Vee! ᱬ ⧗

When you wake, your first instinct is to cling. Your body feels tired still, despite all the sleep. There will no doubt be bruises blooming on your skin, but last night feels too far away to contemplate those aches, like it was experienced by another person entirely. This morning your head is cloaked in the marshmallow fog of something beyond your usual subspace, something fluffy and fragile and undeniably small. Right now all you can think of is them, and you need to know that they’re beside you, that they will cushion your fall. 

Today it’s Natasha’s turn to be on the receiving end of your clinginess, since she’s the one in front of you when your eyes open and the fuzzy desperation kicks in. Your fingers find her vest top and wrap around the bottom of the strap, clinging to the triangle of fabric like this will anchor you to her forever. She’s asleep, which surprises you. Natasha is always awake before you, always ready. Seeing her sleeping is strange, and although she looks so pretty and peaceful like this, you need her awake so you can reassure yourself of her love.

One more little tug prompts Natasha’s eyes to flicker open, and her lips curl into a smile when she meets your avid gaze. One glance down at your hand tells her everything she needs to know about your mindset this morning. You’re floating in the hot air balloon which always carries you away after an intense scene. The aftercare they give you inflates the balloon with warmth, and it rises according to the amount they give, the amount you need. This time their sweetness and reassurance has sent you so high into the clouds, there is no sign of returning to land anytime soon. The twitching of your nose and the way your knuckle sits between parted lips are telltale signs of this. Natasha knows you, and she knows that your head always gets more fuzzy as the altitude increases. Softer. Smaller.

Natasha cups your cheek and kisses you on the forehead. You just blink at her with doe-eyes for a while, feeling awestruck and expectant, then you wriggle a little closer and nuzzle into her arm. She is your whole world right now, and it takes a while for your brain to make space for anyone else. When you remember, you turn around to find the bed empty on your other side. 

“Mommy is in the bathroom,” Natasha tells you, gesturing with her eyes towards the ensuite door, which is surrounded by the slight glow which signals its occupied status. Her words reassure you instantly, both from the explanation and her ready use of the right title. It simply clicks together in your brain without need for translation, the puzzle pieces the right size and offering the right connections. You turn back to her, replacing your head against her arm. Once safely nestled, you sigh out your content, your breath warm against her arm — probably tickling the soft blonde hairs which grow there. She strokes the back of your head with the hand of the arm you have claimed, her open palm running down the braid she made last night. Her other arm is wrapped around your waist, her fingers creeping up your vest and dancing lightly up and down the bumps of your spine, which protrude a little in your curled-up state. You always seem smaller, somehow, on mornings like this. Perhaps because your limbs are always tucked in, pulling things close and clinging to your girlfriends, or any other source of comfort you can find in the devastating but rare event of their absence. 

“What do you want for breakfast, little one?” she asks, and you frown, lips pouting against your knuckle. Your brain is too fuzzy to think. Can’t she see that? Mommy would know; Mommy would take over if you were silent for so long. But Natasha is just waiting, expecting an answer you can’t give.

“Mama choose,” you mewl, the words slipping out without planning, without any awareness that this name is new.

There’s a pause, in which she stops stroking your arm and stays motionless and silent for a few moments. Just long enough to make something stir beneath the fog; the slightest niggle of worry twitching in your belly. But before it can awaken, she resumes the soft motions of her fingers on your skin and responds to you with a measured calm. 

“Okay,” Natasha says quietly. “Mama can choose when she is out the bathroom.”

You look up at her then, feeling a little lost. Something isn’t right about her answer. Why the need for waiting? You don’t get it, but you also don’t have the words to question it. So you wait, thoughts too disconnected to contemplate the confusion. 

When Wanda opens the door she immediately breaks into a smile at the sight of you and her wife curled up together. Natasha frees one hand from you to gesture for her to come, and Wanda approaches, sitting on the bed and stroking your thigh. 

“Our little one wants you to choose what we have for breakfast,” Natasha tells her, and you look up at her, your eyes glistening with tears when you process what she’s saying. 

“No!” you whine, clamouring for her to understand, tugging at her top in frustration. “Mama choose.”

She stares down at you, her eyebrows furrowed. There’s no recognition, no understanding in her eyes.

“My love,” Wanda says, huffing with laughter. “She doesn’t mean me. She means you.”

Natasha’s lips part into a small O, and you begin to tremble. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want you. You turn your head into her arm, because there’s nowhere else to hide. 

“Oh, baby…” Natasha breathes, stroking your back as you sob. “Is that right?” She pauses, finds your chin and tilts it up so you look at her again. There’s an odd expression on her face. She seems nervous, and it scares you. “Am I… am I mama?”

You give the smallest nod, then pull away from her hand to hide again, because you can’t bear to see the disgust on her face. You can’t bear the shame. 

“Oh.” It’s a tiny sound she emits. A sound that wavers and crackles with emotion. You cry into her despite her obvious distaste. You cry over what you’ve said, what you’ve done. But then she moves her arms, putting her hands under your armpits, scooping you up and turning you until you’re sitting side-saddle on her lap and hiding your face in her shoulder. “Baby, I... I’d love to be your mama.” 

Your sobs stutter a moment, as you process her words. But you’re too scared to believe them. Too scared to emerge from your safe place hidden in her shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t understand at first, little one,” she tells you, stroking your hair and then wiping away your tears when you look up at her in hope. She has tears of her own, pooling on her lashes and making her eyes twinkle. “I get it now. I — Mama was just a bit surprised for a moment. Happy surprised. Because you’re mine, and I’m so, so lucky to have you.” 

She rocks you then, hushing your leftover cries of overwhelm and kissing your forehead until you calm down and your breath slows. Her body is warm against yours, her grip steady and sure. She’s holding you so tightly, you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

“My girls,” Wanda hums happily, stroking the back of your neck and playing with the baby hairs that didn’t make it into the braid. She leans forward and gives Natasha a kiss on the lips, her hand still gently placed on the back of your neck. You watch, blinking away the tears that still cling to your lashes. Your mamas are so pretty. 

“So what does mama want for breakfast?” Wanda prompts, smiling between you and Natasha, who grins. 

“I am thinking pancakes,” she hums. “What do you think, malen’kaya printsessa?” 

You wrinkle up your nose at the nickname, because it’s new. But new doesn’t mean bad; new just means you’re not sure. But pancakes aren’t new. Pancakes you are very sure about. So you nod. 

“Pancakes it is, then,” she murmurs. “Our princess has spoken.” And she gives you a kiss on the nose, making you giggle. 

“Pancakes sounds wonderful,” Wanda agrees, and she tickles your feet just a little, prompting a pout. 

“Mommyyyy…” you whine, “no tickles!” 

“Sorry baby,” Wanda apologises, stopping at once and giving you a kiss on your cheek, which makes your pout evaporate. “Now, who would you like to make pancakes?”

You consider that for a moment. Mama usually makes the pancakes, and she makes them well. But Mommy is an excellent cook. You’re sure she can manage, and that would mean you could stay right here where it’s comfy, cradled on Mama’s lap. 

“Mommy make them please?” you ask quietly, feeling a wobble in your tummy at the act of choosing, in case you upset her. “And Mama stay?”

“Of course baby,” Wanda tells you, with a smile that soothes your worries. “Such beautiful manners too, my darling girl. You stay here with Mama, and I’ll make the pancakes.”

“Not big ones,” you clarify quickly, heart thudding at the thought. You hate big pancakes. They make your mouth feel fluffy and your tummy feel too full. But Mommy doesn’t seem to understand; she’s wearing that frown which means she’s thinking hard and still doesn’t know what you mean. But you can’t work out how to explain; the words won’t fit together. So you bury your face in your Mama’s neck, upset at your ineptitude and resigning yourself to a yucky breakfast.

“She means she doesn’t want them to be too thick,” Natasha says smoothly. “She wants thin ones — blinis, rather than American pancakes. That’s right, isn’t it, little one?” She guides you to raise your head with a gentle stroke of your cheek, clearly wanting to check your face for confirmation.

You smile at her in relief, and nod. You turn to face Wanda then, giving your Mommy a nod too, just to make sure. She smiles back at you.

“Of course, I forgot how much my baby likes thin pancakes. I’ll make lots and lots, and then you can do the toppings yourself, when they’re ready. Does that sound okay, little one?” 

You nod again, then fall back into Natasha’s hold with a sigh, watching your Mommy leave with a slight sadness, but one which is soothed by your Mama’s steady stroking of your arms. 

You stay quiet for a while, your bodies melting together and heartbeats slowing to a synchronised thud. 

“I love you so much, baby,” she whispers into the crown of your head. “You have no idea how much it means to me, to be your Mama.”

You look up at her, and see her smiling down at you, her cheeks glistening with tears. You reach up, trying to stroke them away, the way she and Mommy do for you.

“Happy?” you nervously check, as your thumb brushes one away.

“Yes, kroshka moya. Happy tears. Very happy tears.”

Even despite her reassurance, your eyes begin to water too. You can’t help it. Seeing anyone cry always sets you off. And you feel so fragile right now, so wobbly. 

“Oh, baby,” she coos, returning the favour and mirroring your actions, wiping away a tear with a gentle stroke of her thumb. “Look at the two of us, hm? Are these happy tears too?”

You nod, your hand lifting to grab at her own, needing something to hold, needing another piece of her, although you have so much already.

“Love you, Mama,” you whisper, and Natasha closes her eyes a moment and takes a deep breath, like she’s feeling something too big to share. Then she opens her eyes, and she leans her head down so her forehead presses against yours, skin touching skin.

“Mama loves you too,” she whispers back, her lips forming the words so close to your face that they become part of the air you breathe. The words settle in your lungs, seep into your blood and are pumped around your body until every fibre of your being is marked by the sentiment and imbued with your Mama’s love. 

“So very much, baby. Forever.”

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, especially if this is something you didn't expect me to post/don't usually read. I don't have any experience of age regression but I found this really comforting to write, so if there are folk who enjoyed it then I might do/share more of this kind of writing in the future. Please let me know what you think -- constructive comments are welcome too (as long as they are kind) ♡