk through the door. You're not just tired. You're drained.

You toss your bag to the side and sink into the couch with a groan, pressing the palms into your eyes like that might stop your brain from buzzing. Natasha watches from the kitchen doorway for a moment longer than you realize, fingers curled around a mug, her favorite tea forgotten in her hand.

"Long day?" she asks gently.

You nod. Words are slippery in your mouth tonight, thoughts tangled and frayed. You want to tell her everything and nothing. You want to explain why your tongue feels too big for your mouth, why speaking feels like wading through wet cement and why you want nothing else, than just disappear.

But all you manage is a small nod and a whine on top of it.

She doesn’t push. She never does. Just pads barefoot across the room, sets the mug on the coffee table, and sinks down beside you. Her presence is immediate and grounding. Warm. Safe.

You tilt your head to rest against her shoulder, your hands twitching slightly in your lap. The need is there again - quiet and familiar. Your mouth feels restless, hungry for something, not food exactly. Just stimulation. The comfort of sensation. Of grounding yourself in something tangible.

Natasha notices.

"It´s okay," she murmurs, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. You glance at her, uncertain, a little embarrassed, but she just shifts to face you more fully. "Talk to me without talking," she offers.

That’s all the permission you need.

You shift slightly, still not sure, if you´re not asking too much. But Natasha´s thumb move from your cheek to your lower lip, slightly brushing, soft and quiet confirmation, that it´s truly okay. You open your mouth and let her thumb in. It´s comforting, more than you thought. She lets out a slow breath, her other hand sliding up to tangle in your hair.

"This helps, doesn’t it?" she whispers.

You nod.

And then Natasha puts her index and middle finger into your mouth, watching you, not like a hawk, no... more with softness and love, she has for you. You take what she gives you. Not greedy. Not desperate. Just present. Here. With her.

Her hand starts stroking down your back, "It´s okay, detka."

You hum, the sound muffled with her fingers in your mouth. It’s not about desire right now. Not entirely. It’s about anchoring. About feeling something that isn’t exhaustion or static or the weight of the day.

She reads you like a book she’s already memorized.

So she just keeps holding you, letting you take what you need. No judgment. No pressure. Just the quiet understanding between two people who don’t always need words to say everything.

After a minute, Natasha shifts, brushing her thumb slowly over your bottom lip again, dragging it just enough to leave a little sheen behind.

"Pretty," she murmurs with a small smile, inspecting her work like an artist.

You let out a quiet, content noise and she smiles wider.

"C´mere," she says, gently guiding you down so your head settles in her lap. Her legs are warm beneath you, the fabric of her sweatpants soft against your cheek. Her fingers find your scalp.

The tension in your chest starts to unwind, little by little. Then you shift. Just a little. Turn your head and catch her hand again and this time your teeth graze her skin, barely more than a nibble.

She raises an eyebrow, "are you biting me?"

"Mmhmm," you hum softly, not bothering to stop. Your teeth gently explore the curve of her hand, her knuckles, the solid muscle of her forearm. Never hard. Just... a little bite.

"This is new," she teases, voice playful as she watches you chomp lightly on the meat of her thumb.

You grunt, too cozy to be bothered by her sarcasm and you just keep going, like a sleepy, affectionate little animal gnawing without purpose. But you want more... more of her. More of your comfort.

"God," she chuckles, "you’re biting my bicep now. What is this? Is this payback for me waking you up early this morning?"

You mumble something incoherent against her skin, but whatever it is makes her laugh again, low and warm in her chest.

Eventually, you pull back just a little, eyelids drooping, and glance at her arm. You blink. There are marks. Light, but there. Tiny indents, like you’ve stamped her with a row of gentle crescents.

Your eyes widen slightly, but before you can say anything Natasha notices, as always.

"Hey, hey," Natasha cuts you off before the panic can take root, thumb brushing over your cheek, "you’ve got sharp teeth, is all."

You blink at her, half-apologetic, half-embarrassed.

She leans down, kisses your forehead, "I like the marking," she murmurs, "makes me feel... chosen."

You exhale. The panic fades into something soft, weightless. Her hand returns to your hair.

"Don’t worry about it, baby," she says, running her thumb gently across your temple, "you’re allowed to need things. Even this."

You nod, lips twitching into a quiet smile and close your eyes again. Safe. Held. No words needed.

"Welcome everyone... to the very first season of The Love Initiative!" The camera glides over sunlit villa, white walls, glass doors, pool that would be too big for twenty people and a lot of very pricey decorations, before settling on Sam Wilson, the host, standing in a custom burgundy suit.

"My name is Sam Wilson, I´ll be your host and before you ask... yes," he adds, smirking, "this is exactly what it looks like. Ten days. One villa. A group of very attractive, very single women... and one person who´s about to have their life turned upside down." He starts walking.

"Here´s how it works. Our contestants will be living together right here," he points at the villa, "bonding, competing, falling in love... or at least trying not to start unnecessary drama." Sam pauses, then shrugs, "actually, scratch that, there will definitely be drama." A quick glance at the camera, "you´re welcome."

Sam then gestures toward a seperate part of the villa, "and then there is the one and only. Our lead. The one making all the decisions. The one everyone´s here for." Sam smiles, "(Y/N)!"

"Now (Y/N) won´t be living with the others. They get her own private apartment, a little peace, a little quiet place to think... and to question every single decision they make over the next ten days."

"Each day, they´ll go on fun dates, face new challanges and get to know the women who are all here for one reason... to win their heart."

His tone softens just slightly, "and at the end of it all... they´ll choose one person. One woman to leave this villa with."

A beat of silence.

"No preassure, right?" Sam chuckles. "So get comfortable. Get emotionally invested. Maybe don´t pick favorites too early, trust me, never ends well." A pause, then a grin on his face. "because if there is one thing I can guarantee... it´s that sparks will fly!"

Right. So... this is really happening.

You stare at your reflection like it might suddenly give you an explanation how you got here. Here is a beautiful villa bathroom, that is definitely more expensive than your entire apartment back home, about to participace in what is essentially... a televised speedrun of your love life.

Which to be fair, needed help. A lot of help. Because if you´re being honest? Your romantic history could be summed up in three categories - almosts, what-ifs and that one time you thought girl was flirting and she was just cursing at you in another language.

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hands agasint the sink. So the only solution to your problem is going on a fully televised dating show. Because if you were going to make questionable life choices, you might as well commit.

You straighten slightly, eyeing yourself in the mirror again.

Ten days. Ten days to meet a group of women who are all here for you. To go on dates. To figure out feelings. To... somehow choose one person at the end of it.

Your future girlfriend. Potentially your future wife. No pressure. None at all. Totally normal. This is exactly what well-adjusted people do. You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. This is very normal gay experience.

The main hall is ridiculous in person. Beautiful ridiculous, to be specific. Warm golden lighting, tall windows, elegant furniture and at the center of it all is a stage framed by soft lights and large flower arrangements.

You stand just out of frame, smoothing your hands down the front of your clothes for what has to be the hundredth time, trying and failing to ignore the pounding of your heartbeat.

From somewhere beyond the cameras, Sam´s voice carries through the room, Unlike someone, he sounds very confident and overall effortlessly charming. "Now, before be begin, let´s talk about the person at the center of all this."

A large screen flickers to life. And suddenly you´re watching yourself. Pieces of you. Quick flashes of a life that feels oddly intimate, seeing it on the big screen now. Of course you remember them shooting it before you went to villa, but seeing yourself with friends in a coffee shop, or walking throught the city with headphones on, reading in your apartment or other candid moments where you look soft, free... it´s weird to see yourself through the eyes of someone else.

Sam narrates over it all, "smart, kind, funny..." he pauses, "questionable taste in food combos, according to production notes." A quiet laugh from the crew, "but most importantly? Someone who has a lot of love to give. And maybe, just maybe, is finally ready to let herself receive some back." The montage ends.

"And now..." Sam´s voice lights with very theatrical excitement. "Here they are- the one and only..." He grins towards the camera, "(Y/N)!"

Oh god.

That´s you.

That is, unfortunately, your cue.

You step out into the light, trying your best not to look like you´re internally screaming. The camera turn and everything suddenly feels very real. Sam meets you halfway, immediately offering the kind smile, that takes some of the edge off.

"Well," he says, gesturing toward you, "welcome in the villa, (Y/N)!"

"Thank you, it is very crazy to be here... in a good way, of course." You laugh, nerves making it come out breathless.

Sam chuckles, leading you toward the center of the room, both of you settling into the easy rhytm of conversation. "How are you feeling?" He asks, softer now, genuine.

You exhale a nervous little laugh, "honestly?"

"Please."

"Terrified. Excited, Slightly nauseous. But mostly excited."

Sam nods seriously, "that´s exactly how I feel every Thanksgiving with my family, so I´d say you´re doing great."

That pulls a real laugh from you, it definetly helps loosening up the nerves.

"Alright, but now the important question."

You immedietly narrow your eyes, "that sounds dangerous."

"It is," Sam folds his arms, "what is your type?"

You think about it for a second before shaking your head, "I... honestly don´t know if I have one."

Sam blinks, "no type at all?"

"No. I mean- obviously I find people attractive, but I´ve never really had a strict type. It´s more about the chemistry, I guess. Personality. Connection."

Sam hums, glancing toward the large closed door at the other end of the hall. "Well," he says, dragging out the word, "that´s actually great news."

You raise a brow, "oh?"

Sam smiles, mischievous, like he knows something you don´t, "because behind those doors..." he points dramatically, "we have plenty of types."

Your stomach flips, not in a bad way. Just in a holy shit this is happening way.

Sam catches your expression and laughs, "so... final asnwer," he turns towards you. "Are you ready for all the ladies?"

You glance at the door, at whatever, whoever is waiting behind them. You smile happily and nervously at the same time, "I am."

Sam claps his hands together, "that´s what I like to hear." He steps back, grin widening. "Then let´s meet your future heartbreaks- I mean..." A beat of silence, "... potential soulmates."

The door open, and the first woman steps through. Sam´s voice carries smoothly across the hall, "Natasha Romanoff!"

You forget how breathing works. She moves like she owns every room she enters, not arrogantly, but with a quiet certainty, that makes the whole space shift around her. Her blonde hair falls in a soft waves over one shoulder, she´s dressed in sharp black tailoring softened by silk. It looks expensive, that´s for sure.

Every detail about her feels unreal. Her gaze lands on you, unreadable at first, then softens, just enough to make your stomach completly betray you.

She steps close, offering a small smile, that already feels like a marrige proposal. "It´s lovely to finally meet you, (Y/N)."

Her voice is velvet and low and-

Right.

Words.

You should use words.

Preferably right now.

"Hi," you manage.

Excellent start.

Natasha´s smile curves slightly wider, amused and she brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear before stepping to the side. Your heart is doing concerning things.

Sam leans closer, "you´re staring, (Y/N)."

"I know."

"Do you need a minute?"

"I want medical assistance," Sam laughs and so does Natasha.

Then the door opens again and Sam speaks up again, "Wanda Maximoff." As your eyes meet hers, somehow things get worse.

Or better.

Definetly worse.

Definetly better.

Wanda walks in like the wind throught tall grass, effortless, grounded. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, slightly messy in a deliberate way and she´s dressed in dark jeans, boots, layereed necklaces and a worn flannel hanging open over a top, that reveals strong arms and sun-kissed skin.

You are immedietly in love with at least three things about her. When Wanda speaks it´s simple and casual, "hey you," but you nearly fold in half.

"Hi," you breathe, somehow even less coherent than before.

Wanda smiles and she joins Natasha. You look between them. Two most beautiful women, already devastating.

How many women are left? God.

Sam softly pats your shoulder and he chuckles, "you´re doing great."

"I´m fighting for my life."

"That´s good for the fans." He smirks, then he looks at the door again. "Another lady to the group, Kate Bishop!"

Oh.

This one looks like trouble.

Kate walks in like she´s entering a stadium tunnel before a championship game. Broad grin, shoulders back, confidence radiating off her in waves. She´s tall, athletic, dressed in jeans with sneakers and fitted blazer over a shirt. She absolutely knows she´s hot.

Which is horrible. She knows exactly what she does to people. Her eyes flick over you and brighten immediately, "well, hi there."

That grin becomes flirtatious in half a second, "you´re even cuter than production said." Heat floods your whole face.

Sam makes a delighted sound beside you, "oh, she´s fast."

Kate laughs, stepping closer to shake your hand, but her thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, deliberate enough to make butterflies explode violetnly in your stomach. "It´s really nice to meet you, (Y/N)," she says, softer now. Then with a wink, "can´t wait to win."

She´s competetive, cocky, charming. You are so unbelievably doomed. Kate joins the other and you stare blankly ahead. Sam glances at you with a smirk, "how are we feeling so far?"

"I´ll tell you later, just keep them coming," you mumble out.

Sam laughs, "got it, lets tear off a band-aid. This is getting better and better, ladies and gantlemen. Welcome Yelena Belova!"

A blonde woman enters with the energy of someone deeply unimpressed by everything and somehow that makes her impossibly magnetic.

Lather jacket, dark shirt, rings on her fingers. Cool confidence worn loosely, like she´s not trying to impress anyone and somehow impresses everyone. Her hair is slicked back, her expression dryly amused, eyes sharp yet soft enough to hint at something warmer beneath.

She stops in front of you, looks you up and down and then she nods once, "good."

You blink, "good?"

Yelena shrugs, "you seem interesting. I was hoping for interesting." Then after a beat, "also pretty. Bonus." Sam physically turns away to laugh.

You feel your soul leaving your body, which makes Yelena smirk, "oh this will be so fun."

You´re still trying to recover from Yelena, when Sam straightens beside you and grin suspiciously. "Oh, (Y/N), you´re pretty much in gay heaven."

"Or hell, it´s hard to tell, to be honest."

Sam nods, with a chuckle, "very true. I´d say both is very entertaining." The doors open again and Sam´s voice rings out, "Carol Danvers!"

And another confidence walks in. Not the quiet kind, like Natasha´s. Carol walks in like she´s used to stepping into high-pressure situations and coming out on top. Tall, huge shoulders, strong arms that look sculpted by the gods themselves. She´s wearing tailored trousers and a fitted white button-up with sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, showing toned forearms and a sharp watch at her wrist. Devastatingly attractive.

There´s a bomber jacket slung casually over one shoulder like she just stepped off a runway and a military base. Her blonde hair is swept back and her smile...

Her smile is trouble. Very cocky, yet very warm. Her eyes meet yours with immediate focus, it´s like she chooses what deserves her attention and right now, somehow, it is you and only you.

She steps close, offering her hand, "Carol." You take it and immediately notice two things, her grip is very firm, yet her hands are soft.

"It´s really nice to meet you," she says, voice smooth and sure. One of her corner of her mouth lifts, "I´ve heard there´s competetion here."

Your pulse jumps. Carol glances towards the lineup of women already gethered, sizing them up in one efficient sweep before looking back at you. "That´s alright, I like the competition."

Kate from across the room, lets out a small offended laugh, Carol only shoots her a grin. You can feel the instant competitive energy in the room.

Sam whistles, "looks like it´s hot and we barerly even started, that´s what we like to see. Just don´t fight yet, our medic is starting from tomorrow." He looks around, "just joking." Sam looks at the camera lenses and mouths "I´m not... anyway Agatha Harkness, everyone!"

This woman walks in like trouble has been flirting with her for years. Strong hands. Worn boots, that hit the floor with deliberate weight. Dark jeans, a white tank and a weathered flannel hanging open over it, sleeves rolled. Her hair is slightly messy, silver streaks catching the light in a way that makes her hotter. She looks older than the others.

Her whole energy says 'I know exactly who I am.' Agatha walks up to you with a smirk on her face, "oh," eyes dragging over you, "well done, producers."

You nearly choke, hoping that the medic is close, just in case. Sam laughs, "she likes you," he winks to the camera.

"I gathered," you mumble weakly. Agatha then steps close enough, that her woodsy and smoky cologne briefly wraps around you.

"Pleasure to meet you, sweetheart," she says with a teasing grin. "Let´s save everyones time and just-" she offers her hand, while Yelena snorts at her offer. Kate grins knowing exactly what is Agatha doing, while the rest just watches, hoping that you won´t fall for her tactics.

Before you can finish, Agatha´s expression changes, only slightly, but you see it. Her eyes cut sharply towards the doors and her jaw tightens. Like she suddenly senses something unplesant and Sam knows what the unplesant thing is. Or rather who. "Interesting," Agatha mumbles.

You were so deeply wrapped in Agatha´s cologne, you didn´t even realize, that the door openned one last time. Sam looks at the camera knowingly, "last but not least, Rio Vidal."

Rio moves calmly, measured and dangerous. Dark tailored slacks, black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled once at the wrist, rings on her long fingers and dark hair in a bun, showing her sharp cheekbones. She is beautiful in a way, that definetly feels intimidating. Like everyone instinctively makes room for her.

Then her gaze lands, not on you, but on Agatha. And slowly, very very slowly Rio smiles, "small world."

Agatha lets out a humorless laugh, which makes you confused, "you´ve got to be kidding me." You are glancing from one to another.

Wait, what?

Agatha measures Rio, but then she walks up to her spot, where other ladies are, some trying not to laugh, some smirking, knowing this will be a hell of a ride.

Rio finally looks at you and her entire expression softens by a degree. Which kinda makes it worse, because now all that intensity is directed at you. She takes your hand gently, brings it toward her lips, not quiete kissing your knuckles, but close enough, that your entire nervous system short-circuits.

"(Y/N)," Rio says, voice velvery smooth. "Pleasure."

"Oh, she is absolutely not using my dating moves on national television," Agatha mumbles so only Carol can hear.

Rio walks up next to Agatha, but she quickly changes with Carol, so she stands between them. You stare at the lineup and you swallow hard.

"These are our contestants and this is what we call premium television." Sam smiles, gesturing to the ladies.

Natasha elegant and unreadable. Wanda steady and wild. Kate grining at all the ladies. Yelena amused, but sharp. Agatha glaring like she is planing a murder. Carol as a big ball of confidence. And lastly, Rio pleased with herself.

Everyone one of them is impossibly beautiful and you feel so drawn towards them. Your stomach is doing crazy things, not only butterflies but a whole damn zoo. You lean towards Sam, "I think I´m in trouble."

The door of the Blue Moon creaked open and you look up from behind the bar just in time to see Natasha Romanoff stride in. You can´t help but smile, her visits always brought a certain excitement to your evening. Natasha, the CEO whose name commanded respect across the city, had a way of brightening your night. Not to mention, her tips are always more than generous.

You reach for the bottle of Chateau Margaux, already knowing her preference by heart. As she makes her way to her usual seat at the bar, you start pouring the rich, velvety liquid into a glass. Natasha's eyes meet yours, and a subtle smile curves on her lips.

"Evening, miss Romanoff," you greet warmly, sliding the glass towards her.

"Good evening, (Y/N). How's the night treating you?" she asks, her voice smooth and commanding, yet with a hint of warmth that always makes your heart flutter.

"It’s been slow," you admit, a shy smile playing on your lips, "but now it's better."

Natasha's eyes sparkle with amusement as she takes a sip of the wine. "I'm glad to hear that," she replies, her gaze never leaving yours.

The subtle connection between you and this powerful woman makes these moments feel special. Or maybe it´s just all in your head and she is this nice to everyone else.

You looked down as you take some wet glasses to dry them off, "how are you doing, miss Romanoff?"

Natasha exhales dramatically as she sips her red wine, her voice low and teasing. "I've been alright… Would be better though if I wasn't called 'miss'."

You chuckle softly, feeling a bit more at ease with her teasing tone. "My apologies, Natasha," you reply with a playful glint in your eyes. "Force of habbit, I guess. But I'll try to remember that for next time." You give her a genuine smile.

Natasha chuckles, waving her hand dismissively, "It´s okay."

As the tension grows bigger you can´t sort your thoughts, but thankfully you notice the almost empty glass infront of her, "would you like another one?"

Natasha hums, nodding while looking you up and down. Her eyes linger a little longer on your figure before she looks back into your eyes. She smirks at you and glances towards the wine bottle you hold in your hand. "Pour me another glass and one for yourself sweetheart," she says, motioning towards the empty chair next to her.

You bite your lip, feeling a flutter of excitement, but shake your head with a regretful smile. "I can't. I'm still at work," you reply softly, the thought of sitting next to her was undeniably tempting.

Natasha smirks, rolling her eyes as you pour her another glass. She takes the full glass, swirling the red liquid in her hand for a little before taking a sip. "Aww… such a good little employee… Wouldn't want to get on your boss's bad side, huh?"

"More like I need the paycheck," you chuckle at your own words.

Natasha chuckles as well, raising a brow playfully. "Oh, I understand that… Those pesky bills, they just keep stacking up, don't they? You must be feeling the pinch every month."

You laugh lightly, nodding in agreement, "you have no idea," you said with a sigh. "But I guess that's just part of the job. Gotta keep the lights on somehow, right?" you smile at her, appreciating the banter.

She sips her wine and set the glass back on the table, her eyes locking with yours. "Maybe I could offer you a little extra cash on the side… help with those bills. And you wouldn't have to deal with your boss."

You blink, momentarily taken aback by her offer. Her intense gaze make your heart race. "That's very generous of you, Natasha," you reply, your voice slightly unsteady. "But I'm not sure I can accept that. I´m still just a bartender," you give her a shy but appreciative smile, trying to mask the turmoil of emotions.

"Ah, don't sell yourself short sweetheart… your drinks delicious and you have one hell of a smile too." Her eyes gleam mischievously as she leans forward in her chair, lowering her voice to a seductive whisper. "And I can think of a few things you could offer me… Besides drinks."

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, her words sending a shiver down your spine. Swallowing hard, you manage to keep your composure, though your heart was pounding. "Thank you, Natasha," you reply softly, your smile shy but genuine. "I… I'm interested. What exactly do you have in mind?"

Natasha smirks, her fingers still gently tracing patterns on the glass. She leans in even closer, "oh, well, it's a somewhat… unconventional job… Let's just call it 'discreet personal services.' You'd attend to my… needs and desires, while being generously compensated for your… services."

"Like an assistant?" You ask, heart pounding fast.

Natasha chuckles, her smirk growing wider at your adorable innocence. She takes a long sip of her wine before answering. "You could say that… an 'assistant' is certainly a part of the job. But it's more… intimate than a regular assisting job. You'll be meeting all my… needs, doing whatever I ask of you. In return, I'll take care of you, sweetheart."

Oh.

You look at her, being so glad that you´re not in a rush. "So… sugar baby type of a thing?"

Natasha nods. She can practically see the wheels turning in your head as you absorbed what she had said. She smirks as you go quiet, patiently waiting for you to process everything. After a few moments, she speak up once again, her voice soft and commanding. "Take your time, darling. Think it through."

"I think I have a few questions," you mumbled, while your thoughts were running in your head.

This is dream come true… some poeple dreamt of being a princess, or a president or an astronaut, but you? You dreamt of a hot smart and powerfull woman to take care of you.

Natasha raises a brow, a small smirk still on her face. She gestures for you to ask your questions, her eyes never leaving yours. "Of course, darling. Ask away. No question is too silly, I assure you."

Reassuring is nice, very nice. Especially from Natasha.

"I don´t have a car, so… is that a problem?" you don´t really know how this is the first question you asked her.

"Not a problem at all, darling. I have people that can drive you wherever you need to go when you're… busy with me. It's all part of the package."

You smile, "I like the package," you nod. "And what if I have to deal with something… or have a doctors appointment, or something?"

"Darling, I admire your thought process," she remarks with a playful glint in her eye. "Let me address your concerns." She takes a sip of her wine before continuing, her demeanor confident and relaxed. "Your schedule is whatever suits your life… I'm not going to ask you to skip school or your important appointments. If you're free, you're mine. If you have school or other commitments, thats fine. I'll work around your schedule."

You nod, taking all the the information in.

Natasha's smile softenas she raches out to gently touch your hand. "There won't be additional responsibilities beyond what we agree upon. Your comfort and boundaries are important to me, (Y/N). If you ever need to reschedule or cancel, just let me know ahead of time."

Her touch send a jolt of warmth through you, and you can´t help but feel a flutter of excitement mingled with nervousness.

"I appreciate your honesty, Natasha." You stay quiet for a little bit, enjoying her hand on yours.

"I know this seems straightforward, but… I have bills to pay, rent, and other expenses, and honestly, I'm just not making enough here." You shift uncomfortably, nervous about broaching the subject but unable to ignore the reality of your financial situation.

"Ah, the money. I'm glad you brought that up… I promise you sweetheart, I'll pay you more than enough to cover your rent, bills, and more. You won't have to worry about money ever again. You'll be well taken care of… if you decide to accept this job, of course." She squeezes your hand, which instatly makes your worries go away.

You nod few times, "and you're not planning to… you know, hurt me or anything? You're not like, a serial killer?"

Natasha chuckles softly, a genuine amusement dancing in her eyes at your question. "Darling, if I had any intention of harming you, it would have been done already. We wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation," she reassures you with a hint of playful sarcasm.

The financial relief it promised was undeniable and being by the side of THE Natasha Romanoff, there is not a single thought in your head that would think this is a stupid idea. After a brief pause, you look up at her with a determined yet slightly anxious smile.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice wavering slightly. "I'll do it."

Natasha grins, pleased with your response. She speaks in a low, sultry voice. "Good girl, but before you agree, there's one more thing you should know. This job comes with… specific rules that I expect you to follow. Understand, sweetheart?"

"I- uh yes, I do."

Before Natasha can elaborate further, a customer at the bar waves to catch your attention. You give Natasha an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back,” you promise softly before hurrying off to handle the order.

For the next few minutes, you were busy serving drinks and chatting with the other papeople, though your mind stayed firmly fixated on Natasha. When you finally turned back toward her table, your heart sank slightly, she was gone.

But as you move to clear the table, you notice something unexpected. Sitting beneath the empty wine glass was a small folded napkin with a neat scrawl of handwriting, her number.

As you stared at the number, you can´t help but smile. She left it for you.

When your shift ended, the napkin with her number still sat securely in your pocket. You paced nervously in your tiny apartment, debating whether to call her. Was it too late? Would she even answer? What if she thought you were being too eager? The anxiety got the better of you, and instead, you tucked the number away, deciding to wait until morning.

The next morning, you sit on the edge of your bed with your phone in hand. After a deep breath, you decide to play it safe and text her instead.

Good morning, Natasha. This is (Y/N) from the bar. I hope this isn’t too early, but I just wanted to reach out.

You hit send and barely have a moment to exhale before your phone buzz in your hand. She is calling you.

"H-Hello?" you are caught off guard by how quickly she responded.

"Good morning, darling," Natasha’s voice is smooth, "I was hoping you’d reach out. Are you free to meet me at my office today? I think it’s time we finalize the details of our arrangement."

You blink, stunned by her decisiveness, "uh, yes, of course! What time?"

"Come by at noon. I’ll have someone waiting to bring you up."

Arriving at her sleek, towering office building later that day, you are escorted to the top floor where Natasha’s private office is. The space is as commanding and refined as the woman herself, the place offers a breathtaking view of the city and her desk sat in the center like a throne.

Natasha stands when you enter, a pleased smile tugging at her lips. Her presence is magnetic as she extends her hand.

"Amazing," she says, her tone warm yet commanding. "Let´s have a longer talk, hm? "Sit," she instructs.

You obey, though your pulse quickened under her unwavering gaze. She moves with deliberate grace, circling around her desk like a predator making sure you feel the weight of her presence.

"Let’s not waste time, darling," she says, settling behind the desk. "You agreed to this arrangement, which means you follow my rules. Clear?"

You nod quickly, then bit your lip, "yes, Natasha.”

She smirks, "good girl. Rule number one, when we’re in private, you call me ma’am. Or mistress, if you’re feeling brave."

Your eyes widen slightly, heat creeping up your neck, "...mistress?" you say, half-shocked, half-thrilled.

Her smirk widens, "you’ll get used to it."

Natasha leans back in her chair,, "rule number two, I’ll work around your school or anything you need to do, but when I call, you answer. Understood?"

You raise a brow, leaning back just enough to show a flicker of attitude, "what if I’m busy?"

Her eyes meet yours, that predator’s smile returning, "then you’ll explain to me why whatever you’re doing is more important than me. And trust me, sweetheart… you won’t win that argument."

Your stomach flipat her bluntness, but a spark of confidence lit in your chest, "maybe I like arguments," you tease.

Natasha chuckles lowly, the sound rolling through the room."“Oh, I know you do. And I’ll enjoy every second of breaking that bratty streak of yours."

Your mouth goes dry, but you manage to meet her gaze without flinching. That earns you another approving look.

"Rule number three," she continues smoothly, "discretion. You don’t tell anyone about this arrangement. Not your coworkers, not your friends."

You nod, nerves tangling with excitement, "okay… I can do that."

"Rule number four," she says, her tone dropping lower, more intimate. "You will tell me, if you´re not happy with something."

You swallow hard, your breath shallow, but something bold slipped out before you could stop it, "and what if I don’t?"

Her smirk turns sharp, dangerous, and intoxicating, "then I’ll make you wish you had."

You shift in your seat, both nervous and impossibly turned on, the push and pull between you sparking like electricity.

"Any questions so far, darling?" she asks sweetly, like she didn´t just rattled off rules that made your head spin.

You blink at her, trying to catch up, "um… just one. Do I at least get a safe word, or…?"

That makes her laugh outright, rich and throaty, "oh, you clever girl. Yes, of course. We’ll decide on one later."

Your chest puff slightly at the compliment, the nervousness giving way to something more daring. You lean forward just a little, matching her gaze, "okay, mistress.”

Her eyes turn dark with a hint of approval. The air is so thick with tension it was almost dizzying. Then Natasha tilts her head slightly, her smile softening just enough to throw you off balance.

"Do you have any experience with what we’ve talked about so far?"

You hasitate, then squared your shoulders, feeling a rare rush of confidence. "Not the sugar baby thing," you admit honestly. "But… other than that? Yes, pretty much."

For a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the city beyond her windows. Then Natasha’s smirk widens, a spark of genuine delight lighting her eyes. "You?" she says, incredulous, as if you being anything other than innocent would be the funniest joke. "You look like you’d get nervous ordering coffee."

You bite back a grin, "appearances are deceiving, ma’am," you say, voice steady.

Her laugh is short and pleased, "good. I like the idea of surprises." She leans forward, fingers drumming once on the desk. “Tell me one thing, what have you done that’s relevant? Just enough to make me not underestimate you.”

You keep eye contact, letting the little thrill of being read and still chosen swell inside you. "I can take direction, I´m pretty good at that, some uh.. kinks and stuff and I know how to push, too. Sometimes I like being the one who pushes."

Natasha’s eyebrows lift, "you push," she says slowly, tasting the word. "That’s very good. I hate boring."

"Then I’ll try not to be," you answer a flash of defiance dancing at the edge of your smile.

Her smirk becomes a smile that means trouble, in the best possible way. "Perfect. I don’t want someone who folds the second I look at them. I want a game. A brat I can break and then watch obey."

You swallow, oddly proud, "I can be spoiled, or I can be clever. Depends on the mood."

She stands, pacing once like she’s checking you over again from across the room. "We’ll iron everything out. Schedule, boundaries, financials, emergency contacts, safe word, expectations, how public you can be, who you can tell. There will be check-ins. You will not be left in situations that make you uncomfortable and you will not..." she stops and her voice softens just enough to make the promise feel warm, "...you will not be taken advantage of. Ever."

You nod, grateful and a little dizzy with relief and the dizzying proximity of her power, "that… sounds fair."

She returns to her chair and sits, folding her hands on the desk like a judge delivering a verdict. It takes the two of you probabbly around two hours to go over everything she talked about. To make sure both of you understand and know what is okay and what is not. You don´t really mind it took you so long, but your inner brat is tired and bored. And of course Natasha can tell, so after few seconds of analyzing you once again, she speaks up.

"Let´s test the waters, shall we?" your eyes perk up, "kneel."

You freeze. Your brain scatters a million thoughts, oh my god, holy shit, is this real? but the bratty half of you wants to flash that spark in her eyes.

"Um," you start, cheeks warm, eyes wide. Then you square your shoulders, as if answering a challenge, "yes, mistress."

You stand, take a deliberate step forward, and lower yourself to your knees. It’s slow, careful, theatrical. You keep your eyes locked on hers the entire time, letting your lashes drop then lift, making the movement a show. Your hands settle lightly in your lap, fingers flexing as if to emphasize control, not submission.

Natasha watches every inch of you, that smile curling in a way that tells you she’s pleased... very pleased. You feel heat bloom there, not just from the room, but from the power play unfolding, your defiant confidence against her composed command. You hold her gaze, slow and steady, because you know exactly what you’re doing and she knows it too.

"Look at you," she purrs, voice dripping with amusement. "Already on your knees for me. I didn’t even have to raise my voice."

You tilt your head, still kneeling, letting the brat peek through. "Maybe I’m just polite," you say lightly. "Doesn’t mean I’ll stay down here forever."

Her brow arches, "polite?" she repeats, as if tasting the word. "No, darling. That was not polite. That was deliberate. You wanted me to watch you take your time. You wanted me to see how bold you could be."

You bite back a grin, heat pooling between your legs, "and did it work?"

"Oh, it worked," Natasha says, walking toward you, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She stops just in front of you, looking down with that predator’s calm, "but it also told me something."

Your lips part, "what’s that?"

"That you need someone to make you behave," she reaches out, her fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face up. Her touch is feather-light, but her gaze pins you like a knife. "And lucky for you, I’m very good at that."

You laugh softly, nerves and thrill mixing, "oh are you?"

Her smirk grows, dangerous and delighted, "uh-huh."

There’s a beat of silence, just her eyes locked on yours, and then you test the waters, tilting your head against her hand, "you really think you can handle me, mistress?"

The way her eyes flash tells you you’ve struck gold. Natasha chuckles, low and throaty. “Handle you? Darling, I’ll have you begging before you realize how easy it was to unravel you."

A shiver runs through you, but you force a playful grin, "I like begging."

Her laugh is short, sharp, delighted. She crouches down so her face is level with yours, her hand sliding from your chin to the side of your throat, never pressing, just reminding you it’s there. "Then we’ll both have fun, won’t we?"

You swallow, nerves buzzing, but your bratty streak pushes forward, "you talk big, mistress. I’ll believe it when I see it."

"Oh, you won´t just see it," she promises, voice husky, steady. "you´ll feel it. And remember it."

Your breath stutters. You try to play it off with a teasing smirk, "sounds like you’re already planning to ruin me."

Natasha leans closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear without touching. “Oh, darling,” she whispers, sending goosebumps racing down your arms.

You freeze, pulse spiking, caught between nervous laughter and a moan, "holy shit," you whisper, your bravado slipping for just a second.

She pulls back just enough to see your expression, clearly savoring the crack in your armor, "what was that?"

You snap back quickly, smirking even as your cheeks burn, "I said, good luck."

Natasha’s smile is pure sin, "luck has nothing to do with it. You and I?" She gestures between you, her tone steady and confident. "We already fit. You don’t even realize it yet, but you will. Two pieces, clicking into place."

Before you can fire back with some witty retort, she bends to youand kisses you, slow at first, testing. Her lips are soft but commanding and when she nips your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, she takes the opportunity to deepen it. Her tongue slides against yours, controlled and purposeful and you lose your balance for a second, hands clutching at your thighs to steady yourself on the floor.

By the time she pulls back, you’re breathless. She tilts her head, eyes sharp, "what happened to all that bratty confidence, hm?"

You swallow hard, trying to rally, "it’s… still here," you manage, but your voice cracks.

Her smirk is devastating, "is it?" she traces her thumb over your lips. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re already trembling for me."

You open your mouth to deny it, but she presses her thumb inside, against your tongue, silencing you, "shh. Don’t argue."

Your whole body buzzes as she watches you, eyes dark, thumb holding you open like she owns every part of you already.

When she withdraws her hand, she wipes her thumb deliberately against your chin, marking you faintly with her touch. "Kneeling looks very good on you," she says, her voice low, measured. "Better than I imagined. But I think you need reminding why you’re here."

You breathe out shakily, daring yourself to keep up, "to… follow your rules?"

Her smile deepens, predatory, "exactly. And what was one of the rules?

Your cheeks flush, "my body… is yours when we’re together."

"Very good, darling," she leans forward again, lips grazing your ear, "then open your mouth and let me in."

You do, instantly, without thinking, and her fingers slip past your lips, two sliding over your tongue with a deliberate slowness that makes your head spin. She watches your eyes the entire time, smirking as you gag softly, testing your limit, then withdrawing just enough.

"Mm. That’s it," she murmurs approvingly. "You follow so beautifully when you’re not pretending to be a brat."

You whimper, hating and loving how easily she’s dismantling you. When she pulls her hand free, she tilts your chin up again, "on your feet."

You stand shakily, legs buzzingand she takes her time circling you, the way she did when you first entered the office, but now her hand trails across your hip, down your thigh, up your side, claiming you piece by piece.

She stops behind you, her breath hot against your ear. "Still think I can’t handle you?"

Your inner brat slips away, replaced with a shiver, "…no, mistress."

Her laugh is rich and satisfied, and her hand slides lower, teasing just above where you ache most. "Hm,now, let me show you just how easy it is to take that bratty little streak of yours… and turn it into begging."

You don’t even realize you’ve moaned until she chuckles again, already knowing exactly what to say, what to do, and exactly where to push.

Her hands move with expert confidence, mapping you, hip, waist, the small bundle of nerves, where your need aches the most. She angles you forward agaisnt her table, whispering, "move your legs-" before she can finish it, you do and that makes her chuckles, "good girl."

She pulls your pants and panties down, and you immedietly feel the cold, that makes your nipples perk up. She doesn´t really wait and thanks to you being so needy, sliding those long fingers in is more than easy.

You try to keep the brat alive, to pull back agaisnt her, to press some spark of control into the moment, "Is that-" you gasp, "is that all you’ve got?"

She hums against you, amused and more than a little fond. "Oh baby," she says, "I haven’t even started. But it looks like you´re almost finished."

Natasha pushed another finger inside of you, other hand squeezing your hip, hard and claiming. Her touch is dominating, her fingers relentless and every time you attempt to push or pout or spit a sassy line, she answers with a new angle, a palm at the small of your back to keep you bent, a whisper in your ear that makes your knees tremble, a command that has your body obeying before your brain catches up.

You’re both playing, but the game is changing. You meant to be the provocateur, the tease, but she’s an artist in control, and her art is undoing you slowly, lovingly, with deliberate cruelty. You find yourself folding around her, the brat still there, but smaller, coaxed into giggles and soft confessions.

"Say it," she orders suddenly, voice a velvet whip.

Your mouth is dry, the truth slipping free on a breath, "I want more-" you whisper, "please.- Please mistress."

Her smile is everything, but most approval and hunger. "Good girl," she says, her hands slows down, but thrust into you harder. After few seconds of pure torture you lose track of how you’re being undone, by her mouth, her hands, the way she orders you and then cradles you after each small collapse.

When you finally come apart, it’s jagged and sudden and utterly hers. When she eases off, you’re a raw. She rests a palm at the small of your back, keeping you there, keeping you close, as if you might float away otherwise.

"Not going anywhere," Natasha says, voice low and more tender than it was minutes ago. She slides an arm beneath your shoulders and lifts you with surprising gentleness, hauling you up and half-dragging you toward the couch like you’re both treasure and trouble. The leather welcomes you, she eases you onto it and tucks a cushion behind your head, hands still warm along your skin.

You stare at her, "what about y-you?"

She smiles, a slow, soft curve that melts the last of your defenses, "you don’t have to worry about anything."

"You’re sure?" you ask instead.

"Very," her thumb draws lazy, possessive circles on the back of your hand. She watches you like she’s memorizing you. "I’m satisfied. That’s not a debt to be repaid, darling. It’s an investment." There’s amusement in the way she says the last word and it sends a fresh bloom of heat right to your core.

That makes you smile, weak and stupid and delighted. The bratty part of you tries to flare, because old habits die hard. "You paid for me already," you murmur, half a challenge, half a dare.

Natasha´s hand lifts, the motion slow and deliberate. Without breaking eye contact she brings her palm down across your thigh in a sharp, measured smack. The sound is small in the quiet office, but enough to make your breath hitch. She smirks at your startled face, clearly amused by your flinch. "You’re needy," she says, fond and not unkind. "And bratty. Those two things make my life interesting." Her fingers trail up to cup your jaw lightly.

You bite your lip and try to pull the brat back on, because pride is stubborn, "Too bad I like being spanked," you say, half-sultry, half-defiant.

Her chuckle is low and affectionate, "of course you do." She bends, kissing your forehead with the same tenderness she used to dominate you earlier. " I like that you keep me entertained."

You gape at her, feeling seen and toyed-with and worshipped all at once. The brattiness melts into a grin, small but victorious, "so you’re saying you enjoy my chaos?" you tease.

"Don’t test me," she replies, amusement dancing in her eyes. Then, softer, "but yes. Your chaos is very nice... in a way," her thumb returns to absently trace the curve of your wrist.

You let the rest of your guard fall. She sits beside you on the couch now, still close enough that you can feel the warmth of her thigh against yours. Her hand tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Aftercare," she murmurs, as if reading from a list, and then actually begins the ritual, water poured into a cup, a damp towel to clean you up, steady words grounding you.

"You did very well," she says, voice steady and real.

You feel both small and enormous at once, and the mix makes you dizzy. "Thank you,"

Her fingers find your knee, squeezing with a possessive gentleness. "Now, tell me what hurt, where to press less, where to press more. We fine-tune. This is a partnership, in our own glorious way."

You think of all the ways she’s already taken care of you today, the careful attention to your limits, the fierce way she claimed you, "It was good, like really good. Maybe don’t let me get too cocky or I’ll try to steal the remote."

She laughs, the sound bright and pleased, "noted. Remote privileges revoked until further notice."

Bratty impulses rise again, small but stubborn. You attempt a tiny show of rebellion, a mock pout, a hand sliding in a teasing way across her knee. She catches your wrist with a gentle clamp and looks at you with a face that’s all approval and promise.

"You try that again and I’ll do it properly," she warns, but there’s no threat in her tone. Only a delicious certainty that she will, and you will love it. The word 'properly' hangs between you like an invitation.

You grin. Oh the brat is back in the game.

The rest of the hour is quiet rehearsing- directions whispered, boundaries confirmed, coins of intimacy traded, kisses, touches, jokes. She checks your breathing, presses a cool palm to your forehead and when you fall into a dozy half-sleep on the couch, she tucks you and rests beside you, still awake long enough to make sure you are safe. Two pieces, indeed, clicking into place, one curious and bratty, the other steady and indulgent. Both content, both wanting more, both dangerously, deliciously certain this is only the beginning.

The clock on the microwave blinks 3:13 AM.

You’re standing barefoot in the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, the other holding a cup of tea you’ve barely touched. The fan overhead is spinning, but the air still feels thick, too heavy to sleep in, too warm to relax.

You blame it on the heat. That’s the easiest excuse.

You tell yourself it’s the heat.

But really, it’s your thoughts. Again. The kind that stretch too long, too wide, where nothing feels particularly wrong, but you can’t make your body rest, can’t get your mind to hush.

You’re mid-sip when you hear soft footsteps padding down the hall.

And then she appears, Wanda, in one of your oversized shirts, her hair is a bit messy, eyes squinting gently in the dim light. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you.

"You okay?" she finally murmurs, her voice rasped by sleep.

You shrug, offering a weak smile, "can’t sleep."

"Hot?" she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

"Yeah," you lie.

Wanda walks to you slowly, like she knows better than to rush you. She brushes her fingers against your wrist as she passes to grab her own mug, but doesn’t let go. Doesn’t pull away.

You feel her thumb stroke softly along your skin. "Was it the dreams again?" she asks after a long pause, voice still soft, not pushing.

You shake your head, "no dreams. Just… couldn’t shut off." You don’t look at her when you say it, because you know she’ll see through everything.

But she steps in closer anyway.

You feel the front of her body meet yours, arms sliding up your sides like she’s reassembling you, piece by piece, with care. She rests her chin on your shoulder, her nose grazing your neck, and holds you like you’re not something to be fixed, just something to be held.

"You always do that," you whisper.

"Do what?"

"Make it better. Even when it’s just in my head."

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, her expression unreadably gentle. "It’s not just in your head if it’s keeping you up," she says. "And I’m not here to fix it. I’m just… here."

That’s it. That’s all she has to say. No lecture. No suggestions. No trying to problem-solve the thoughts spinning like static in your skull.

Just here.

You press your forehead to hers. You breathe her in. She smells like skin and vanilla and the cotton softness of sleep. And you melt.

Like your bones remember her. Like your body only ever rests fully when it’s curled next to hers.

Wanda pulls you by the hand out of the kitchen, silent, patient and back toward your bedroom. The fan hums low, the sheets are rumpled, but her hand is steady.

She slides into bed with you like a ritual. Wraps herself around you. Her hands slip beneath your shirt, not with want, but with need, like she needs to hold you skin to skin. Like your warmth is hers.

You don’t speak.

Her fingers trail slow, grounding lines across your back, your shoulders, your arms. You press your face into her neck and exhale. Finally.

And in that quiet, right before you let go of the day, "I don’t know how I’d sleep without you," you whisper.

Wanda smiles into your hair, "good thing you don’t have to."

You melt into her without meaning to, your limbs giving in, your breath evening out in shallow waves.

Wanda presses a soft kiss to your neck and murmurs, "still thinking?" she asks gently.

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes are closed, but your mind’s still too loud. Nothing sharp. Just too much.

"I just…" you start, then stop. "I don’t want to be annoying."

Wanda’s hand stills on your stomach, "you’re not."

You pull in a breath, but it catches a little, "I know, I just… I don’t want to weigh you down. You already do so much."

Wanda doesn’t try to argue right away. She just touches you again, fingertips along your ribs, up your side, slow and steady.

Then she says, soft and warm, "how about you let all the big thoughts come to me tonight, hm?"

You tense, just a little, "I don’t know if I can."

"You can," she says, her voice wrapping around you like the blanket you never quite need in this heat but always want anyway. "You don’t have to hold it all by yourself. Not with me."

You want to believe her. You do. But it’s hard to unclench. Hard to let go.

So she keeps talking, barely above a whisper now. Like a lullaby. Like something safe.

"Let me take the worry," she murmurs. "Let me carry the weight for a little while. You’ve been so strong. So tense. So quiet. You don’t have to be tonight."

Her touch follows the shape of her words, up your chest, the softest brush along your collarbone, down your arm where you’re clutching the pillow.

You start to loosen, little by little. It doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like floating.

"Let yourself rest," Wanda says. "I’ll be here the whole time."

You move under her hand, pressing closer, your knees tucked slightly, like you’re trying to crawl inside her and live where the noise can’t reach.

Wanda shifts behind you, slow and unhurried, her legs tangling gently with yours beneath the covers. Her breath brushes the shell of your ear as her fingers begin to trace lazy, featherlight lines down your stomach, barely there. Just enough to pull a small sigh from your lips.

"Good girl," she whispers, not like a command, but a comfort. A quiet reward. "You’re doing so well, letting go like this."

Your breath hitches, your body pliant against hers. You feel her smile softly into your skin.

She continues speaking, "that’s it, baby. Just let me think for you tonight. Let me take it all."

Her hand moves again, warm and slow, sliding under your pants. Not rushing. Just touching. Reassuring. "You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be anything," she breathes. "Just mine. Just like this."

You let out a soft whimper, not quite a sound you meant to make, but it’s all you can make.

Her lips graze the edge of your jaw as she murmurs, "doesn’t that feel better? Giving it all to mommy?"

Your body goes still for a moment. Then melts. It’s not about control. It never is with Wanda. It’s about safety. About knowing she wants everything you carry... every burden, every ache, every little thing you don’t know how to name.

"Yes, mommy," you whisper, barely audible.

She holds you tighter, her hand making you feel better, more calm, more relaxed, dipping low and then back up again, like she’s rocking your thoughts to sleep.

"That’s my girl," she hums. "So soft like this. So quiet. You don’t need to think anymore."

The way she speaks, slow, hypnotic, coats your brain in warmth. You feel floaty, like you’re in her arms and nowhere else exists.

You press your body closer to hers, a gentle shiver running through you as her voice curls in your ear like a spell.

"I’ll take care of you," she whispers. "Always. You don’t have to be strong right now. You just get to feel. You get to be mine."

She kisses your shoulder, "give it to me, darling," she whispers, almost like she’s casting a spell. "All of it. Every thought, every worry. I’ll hold it for you."

Your breath hitches, then releases. And with it, something deep and tight inside you lets go.

Your body softens. Your fingers unclench. Your mind quiets, not empty, but… surrendered. Like if she’s here, you don’t need to hold on anymore.

She feels it happen. The shift. The drop. You, in her arms, fully letting her in.

"There you are," she says, smiling into your skin. "I’ve got you now."

Her hand rests low on your belly again, palm flat, fingers spread. Claiming you in the gentlest way. The touch is gentle, grounding. The kind of touch that says you’re safe.

"Everything else can wait," she says. "Tonight is just for us. For you. For this soft little baby in my arms, doing so well…"

You exhale shakily, and she kisses the spot behind your ear. Her mouth lingers there.

"I’ve got you, baby. Mommy’s got you."

And that’s all it takes.

Your mind finally lets go completely, no more spinning, no more buzzing. Just her. Just Wanda. Your Wanda. Her touch, her voice, her warmth.

The glass door slide open and Kate walks out looking entirely too pleased with herself. Sam takes one look at her expression and immediately smirks.

Kate points both thumbs at herself, "nailed it."

"You had ten minutes," Yelena mumbles.

"And I got a laugh at minute one."

"You are exhausting," Rio tilts her head with a fake smile.

"Thank you," Kate rejoins the others.

"You are acting like a kid," Carol shoots Kate a glare.

"I´m acting like someone who won´t give you a single chance to steal my girl."

"So it´s your girl now?" Carol steps closer to Kate from the line up, while Natasha just meets Wanda eyes.

Sam physically steps between them, "alright." He claps once, "ladies, before we descend into whatever this is," he gestures vaguely toward Kate, "... let´s remember that this is a classy and very serious program."

All the girls looks at Sam, after a while he nods. "Okay, nobody believed that. Fair." A few laughs ripple through the room. He reaches into the golden bowl once more. "Let´s see who fate has selected next." He smiles knowignly, "completly different vibe, just like I like it."

All ladies exchange curious looks, "Natasha Romanoff, you´re next." Sam nods towards the room.

Natasha simply lifts her gaze, smiles softly. Then begins walking towards you. No silly performance, no cocky smirks or crazy confidence. Just certainty.

As she approaches, you notice details you hadn´t fully processed earlier. The elegant cut of her fit. The delicate gold jewlery at her wrist. The subtle parfume that smells expensive without trying to. And the strong confidence, not too much, but you can tell it´s there.

Natasha stops in front of you, her expression warm. Like she has all the time in the world, even when the time is ticking. "Ready?" Her voice is low and smooth.

You immediately forget what your answer was supposed to be. "Uh, uh-huh."

Excellent. Nice one, really.

"That´s a promising start." Natasha´s smile deepens slightly. Heat immediately rises into your cheeks.

You sit across from eachother. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Natasha doesn´t seem bothered by that. She simply settles comfortably into her spot and looks at you. Not throught you or around you, at you. Like she is trying to figure you out.

And once again you become aware of every single thing you´re doing. Where your hands are. How you´re sitting. Whether you´re breathing weirdly. Just everything at once.

Natasha tilts her head slightly, "what are you thinking about?"

You blink, "right now?"

"Mhm."

"Honestly?" She nods.

You laugh nervously, "I´m thinking that eye contact should probably be illegal, because you´re definetly seeing right throught me."

That earns another small smile, "interesting."

"Is it? Or just lame?"

"You noticed my eyes before my question." Her eyes meet yours again.

You point accusingly, "see, that´s exactly what I mean."

"What?" Natasha tilts her head, her hair falling perfectly over her shoulder.

"You´re analyzing me."

Natasha shrugs, "I´m getting to know you."

You narrow your eyes, "that´s... the same thing. But- I guess... it´s kinda comforting from you."

"Is it?" She smiles more.

You nod, "you have this kind energy vibe going on."

Natasha chuckles, "I´ve been told, glad you think so too."

God. This woman.

Then Natasha leans back slightly, "tell me something."

"Okay."

"When do you feel most like yourself?" You pause. The question catchesyou off guard. Not because it´s difficult, maybe a little bit, but... because not many people asked you this before.

Natasha waits. No rush, no interruption, her whole attention on you. And for some reason im makes you feel so comfortable. So you answer her, and that somehow turns into another answer and another. Talking about people you love. The things you´re passionate about. The moments that make life feel bigger. The small things that make you happy. And through all of it... Natasha listens, really listens, ask questions, offers observations.

"I think that was the best day of my life," you simply state after a fun memory you just shared.

"Oh, yeah?" The cute smile on her face again, you just nod.

And thanks to that, you keep talking. Because she makes you feel like what you´re saying matters. It´s honestly unfair how easy this is to the other girls.

At one point you stop mid-sentence, Natasha raises an eyebrow, "what?"

You shake your head, "no, this is weird."

"What is?"

"You´re very good at this," you chuckle shyly.

"At talking?"

"At listening."

That seems to suprise her, a little. Natasha´s gaze softens, "I think people deserve to be heard."

Your heart immediately decides this is the hottest thing anyone has said tonight. Which is ridiculous, Kate literally called you pretty and somehow this feels... more. The conversation continues.

Before you know it, soft chime sounds.

No. Absolutely not.

Natasha glances towards the ceiling, then back to you. The smallest hint of disappointment crosses her face. Gone almost immediately, but you catch it.

"So that´s it?" you ask.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Natasha smiles. "Sounds like you wanted more time."

Your face instantly heats up, "I mean-"

Natasha laughs, the sound settles warmly in your chest. Then she rises from her seat, you do the same. And suddenly you´re standing much closer than before. Close enought to notice the tiny flecks of gray in her eyes.

"You know," Natasha says softly, "my favorite pieces of art are rarely the ones people understand immediately." You swallow hard, but she continues, "they are the ones that stay with you." Her gaze doesn´t leave yours. "The ones that reveal something different every time you look at them."

Oh.

You cross your arms, mostly because your hands have become unrealiable. "You like being mysterious, huh?" You tease.

Natasha considers that, then shrugs. "I like giving people a reason to come back."

Your brain completely stops working, Natasha notices. Of course she notices. The smile she gives you afterward is positively unfair. Then she leans in slightly, not enough to invade your space. Just enought to make your heart forget its responsibilities.

"Fortunately," she says softly, "I think we´ll have more than ten minutes." Then like she hasn´t just altered your entire nervous system, Natasha steps past you and heads towards the door. Leaving you standing there, completly still.

When the door closes behind her, your head falls back agasint the nearest wall. "Oh my god." Somehwere outisde, you can already hear Sam beginning his next introduction.

But for a moment all you can think about are her beautiful eyes.