Cabello

“Sit on it, baby.”

The dildo suctioned onto the chair is intimidating, thick with ridges perfectly placed to torment your pussy. It’s your least favourite of your toy collection. Of course, that makes it Natasha’s favourite.

“I’m not going to ask again,” she warns when you hesitate. Her movement is slow, predatory as she takes a single step towards you. “Sit. Down. Now. Or I’ll fucking make you.”

Your dominant’s tone sends a chill down your spine and you know that you should obey, lest you make this worse than it's already going to be.

“Yes, ma'am,” you all but squeak. The satisfied hum from Natasha has another flood of wetness coating your thighs.

Your legs are shaky as you obediently step up to the chair, your heart rate heightened from an intoxicating combination of arousal and spine-chilling fear. Natasha likes to play rough. She loves to break you down, belittle you, shatter you until you’re reduced to nothing but her toy to use. She is nothing short of sadistic—and you love it.

The toy isn’t lubed and that, in addition to the lack of a warm-up, has you wincing as the tip of the dildo breaches your hole. Natasha’s eyes are focused on your cunt, enraptured as the silicone disappears into your wetness. You manage to lower yourself down maybe an inch before you falter, the stretch agonising (perfect).

“Ma'am, I can’t, it’s too much—fuck!”

Natasha reaches out and slams your hips down on the toy, cackling at the scream it elicits. “Aw baby, did that hurt? Was it just too much for your little cunt?”

You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes already as your pussy protests the intrusion. You feel unbearably full—not helped by your full bladder, resultant of Natasha plying you with glasses of water all day.

“Tears already, darling?” Natasha muses, wiping away a tear with the pad of her thumb. “This is going to be fun.”

You fight the sobs, refusing to give in just yet. You won’t let her break you (well… at least not without her putting in a bit of effort). A harsh pinch of your nipple threatens to break your composure; you look up at a grinning Natasha with as much defiance as you can muster.

“Fight all you like, little girl. We both know that in the end, you’ll break for me.”

With a sharp smack to your thigh, she retreats, leaving you impaled on the dildo as she saunters over to a table just out of your view. You take a moment to breathe, closing your eyes as the pulsing of your clit threatens to drive you mad.

You start, eyes shooting open as your arms are suddenly yanked behind your back. You initially try to struggle but with Natasha’s iron grip all it does is move the dildo inside you. The harsh ridges scrape along your g-spot and you cry out, already overstimulated, unbearably full, and undeniably turned on.

“Good girl,” Natasha praises as you settle, staying as still as a statue as the dildo threatens to shatter you. “Be a good little slut and stay still. We both know you want this.”

“No! Please don’t do this. Please, I don’t want this, it’s too much!”

You want it. You had practically begged to play out this scene. And unless you use your safeword or safe signal, Natasha isn’t going to stop. You don’t want her to stop.

Natasha continues to bind you tightly to the chair. She’s rough in her ministrations, each jerk causing the dildo to move and you to whimper—she’s definitely doing it on purpose. Your wrists are tied to the posts of the armrest, tight rope snaking around the bottom of your bare chest and the back of the chair. Natasha flashes you a sadistic grin before she loops another length of rope around your lower stomach. She pulls tight and you gasp at the pressure it applies to your full bladder.

“No, please, no, ma'am, stop—“

A harsh slap to the inside of your thigh. “Shut the fuck up and take it like the slut you are. You know you like it.”

You hate that she’s right.

Natasha’s movements slow as she takes the penultimate length of rope. She trails the material over your hip, down your sensitive inner thigh, and once she reaches your knee, she yanks your legs open as wide as they will go, baring yourself to her. She makes quick work of restraining first your thighs and then your ankles before drawing back to admire her work. Her gaze hones in on your aching pussy and you instinctively try to close your legs, only to be stopped by the tight rope. A low moan escapes you as the reality of your situation sinks in.

Natasha tuts as she regards the wetness pooling on the chair, soaking the base of the dildo stretching you open. “Oh, kotyonok, you’re making such a mess.” A harsh slap, directly on your throbbing clit. You can’t suppress your scream. “Such a fucking slut. So easy for me. My perfect little fucktoy.”

You clench hard around the dildo. Natasha doesn’t miss it, if the sparkle in her eye is anything to go by.

“Don’t get too comfortable yet,” Natasha says as she strides over to the table once more. “I’m not quite done setting up.”

A chill runs down your spine. What else could she possibly have up her sleeve?

Scenario after scenario runs through your brain like a supercut, each one more sadistic than the last. Your spiralling thoughts are interrupted by Natasha stepping back into your line of sight, holding a final length of rope and a powerful wand vibrator.

“No,” you whimper. You can’t do this. It’s too much. The dildo is stretching you to the point of pain, your bladder is screaming for relief, and this? Your most powerful vibrator? You don’t know if you can handle it. “Ma'am, no, please, don’t do this, I can’t—fucking hell!”

The heavy blow to your clit has you breaking down into sobs. Natasha’s face is emotionless as she presses the wand firmly against you, securing it to your thigh with a well-practised knot. She checks the knot is secure and then draws back until her nose is millimetres from yours, hands braced on your thighs.

“I don’t care if you can’t do it. You will do it. I don’t give a fuck if it hurts, if it’s too much for your sensitive little pussy. You’re going to be a good slut and take it, or it gets so much worse for you, dekta.”

You’re not sure how this situation could get any worse, but you know better than to push it right now, lest your question is answered. You manage a nod and try to suppress your sobs, forcing your shoulders to still.

“Nu-uh, don’t stop crying. I want to hear you beg for mercy.”

And with that she clicks the vibrator on.

The low pulse is almost welcome at first. But then she clicks the toy up another level. And another. And another. And suddenly it's no longer so pleasant.

Your hips buck of their own accord, whether to chase the pleasure or to try to escape, you're unsure. Each buck of your hips has the dildo grinding inside you, pressing on your bladder as the rope around your abdomen further constricts it. You cry and gasp, barely aware of anything except the overwhelming sensation assaulting your pussy.

Natasha must decide to take advantage of your daze as, without warning, cold metal closes over your right nipple, a harsh pinch which makes you yelp. It's quickly replicated on your left nipple, followed by a harsh tug to both that has you shrieking. Even with your vision blurred by tears, you can make out the shape of the nipple clamps and the chain that connects them. She gives the chain another sharp tug, cackling as you writhe in pain.

“Ma'am, no, please—” A hiccuping sob. “Ma'am stop, it hurts, ma'am, please, I need you to stop, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—!”

“Aw, did little kotyonok bite off more than they can chew? You asked for this, remember?” Her eyes are sparkling as she watches you writhe and sob. You’re still aware enough to notice her subtly grinding against her palm, the sight sending another jolt of arousal through your system. “Yeah, you were practically on your knees, begging me to use you, to hurt you. You pathetic little slut, you get off on me hurting you?”

Her mocking words have you clenching hard around the dildo. Natasha’s cold laugh cuts through the fog of overstimulation, pushing you even closer towards that edge. Against your will, your hips move faster, grinding against the dildo, chasing the pleasure, even as it pushes hard against your bursting bladder. The sudden insistent pressure cuts through your thoughts with startling clarity, sending you into a spiral of panic.

“Fuck, ma'am, I need to pee! Please, stop, I need to go pee!”

“I don’t fucking care. Your comfort means nothing to me. And your dignity… well, that means even less.”

Your cheeks flame red even as the embarrassment has a fresh wave of arousal twisting your stomach. The idea of being unable to hold it, of having an accident here, in front of her, in such a compromising position is purely unbearable but undeniably intoxicating. But still, you struggle, protest, play Natasha’s game.

“No, ma'am, please don’t do this, please, it’s humiliating, please let me go, I need to go—!”

“Hmm…” Natasha stands there with her head cocked to the side, leisurely observing you as you struggle and cry. Her face softens, a small smile quirking the corners of her lips. In your current state, you almost think she is relenting (almost).

“Let’s make a deal, baby girl. If you can be a good little slut and hold back from coming for five minutes, I’ll untie you so you can go to the bathroom. But if you fail, if that greedy little pussy just can’t help itself… “ The gentle mask falls from her face, revealing the sadistic predator that lies below. “Well, what’s a little more mess?”

You collapse into sobs. Natasha’s ultimatum offers little relief to your over-stretched bladder. Five minutes could well be an eternity.

Your brain's too far gone to notice that she doesn't set a timer. You're not meant to win. This is all a cruel trick, an elaborate con to fool you into a sense of control so she can just rip it away at the last second. You will never have the luxury of choice here. You are nothing but Natasha's plaything; her entertainment. And she had already decided how this ends before she even step foot in the room.

She bends over so her face is right in yours, a firm hand holding your chin in place. “Aw kotyonok, you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”

You shake your head minutely, not even to disagree with her statement, but simply to express your mortification at the entire situation as words elude your rapidly clouding thoughts. Natasha recognises the way your expression glazes over, intimately familiar with the signs of you falling into that headspace she adores.

“Aw, is that little head getting all fuzzy for me, kotyonok? Is it just too much for your little brain to handle? Good thing this isn’t about that smart little brain of yours; this is about your slutty little cunt.”

She punctuates her statement by turning the vibrator up even higher before pressing down on your bladder - hard.

You feel a small trickle of piss leak onto the chair beneath you, your cheeks flaring with heat. Embarrassment seizes your chest. But it also makes you overwhelmingly aware of your current position, and the realisation of just how vulnerable you currently are throws fuel on the fire that is your building pleasure and you know that you're not going to make it to five minutes. You're not even going to last another thirty seconds.

“I-I can’t hold it, I’m gonna come—I need to pee—I need to come, fuck, m-ma'am—!”

Natasha clicks the vibrator up one final level. “Go on, come for me printsessa. Let that pretty cunt explode.”

Your body obeys, ever a slave to her every word. The world ceases to exist as pleasure bursts through every synapse in your body, a scream escaping you as Natasha yanks the clamps off of your nipples. Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of an avalanche, blinding pleasure whiting out your vision as all thoughts cease and all you can do is feel.

For a brief moment, everything goes fuzzy, the world vanishing for a second as your consciousness slips. But Natasha is there, whispering praises and reassurances, guiding you back to awareness, even if your body is still slack and unmoving and your head blissfully empty.

“Good girl,” she whispers, kneeling before you, your cheeks cradled between her hands. “That’s it, you’re okay. You don’t have to do anything, dorogaya, I’m here, you’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

She doesn’t ever need to say it. You know that fact like the back of your hand.

After a long moment, you slowly blink your eyes open, Natasha’s face slowly coming into focus. Her slight frown quickly brightens as your eyes meet hers. “Hey, there’s my pretty girl.”

You return her smile, brain still too fuzzy to manage anything more. You know that Natasha understands everything you want to say just from that simple expression: I’m okay. I enjoyed that. Thank you.

With you feeling slightly more grounded, Natasha moves to begin untying you. As she works, removing first the powered-off vibrator, before untying your legs and arms, you become aware of the pool of wetness you sit in, far larger than should have occurred from you just coming. A wave of embarrassment surges through you as you realise that you must have lost control of your bladder, the shame sitting heavy on your chest now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Natasha’s brow immediately furrows and she kneels before you again, hands cupping your cheeks as she searches your face. “What for, baby girl? For peeing?”

Your sudden inability to meet her gaze tells her all she needs to know.

“Hey, it’s okay, darling,” she says, her thumbs gently running over your cheeks in a soothing pattern. “Remember, we planned this. Remember how enthusiastic I was when you proposed it? This is what I wanted. I’m not judging you at all. In fact, I’m proud of you.”

That makes you look up. “R-Really?”

“Yes. So, so proud, and so, so honoured that you trust me enough to be that vulnerable with me. It means more than you know.”

A beat passes.

“But we do need to move you out of this mess, that can’t be comfortable.”

You chuckle slightly and shake your head in affirmation.

“I’m going to lift you off the dildo and move you to the bed, okay? It’s gonna feel really awful for a moment but I promise it’ll be better soon. Is that alright, dorogaya?”

You manage a nod and Natasha’s arms wrap around you as she encourages you to wrap your own around the back of her neck. “Three. Two. One.”

Your groan of discomfort has Natasha whispering profuse apologies as she lifts you off of the dildo and into her arms. You cling to her like a koala, head buried in her neck as she carries you over to the bed and gently lays you down with a kiss to your forehead. You cling to her sweatshirt and grab at the air with a frown as she retreats.

“I’m going to go run the bath, dorogaya,” she says, taking your hand, which is still feebly trying to reach for her, and giving it a kiss. “I’ll be back in just a moment. I promise.”

You can see the sincerity in her eyes and that is enough to get you to loosen your grip and allow her to go attend to the bath in the en-suite.

There’s a brief flicker of panic in your chest as she leaves your side, but the calm quickly returns. She’ll be back, she always comes back. She’s never given you any reason to doubt that. You have no doubt she already has everything lined up and ready, so all that she needs to do is turn the tap. Natasha is like that - she plans everything down to the tiniest little detail, especially when it comes to you.

And surely enough, she soon reappears, this time to carry you with her into the bathroom. Steam is already creating a haze in the room reminiscent of the post-scene haze in your mind. Natasha gently—oh so gently—places you down in the water and you sigh involuntarily as the warm water wraps around your exhausted body. Natasha is quick to slip in behind you, gentle movements so at odds with her in-scene demeanour cradling you against her.

You blink down hazily, struggling to control your ragged breaths. Your hands are braced next to Wanda's waist, sliding the smooth curve of her strap between your folds. You squeeze your legs together harder when the blunt tip bumps against you on the forward slide, gasping sharply when it presses firm and heavy on the reverse. A whimper slips out at the wet, needy sounds echoing in the bedroom. You freeze mid-motion, heat rushing up your tummy and neck out of embarrassment.

"Look at Mommy," Wanda commands.

You look up slowly, sucking in your bottom lip when your body accidentally shifts. You meet her gaze. Her green eyes are dark, nearly black, as she studies your face. Her head rests lazily against the headboard, watching you like an entertaining television show. Her eyes move lower, noting the way you inch forward, your walls clenching, wanting to be filled.

Desperate, you rock forward until the tip rests right against your opening.

Wanda’s hands shoot to your hips. Her fingertips dig hard into your hipbones, anchoring you in place before you can push any further. Her stern voice cuts straight through the pounding in your ears.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Her eyebrow raises, the corner of her lip pulling up in a disbelieving smirk. With a sudden shift, she pulls you back, letting the tip slip out entirely and forcing you down near the base.

You groan quietly, your eyebrows pulling together in frustration. You were so close to being full after the past twenty minutes of torture.

Before you can even blink, Wanda grips your wrist and yanks it toward her. With your balance gone, you barely manage to plant your hand higher up, stopping your face inches from her bare breasts.

She leans in, her breath hot against your ear. "Answer Mommy's question," she whispers, sending a shiver down your spine. Her tone drops, her voice dripping with condescension. "Or is my baby too stupid to speak right now?"

You whine pitifully, burying your face in her chest to hide from her gaze. Your thoughts are beginning to slow, your limbs turning into jelly. "I-I didn't do it on purpose," you manage to mumble out.

Her hand leaves your hip, her thumb and index finger clamping firmly around your chin to force your face back up. She's wearing that amused, knowing expression she gives you whenever she catches you out in an obvious lie.

"Say that again," she orders, tilting her head. "Say it clearly, and I'll let you have your way." She leans closer, her lips brushing yours as she speaks. "If you can do it, Mommy will slide her cock all the way inside you, just like you want."

You bite your bottom lip hard, the image making your opening gush and your insides tighten. You suck in a deep breath, releasing it slowly to prepare yourself. Wanda's other hand releases your wrist and moves it beside you.

Your voice trembles despite the preparation. "I didn't—"

You cut off with a sharp gasp as Wanda’s thumb presses hard against your clit, rubbing in slow, heavy circles.

"Hmm..." Wanda drawls, her voice far too bright and cheerful against your growing dread. "I guess you couldn't do it. And here I thought my baby was smart. All you had to do was say six words."

She releases your chin, her thumb moves to press your bottom lip open, moving against your lip in the exact same slow rhythm her other thumb is using against your clit. Her eyes are bright, her breaths heavy, clearly pleased by how easily she can manipulate your mouth.

It's unfair.

"But… but you" you start, your words jumbled from Wanda slipping her thumb deeper between your lips, pressing down on your tongue. "You cheated," you just barely manage to choke out when she applies more pressure.

Wanda tilts her head, her expression morphing into an innocent, pitying smile. "How could I have cheated when the rules only apply to you?" she asks slowly, speaking as if she doesn't think you can comprehend simple words.

"Y-You—" you stammer in disbelief.

She abruptly presses her thumb hard against your clit, forcing a sharp cry from your throat as your body jerks against her. She continues speaking as if you aren't wriggling uncontrollably on top of her. Every time you try to twist away from the overwhelming sensation, she presses harder, your slick spreading across her cock the more you squirm.

"I what, baby?" she asks. She tilts her ear toward you, mimicking someone listening intently. "Mommy was just trying to help you."

You try to think of a response, anything for her to fill your aching emptiness, but your mind is completely blank. Tears prick your eyes at the unfairness of the situation, your lips wrapping around Wanda's thumb automatically when you realize you can't bite the inside of your cheek.

Wanda gives you an almost triumphant smile. "Good girl," she praises, her voice shifting into a lighter, pleased pitch when you slump against her defeatedly. Her thumb releases your clit, your body chasing the feeling again even though you had moved away just earlier. Her fingers swipe down against your folds, making you tremble against her from the sensitivity.

She pulls her hand back and brings her fingers in front of your eyes. Your slick drips from her fingers. She presses the pads of her thumb and index finger together, then slowly pulls them apart, stretching a thick, glistening string of your own arousal between them. It catches the bedroom light perfectly.

Your face flushes at the undeniable evidence of your reaction. You try to turn your head away but Wanda presses her thumb harder against your tongue, forcing your gaze to stay in place. She rubs your slick between her fingers, studying it closely like she does when she's looking at a document in her office. Wanda is silent, making the sound of your uneven breathing more apparent.

"Hmm…" she muses, eyes drifting back down to where you're dripping against her cock. Her lips curve into a smirk. "Honey, you know this is supposed to be a punishment right? You were whining so much earlier, but look at you making a mess."

Your insides throb from the mixture of shame and desire. You gnaw on her thumb lightly, a single tear finally slipping from your lower lashes and tracking slowly down your cheek. Wanda's eyes soften briefly before shifting back to her amused expression. She taps her index finger against your chin, prompting you to release her thumb from your teeth. She brushes your tear away with it, her eyes glimmering with desire.

"Daddy always folds whenever you look at her like that," Wanda says softly, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "She hates it when you cry. Immediately turning into a teddy bear just to make you smile again."

Natasha… Daddy would always stop her teasing the moment your bottom lip began to tremble, tears forming in your eyes. She'd fret about, tickling your sides to stop you from crying. Mommy is different.

She tilts your chin up slightly, ensuring you meet her eyes.

"But I know these aren't sad tears," Wanda continues, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Mommy can't help but tease you more when you look like this." She brings her thumb to her lips, licking away the remnants of your tear.

Without warning, her hands clamp firmly down on your hips, anchoring you tightly against her. The sudden movement forces a sharp gasp from your throat, your entire body jolting when your clit presses hard against her cock.

You look up at her with wide, startled eyes.

She leans her head in close to you. "Now, let's start again," she whispers lowly in your ear.

She begins to guide your hips, forcing you to slide against her again. It moves between your folds easily. Wanda's stomach glistens from where your slick has dripped down.

"Every time you stop from now on, I'll add five spanks to your punishment," she warns in a low, dangerous tone. "And it won't be from me. Daddy is soft on you most of the time, but you know how Daddy feels about you blatantly disregarding our words."

You force yourself to slide forward, whines exiting your mouth as you remember the last time Daddy had spanked you.

"Mommy…" you whimper shakily. It's getting too hard to move your body. Sweat drips down your back from the overwhelming sensation of her prodding right at your entrance, only to slip away every single time. "Too tired," you whine, your movements slowing to a crawl.

Wanda lets out a disappointed sigh. "No wonder you're tired," she says. She lets your hips come to a stop, but she keeps her hands firmly in place. She meets your eyes, leveling you with a hard stare.

"Mommy was so excited to see you after three days. So excited, that Mommy even left Daddy behind when we had to stop at the company building and took a taxi here herself." She lets out a slow breath. "But imagine Mommy's confusion when she found her baby sitting on the kitchen island, when she knows she's not supposed to."

You bite the inside of your cheek, your eyes drifting downward to her chest.

"Look at me," she says, the authority in her voice forcing your eyes back to hers. She narrows her eyes slightly. "And imagine Mommy's surprise when she opened the fridge to find all the food she made you still there. Except…" She leans in closer. "Only one bite was taken from every container. As if her usually sweet girl did it on purpose."

Guilt claws at your chest, making you bite down harder on your cheek. You press your hands into the mattress, pushing yourself up and leaning back to avoid her gaze, trying to ignore the wet sounds that erupt at the movement.

Wanda's stern voice eases slightly, her eyes watching you with care to make sure you don't lose your balance and fall backward.

"Mommy was so worried to find six coffee capsules missing," she continues, her voice softening into that incredibly gentle tone she uses when she knows you've had a terrible day. "Even though her baby girl knows it makes her anxiety worse, even if she doesn't realize it at the time."

She tilts her head, searching your face as you try to turn away.

"When Mommy asked you earlier, your face fell and she knew you wanted to tell her what's wrong, but instead you decided to talk back," Wanda notes softly. "So? Do you finally want to tell Mommy why every time she called you, you said that you were doing great and that you were eating well?"

Your gaze drops. The guilt is still fresh and heavy, pressing down on you despite how sluggish your brain and body feel. You really had wanted to tell Wanda why you were acting out when she first asked. You wish you had just confessed over the phone on the very first day they were away. But back then, you had already made the decision to have two coffees when you knew you should've only had one. Your bad behavior had spiraled from there.

It had all culminated in her arrival today—and the crushing, sad expression on Wanda's face when she realized you had barely touched the food she lovingly made for you. Even then, when she had given you so many chances to just be honest, you had talked back instead.

You know Wanda and Natasha can't just drop everything to be with you. You tell yourself you need to toughen up. It's just so hard being alone now, especially since you met them and learned what it feels like to be cherished. You knew you needed this punishment just so the weight of the guilt would finally stop crushing you. And you know she sees right through you. She knows it, too.

You shake your head. The confession is right there on the tip of your tongue, but the simmering guilt in your chest refuses to let it out just yet.

Her lips pull into a thin line. "Fine," she says, all the softness in her voice gone. "That's five spanks then. Mommy didn't forget. " She pulls your hips toward her, her fingertips digging into your skin. You bite your lip, trying to stop the moan that still slips out at the sudden stimulation.

Once the tip prods at your weeping entrance, you expect her to let it slip away as she has been this entire time, but instead it slips inside and she forces your momentum backwards and down, sinking her entire cock into you at once.

You cry out loudly, your arms wrapping around Wanda's shoulders instinctively. Your walls flutter uncontrollably, the tight ball that had been wound in your lower tummy for the past half hour finally unravels, your thoughts exploding and blanking all at once. Your thighs tremble against Wanda's, your cheek squishing against her shoulder as your ragged breaths puff against her neck.

Wanda shifts beneath you, sitting up more properly but sending her cock deeper into you until you feel it hit a wall and can't go any further. You whine from the overstimulation, your pulse thrumming in your ears. Your breasts press against Wanda's, bringing some comfort as your thoughts come back to Earth but a haze rests over you brain. The rush of emotions jumbles your head, but you know one thing. You just want your Mommy.

"If you don't start moving in ten seconds, I'm adding another five spanks," Wanda reminds you sternly. You lift up slightly, your knees aching from being bent for so long. You wrap them around Wanda's torso, sinking back down on her cock sending whimpers past your lips. You rest your head back on her shoulder, squeezing your arms and legs around her tightly.

"You're not getting out of this by acting cute and snuggly now, baby."

She brings her hand to your chin, tilting it so that you're forced to look up at her. Your bottom lip wobbles, tears pooling above your lower lashes. Your breaths come out in ragged gasps, the way they always do right before you start sobbing.

Wanda's eyes widen in alarm.

Her hand rushes to your cheek, cupping it with gentleness. "Baby, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" she asks frantically, her voice thick with worry as her eyes desperately scan your face and your trembling body.

You shake your head, tears falling steadily down your cheeks as you finally spill everything you've been carrying since the moment they left.

"I-I'm sorry, Mommy," you sob, your voice watery and broken. You try your best to time your words between desperate gasps. "I s-should've just told you when you asked me, but I didn't. I was being bad on purpose."

Wanda rubs her thumb against your cheekbone, soothing the track of your tears as she watches you attentively. You know you should feel guilty for letting her comfort you right now, but instead, the warmth of her hand helps even out your ragged breathing.

"The house was too quiet, and my head was just so loud," you confess, a fresh wave of tears hitting your throat. "Daddy wasn't there at night, snoring loudly like usual. A-and you weren't there tossing and turning all night. No one was there at the table watching me eat like a-always."

You pause, sniffling softly as you try to rein in your big feelings. Wanda waits patiently, knowing you aren't done yet. You force yourself to take a deep breath, and she nods encouragingly, giving you the strength to finish.

"I know I shouldn't have lied on the phone, but I didn't want to worry you and Daddy. I have to learn to be okay by myself again," you breathe out. But the tears build all over again as the memory of the past few days crashes over you. "B-but then the coffee shop was so busy, and my professor wouldn't slow down in class. And I-I missed you guys, and I was alone. And-and—"

Wanda gently pulls your head down against her shoulder, cutting off your spiraling thoughts as she begins hushing you softly. You sniffle against her neck, trying to stabilize your uneven breaths. Wanda wraps her arms around you in a tight embrace, pressing one of her hands flat against your back. She begins to pat you in that slow, steady rhythm Natasha always uses whenever you're having a hard time breathing.

"It's okay now, my sweet baby," Wanda coos softly. "You're forgiven."

The guilt that had been simmering under your skin instantly dissolves at her words. You press your face closer to Wanda's neck, the timing of her pats finally evening out your breathing.

"We have a lot to talk about," Wanda notes gently. "But for now, do you want Mommy to pull out? You're probably all sensitive and swollen from rubbing against Mommy's cock for so long."

You blink blearily letting the remaining tears flow down and drip against Wanda's collarbone. You watch as the tears travel down the swell of her breasts, then to her stomach where it melds with your fresh arousal. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally. The orgasm you had unexpectedly upon Wanda suddenly entering you and the release of emotions after telling Wanda how you'd been feeling, empties your brain completely.

But the greedy part of you, the part that knows you can handle it, wants more. Wants more of Wanda.

You shake your head, your cheek brushing against her shoulder. "I…" you start, your voice cracking. "I wanna keep going," you whisper honestly, your head far too empty to feel embarrassed.

Wanda chuckles lowly, leaning in until her lips brush against your ear. "You're insatiable," she murmurs teasingly, undeniable affection lacing her voice. "Look at you all exhausted. Let Mommy do all the work now." Wanda's hand that had been patting you presses flat against your spine as she begins to lean forward. The feeling of her cock shifting inside of you forces whimpers past your lips. You muffle the sound against her neck, needing to feel her even closer.

"My sweet baby," she coos gently in your ear. She lays you down gently on your back, your head landing softly at the foot of the bed. You look up at Wanda who's now leaning over you, her hand planted next to your shoulder while her other comes up to cup your cheek. She gives you a little smile before leaning down, pressing her soft lips against your forehead then to both your eyelids.

She rubs her thumb against your cheek. "Poor baby. Your eyes are all puffy now." Her fingertips fall away from your face, tracing down your body to just below your bellybutton. She press down gently, the pressure sending shockwaves through your system. You gasp at the unexpected sensation.

"Hmm…" Wanda hums, her eyes looking down to where her fingers slide up and down your lower tummy. She presses down occasionally, making you squirm beneath her. It doesn't feel like she's tracing at random.

"Look down, baby" she directs you, her voice bright with wonder.

You crane your neck downward, blinking a few times to focus on where she's directing you. A sharp breath catches in your throat when you notice the outline of her cock showing, the tip pushing your skin upward into a small bump.

Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you let your head plop back down onto the mattress. You peer up at Wanda. She's biting her lower lip, drinking in the sight of you.

You watch her hips slowly move back—or rather, you feel it. Your walls tighten instinctively, unwilling to let go of the fullness you had craved so much. But Wanda doesn't move far. She allows the tip to remain anchored inside you, her gaze locked on your stomach, watching the way her cock slowly retracts.

She shifts her knees forward slightly. Your legs finally slip from her torso, spreading further beneath her.

She finally meets your eyes as you gaze up at her almost drunkenly. The green in her eyes is reduced to slivers, her pupils completely blown from arousal. She smiles down at you gently, her words are anything but.

"Mommy missed touching you even if it was only for a few days. I know my poor girl has already cried a lot today," she says softly, her voice carrying a hint of pity. Her lips slowly begin to curve into a dangerous smirk. "But Mommy wants to reward her brave girl. So she might make you cry just a little more, but they won't be sad tears anymore."

You blink up at her, your expression morphing into a little, dopey smile. Mommy is right here with you, looking at you exactly the way you've been craving for days.

"Okay, Mommy," you murmur obediently.

Your chest rises and falls faster as the anticipation builds.

"There's my good girl," she coos softly, sending a rush of butterflies through your tummy.

Her expression changes in an instant. She bites her lip again, but the dangerous smirk stays in place. You don't even have time to blink when she suddenly drives her entire length into you, the base of the strap pressing hard against your clit.

You cry out, your arms reach out for her instinctively, wrapping around her shoulders to bring her closer to you. Wanda doesn't stop though. You hear her grip the covers beside you before she slowly begins to slide out of you again. You look up at her with glazed eyes, tears threatening to fall from the corners of them from how sensitive you are, knowing what's coming. She takes a deep breath that you feel against your cheeks before she gives you an innocent smile. Her hips slam into yours but she doesn't pause this time.

She pulls out until just the tip remains inside of you, before driving her cock in as far as she possibly can, repeating over and over again, the pace increasing with every thrust. Your body slides up the sheets from the force but Wanda's hand grips your waist, pulling you back down to match her thrusts.

Choked moans escape your lips, the sound never being able to finish when she rams herself into you again, turning your moans into gasps. Your body, already sensitive from how she's punished you, teased you, and now using you, feels like it's already reaching the edge.

Shockwaves run through you body when she shifts slightly, the angle changing. The ridges of her cock grind and press against that soft, secret part of you that Wanda always finds so easily that sends you into a shaking mess.

"Mommy!" you cry out between the heavy beats of her thighs tapping against yours, tears running down the sides of your face. "T-too much," you whimper, your legs wrapping around her torso despite your words.

Wanda lets out a breathless chuckle, her eyes watching you squirm beneath her with amusement. "Is that so, princess?" she asks, a teasing lilt clear in her tone. Her eyebrows pull together, she brings her lips to your ear, her voice thick with strain. "Mommy's close. I know my patient girl can wait a little longer." Her thrust never miss a beat while she speaks to you.

You really don't think you can wait longer. Your breaths are coming out harshly between whimpers. It feels like your skin is vibrating from how sensitive you are. Wanda's increasingly ragged breaths brushing against your ear, her breasts swaying in your vision, hypnotizing you. The thick, sticky sounds whenever Wanda retracts. It makes the fire burning in your lower tummy burn brighter and hotter, threatening to consume you whole.

"M-mommy," you babble out over and over again like it's the only word you know. Wanda groans next to your ear, her thrusts becoming erratic.

"Cum whenever, baby girl, Mommy's right here," she breathes out heavily. You squeeze your arms around her tighter, your body tensing automatically at her words, her permission allowing you to finally let go.

Pleasure surges from where you and Wanda are connected all the way to your fingertips and to the top of your head. You feel almost lightheaded from the rush, your body feeling like it's floating higher and higher with no end. Your breaths come out in gasps at the altitude, your vision blurring.

Wanda's strokes become shallower, barely drawing back before pushing back in, your arousal gushing around her cock. It leaves you trembling beneath her from the aftershocks, your breaths beginning to slowly even out save for the sharp inhales when Wanda thrusts a little deeper. She gives you one more heavy stroke before she stops, her entire length shoved inside you as she grinds against the base of the strap.

"My good, sweet girl," she moans lowly, her torso shaking from her own orgasm. You and Wanda's heavy breaths meld with each other, echoing through the room.

You're spent. Your arms fall away from her shoulders, dropping beside you. Your legs follow suit, your feet unhooking from one another and plopping down on the covers. Your head feels floaty, your thoughts drifting by and fading away like clouds.

All you know is that you want Mommy.

You reach out shakily, grasping one of Wanda's breasts to signal what you want. She lets out a deep breath, her body no longer shaking. Her hand shimmies under your back, helping you follow her as she lays to her side, still inside of you.

"Do you want Mommy to pull out or a little longer, sweetheart?" Wanda murmurs, her voice tired but full of soft affection.

"Little longer," you murmur back sleepily, your legs tangling with hers. Wanda's hand slides up your spine to the back of your head, pushing your face gently to the swell of her breast. Your lips part automatically, taking her nipple into your mouth and sucking gently.

It's a ritual of sorts. It eases your mind and brings a level of comfort to you and Wanda. It extends past bedroom activities. She'd offer it to you when you were anxious, scared that you'd bite your lip too hard and draw blood again.

Wanda runs her fingers through your hair, your eyes closing at her relaxing touch. You lay there, pressed against her skin to skin, silently, unsure of how much time has passed. You swear you fall asleep for a moment, but your lips are still tight around Wanda's nipple when you would blink your eyes open only to close them again.

It isn't until a hand brushes against your cheek and the other voice you'd been missing sounds around you, that you peel your eyes open again begrudgingly.

"Hi, my cute baby," Natasha's raspy voice comes from above you. You barely turn your head while looking up, unwilling to release Wanda's nipple. Your heart leaps with joy upon seeing Natasha smiling gently down at you.

"Hi, Daddy," you mumble sleepily, your eyes shining with happiness.

Wanda chuckles next to you. "Baby, that tickles."

A sleepy little giggle bubbles past your lips upon hearing Wanda laugh. Natasha's thumb brushes against your tear-stained cheeks. "I see Mommy made you cry." Her eyes scan your face, moving downward to where you and Wanda are still connected.

You close your eyes again, the sleepiness closing in. "A little," you whisper, your lips wrapping around Wanda's nipple again, making Wanda shiver.

"Hmm…" Natasha drawls. "Does it have anything to do with the fact that all the food Mommy made you is still in the fridge, sweet girl?"

You act like you don't hear her, suckling a little harder. Wanda's laughter echoes through the room as you smile softly. — A/N: it's been a minute since i've written something like this. had to brush off the dust, so hopefully it turned out ok. i forgot how fun smut can be to write so might do more. thanks for reading!

The first time you rolled your eyes, Wanda saw it.

She always saw everything, which was something you knew and had known for a long time, and which had apparently not factored into your decision-making when you'd done it anyway. She'd been in the middle of telling you it was time for bed. Reasonably, calmly, in the tone she used when she was still giving you the opportunity to make a good choice. And despite every bit of sense in you, you'd rolled your eyes so completely and so visibly that there had been a moment of silence afterward that felt like it lasted hours.

"Excuse me?" Wanda had said. She sounded almost pleased, but her face. Oh, her face. The way her smile had shifted, how her eyebrows had grown a furrow between them.

You'd known, in that moment, that you'd made a miscalculation.

She'd set you up at the kitchen table with a notebook and a pen. The instructions had been simple: fifty lines, I will not roll my eyes at Mommy, neat handwriting, every single one. She'd sat across from you with her tea and a book, and she had not looked up once while you wrote, which was almost worse than if she'd been watching you. The casual attention—like this was a minor administrative matter she'd already moved past—had made your face hot for the entire forty minutes it had taken you to complete them.

You'd handed the notebook across the table and she'd read through every line with the same close attention she gave everything, turning the pages slowly. Then she'd closed it and looked at you.

"Good girl," she'd said. "Now off to bed you go."

You'd gone to bed. You'd laid there in the dark of your shared room for approximately forty-five minutes, listening to Wanda move through the apartment—the quiet sounds of her finishing her tea, washing the cup, the soft click of the lamp in the living room. Then she'd come to bed and settled beside you. She'd said nothing and that had been that.

That had been two days ago.

Tonight, she'd told you it was time for bed again in the same reasonable tone, same calm. You'd looked at her across the living room and your eyes had moved before you'd made the decision to move them.

All the way up. All the way back down.

The silence afterward had been different this time.

Wanda set her book down on the cushion beside her with the specific care of someone who was making sure their hands were free. She looked at you from across the room. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't change her expression, exactly. But something in it shifted, settled, went very still in the way that meant something underneath it had made a decision.

"Come here," she said.

You came. Of course you came—there was something in that tone that your body responded to before your brain weighed in on the matter—and you crossed the living room and stood in front of her, trying to look like you weren't already regretting the last four seconds of your life.

Wanda looked up at you from the couch. She took her time about it. She let the silence sit for a moment, comfortable with it the way she was comfortable with most things, and then she tilted her head very slightly.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me, baby?" she asked. Her voice was warm. Genuinely, pleasantly warm. It was not anger. It was something far more composed than anger. You almost wished it was anger.

"I didn't mean to," you said.

"Mm." She looked at you for another moment. "You didn't mean to. Your eyes just went up, all on their own." The corner of her mouth moved. "Is that what happened?"

"Kind of," you said, which was not a good answer and you damn well knew it.

"Kind of," Wanda repeated, with the gentle, patient quality of someone working through something with a great deal of tolerance. She reached out and took your wrist—lightly, just her fingers curled around it—and pulled you forward one step so you were standing directly in front of her. "We did this two nights ago, baby. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," you said, huffing out a breath.

"Fifty lines," she said. "Neat handwriting. I sat right there and watched you write every single one." She looked up at you with those dark eyes, warm and steady. "And you remember what they said?"

"I will not roll my eyes at Mommy," you said quietly.

"I will not roll my eyes at Mommy," she repeated pleasantly. "And yet." She gestured at you, an open small motion of her hand, indicating the entirety of what had just happened. "Here we are."

You opened your mouth, but suddenly her face went stern. Her chin lowered, her eyes narrowed, her entire demeanor changed in one second.

"I want you to think," she said, before you could say anything, "very carefully, about what you're about to say to me."

You closed your mouth, and her expression faded back to gentle just as quick as it had shifted.

"Good girl," she said, with a warmth that was somehow more pointed than sharpness would have been. "See, you can make good choices. When you try." She let go of your wrist and sat back slightly, looking at you with an expression of mild, genuine consideration, like she was turning something over. "The lines didn't work."

You almost shot back. You came so, so close to replying with something sarcastic. But somehow, surprising yourself, you managed to keep your mouth shut.

"You know," Wanda said, knowing. "Because you just did it again. While looking directly at me." She paused. "Was it worth it?"

You said nothing.

"I asked you a question, baby."

"Probably not," you said.

"No," she agreed pleasantly. "It wasn't. And do you know why it wasn't?"

You had several guesses.

"Because now we have to do something that actually works," Wanda said, standing up.

She was not rushing. She moved through the apartment the way she moved through everything, calm and not rushed. She went to the bedroom and you followed because following was the only thing your body was currently interested in doing, and she opened the closet and took out the box from the top shelf, the one you were familiar with, setting it on the bed.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at you standing in the doorway.

All she had to do was snap her fingers and point to the spot in front of her.

You closed the door, before walking to stand in front of her. She looked up at you with that same warm, patient expression and reached for the hem of your sleep shorts.

"These can come off," she said, pulling them down with practical hands, leaving you in your underwear. She folded them, set them aside, and then she looked at you again. "And those."

Your underwear followed. She set those aside too.

"There you are," she said, pleasantly. "Go on and lay across my lap, sweetheart."

"Wanda—"

"That's not what you call me," she corrected, gentle as anything, the word landing in your stomach and spreading warmth. "And what I said wasn't a suggestion. Lay across my lap, please."

You didn't attempt to argue further.

She settled you there with practical, unhurried hands—adjusting your position until you were where she wanted you, her palm resting warm and still at the small of your back. You could feel the warmth of her legs beneath you and the quiet of the room and both of those things would usually be comforting but not at this particular moment.

"Okay," Wanda said, above you, with the tone of someone beginning a project they'd thought through carefully. "So here's what's going to happen." Her palm moved in a slow circle at your lower back—not soothing exactly, not yet. "We're going to talk about tonight. And I'm going to remind you of a few things. And then you're going to tell me you understand. And then—" a pause "—we're going to make sure it actually sticks this time."

You said nothing.

"Good," she said approvingly, like your silence was a choice she found pleasing. "See, when you're not talking, it's so much nicer. Isn't it?"

"Mommy—"

"That was almost silence," she said, pleasantly. "So close." Her hand moved to your lower back and held there, fingers tapping an absent rhythm. "Let's try again. Why are we here?"

"Because I rolled my eyes," you said into the duvet, your voice almost like a sigh.

"You rolled your eyes," she said. "After we'd already addressed this. After you'd written fifty lines." She stroked her palm once down the back of your thigh—slow, light—and back up. "Do you know what that tells me?"

"No…" you said.

"It tells me," she said, "that the lines were too easy." Another slow stroke down and back. "That you could write them and not really feel them. That you need something that's going to stay with you a little longer." She paused. "Do you think that's fair?"

"Yes…" you said quietly.

"Yes, what?"

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, biting your cheek. "Yes, Mommy."

"Good girl," she said warmly. "That's right. It is fair. And I want you to know—" her hand rested at the top of your thigh "—that I'm not upset with you."

Something in your stomach turned over.

"I mean it," she said, pleasantly. "I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed, even. I just know my girl, and my girl needs things to be very clear sometimes. Needs to feel them." Her palm moved to your ass and rested there, warm and still. "Don't you?"

You didn't answer.

"Don't you?" she said again, pinching the skin of your ass.

"Yes, Mommy," you said, squeaking.

Wanda smiled in satisfaction.

"There she is." A pause. "And that's what we're going to do tonight. We're going to make things very clear." Her hand lifted.

The first spank landed clean and sharp, exactly over your right asscheek. You made a sound into the duvet and she rubbed slow circles over the spot immediately after, her palm warm against the sting.

"One," she said, pleasantly. "We rolled our eyes after already being corrected for it. Which means we didn't take the correction seriously." Another one, the same spot, and your breath came out in a rush. "Two. We made a choice when we could have made a different one." She rubbed the heat in after, steady circles, her touch unhurried. "Are you with me so far?"

"Yes," you managed.

"Yes, what? Honestly, your manners these days."

"Yes, Mommy."

"Good girl," Wanda said, so warmly, and she landed another, lower this time, and you grabbed a fistful of the duvet. "See, that's all I want. For you to be with me. To listen. Is that so hard?"

It wasn't a question she needed an answer to, which was good because you didn't have one. She worked through the next several at her own pace—reading the sounds you made and adjusting, rubbing warmth into the heat after each one with the attentive patience of someone who was doing this correctly and knew it. She stopped occasionally to stroke your lower back, to let you breathe, to say something calm about what you'd done and why it had landed you here.

"Poor baby," she said, at one point, with a warmth that was so clearly arch that it made your stomach pull tight. "This isn't very comfortable, is it?"

"No, Mommy," you managed.

"No," she agreed. "I imagine not." She rubbed a slow circle over where she'd just landed the last one. "Maybe next time you'll think about this when you feel the urge to roll your eyes at me." Another one, sharper, and you cried out softly. "Or maybe not. Maybe you'll need reminders. And that's okay too." She soothed it afterward, her touch warm and certain. "That's what Mommy is here for."

By the time she finished, you were trembling and your face was wet. You were gripping the duvet in both hands, your backside hot, and you felt utterly and completely undone in a way that had nothing to do with anger anymore, that had in fact been several other things for a while now, things you were dimly aware of and not currently doing anything about.

Wanda seemed to be doing something about them.

Her hand slid from your lower back to your hip and then lower, and the sound you made was immediate and embarrassing. In response, she made a sound of her own, though hers had significantly more satisfaction.

"Oh," she said, pleasantly. "Look at that."

"Wanda—"

"Mommy," she corrected, and her fingers pressed through your folds, slick and openly desperate. "You're absolutely soaked, baby. After all that." Her fingers didn't move, just rested there against your clit, lightly. "Does being corrected do this to you?"

"Mommy—please—"

"Please," she repeated, in the tone of someone savoring a word. "That's better. That's so much better than an eye roll, isn't it?" She pressed slightly, adding pressure against your now need-induced throbbing clit, and you made a sound that was not a word. "See how nicely you can ask when you try."

She helped you up—hands under your arms, lifting you with an ease that she didn't make a production of—and arranged you on the bed. On your back, propped against the pillows, and she looked at you spread out in front of her and her expression was warm but had a heat underneath it.

She opened the box.

The wand was familiar. You'd seen it before, felt it before, had extremely specific opinions about it at this particular level of wound-up. Wanda held it lightly and looked at you with those hypnotizing eyes.

"We're going to finish this properly," she said. "And then you're going to go to sleep like a good girl." She tilted her head. "And next time I tell you it's bedtime, what are you going to do?"

"Go to bed," you said, your voice pretty much a whine.

"And if you feel the urge to roll your eyes?"

"I won't," you said.

"Mm," she said, pleasantly skeptical, the sound of someone who found this optimistic but charming. "We'll see." She clicked the wand on—the low hum of it filling the quiet room—and looked at you. "Spread your legs for me, sweetheart."

You spread your legs. There was no hesitation either. You knew that if you did hesitate, you'd be left without any relief and you'd already dug yourself into one hole tonight.

She settled beside you and brought the wand to your inner thigh first—not where you needed it, nowhere near where you needed it—and the vibration against the sensitive skin there made you inhale sharply and your hips tilt toward it automatically. She watched that happen with a small, warm expression.

"Oh, already?" she said. "Greedy girl. We haven't even started." She moved the wand slightly closer and then back, watching you chase it, and made a soft cooing sound. "Look at you. After everything we just did, you're this desperate?" She tsked gently. "I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed."

"Mommy—"

"Shh," she said, extending that for longer than it truly needed, and it did in fact make you more wet. "I'm getting there. You can wait." She moved the wand along your inner thigh in slow strokes—deliberate, close but not there—and watched your hips move with helpless frustration. "Can't you?"

"It's harrrrd," you whined.

"I know, baby," she said, with such warm sympathy that it made heat pool in your stomach. "I know it's hard. That's a little bit the point." She pressed the wand to the crease of your thigh, right at the edge of where you needed it, and held it there while you made a sound into the lamplight. "There you go. Is that better?"

"Please," you breathed. "Mommy—please—"

"Oh, keep begging, my sweet one," she said, warmly. "It's adorable."

"Please—I need—closer—"

"Closer," she repeated, like she was considering the word. "Let me think about that." She did not move the wand. She watched you squirm and tilted her head with the expression of someone finding this genuinely interesting. "You know, two days ago you wrote fifty lines. And tonight you rolled your eyes again while looking directly at me." She moved the wand a fraction closer and felt you tense toward it. "So you'll understand if I want to make sure we're in agreement before I give you anything."

"We're in agreement," you said immediately. "I understand, Mommy—I'm sorry—please—"

"You're sorry," she said. "That's sweet. You're so sweet when you ask nicely."

She brought the wand to your clit, and you genuinely cried out in both relief and surprise.

She kept the setting on low—she knew exactly what she was doing—and held it steady, watching your back arch and your hands grab the sheets, your whole body reaching toward something that was building fast from the accumulated tension of everything that had come before. She kept her eyes on your face, reading you the way she read everything.

"There's my girl," she said. "See? All you had to do was ask nicely." She kept the pressure steady and watched you climb, her voice staying that same warm pleasant register. "You're doing so well. Such a good girl when you try. It's almost a shame you made it so difficult to get here." She tilted her head. "Almost."

"Mommy—" You were close already, embarrassingly close, wound up from everything prior and now the wand. "Mommy—I'm going to—"

"Are you?" she asked, pleasantly interested, and then she moved the wand away.

The sound you made was not dignified. You did not give a single fuck about that.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, with such warm, such loving, such completely fake sympathy, looking at you in your frustration with an expression of mild, caring concern. "Did you think we were done?" She set the wand against your thigh, letting the vibration hum against the skin there while you came down from the edge, watching your face the whole time. "We're not done yet."

"Mommy—please!"

"I know," Wanda said. "I hear you." She stroked your inner thigh with her free hand, light and soothing. "You're doing so well with asking nicely, by the way. I want to acknowledge that. It's a real improvement."

"Please don't—" You took a breath. "Please don't do that right now."

"Don't do what?" she asked, with innocent warmth.

"Talk like that when I'm—" You stopped.

"When you're what?" she said, her voice too encouraging.

You closed your eyes, that feeling settling in you, the one where your head got all mushy without your permission.

"When you're desperate?" she finished for you, and the word landed precisely where she meant it to. She cooed softly. "Oh, baby. I know. I know it's a lot." She brought the wand back to your clit and your whole body responded immediately, your back arching. "But you were quite the handful tonight. So we're going to take our time."

She worked you back up slowly—starting low, building the pressure in increments, reading every sound and shift. You were gripping the sheets, making sounds that the room absorbed, and she kept her voice soft and exactly calibrated. She cooed when you were good. She acknowledged, pleasantly and at length, every time you asked nicely. She noted, with warm and gentle specificity, exactly how you'd gotten yourself here and what you could do differently in the future.

She moved the wand away a second time just as you were about to cum.

"No!" The word came out before you could manage it. "Mommy—please—no—I was so close—"

"I know you were," she said sympathetically. "I could tell." She rubbed a small circle on your hip with her free hand. "You're so sensitive, baby. You feel everything so much." She looked at you with those warm dark eyes. "That's actually something I find very sweet about you."

"Then please—"

"Mm," she hummed. "In a minute. Breathe for me."

You took a breath in and made sure she could hear it. She watched you do it and kept her hand moving in small circles on your thigh, letting the vibrator rest against your thigh and waiting.

"Good girl," she said, when your breathing had mostly returned. "See? You can be so good." She looked at you for a moment. "Are you going to roll your eyes at me when I tell you it's time for bed?"

"No, Mommy," you said, meaning it completely.

"No," she agreed, like this was a lovely conclusion. "I don't think you are." She brought the wand back—higher this time, directly where you needed it, the pressure more than it had been—and watched your back come off the mattress. "Because you're my good girl. Underneath all the difficulty." She kept the pressure steady. "Aren't you?"

"Yes—Mommy—yes—please—"

"Again with the 'please'," she said, smiling. "There it is. That's all I ever want." She increased the intensity on the wand, feeling you tense and hearing the way your breathing changed completely.

"Cum for me," she said, simply. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Whenever you can. There's no rush."

The orgasm that arrived was enormous and it came quickly. Embarrassingly quickly, but it wasn't like you were going to complain. It was the result of two edges and everything prior, rolling through you in long waves—and she held the wand steady against your clit through every second of it, watching your face with warm attentive eyes. She only eased it away when you were trembling, making oversensitive sounds and reaching for her wrist to push the vibrator away.

Surprising you, because you had half-expected her to overstimulate you tonight on top of everything else, she set it aside. She looked at you—undone and flushed, sweat dripping down from your temple to your jaw—and her expression softened into something that was still warm but different now, the fake quality gone. Just Wanda. Just your Mommy.

"There she is," she said, quietly. "There's my girl."

She drew you close and you went immediately, pressing into her and feeling her arms come around you. She was warm and safe, and she held you like you were precious, her hand moving in slow strokes up your back.

"You did so well," she murmured into your hair. "All of it. Even the difficult parts." She pressed her lips to your temple. "Especially the difficult parts."

You were nowhere near words. She seemed to know this.

"I know," she said. "I've got you." She adjusted you both against the pillows, drawing the blanket up with her free hand. "You're okay. You're right here with me."

You pressed closer and she held tighter and the room seemed to settle around you both.

"Next time you feel like rolling your eyes," she said, after a while,"you can come and tell me you're frustrated instead. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mommy," you mumbled into her shoulder.

"Good girl," she said, and you felt her smile against your temple.

She kept her hand moving on your back in those slow steady passes and you felt yourself getting heavier with each one. You heard her heartbeat under your ear. Smelled her specific scent. Took in her general calming presence. You felt the same hands that had spanked you earlier wrap around you and keep you in safety.

"Such a good girl," you heard her whisper one final time before you drifted off. "Hopefully the lesson sticks this time."

She knew it wouldn't.

In fact, she counted on it.

You try to lift your arms, but the duvet is tucked so tightly against your sides and presses so heavily against your chest, it feels like it weighs fifty pounds. When you manage to drag your hands out, your skin freezes. You raise your hands a few inches, but gravity catches your wrists, dropping them back down onto the fabric with a dull thud. You breathe in through your mouth, hoping the extra oxygen will help you process. Instead, the dry air hits your throat, triggering a fit of coughs that rattle your ribs.

Your jaw clamps shut instantly. You bury your face deep into the crook of your elbow, choking back the sound until your throat burns. You freeze, eyes darting to the corners of the dim room, waiting for the cold disapproving looks of your parents. They hated it when you showed any sign of weakness.

Nothing happens. You're alone. Silence fills the space.

Your palm presses flat against the mattress to push yourself up. The surface gives way too easily, swallowing your hand in the plush material. You force your torso upright. The movement sends a spike of heat through your body, your pulse drums hard against your eardrums. Your fingers claw at your chest, finding the collar of your shirt. The neckline hangs low, just above your breasts. The same top you wore to the party.

The room is massive. The foot of the bed ends feet before a polished wooden dresser that's twice the size of your desk at home. Your hand slides blindly across the mattress, swiping until it knocks into something solid. The texture of the plastic case feels familiar. Your phone.

You flip it over. The screen lights up.

4:17 AM.

A cold sweat breaks out across your hairline and spreads to your limbs. Your finger taps the screen, pulling up the transit application. The nearest bus stop is a ten-minute walk, and the ride itself takes over half an hour.

Your shift starts at five. If you run to the bus stop now, you'll only be a few minutes late. You have to work. You need to.

You slide the phone into the pocket of your skirt, the weight making you uneven.

You swing your legs over the edge. Your bare calves hit the air, instantly erupting in goosebumps. When your feet touch the floor, your knees buckle outward, sending you sideways. Your hipbone clips the corner of a piece of furniture with a sharp crack, but the pain doesn't register over your racing pulse. You press your palm flat against the wall, dragging your body along until your fingers wrap around the door handle.

The cool metal cuts into your palm like ice. You stare at the white wood of the door frame. Your thoughts finally clear for a moment, the danger of the situation setting in.

Where are you?

The fear you expect to course through your system doesn't come.

Your free hand rises, pressing gently against your cheek. The skin there feels like it's burning, but a gentle, comfortable warmth permeates and spreads like a salve. You press harder, squishing your cheek against your palm.

Natasha.

The alarm written across her face. Her hands beneath your thighs. Your cheek pressed against her shoulder. Your arms wrapping around her tighter.

You sway unsteadily on your feet, your knuckles turning white as you grip the door handle to keep from falling.

Why had she been there?

"Natasha. We have a lot to talk about."

How does Yelena know Natasha?

The shake in Yelena's voice. Kate's smile vanishing when you told her you wouldn't be talking to them after this. You swallow harshly, your throat aching at the constriction.

Work. You need to go to work. You left these people behind on your own. You're choosing to leave Natasha and Wanda behind too. This is the last time you'll accept their hands reaching for you. You need to let go.

You apply pressure to the door handle. The latch releases with a click. Your shoulders pull inwards, waiting to hear footsteps, but only your ragged breaths break the silence.

You pull the door toward you, inch by inch, relieving the tension so the hinges don't creak. You release the handle, replacing your grip with the smooth edge of the door frame. You force your foot up before taking a quiet step forward.

The dark space you expected to navigate is flooded with moonlight. The light catches your skin, illuminating the vast floor in front of you. The pale brown wood glints under the glow, each shine directing you on where to go.

Your head shifts to the left. A long hallway with doors lining the walls, stretches into a seemingly endless void, the blue light dissolving into darkness the further you look.

Every bone in your neck grinds and creaks as you turn your head to the right. Diagonal to you, a grand staircase sweeps downward into a lower level. The steps and handrail match the light wood beneath your feet, framed by pristine white balusters that drop away into the shadows below.

Your eyes track across the floor. To the far right, another hallway funnels into the dark like a tunnel at night. You tilt your face upward, eyes climbing the wall above the staircase. Your neck strains against the height of the ceiling. Windows line the entire perimeter of the upper wall, casting massive grids of light across the floor. Through the glass on the right, you can just barely make out the pale outline of the moon.

Shifting your eyes back to your feet, you take a breath, releasing it as you take another step forward. You press your fingers against the doorframe, holding them there for a beat before pushing off the wood. The momentum makes the next few steps easier, but it doesn’t last long. Your steps become slower, shorter. Your breaths come out harshly, as if you’re running a mile instead of walking a few feet.

You’re finally within arm's length of the stairs. Sweat drips down your back. Whether it's from the exertion or the fire burning beneath your skin that extinguishes but never fails to light up again and burn harsher, it's hard to say. The moisture cools against your skin, sending shivers down your spine every time you pause. Every contraction of your muscles feels taxing. And you don’t have anything left to give.

Reaching out, your arm shakes as you lift it higher, finally finding purchase on the railing. You pull yourself forward, assisting your weight by sliding your socks against the floor. You lean your torso heavily against the wood. Your eyes flick around frantically, trying to map out the endless space below the staircase, but your vision refuses to focus. Instead, you look down at the step directly beneath you. It's only a few inches, but the drop looks like a cliffside.

Your phone shifts in your pocket.

Go. You don’t have time to waste.

Your foot slides off the edge and hovers just above the first step. Your fingers grip the handrail with whatever strength you can find. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not with the way your anchoring leg shakes and wobbles, threatening to buckle completely. Your foot finally lands on the step. You slide your hand forward along the rail and hunch forward.

Pain radiates through your legs. Your fingers threaten to release, but you hold on desperately. The staircase below you doesn't seem to end. A drop of sweat slips down your nose and lands on your lips. It tastes salty. Your jaw tightens, your teeth grinding together until the tension in your temples throb. Your vision shakes along with your foot as you force yourself to keep moving.

Your foot is just about to land on the next step when your fingers slip off the rail.

Your sole hits the wood, but your momentum is already throwing you forward. Your eyes snap shut. You brace for the impact of your body making contact with the wooden steps, wishing you had the time to cover your ears—wishing you could block out the sickening sound that's about to come.

But it never does.

Frantic, heavy breaths echo from behind you. You almost mistake them for your own, but the patterns don't overlap. You inhale, but a hot, ragged exhale hits the crown of your head. A crushing grip locks around your biceps, pulling your weight back so violently your face contorts into a wince. Blunt fingertips dig deep into your skin, sending a dull ache through the muscle.

You open your eyes slowly and look down.

A pair of strong arms are wrapped around your chest, anchoring you securely. A warmth that isn't your own presses flush against your back. They lean back, sitting on the step behind you. Your trembling thighs are pinned flat against the solid, unyielding ones directly beneath you. You didn't fall.

"What are you doing?" the voice behind you grits out breathlessly.

Natasha.

Your shoulders slump despite you. It's frustrating.

"I… thank you for catching me," you start, your voice trembling violently from the residual adrenaline. You clear your throat, forcing some semblance of the polite tone you usually display. "But I really need to go. Thank you for letting me stay here tonight."

You try to wiggle your shoulders out of her grasp, but her grip doesn't budge an inch.

"You almost fell," she says, her voice rising. It echoes in the large space. "You would've fallen. Do you understand that?"

You wrap your hand around her fingers on your bicep, trying to pry them open. "I understand that, and I'm sorry for the trouble. I don't know what I need to do to make up for it, but right now I need to go." Your voice begins to rise along with hers, ignoring the strain in your throat.

"To your shift?" She lets out a sharp breath of disbelief. "Is that what's important right now? You have a fever. You can barely stand, let alone walk."

Your blood begins to pump violently through your veins, heat spiking through your forehead. A knot of frustration tightens in your chest, winding so hard you expect it to snap. You channel the anger into your muscles, using the sudden jolt to tear yourself out of her grasp. You reach your arms to the side, gripping the handrail with both hands and forcing yourself up.

You turn around to face Natasha.

Her expression is lethal. Her green eyes flash under the moonlight, her gaze locked into a sharp glare. Her jaw is clamped tight, her lips pulled into a thin line. She doesn't say a word, observing your posture carefully, as if waiting to see how far you'll push.

She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and pink polka-dot pajama pants. The sight would be comical if her stare didn't feel like it was throwing daggers at you.

"It's important to me," you rally back, your voice cracking under the harsh tone. "What does it even have to do with you?"

You stop. Your breath catches in your throat as her words replay in your head.

"And…" you start, your fingers tightening around the handrail until your knuckles ache. "How do you even know about my shift?"

She unclenches her jaw, letting out a short sigh.

"I saw the reminder on your lockscreen," she states calmly. "And I turned off your alarm."

Your eyes narrow at her, your heart pounding uncontrollably. "What made you think that was okay?" you ask in disbelief, your voice breaking.

You look away from her, forcing the surge of emotions down until you feel steady again. "Never mind. I have to go."

You turn to go down the stairs, but Natasha is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, holding you in place.

"Just stop for a second and think," she says, her tone level again. "Do you really think you can work in the condition you're in?"

You turn back to face her. You shake your arm, trying to free yourself from her grasp, but the adrenaline is fading. She loosens her grip, but doesn't let go.

"You don't get it," you whisper, looking down at your feet.

You're standing on the step directly below her, your body right between her legs. Looking down at her doesn't make you feel more in control. The anger is fading into something else. Something familiar. Something you had shown in front of Wanda, but refuse to do in front of Natasha.

"I don't get what?" Natasha asks softly.

In your peripheral vision, you can see her tilt her head, trying to meet your eyes. It's maddening. You just want to be left alone.

"You don't get anything," you whisper out harshly.

You bite the inside of your cheek, pressing your teeth down harder until it feels like the skin is going to break. Your breaths come out quicker, too fast. Your chest is tightening, making it harder to get a full breath in. You reach up with your free hand and grip desperately at the collar of your shirt, pulling it away from your neck to try and find some air.

"Baby, let's calm down for a second," Natasha says, her tone soothing.

How can you calm down when it feels like you've reached the top of a roller coaster? The tracks are already tilting forward. It's too late to stop the motion.

You release your grip on your collar, your arm rising shakily until your hand meets your hair. You run your fingers through the strands, scraping your nails hard down your scalp as you comb through. This is your bosses' house. You're acting crazy. She's just trying to help you.

But you need to work. You don't have enough in savings for your next university term yet. Rent has to be paid. If you don't show up to your shift, your coworkers will have the burden of extra work, and it's too early in the morning to ask anyone to cover.

You hadn't looked in a mirror since you were in the breakroom with Nicole last night. Your hair must look ridiculous. Knots strewn about, strands sticking out in every direction. You slept in the same clothes you wore out, messing up their clean sheets. You look down. The white fabric of the skirt makes the heavy wrinkles even more apparent.

Your hand drops from your hair to your skirt. You smooth down the fabric with your palm incessantly until your skin burns, the bandage on your hand threatening to rip off.

Everything is becoming hazy. Whether it's from the frantic breaths you can't seem to get under control, or your heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to escape your chest, it's hard to say.

It's getting difficult to hear anything. The sound of your palms rubbing against your skirt becomes muffled. You can feel your lungs expanding and contracting quickly, but the actual sound of your breathing is barely audible through the pounding in your ears. Your fingertips are beginning to turn cold, the chill bordering on painful.

You barely register Natasha's hand gripping your wrist tighter. Her voice sounds distant, like it's echoing from the deep hallway you couldn't see the end of.

"Baby, I'm going to pull you closer, okay?"

She waits for a moment, but you can't seem to form a response. She pulls you in by the wrist. Your shins press against the edge of the step and your knees buckle, but you don't hit the ground. Natasha's other hand slides beneath your arm, lifting your deadweight until you're sitting on one of her thighs. She releases her grip on your wrist, moving her palm to your back to support you as she swings your legs over her lap.

Somehow, you find your voice. "I… I don't," you tremble out.

"Shh," she whispers. Her hand finds the side of your head, pressing lightly until your ear rests against her chest. "Let's just breathe for a moment."

It's different from the way she held you in the car, but the proximity immediately brings back Yelena's voice. Your muscles lock. You tense your entire body, preparing to push away from her. Yelena and Kate are probably here. They probably heard the commotion. You need to leave.

"Yelena and Kate got a ride back to their apartment," Natasha says, cutting through the silence. "They didn't tell me anything. They want to talk to you first."

Your shoulders slump.

Your hearing clears gradually. The steady thumping of Natasha's heartbeat begins to register against your ear. The rhythm is even and slow. Her hand begins to pat against your back in a gentle, steady beat. With the movement against your spine and the echoing sound of her heart, it becomes impossible to think about anything else.

Your thoughts begin to slow. The spiral spins slower and slower, losing its momentum. Your breathing shifts, matching the timing of her pats. Your own pulse begins to regulate, slowing down until it mirrors the steady rhythm beneath your ear.

Guilt claws from within your chest. She's sitting on a hard wooden stair step at four in the morning, holding you together to keep you from completely breaking down.

You were supposed to let go. But the remaining tension in your muscles drains away the longer you listen.

Your eyes close. Your head sinks further into her, your cheek squishing against her t-shirt. Your hand drifts blindly down her side, finding the soft hem of her shirt, your fingers closing around the fabric in a gentle grip.

The exhaustion finally settles. The space goes completely silent. It's hard to track how much time is passing when the steady beats against your ear quiet any lingering sense of urgency.

Natasha clears her throat softly. "I'm sorry I turned off your alarm without telling you. I wanted to wake you up to ask about your shift, but you were sleeping so soundly. Your body needed the rest," she murmurs.

Her hand slides down to the wrist she held earlier, her thumb lightly rubbing the skin where your veins meet your palm. "And I'm sorry for holding on too tightly. I was worried you would fall backward or slip again."

You know.

You know she was just trying to help you the entire time, but it's hard to allow people to aid you when you've been handling things entirely on your own. When you've been told your entire life that reactions like these are a personal fault that should be ignored. You press your face closer against her chest, her warmth permeating through your cheek. You can't find it in yourself to speak right now. You just hope she understands that this is your way of saying it's okay.

The residual trembling in your muscles softens into a light shiver. The cold air begins to bite at your exposed skin.

"Thank you for forgiving me," Natasha says, letting out a breath that hits the crown of your head. "Let's move you back to bed, okay? It's cold out here."

You would much rather stay exactly like this, even with your calves beginning to freeze. But you nod, the fabric of her t-shirt swishing against your cheek. You uncurl your fingers from the hem of her shirt, preparing to stand, but Natasha's hand envelops yours, curling your fingers back over the fabric.

"I've got you. You're a fall risk, after all," she says with a playful huff.

She stops the rhythmic patting on your back, pressing her palm flat against your spine while sliding her other arm beneath the bend in your knees. There's barely a shift in her posture before you feel the solid baseline of her legs leave yours. You open your eyes, blinking against the moonlight. You look up, finding Natasha staring down at you, her lips curved in a soft smile.

"Alright, let's go, princess," she says quietly, a clear teasing lilt in her voice.

She turns around with you in her arms, stepping back up the single stair you had managed to descend. She holds you securely, keeping your head pressed flat against her chest as she navigates back toward the bedroom.

The hallway to your right, previously shrouded in darkness, is slightly lit now. The door to the furthest room stands open, throwing a warm glow across the wooden floorboards. You squint against the light, your gaze meeting a pair of worried green eyes.

Wanda.

She's standing in the doorway, her arms pulled tight around her torso, wrapped in a soft gray robe. There's no telling what she heard or witnessed. Normally, a wave of shame would creep up your throat, but the sight of her only brings a heavy weight of disappointment. A lot of people have wronged you in your life, but Wanda felt different. At least, you had truly wanted her to be different.

You avert your eyes, turning your face away until your nose bumps against Natasha's sternum.

Natasha enters the dim bedroom you had been in, tilting her posture carefully so your head clears the doorframe. She makes her way to the mattress, laying you down gently before sliding her hands out from beneath your weight.

"I'm not saying this to worry you, but you should contact your workplace to let them know you're not coming," Natasha says slowly, keeping her voice steady. "I'll grab some pajamas so you can sleep more comfortably. Your legs felt cold."

She squeezes one of your calves, making you jolt against the sheets. She gives you an amused smile. "Be right back."

She turns away, exiting the room.

You lie in silence for a moment. Your thoughts are moving much slower now. Your hand remains curled in the exact same shape it was when you were holding her shirt.

Natasha told you to let work know you wouldn't be coming. You should listen. You reach to your side, pulling your phone out from your pocket. You tap the screen with your thumb, holding the glass above your face to unlock it.

4:55 AM.

Time had passed in a complete blur. It didn't feel like you had been sitting at the stairs with Natasha for that long. The wave of panic you expect to bloom in your chest doesn't come, as if muted by the heavy, relaxed state of your body.

You open your messages and pull up the chat history of one of the coworkers you're supposed to open with today.

I'm really sorry, but I'm really not feeling well and can't make it in.

The text back is almost immediate.

Girl, you work too hard anyways. Take it easy. We've got it covered. Feel better!

You breathe out a sigh of relief and close your eyes, tossing your phone to the side. Maybe the obligation of work had been weighing on you more than you realized. Your body sinks deeper into the mattress, the heavy covers beneath you finally warming your frozen calves. Your mind begins to drift away, darkness within reach.

A hand squeezes your sock-covered foot gently, forcing your eyes back open.

Natasha stands beside the foot of the bed, a shirt and fuzzy pajama pants hanging over her forearm. Her steps had been so quiet. The same way you hadn't heard her approach at the staircase.

Even in this space, lit only by a nightlight to your left, she shines. The warm hue emitting from the light accentuates the whispers of orange in her hair. It's a welcome sight to your drooping eyes.

Natasha reaches out a hand. "Can you get up for a little to change? It'll feel better to get out of those clothes."

You lift your arm with effort. It shakes from the illness you tried to ignore and the tension your body held and released just earlier. Natasha moves closer, clasping her hand in yours. She pulls you toward her, bringing you up into a sitting position.

She releases your hand to set the clothing down on the mattress, but the moment you lose her support, your torso tilts backward, plopping you right back onto the bed.

You stare up at the ceiling, exactly like you did when you first woke up here while Natasha chuckles quietly beside you. Your eyes drift to hers, finding them looking down at you adoringly.

"Are you too exhausted, detka?"

You nod tiredly, the hair on the back of your head shifting against the sheets. It's an honesty you rarely show, usually hiding how you really feel behind a mask engineered to fit the situation. But you truly are exhausted.

Natasha smiles at you softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling just a little. Her expression changes slowly, her eyebrows knitting together in thought, before she finally meets your hazy gaze again. It looks like she's made up her mind about something.

"Can I help you change?" she asks straightforwardly. "It's okay if you don't want me to. We can get you tucked in with what you're already wearing."

She begins to look away, as though assuming you've already decided on refusal.

Your eyes drift to the fuzzy pants hanging off her forearm. You can just make out half of a blue polka-dot pattern hidden under the navy shirt resting on top. The fabric looks soft. Your thoughts float back to when Natasha held you in her arms on the stairs. Her steady heartbeat, the rhythmic pats against your spine, the exact moment you decided to let go and allow your body to surrender and turn into a blob. It felt good to let go and let her take care of you.

"Can you help me change?" you ask, your voice small and scratchy. "I want to wear the fuzzy pants," you admit honestly.

She turns back to you, her eyes widening slightly before her lips curve into a soft smile. "Of course," she says quietly.

She sets the clothes down at the foot of the bed before her hands find their way under the bend of your knees and your back again. She slides you back a little across the mattress before lifting your torso up. Your shoulder blades tap against the headboard, and you allow yourself to lean back fully against the wood.

She looks down at you with a slightly troubled smile. "Is it okay if I take your shirt off? The neckline is a bit low, and I'm afraid the cold air will make your throat worse."

You nod softly in acceptance, your eyelids barely staying open. You're so sleepy. "Just…" you start, your voice trailing. "Can I keep my bra on?" You're out of it, but the instinct to preserve your dignity remains.

"Of course, sleepyhead," Natasha says, her voice gentle. "Let me know if you get uncomfortable."

Her fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric slowly. The dread you used to feel when past boyfriends did this would be completely overwhelming, leaving you trapped in your own head for hours. But Natasha’s hands are just warm. Her eyes stay locked onto yours, never drifting a single millimeter below your chin even as your shirt raises higher.

She gently maneuvers your arms through the sleeve holes, taking on most of the weight of your limbs even when you try to help. Your bare back presses against the cool headboard when she lifts the fabric over your head, careful not to let the collar drag across your face.

"Okay," Natasha says, releasing a quiet breath. "Just a little more."

The tone she's using reminds you of the way people's voices brighten and raise a pitch when they talk to children, but somehow it doesn't feel insulting.

Instead, it feels encouraging.

She grabs the navy shirt off the bed, spreading the neckline wide before pulling it over your head. You never feel the brief constriction you normally do when putting on shirts. She slides your arms through the sleeves patiently.

She sticks her tongue out at you when you manage to fight the urge to close your eyes and meet her gaze.

The gesture is such a sharp contrast from when you first spoke to her in her office.

It's silly. So silly that your face breaks out into a small, sleepy grin.

Between goofy expressions and sleepy smiles, the shirt is on before you know it. The fabric rests softly against your torso. You look down to your side where Natasha placed your arm down gently. The sleeve stretches past your hand. You squeeze the cuff between your fingers, feeling the worn, soft cotton.

You look up slowly at Natasha, who is looking back at you with so much affection. The gaze would normally spark a multitude of frantic questions, but right now you just bask in it.

"Cute," she murmurs. She meets your eyes with determination. "Just the hard part left."

Her fingers find the zipper of your skirt. Just like with your shirt, her eyes never leave yours. She waits for a moment, watching you carefully.

"It's okay," you whisper softly, your eyelids fluttering closed to preserve what little energy you have left.

You hear her take a breath before the sound of your zipper tracks down, echoing through the quiet room. Cool air hits your hipbone, but your body doesn't even have the strength to shiver. She slides the fabric down until she's forced to stop.

"Sleepy baby," she calls out gently. "I know you're tired and you want to sleep, but the fuzzy pants are waiting for you. Can you lift yourself just a little?"

You groan tiredly, not wanting to move a single muscle.

But the fuzzy pants.

You press your palms flat into the mattress and force your bottom to lift just a fraction. It's just enough for Natasha to slide the skirt out from under you and pull it over your ankles. Your weight plops back down onto the mattress, and you let your head tilt back to tap against the headboard again.

A calloused hand wraps around your ankle, lifting your legs one by one until the waistband of the fuzzy pants rests at your thighs.

"One more time," Natasha says encouragingly.

You let out a dramatic sigh. Natasha chuckles lightly as you force your bottom to lift off the mattress again. The fuzzy waistband brushes over your hipbones, settling comfortably into place. The thick fabric warms your legs immediately. You open your eyes begrudgingly, wanting to see the polka dots fully. They spread across the entire expanse of the pants, the patterns shifting with the curve of your legs. You grin happily.

"Do you like them that much?" Natasha asks with amusement, already folding the wrinkled clothes she just removed from your body.

You really need to sleep. Your thoughts are moving slowly, but completely uninhibited. You turn your gaze to the side, looking down at Natasha's pants to track the pink polka dots.

"We match," you proclaim, your voice small, scratchy, but happy.

Natasha's movements freeze from where she's placing your folded clothes on top of the dresser. She turns her head slightly, just enough for you to catch the corner of her smile.

"We do," she says softly.

She turns back to finishing her task for a moment before walking back toward the bedside. She's holding a mug and a white medicine tablet. You can tell just by looking at it that it's going to be difficult to swallow.

"Can you open your mouth, baby? It's medicine. It should lessen your symptoms."

You blink at her slowly, her words registering at a snail's pace. You part your lips slightly. Natasha presses the tablet against your lips, pushing it past them gently with her index finger. Her fingertip lingers on your bottom lip for a second before she brings the mug to your mouth. She tilts the mug in small increments, letting the water spread through your mouth.

"Good," Natasha says encouragingly. "Drink slowly," she reminds you.

You swish your tongue around, locating the tablet and swallowing it down with the water. You wince as the hard pill scrapes against the raw, swollen walls of your throat. Natasha sets the mug down on the nightstand beside you. Her thumb finds your lower lip, wiping away a stray droplet of water that was threatening to fall.

She smiles softly down at you. "Good girl," she praises.

Your heartbeat picks up at the praise. It's reminiscent of the time Wanda called you a smart girl, but the feeling hits harder this time. A deep, gentle warmth blossoms in your chest, spreading through the rest of your body like sunrays brushing against your skin.

Even though you're one long blink away from falling asleep, you want more. You look up at Natasha expectantly, waiting for the next thing she asks you to do, or the next thing she does for you.

She taps the pad of her thumb against your lip, her eyes amused. "Let's get you tucked in. You need to sleep to recover."

She lifts your legs carefully, freeing the duvet from beneath you before shifting you back into the center of the mattress. She tucks the thick blanket tightly into your sides, sealing you in so no cold air can get through. With the oversized long-sleeve shirt and the fuzzy pants, the deep chill from earlier feels like a distant memory.

You peer ahead toward the foot of the bed, watching Natasha grab your folded clothes. Is she leaving? The thought sparks a sudden wave of panic.

"Can you…" you start, but the dry air catches in your throat, breaking your voice into a harsh fit of coughs.

Natasha rushes to your right side instantly. "Do you need more water? Does your throat hurt a lot? Are you still cold?" she asks in quick succession, her eyebrows pulled together in worry.

You shake your head once the coughing subsides. You sniffle lightly, forcing your throat to relax so you can speak again. "Can you please stay until I fall asleep?" you mumble.

Your voice sounds small. Vulnerable.

But it feels like when Natasha is with you, nothing bad can happen. When she's with you, even when her words are sharp, you feel protected. With her, it feels like you can finally lean your weight into someone else instead of keeping your spine perfectly straight. And in this moment, after such a long time, it feels good to allow someone to take care of you.

More than good.

"Of course," Natasha whispers.

The mattress dips slightly as she settles down beside you, her back leaning against the wooden headboard. You tilt your head to the side to look at her. She stares straight ahead at the wall above the dresser, a slight frown on her face. Her eyebrows are pulled together in thought. But all you can focus on is the way the nightlight softens her features, casting a warm glow across her skin like the sun setting at the end of the day. Her eyes shine like emeralds even in the dim room. Your gaze travels down the curve and angle of her nose, tracing down to her lips, which are pulled downward.

Suddenly, her lips curve into a teasing smile, but there's a touch of sadness in it. It's the same melancholic smile she gave you back in her office, right before you were about to ask what all of this meant.

"You're supposed to be trying to sleep," she murmurs softly, her eyes finally meeting yours.

The heavy bags beneath her eyes are much more visible to you now with the nightlight shining in her direction. A wave of guilt begins to rise in your chest. You're just about to tell her that it's okay for her to leave when she speaks again.

"Should I tell you a bedtime story?" she asks with that same sad smile.

For some reason, you can tell that this is important. You force yourself to blink a few times, gathering whatever moisture you can in your eyes to stay awake. It feels like you need to hear this.

"Yes, please," you respond, trying to sound alert.

Natasha looks down at her lap, her lips pulling into a thin line. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing lightly for a few moments before releasing a heavy sigh. She smiles to herself, resolutely.

"There once was a girl who was adopted into a family when she was young. So young, her earliest memories were with the family that took her in," she begins slowly. Her gaze shifts back to you, her lips pulling into a small smile. She lifts her left hand, gently placing her palm over your eyes to block out the light. "At least try to pretend that you're trying to sleep," she teases with a low chuckle.

Somehow, it feels more like she's trying to comfort herself with the way the laugh trails off and dies.

"There was a mom, a dad, and a little sister. A happy family." She pauses for a moment. When she starts again, her voice is lighter. "Her parents wanted her to do whatever she wished. The girl had seen other girls perform ballet in shows on TV during the holiday season. The crowd would watch in awe of the performance, just like she did from the living room floor. So she wished to do that. To see her parents and her little sister smile."

Her index finger begins to tap lightly against the side of your head, near your ear. It's a gentle rhythm, matching the soft cadence of her voice.

"And they did. They would come to every recital and every practice if they could find the time. It wasn't long before her little sister decided to start ballet, too, just to spend time with her. They would laugh together all the time at the dance studio."

Even though your eyes are covered, you just know Natasha is smiling as she says this. The light lilt in her voice feels like music. But it doesn't last.

"Years passed with the family only growing closer and closer. Her mom and dad taught her what love felt like. Her little sister taught her that you can be family without sharing the same blood. It was such a happy time," she says, her voice trailing off.

The tapping of her finger stops. You feel the weight of her palm rest against the side of your cheek more heavily, as if she has suddenly lost the strength in her wrist.

"But things change. Things happen. Even if you wish they wouldn't," she whispers.

It almost sounds like she's talking to herself. Disconnected.

"The parents passed away in an accident. It was so sudden, and the events that happened after were as well. She and her little sister were separated without even getting to know where the other was going. The girl was adopted into a new family before she could even register that her parents were gone. She didn't even get to go to their funeral."

Natasha lets out a dry, sarcastic laugh, as though the situation is funny.

But you know it isn't.

"Her new parents began registering her for as many ballet competitions as they could. They wanted the recognition for her achievements. They wanted the other parents in the community to compare their daughters to theirs and feel jealous. And the girl…" Natasha trails off, her voice straining. "And the girl just wanted to be loved again. To be doted on. For her family to smile."

The ache in Natasha's voice is almost palpable. Her fingers press lightly against the side of your face.

Your chest constricts at her words. The reality of wanting to be loved cracks open a part of your heart that you had sealed away years ago to protect yourself.

"So she tried her best. I tried so hard," she breathes out.

You wonder if she even noticed that she just referred to herself, but you keep silent.

"She started eating less because her new mom told her that the other girls were thinner than her," Natasha continues, her voice dropping. "Her legs would shake, but she continued doing pirouettes even when the dizziness would span hours after practice. She started to sleep less, even when she needed it to regain energy for the next day. She was falling apart."

An accent, similar to Yelena's, begins to bleed through her words. You've heard tiny fragments of that accent in Natasha's speech before, but it was always covered up in an instant. You had assumed you misheard. Now, it follows every syllable.

"Her dad told her to be grateful for the money he was spending. That because of that, she must try harder to make the expense worth it."

She lets out a tired sigh.

You reach your right hand out blindly, barely able to lift your arm but finding the fuzziness of her pants. Natasha's free hand envelops yours, lifting it gently and bringing it back to the hem of her shirt. You curl your fingers around the soft fabric, hoping to give her a physical reminder that you're present in the dark with her.

She runs her thumb over the back of your hand in a slow, soothing motion. You wonder if the gesture is for her or for you.

"So the girl won most of her competitions, but her parents always left her with the same line. 'That's to be expected.'" Natasha scoffs at the words. "But when she would get second place, her parents would exit the venue the moment it was announced. Because she wasn't the best, and that wasn't good enough."

The muscle of your inner cheek finds its place between your molars again. You bite down gently, just trying to distract yourself from the hot tears threatening to well up.

The words feel entirely too familiar. It isn't the phrasing itself, but the echo of the memories that follow it. You remember when you were in the second grade, giving your mother a toothy grin that she would match. You remember her kneeling on the floor so her eyes could be level with yours, delivering soft praise over the simplest things.

The warmth of that memory feels a lifetime away.

"But she still chased the idea of being loved by them. Still worked herself endlessly even when her body was begging for her to stop. The art that had made her smile at the TV screen—the art that had made her little sister and her parents who passed away smile—was now something she did robotically. There was no joy left in it."

Natasha keeps her hand on top of yours, but the soothing movement of her thumb stops.

"It wasn't until her second year of university, when she suffered a severe ankle injury, that she finally realized the love she was working so hard to obtain would never come."

She squeezes your hand lightly. You tighten your grip on her shirt in response.

"The injury was an excuse to quit. So, she told her parents that she didn't want to continue doing ballet."

She pauses. Her index finger begins to tap against the side of your face again, but the rhythm is erratic now. It matches the uneven way your own leg shakes when your thoughts are spiraling.

"They told her they didn't have any use for her anymore. That she was ungrateful for being adopted. They asked her what the point was of all the time she had wasted learning ballet. They would have never loved her, no matter how successful she became. So she walked away, and she never saw them again."

It's silent. Her grip on your hand slackens, and the erratic tapping of her finger stops. The rise and fall of both of your breathing is the only sound left in the room.

Is that the end? you can't help but wonder.

Did she ever meet her little sister again? What did she do after walking away from them? Did she ever get to visit her first adopted parents' graves? A multitude of questions swirl through your head, making your temples throb against the fever, but a single question stands out above the rest.

"Does…" you start, your voice small, trembling with emotion. "Does she still love ballet?"

You hear Natasha inhale sharply. When she speaks again, her voice is thick, like the way your voice sounds when you're on the verge of crying.

"Yes," she whispers.

Her thumb rubs against the back of your hand again. "She still loves ballet," she pauses, when her voice begins to crack. "But it also brings sadness."

You nod lightly in understanding, the skin of your forehead shifting against her palm. Because you truly do understand.

"That wasn't much of a bedtime story, was it?" she asks with a watery laugh.

You shake your head, even when your neck begins to ache against the movement. "I liked it," you mumble honestly.

Natasha lifts her hand from over your eyes. You blink a few times, adjusting your vision back to the dimly lit room. Your gaze moves languidly to Natasha. She holds your stare, her eyes shining brightly from the moisture barely being held above her lower lashes. Her gaze is familiar, but there's something beneath it that you haven't seen before. There's a deep affection in her eyes that digs far below the surface.

It makes your heart race as you hold her stare, unable to look away even with sleepiness threatening to take you at any moment.

Her hand, which was once over your eyes, finds its way just below your collarbone. Her palm rests flat right above your breasts, her fingertips resting on the bone. She begins to pat in that steady rhythm that makes your breaths even out. Your eyes begin to droop further.

"Wanda…" she starts slowly, catching your attention briefly. "Wanda told me what she said to you the other day. I'm not going to apologize for her or force you to do anything, but I hope you guys can talk," she ends simply.

Your lips press together lightly, jutting out slightly in a pout.

"Just give it some thought," she says with a light laugh. You're just glad she doesn't sound like she's going to cry anymore.

The warmth of her palm permeates through your chest. Or maybe it's just the warmth of her being beside you.

"When you wake up, we'll find something to eat that's easy on your throat. I'll show you to one of the bathrooms and you can use my products. I'm sure you feel a little uncomfortable not having been able to wash your face," she says, her voice light and analytical, like she's reciting a grocery list from memory.

The break in your routine hadn't gone unnoticed. You can feel the moisturizer you smeared on yesterday morning becoming oily on your face. The sweat that formed and dried while you were sleeping, and the cold sweat that followed, is still sitting on your skin.

"Thank you," you whisper, your eyes closing despite yourself. You try your best to force them open again, but Natasha's hand is too warm and the rhythm of her pats is making your head fuzzy.

"Sleep, detka, it's okay," she murmurs soothingly.

Your thoughts are slowing down so much it feels like your mind is slurring. "What does that mean? Detka?" You've been meaning to ask for a while.

Her patting stops for a brief moment before continuing again in the same steady rhythm. "It means baby in Russian," she says simply.

Baby… you think slowly. The term sends a flutter throughout your stomach.

"Nat," you call out, the last two syllables of her name falling away as your consciousness slips.

"Yes, detka," Natasha whispers, her voice holding a hint of wonder.

"How come…" you trail off, almost falling asleep mid-question. You force your brain to finish the thought. "How come the bad dreams never come when you're with me?" Your voice quiets into a barely audible mumble toward the end.

She doesn't respond for a long time. You're just about to fall asleep, accepting that you won't be getting an answer, when she suddenly speaks in a quiet whisper.

"I don't know, baby girl. I guess you'll have to stay with me to find out."

Your fingers grip her shirt tighter. That doesn't sound like a bad idea, you think to yourself just as your brain shuts down completely.

The last thing you hear is, "Good night, detka. I'll see you when you open your eyes again."

—

You wake to the sound of shuffling footsteps just outside the door. Your eyes open slowly, your brain still syrupy and heavy with sleep. There's a dull tension in your forehead from your sinuses remaining clogged, but the deep body aches that were impossible to ignore at four in the morning have lessened. You swallow, trying to force some moisture back into your throat. It's still swollen. You can feel the slow movement of your saliva tracking down against the tender muscle.

You flex the fingers of your outstretched hand—the one that held onto Natasha's shirt so desperately. Your fingertips only claw at open air. You turn your head abruptly to the right, expecting to find Natasha, but the wall beside the mattress is the only thing greeting you.

You let out a whiny, disappointed groan. She said she would be here.

The bedroom door opens slowly in your peripheral. Your head tilts, your eyes watching the movement as Wanda's face peeks past the doorframe. She forces a small, awkward smile, but there's a desperation in her eyes that you can't ignore.

"Hi, honey," Wanda says softly, her voice pitched low as if she already knows you just woke up. Maybe it's written all over your face. You reach your hand up with heavy effort, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

"Natasha wanted me to let you know she's sorry she couldn't be here when you woke up," Wanda continues, stepping into the space. "She got called into an emergency meeting at the office. She should be back soon."

Realistically, the explanation makes perfect sense. Natasha is a CEO. She's busy. But the part of you that finally cracked open and allowed her to take care of you views the absence as a betrayal. Wanda's reprimand from the office echoes back into your head, turning your awakening into a grumpy one.

You turn your face away from her, your lips jutting out in a cold pout.

You hear Wanda take a few steps closer to the bed.

"Darling, I know you're not too happy with me. You have every right to be," she says with a quiet sigh. "Can you at least let me show you to the bathroom? You'll feel better after washing your face and getting the sweat off your body," she offers reasonably.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall, the pout still heavy on your lips. But the icky sensation of your unwashed face makes itself known, refusing to leave your thoughts. Trying to ignore it only makes the texture feel more prevalent. The dried sweat feels gross against your skin, forcing your pout to morph into a grimace.

You let out a tired sigh, turning your head to look at Wanda with wary eyes. She's standing awkwardly beside the mattress, as if she doesn't quite know what to do with her hands, but there's a slight, amused smile on her lips.

"I suppose," you respond, your voice scratchy and weak.

"Thank you, honey," Wanda says, as if you are the one doing her a favor.

The idea of pushing yourself upright feels insurmountable. But the thought of letting Wanda assist you after she had been so confidently wrong about you forces your palms to flatten against the mattress. You push your torso up, your face twisting from the sheer effort. Wanda shuffles forward, her arms instinctively raising to help you. You deliver a short glare her way when you manage to sit up completely.

You try to pull your shoulders back into your usual rigid posture, but your fever-ridden body refuses to comply. You let out a sigh of defeat as your shoulders droop right back down.

You glance at Wanda. She's giving you a soft, pitying smile.

You don't need her help.

Then why did you let Natasha help you? the logical part of your brain pipes up.

You look down at your hands resting on your lap. It isn't like you surrendered to Natasha's help easily, but when you finally did, the safety felt addictive. And it isn't that you dislike Wanda. Quite the opposite. You miss your normal conversations with her. You miss her praising you when you diagnosed department solutions. You miss her calling you darling among other terms of endearment. You miss that quiet, grounding warmth that always spreads through your chest when you're near her.

You missed her. A traitorous part of your heart had leaped with joy when her head peeked past the doorframe.

But her words had cut deep. The look she gave you in the office had hurt even more. It reminded you of why you chose to protect yourself.

You force your legs to the side so they hang over the edge of the mattress. Wanda takes a step back, observing you carefully. Her scrutiny fills you with a surge of determination as you press your palms back into the mattress, pushing your weight up until you're standing.

Your thighs begin to shake violently. Along with the fever, you haven't eaten a real meal since the scraps of bread at the restaurant. You lean your torso forward, resting your palm flat against the wall to alleviate the crushing strain on your legs. A fresh layer of sweat begins to bead along your hairline.

Wanda is silent for a moment, tracking your posture, before she speaks with a voice full of soft adoration. "You look precious in my shirt and Natasha's pants."

You shift your eyes from your feet to Wanda, meeting her gaze. She's looking at the cuffs of the navy sleeves that stretch far past your hands. Your chest warms at her words, even as your brain tries to fight the reaction.

You look back down at your feet, shifting your weight so your hand drags along the wall like you did at four in the morning, sliding your way toward the door frame. You glance back, waiting for Wanda to lead the way. She gives you a sad little smile before meeting you at the exit, taking a step past your shoulder.

"Follow me, baby," she directs gently, glancing back over her shoulder to look at you.

Your heart leaps at the term.

She begins taking slow steps down the hallway to the left, toward the furthest door where you had seen her earlier. You release your hand from the wall, trying to take a few steps without assistance. You imagine this must be what a newborn deer looks like trying to walk for the first time. You can't seem to walk in a straight line, your balance wavering hard to the side before you catch yourself and reroute.

Your breaths are coming out hard, your throat straining every time you try to swallow. Your foot clips your ankle when you attempt another step forward. You force your arms out in front of you, bracing to catch your weight so your knees don't slam into the hardwood.

Instead, you feel Wanda's hands lock beneath your armpits, hauling you up before you can drop.

You look up. Wanda's eyes are wide and frantic, carrying a heavy layer of guilt that seems to stretch far beyond this specific moment. "I knew I should have just asked," she mumbles to herself harshly, looking down at your wobbly stance.

You try to lean back to stand on your own, but she refuses to budge. "You're going to fall at this rate, darling," she says straightforwardly, her gaze locking onto yours. "Hold onto my hand."

She shifts her grip from beneath your arms, clasping one of your hands firmly in hers. She levels a teasing look at your face when you try to wiggle your fingers out of her grasp. "Or would you prefer I carry you?"

You roll your eyes dramatically—even when the sudden movement shoots a sharp pain right through your forehead—before giving up on escaping her grip. Wanda giggles lightly, then raises a single brow at you. There's a distinct touch of warning in her green eyes.

"Don't be a brat, honey."

You stare at her, your lips slightly parted at the reprimand.

Wanda turns away, a small smile playing on her lips. She positions your clasped hands higher, bracing her arm so you can push down against her palm, taking on a significant portion of your weight to steady you. She perfectly matches your slow pace, only taking one long stride after every two of your smaller, shakier steps.

You pass by a line of closed and open doors, lacking the energy to even look until you eventually cross the threshold into Wanda and Natasha's bedroom.

It's gigantic.

Sunlight shines through sheer white curtains, filtering the glare against the polished floor. A massive bed dominates the center of the space, its frame positioned flush against the far wall. It looks like six people could easily fit across the mattress. Mountains of decorative pillows lean against the headboard, stretching out toward the middle of the duvet. You can just barely make out two pillows tucked beneath the pile, encased in black and scarlet pillowcases.

Wanda is already guiding you into their en-suite bathroom before you can take in the rest of the layout.

With the sheer scale of the bedroom, the massive size of the bathroom comes as no surprise, but the clean beauty of the design catches your attention. White marble tiles with gray streaks line the floor. The walls are a pristine white, making the skylight above rain down sunlight that makes the space even brighter.

To your left, a double vanity features more counter space than you could ever dream of owning. An array of high-end skincare bottles are neatly displayed on opposite sides of the two sinks, their silhouettes reflected back by the massive mirror hanging above. Next to the counter, a dedicated vanity station matches the clean white theme of the room. A plush, comfortable armchair is positioned right in front of the glass.

It's exactly where Wanda directs you. She guides your hand until your fingers grasp the cushioned sides of the armchair, letting you finally sink your weight down into the seat.

You glance over your shoulder when the roar of rushing water begins to echo through the tiles. Wanda is kneeling beside the large, opulent bathtub that sits across from the double vanity. She turns her head to look at you once she adjusts the knobs to find the right temperature.

"It shouldn't take too long to fill," she says, wiping her wet fingers on her thigh. "I figured a bath might be better. You could easily slip in the shower in your condition."

You stare at her, taking in her appearance. You hadn't noticed it out in the hallway, but this is the most casual you've ever seen her. She 's wearing wide-legged denim jeans and a light gray sweatshirt that looks soft even from where you're sitting. The aesthetic reminds you of a typical "mom" outfit.

It suits her perfectly.

Steam begins to swirl around your cheeks as the water level rises in the tub. The heat clears your sinuses momentarily, allowing your nose to catch the citrusy scent of the bubble bath solution you watched Wanda generously pour into the running water. Even with Wanda standing feet away, her own scent of jasmine cuts through the citrus, making your thoughts muddled.

You turn your head back to the front, dropping your gaze to your lap. You stare at the hand that just held hers.

Wanda begins to hum quietly in the background. It's an unfamiliar tune, but the sound sets your mind at ease. Something about being here, sitting in this massive bathroom while Wanda readies a bath for you with her sleeves rolled up, makes the stubbornness in your chest loosen a fraction.

It's illogical. It's entirely unlike you. You were prepared to leave them this morning. Really, you were prepared to leave them yesterday, determined to refuse their help and continue your life the way you have been. You don’t know how long this will last, and the uncertainty is terrifying. But beneath the fear, beneath the lingering stress of missing work and your shrinking paycheck, all you feel is a crushing wave of relief.

Relief that even when you pushed them away, they're still here.

A swell of quiet happiness spreads through your chest, but it stalls before it can reach your fingertips.

Wanda. You hadn't forgotten.

You hear the latch of the cabinet beneath the sink click open. You turn your head to find Wanda opening a package for a fresh toothbrush. She turns on the faucet, wetting the bristles before applying a line of toothpaste. She meets your eyes with a small smile, handing it to you carefully.

"I forgot to give you toiletries. I promise I'm not usually this bad of a host," she says with a quiet laugh.

You reach for the toothbrush, your fingers overlapping hers for a brief second before she lets go. "Thank you," you mumble, your manners automatic.

She smiles down at you at the sound of your voice. You begin to brush your teeth, grateful to maintain some semblance of your normal routine and feel a layer of grime leave your body. You hear Wanda turn on the faucet again to fill a small cup with water.

She begins to speak over the roar of the bath running behind you and the stream of the sink.

"Sweetheart," she starts, looking down into the porcelain basin with a sad smile. "I've been wanting to talk to you since that moment in the office. Not just to talk, but to apologize." She shuts off the faucet and turns fully toward the chair, regret written across every line of her face.

You continue to brush your teeth thoroughly, letting the friction of the bristles ground you. Your forearm is already beginning to ache from the exertion.

"It was wrong of me to assume anything, especially in the way that I did." She sighs, a heavy sound directed at herself. "You were already having a tough day, and I just went and made it so much worse. I hurt you."

Her voice grows thick, her eyes beginning to shine as moisture builds along her lower lashes. Your heart aches at the sight, but an instinct tells you not to interrupt her right now, even though you know you've already forgiven her.

"I can be overbearing, I know," she says with a wry, self-deprecating smile. "I'm a worrier, and I get attached easily. I make rash decisions when I care about someone. But instead of just assuming things, I should have asked you. For that, I am so sorry. You didn't deserve my accusation, beautiful girl."

Since the moment you became an adult, and even before then, you hadn't heard another adult admit their faults like this. So raw. You hadn't had anyone apologize to you so sincerely. The realization hits hard—your parents had the ability to apologize to you this entire time, but they actively chose not to. Or maybe they simply refused to acknowledge their own flaws.

The toothbrush hangs loosely in your mouth, the actual task having been completed halfway through Wanda's apology. Your eyes drop to the floor. It's difficult to find the right words to say right now, and it isn't like you can speak with your mouth full of toothpaste foam anyway.

Wanda hands you the cup of water she filled. You accept it gratefully. She holds her free hand out again, and you stare up at her in silent question.

She smiles at you, blinking a few times to clear the remaining moisture from her eyes. "I can take the toothbrush from you, darling. Your arm is probably tired."

Wanda always seems to know exactly how you feel before you can even articulate the words. You hand it over.

You bring the rim of the cup to your lips, letting the water swirl into your mouth. You swish the liquid from side to side, ensuring no foam is left behind behind your molars. You groan internally, realizing you'll have to force your shaky legs to stand just to spit it out into the sink.

Suddenly, a new cup appears in your vision. Wanda is handing it to you, having stepped over from the sink where she's already rinsing your toothbrush. You take it from her, trading her for the water cup. You spit the foam into the new cup.

You run your tongue against your teeth, relieved by the squeaky-clean texture. Wanda takes the used cup from your hand, too, returning to the sink to wash everything thoroughly.

Your cheeks begin to burn, embarrassment hitting as you realize you're making Wanda do everything for you. But when you turn to look at her, ready to insist that you can clean up after yourself, the protest dies in your throat.

All you can see is the genuine, happy smile on Wanda's face.

Why would she be happy to do this for you? you can't help but wonder.

You watch Wanda's movements while your thoughts keep you far away. She turns off the faucet, setting everything to the side to dry except for your toothbrush. She places it in a cup alongside a red one.

She turns around, your eyes tracking her as she walks over to shut off the heavy torrent of water in the bathtub. The basin is filled so that the water sits just above your breasts. A thick, opaque sheet of bubbles sits on top of the water.

Wanda shifts to look at you, an unsure smile playing on her lips. "The bath is ready," she starts slowly. Her voice morphing into a careful cadence. "Can you undress on your own, or would you like some help?"

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing lightly while your thoughts race. Frankly, you're exhausted. Your limbs feel like lead. But Wanda has already done so much for you, even when you haven't technically vocalized your forgiveness yet.

A thin wall of awkward tension still hangs in the steamy air between you two.

But then you remember the moment in the office when Wanda dropped her coat over your head to preserve your dignity. You remember the way her smile bloomed the moment you giggled and all the times she looked at you after.

That memory is what helps you find your voice.

"Yes, please," you murmur, meeting her green eyes.

Her eyes widen slightly before she brings her expression back under control. You force yourself to stand, bracing your palm flat against the marble edge of the vanity to keep yourself steady. Wanda rushes to your side immediately, locking her fingers with yours to ensure your safety. You can't help the small smile that forms on your face at the sheer velocity of her worry. If you were to lose your balance and fall backward, you would simply land right back in the cushioned armchair.

Her gaze searches yours, as if asking if you're entirely sure. You squeeze her hand, lifting your wrists slightly to signal your compliance.

She nods, keeping her gaze locked on your eyes as her fingers catch the hem of the navy shirt and pull it upward. It's a seamless process. She lifts your arms, slips the cotton sleeves off your wrists, and keeps your weight anchored the entire time. Her eyes never waver from yours. Even with the heavy steam filling the bathroom, your exposed skin erupts in goosebumps. The shirt had been keeping you much warmer than you realized. Your limbs begin to tremble lightly, a deep shiver forming against the air.

Wanda's hands move faster. Her fingers brush against your hipbones to drag the fuzzy pants down, sending a sudden flutter straight through your stomach. Except the sensation travels lower, making your cheeks burn with a sudden spike of heat as the realization hits. You avert your eyes from her face, biting your lower lip to ignore the involuntary reaction while she's just trying to take care of you.

Wanda's arm wraps around your upper body, her fingertips pressing against the metal clasp of your bra. She pauses.

"Darling," she calls out softly, catching your attention. "I'm going to take it off quickly along with your underwear so you can get into the water as soon as possible. You're shaking."

You nod solemnly, refusing to admit that the cold isn't the only reason you're shaking.

The distinct snap of your bra clasp releasing echoes through the tiles. She slides the straps off your shoulders. In your peripheral vision, you watch her look directly past your shoulder, her eyes never drifting toward your chest. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, pulling them down quickly and tapping your calves to signal you to lift your feet.

When she stands up straight again, she extends her hand with a small smile, keeping her gaze pinned to yours. You place your palm back in hers, grasping her fingers much tighter than before, allowing her to absorb the bulk of your weight as you step toward the porcelain lip of the tub. The feeling of your bandage rubbing against your skin makes you stop just before entering. You remove them carefully, finding the skin beneath healed. Wanda watches you with a slight frown, lifting the wastebasket for you to throw them away. You force your wobbly legs up afterwards, stepping over the edge.

You submerge yourself in the warm water, pressing your bare back against the porcelain, facing completely away from the double vanity.

Wanda shuffles around behind the tub. You peer back over your shoulder. She takes a step toward the door, then steps back, pacing over and over as if she can't make up her mind. She takes a deep breath before catching your gaze.

"Honey, I'll wait outside. I don't want to make you uncomfortable," she says quickly, already pivoting toward the door before you can even respond. "I know your throat hurts, but I'll keep my ears open. Please call me if you need help, okay?"

You don't know what possesses you. Maybe it's because Natasha stayed with you all night, keeping the bad dreams away. Maybe it's because Natasha wasn't there when you opened your eyes like she promised. Or maybe it's simply Wanda's apology, and the fact that you missed her despite everything.

You don't want her to leave you.

You reach out over the porcelain edge, gripping her jeans with wet fingers, curling your hand tightly into the denim.

She freezes instantly, turning back to you with wide eyes. You look up at her, your gaze pleading.

"Stay? Please?" you ask, your voice small.

Wanda's eyes soften the longer she looks down at your face, her lips curving into the gentlest smile. "Of course, honey," she whispers.

You hold each other's gaze for a silent beat before you realize your fingers are still clamped onto her pants. The denim has turned a dark, heavy blue where the bathwater seeped into the fabric. You tear your hand away immediately, submerging your wet skin back under the layer of bubbles.

"Sorry, Wanda," you murmur apologetically.

She steps closer to the tub, brushing her hand over your cheekbone with incredible softness. "Don't be sorry, darling."

Her hand rests against your skin for a moment before she walks over to the vanity armchair. She sits down, positioning the chair so you're both faced away from each other, preserving your privacy.

"I'll be right here," she says into the room. "I have shampoo, conditioner, and body wash lined up along the rim. But I think you should just soak for a bit to let your muscles relax."

The bathroom falls silent. The warm water feels good against your skin, relieving the remaining ache in your joints. You raise your hand, running your fingertips idly through the thick layer of bubbles. The question you never got to ask Natasha surfaces in your head, refusing to be pushed down. You need to know.

"Wanda," you call out softly.

"Yes, darling?"

"Why…" you start, trying to find the right words. "Why do you and Natasha treat me differently? I didn't do anything to deserve it. I just don't get it. Why me?" you ask earnestly.

When it remain silent for a long while, you turn your head to look back over your shoulder.

Wanda has turned around in the armchair to look at you, her green eyes incredibly soft and full of affection.

"Why not you?"

Why not you? you repeat in your head.

A multitude of answers form immediately. You're just a broke university student. Your entire life consists of work and school. You don't have a favorite food, you don't have hobbies, and you don't even have people you're close to anymore. You do and say things strictly to reach an end goal. Your entire personality is something engineered for you by your parents. There's nothing special about you.

For a moment, a sharp ray of sunlight cuts across the room, hitting the bathtub. You swear the reflection against the bubbles flashes a faint scarlet, but the color fades a fraction of a second later.

"You're special," Wanda says simply, breaking the silence. "Not because of Natasha and I watching over you, but because you're you."

You stare at her in disbelief, trying to process her words. Because you're you? You can't fathom why that would make you special in any way. If anything, it makes you the complete opposite. Yet, Wanda's eyes don't show a single sign of deception.

You turn your face away from her, unable to accept it. Your hands begin to fidget beneath the surface of the water, your fingernails automatically searching for the skin of your palm to dig in. Your thoughts begin to race, the routes twisting negative as self-deprecating words spread through your mind.

But Wanda begins to speak.

It isn't about anything monumental. It isn't even about you. She simply begins to talk about work and what she's been doing these past two days.

She tells you that the new manager in accounting is doing well, and that she's already planning to offer them a full contract. She sounds exasperated when she describes a cross-corporate meeting she attended, detailing how the men in the boardroom initially looked down on her, only to frantically pivot the second they realized she's the CFO of RMG. She talks about the grocery shopping she did on Thursday, the bright flowers she spotted along the road, and Natasha taking her out for dinner.

You listen carefully, her voice disrupting your thoughts before they can loop. You find yourself picturing the flowers she described. You imagine the expressions those men must have worn when they realized who she is.

Your fingers relax under the water. You stop pressing your nails into your palms, clasping your hands loosely together instead.

Wanda finishes speaking, letting the silence float lightly in the air.

You didn't realize how much you missed her. The effortless way she maps exactly how you're feeling. The way the sound of her voice sets your mind at ease. You don't want it to be awkward between you anymore.

The genuine happiness you saw on her face while she was rinsing your toothbrush and taking care of you flashes through your head.

Your pulse begins to beat a little faster. You glance back over your shoulder, watching Wanda as she looks away from the tub, idly organizing the cosmetics on the vanity counter.

"Um… Wanda?" you call out shyly, your voice shaking with uncertainty. "Can you please help me wash my hair? My arms are tired."

Wanda's head turns instantly, her green eyes wide and bright. An elated smile breaks across her face as she rushes to stand.

"Of course," she responds happily.

She navigates back to your side, positioning herself so her knees are flat on the tiles right in front of the tub. She detaches the handheld hose from the side wall, turning the dial and testing the water temperature against the porcelain. She turns to you with a bright smile once she finds the right balance.

Your heart warms at the sight of her—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, leaning over the rim of the bathtub. And it's all just for you.

The corners of your lips curl upward into a small, happy smile. You hope Wanda knows this is your way of telling her that you forgive her. The actual words themselves don't feel like enough to bridge the gap.

"Ready, baby? Close your eyes," she says, her voice light.

Based on the sheer warmth of her smile, you think she does know. You close your eyes, completely certain that you're in safe hands.

—

The water in the tub drains away, leaving behind thin remnants of bubbles clinging to the porcelain walls. You pull your legs tightly against your chest as Wanda rinses the soap around you, before finally running a stream of clean water over your skin. Without the sheet of bubbles, you feel exposed. But Wanda's eyes never waver where they shouldn't—where you haven't allowed them to go. Instead, she stays focused on the task at hand, asking you playful questions that make it impossible to think about anything else.

You wrap your arms around your shins, trying to conserve the warmth that's beginning to seep out of your pores. You look up at Wanda, trying to calculate the options: stand up and expose your entire naked body, or stay seated in the tub and try to hide the shivers that are beginning to form.

You don't have to wonder for long.

Wanda snatches a yellow towel robe off one of the hooks on the wall, handing it over with a satisfied smile. You reach for the fabric, feeling its soft, heavy texture.

"Wait a second, honey," she says, suddenly pulling the robe up so it completely blocks her line of sight, shielding her eyes. She reaches out her free hand blindly toward you. "Now you can stand." Her voice dips back into an anxious register. "But please be careful not to slip."

You reach for her hand. Her fingers curl around yours instantly, holding you steady as you begin to push yourself up, careful to make sure your bare feet have traction against the slippery porcelain. You step out over the lip of the tub, your feet landing squarely on the thick towel Wanda placed on the floor.

You lift your arm shakily, slipping your hand into one of the wide sleeves. Wanda releases her grip, catching the wrist that's safely within the fabric to help you maneuver your other arm into the opposite side. She wraps the heavy yellow robe completely around your frame, tying the belt securely around your waist.

Suddenly, everything goes dark.

You look down, only able to see your own feet. You feel the gentle weight of Wanda's hand on the crown of your head. She pulls the extra fabric backward, and your vision clears. She guides you by the waist, turning you around until you're facing the massive double vanity mirror.

She holds your shoulders gently, resting her head right next to yours as she smiles at your reflection in the glass. "Don't you look adorable, sweetheart?" she gushes.

You hadn't noticed the large hood on the robe earlier. It rests securely over your head, soaking up the remaining moisture from your hair so the water doesn't drip down your neck and shoulders.

You look at her reflection through the glass instead. Your eyes trace the curve of her lips, which are upturned into a wide smile. You look down at the wide sleeves of the robe, finding a pattern of little suns wearing sunglasses stamped throughout the yellow fabric. It's warm.

Wanda is still staring at your reflection expectantly. "I… I guess so?" you respond unsurely. You always kept your appearance strictly maintained, but anything beyond that wasn't something you ever thought about.

Wanda shakes her head, her eyes closing for a brief second. She opens them, meeting your gaze directly in the mirror. "You do look adorable," she says, as if there's absolutely no doubt about the fact. Her eyes soften, her lips forming into a smile that is full of deep affection. "Our little sunshine," she says contently.

Your chest blooms with sudden warmth. You look away shyly, your ears heating up at the attention you're receiving. You hear Wanda laugh quietly next to your ear. She guides you carefully back to the vanity armchair, squeezing your shoulder lightly as you sit.

"I'm going to grab you a fresh pair of clothes," she says, preparing to step away.

You reach out blindly, grabbing the sleeve of her sweatshirt before she can leave the room. The words rush out of your mouth before you can even think to audit them. "Fuzzy pants?" you request, tilting your head up to look at her.

Her smile widens. She taps the tip of your nose with the pad of her index finger like she did in her office.

"Anything for you," she responds, turning away to head into the bedroom.

You sit patiently, leaning your weight against the backrest. Your legs swing lightly beneath the chair with what little strength you can muster. Then, your legs pause their motion.

You need to call Angie to let her know you won't be able to make it to your restaurant shift tonight. You bite the inside of your cheek. You hate the idea of disappointing her.

Wanda enters the bathroom again. White fuzzy pajama pants patterned with red hearts and a black sweatshirt are folded neatly in her hands. A pair of clean white underwear sits on top of the pile. Your chin dips, heat creeping up your neck. You can't help but wonder whose underwear you're borrowing.

You shake your head lightly, forcing your mind to stay on track. "Wanda? Can I call my manager? I have to let her know I'm sick and can't make it in tonight."

Wanda looks down at you, her head tilted as she sets the folded clothes on top of the vanity counter beside the chair. She gives you a slightly confused smile. "Of course you can, honey," she says slowly.

You look down at your lap, realization dawning on you.

Why did you just ask her for permission? It just felt like you should.

Getting assisted into your clothes is becoming a familiar affair, the process entirely streamlined at this point. With the heavy yellow robe still loosely draped over your frame, your dignity is preserved as she slips the clean underwear past your thighs, letting you pull the elastic up the rest of the way. You choose to forgo a bra, the thick black sweatshirt making it unnecessary.

The moment the waistband of the new fuzzy pants rests against your hipbones and the towel robe is removed, Wanda levels you with a serious stare.

"Darling," she starts, her voice wavering a bit. "Can I ask why you smelled like smoke that day in the office?"

You look down at one of the red hearts on your pants, your eyes tracing the curves. Answering this question would inevitably lead to more. It would mean tearing open a can of worms that you purposely keep sealed. It's not something you want to get into right now.

Right now? the final part of the thought echoes back in your head. Someday, you hope you'll find the courage to share it—in the way Natasha shared her history with you.

"I can't," you respond resolutely, your voice beginning to sound different as your sinuses clog again. "But I didn't smoke."

"I believe you," she says instantly, without a shred of hesitation. She looks up toward the ceiling for a moment in thought before meeting your eyes again. "I hope one day you're able to tell me why."

She gives you an understanding smile that makes a sudden prick of guilt tighten across your skin.

A sharp knock against the wooden doorframe forces both of you to look toward the door.

Natasha is standing there, wearing a sharp black power suit. The tailored fabric screams authority. You imagine it must intimidate hundreds of people in boardrooms, but the expression she's delivering right now is the complete opposite. She smiles at you softly.

"Hi, girls," she greets, her raspy voice filtering into the bathroom. "I see we're all fresh and clean now?"

You sniffle, trying to clear your nose. "Yes," you respond, looking away from her.

"And still not feeling too well," she says. You can see her tracking your posture in your peripheral vision, her expression shifting into something apologetic. "I'm sorry for not being here when you woke up," she adds, her voice dipping lower.

You press your lips together, forming a stubborn, grumpy pout.

Wanda chuckles beside you.

"I brought food back with me. How about we eat together?" Natasha asks, tilting her upper body down slightly to force you to meet her eyes.

You look up at Wanda, nodding your head lightly to give your consent.

Wanda laughs brightly, turning her head to look at Natasha. "Our sweet girl says that'll work."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but amusement lines her features when she looks back at you. "And is our sweet girl still feeling weak?"

You let out a heavy sigh, shifting your gaze back to Wanda, and nod your head solemnly.

Wanda winks down at you, turning back to Natasha. "Our sweet girl says—"

"I saw," Natasha cuts in, staring at Wanda with a deadpan, blank face. She steps past the threshold and walks up to the armchair.

"Can I carry you downstairs, baby? I don't want you to almost fall again." Her tone shifts instantly, her voice turning soft and pleading.

You stare at her blankly as she tilts her head from side to side, trying to curry your favor.

Wanda pipes up. "How about me, honey? Can I carry you?"

You turn your gaze away from Natasha and give Wanda a small grin. "Yes, please."

You lift your arms as high as your depleted strength allows. Wanda leans down, guiding your wrists over her shoulders. She shimmies her hands beneath your thighs and lifts you up with surprising ease. You press your cheek flat against Wanda's gray sweatshirt, looking back over her shoulder at Natasha.

Natasha's gaze isn't on you. It's locked onto Wanda, who's smiling triumphantly. Natasha's lips pull into a frown as Wanda turns and begins to walk out of the bathroom. Natasha follows closely behind the two of you.

"Nat, grab her phone," Wanda commands, not even bothering to look back.

You pick your head up from the soft cotton of the sweatshirt, peering past Wanda's shoulder as Natasha rolls her eyes in annoyance, but listens anyways, entering the room you had slept in.

Wanda walks down the grand staircase slowly, keeping her movements measured so your body doesn't bounce in her arms. The first floor opens into view. It's a massive, wide-open layout with daylight drifting in from towering windows at every angle. The light brown floorboards match the upper level perfectly. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of a huge, plush white couch facing a massive television screen in the living room, but you aren't able to take in the rest of the space before Wanda transitions into a quicker pace toward the dining area.

She sets you down gently onto a polished wooden chair pulled against an elegant white dining table. There are three other empty seats surrounding you. Two large brown takeout bags rest in the center of the table.

You turn your head to track Wanda as she frets about the kitchen, opening drawers to grab utensils. It's by far the largest kitchen you've ever seen. High-end steel appliances and endless storage space are displayed proudly along long marble countertops. A massive white island sits in the middle of the kitchen, the clean metal edges of a stove built into the stone. You find yourself wanting Wanda to finish what she's doing and just come back to sit next to you.

You jump slightly in your seat when a hand places your phone directly into your palm. Natasha. She always has a way of sneaking up on you without making a sound.

"For you, princess," she says teasingly, sliding the device into your fingers before reaching into the takeout bags to unpack the containers.

"Thank you," you mumble honestly.

Natasha nods down at you, opening a takeout box that you instantly recognize. It's from the same wrap place they ordered from before.

You unlock your screen, surprised to find that it's only 1:41 PM. You pull up Angie's contact and press the call button. It only takes two rings for her to pick up.

"This is a surprise," Angie says, her voice echoing over a loud rustling sound. It sounds like she's shuffling inventory around the restaurant.

"I'm really sorry, but I need to call out sick tonight," you say quickly, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve.

The line goes dead silent for a brief second. Then, Angie's worried voice breaks through the speaker. "Sweetie, you sound absolutely terrible. Thank you for letting me know, and it's totally fine, by the way. Noah needs to work harder anyways." She pauses for a moment, the rustling stopping. "Should I bring you some soup or anything? Have you eaten?"

You look down at the table at the soft sound of a container being placed right in front of your hand. A paper cup of steaming hot soup sits on the table. You glance up at Natasha, who gives you a small, reassuring smile.

"No, I have food here. Thank you though, Angie," you respond into the phone. The image of Nicole crosses your mind. "Also… can you please let Nicole know I'm okay? I had to leave the party early and I never got the chance to tell her."

"Of course, sweetie, I'll let her know," Angie promises. "Just take care of yourself, you hear?"

You smile to yourself, the knot of guilt in your chest unraveling. "I promise I will."

"Good, good," she says. The shuffling sound starts up again. "I've gotta go, sweetie. I'll see you when you're better."

The line clicks dead before you can get another word in.

You release a sigh, placing your phone down on the table. Wanda appears beside your chair, setting a metal spoon next to the container of soup.

"Did it go well?" she asks, sliding into the seat to your right.

You nod at her. "It did."

Natasha takes a seat to your left, her suit jacket brushing against your arm. You reach out, picking up the spoon, the cool metal seeping through your fingers. You dip it into the container, scooping up a generous amount of soup. You bring it toward your mouth, your entire forearm shaking from exertion, but you stubbornly refuse to spill a single drop.

The edge of the spoon touches your lip, sending burning pain through your lower lip. You wince at the heat but force the rest of the soup into your mouth, swallowing it down despite the burn.

Suddenly, the spoon is no longer in your fingers. You glance up to see Wanda holding it instead. She levels a playful glare at you.

"Darling, if it's difficult, then you can just say so."

She dips the spoon back into the paper cup, bringing up a spoonful. She raises it to her own lips, blowing away the rising steam to cool the liquid down. You attempt to reach for the spoon with a trembling hand, but Wanda smoothly moves it out of your reach.

"I can do it," you say stubbornly.

"Oh, you definitely can," Wanda says, her voice light. "But you don't have to."

She brings the spoon back to your lips. It doesn't burn like it did before. The temperature is perfectly warm.

"Open up, sweetheart," Wanda says encouragingly.

You part your lips hesitantly, and the warm soup enters your mouth. You can't taste much with your sinuses completely clogged, but the warm liquid immediately soothes your raw throat as it goes down.

"Good girl," Wanda says, her voice bright praise.

Your stomach flutters, a wave of warm happiness blooming through your chest. You automatically part your lips again, wanting to hear her praise you more. Wanda smiles at you, the bridge of her nose wrinkling playfully as she scoops more of the soup, careful to ensure the temperature is just right before offering it. The liquid flows smoothly down your throat.

"Thank you for eating so well," Wanda coos softly.

You grin to yourself, your brain beginning to slow. Your thoughts begin to stick and drag against each other, as though they're dripping in honey.

Wanda looks past your shoulder for a moment, raising a single eyebrow. "Oh, lighten up," she says with a light laugh. "Eat your food, Natty," Wanda says, her tone bordering on mocking.

You turn your head slowly, catching Natasha with a frown on her face. You silently mouth the nickname to yourself, testing the syllables. Natty.

"Do you like the way that sounds?" Wanda asks from your right, her voice curious.

You nod, your eyes still locked on Natasha, who has now picked up half of her wrap. You do like the way it sounds.

"Can you tell Natty to eat her food?" Wanda asks, her voice dipping lower.

You don't even think twice, ready to listen to whatever Wanda tells you.

"Natty…" you begin, blinking blearily at her. "Can you eat your food?" you ask shyly.

Natasha turns her head to face you instantly. Her eyes are wide, but the affection in them is unmistakable. Her expression softens, a gentle smile forming on her lips.

"Yes," Natasha responds, her voice dropping into a light, unusually soft register. "Natty will eat her food." She brings the wrap to her mouth and takes a bite.

You turn your head back to Wanda immediately, your eyes wide and expectant.

Wanda reaches out, caressing your flushed cheek with her hand. "Thank you, baby," she coos at you.

You grin toothily back at her, basking in the praise. Wanda looks up toward the ceiling, in thought but there's a playfulness in her eyes. "Hmm…" she drawls. "I feel a little bit left out without a nickname from you."

She meets your eyes again, her expression light, but there's an unreadable weight underneath the playfulness that you can't quite decipher. "Maybe something that also ends with a y?"

Natasha bursts into a sudden fit of coughs from beside you.

A nickname that ends with y? you think to yourself. Your eyebrows furrow in concentration, trying to force your brain to function. Only one idea surfaces through the thick, heavy syrup behind your eyes. Wandy? No, that sounds terrible. Your forehead begins to throb the harder you try to think of options.

"Wanda is just being silly. You don't need to strain yourself over it," Natasha says, clearing her throat.

"Am I?" Wanda asks innocently. "Maybe we'll change yours, too, Nat. Make it a matching pair with mine."

Natasha stares back at her blankly, but a rosy tinge forms across her cheeks.

Does that make her happy? you wonder slowly. Maybe if you can think of the perfect nickname, Wanda will look at you and praise you again.

"Wanda," Natasha says, an edge cutting into her tone.

You look back and forth between the two of them. Natasha is sending a warning glare across the table. Wanda is smiling innocently, turning her gaze away toward the window.

You can't help but feel like there's more to this conversation that you're missing.

The sharp sound of the doorbell echoes throughout the floor. —

A/N: Sorry for the really long chapter! I'm going to have to take a week, maybe two, off from this story due to work so I wanted to leave you guys with something substantial. Lots happened xD Hopefully some of your questions were answered, though you'll definitely have to read between the lines. I wanted to get into Wanda's backstory too, but it felt weird doing it back to back. It would be too forced.

And yes, the Mommy kink tag has officially been added. Let's be real, it was always leaning this way even if I tried to ignore it. I'll be active on Tumblr even during the break so if you have any ideas of how it should be introduced in the story, let me know!

I really appreciate your guys' thorough comments! ♡ It always brings a smile to my face and pushes me through when I'm struggling writing. Hopefully this somewhat self indulgent chapter turned out okay! — Taglist♡: @kawaiipeacemusic @toe19 @tomy5girls @nrlvr @imaginemeandwho @sweetmissnothing @scarlettbitchx @three3ofswords @truthindreams @beggingonmykneesforher @justheretoreadgl

It's been months since you last saw Alexia.

She’s been extremely busy with football, brand deals, and events. As her friend, it made you incredibly proud to see her achieving so much. She’s worked so hard and it was about time that she was able to reap her benefits and gain the recognition she so badly deserved.

But as her fuck buddy, the feral, needy side of you was just writhing with sexual frustration and yearning, wanting her to fuck you after every time you’d watch a game of hers.

You tried touching yourself, trying every new vibrator and toy available in the market but not a single toy could replicate the way Alexia made you feel. The way she moved her tongue, her fingers, her hips – it always drove you insane. Every single time with Alexia left you in a dreamy state for days. The sore muscles from all the positions she put you in always left you aching for days, but you loved every bit of it—each ache serving as a lingering reminder of that night.

On different occasions, you wanted to just text her and beg her to come over and fuck the living daylights out of you but it just felt like you might be crossing the line. You two usually just fucked whenever you had free time to spend together; asking her to make time from her busy schedule just felt personal and… intimate. So, instead, you’d sulk at home and try every single possible way of fiddling with yourself to no avail.

Feeling desperate and horny, you made the mistake of making out with Alexia’s friend and teammate Lucy Bronze. You bumped into her during a night out with friends wherein she recognized you as Alexia’s friend from college. A couple drinks down and one thing led to another.

Even if Lucy was an excellent kisser, you didn’t feel the same electric connection with Lucy that you had with Alexia. Though, since then, you’ve maintained close contact with the Brit.

Despite several attempts of hitting on you, you never really responded to any of Lucy’s booty calls. You knew Alexia and you were just friends with benefits but somehow, you felt like it was wrong to do anything more with a friend of hers. It wasn’t as if you two were exclusive… but you still felt hesitant.

Although, after a while, you grew more and more frustrated with Alexia. How was it possible that Lucy had enough free time to hit you up but Alexia seemed too busy to even send you a naughty pic or even just a cheeky message? You felt neglected and increasingly sexually frustrated.

Little did you know that word had gotten to Alexia that you made out with Lucy.

Ever since the two of you started hooking up, Alexia had grown increasingly infatuated with you, craving the feel of your skin and the taste of your lips at every waking moment. If she could, she'd have you beneath her every day of the week. But as life got busier for both of you, she held back, reasoning that it would be selfish to hit you up randomly in the middle of a busy week just to scratch an itch. Besides, she had always been the one to initiate before, and this time, she decided to wait. She waited to see if you wanted her as desperately as she wanted you.

But the silence from you was deafening.

No late-night texts, no "I miss you," not even a casual "wyd." At first, she convinced herself you were just busy. Then she heard through the grapevine that you'd been kissing one of her teammates at some club.

The news hit her like a punch to the gut, leaving her pissed off and bitter. If you'd moved on or decided to have fun with some other girl, fine, you weren’t in a relationship anyway — but it didn't make it sting any less. And to top it off, she had to find out from someone else that you were attending the team’s victory party at Lucy’s place.

The audacity, Alexia thought bitterly. Even if it technically was Lucy’s party, she thought you’d have the decency to refuse or to even just give her a heads-up, knowing that it might be weird to be around Alexia and Lucy. No decency at all.

When you got the invite, you hesitated. But then you decided this was your chance to remind Alexia exactly what she had seemingly forgotten about. After all, she'd ghosted you out of nowhere, leaving you high and dry after giving you the best sex of your life.

So, the night of the party, you slipped into a tight black dress that hugged every curve and sprayed on the perfume you knew drove Alexia crazy. If she thought she could move on so easily, you were more than ready to remind her of what she'd lost.

As soon as you entered Lucy’s place, she was the first person you saw.

It wasn't hard for you to see her. She was usually taller than most girls and she always just exuded a confident energy that never failed to catch everyone's attention. She was wearing a black cap and a black jacket, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows exposing her muscular forearms. Your mind tried not to remember all the times you watched the veins in her arm bulge out so slightly as she pumped her fingers in and out of you.

You locked eyes and her jaw instantly clenched. She looked upset. You would have felt a bit bad about never reaching out to congratulate her on all those winning games or even checking up on her if you didn't see her arm around a shorter girl you didn’t recognize.

Great. I've been replaced.

You rolled your eyes and headed to the corner of the house where Lucy and her other friends were seated.

"Hey, mami." Lucy greeted you. She stood up and gave you a kiss on the cheek, immediately snaking a hand around your waist. You loved how Lucy was never secretive of her finding you irresistible. Once or twice, you thought about riding that strong jaw but you figured you had to see out a complex friends-with-benefits relationship before entering another one. "Looks like we're all out of seats. Why don't you sit on my lap instead?"

You smirked. "You just would grab any opportunity to have me on top of you, huh?"

She smirked, biting her lip. "You know it."

You sat on Lucy's lap sideways, arms around her to secure your spot as your legs dangled on her side. She put her hands around you with her left hand on your back and the other drawing small spirals on your bare lap.

Alexia must have caught sight of this because you saw her looking over, jaw clenched and eyes darkened.

“I’m just so glad this season is done. I seriously need to go out to the clubs and get laid… get all that tension out of my body.” Patri, who was sitting on the floor beside Pina and Salma, complained to the group before taking a swig from her beer. “Nothing like unwinding to a girl between your legs.”

The crowd chuckled. Ingrid playfully threw a rolled up paper towel at Patri calling her gross. You smiled and nodded along as you let Lucy run her hands up and down your leg. “Thirsty, pretty girl?” She asked.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Hmm, why don’t you grab that beer and help me out?” She asked. You smiled as you grabbed the beer with your free hand and put the bottle against Lucy’s mouth, tipping it a bit as you let her drink from it. You bit your lip as the older girl maintained intense eye contact as you did.

Alexia was practically seething from the sight of it but continued to ignore you, staying at the other side of the room. The girl in her arms was trying to chat her up, asking about football or whatever, but all she could focus on was you.

The conversation continued with the group. “I’d hate to be single right now. How do you have the energy to go out and exert all that effort just to get laid?” Mapi exclaimed as she put an arm around her girlfriend who was sitting beside her. “If I were single, I’d rather just grab my vibrator and call it a day.”

Patri rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying that cause you have Ingrid.” She retorted. “If you were single, you’d be out there in the clubs with us too.”

You could feel Lucy’s body vibrate against you as she chuckled. You grabbed Lucy’s bottle of beer, drinking from it as you continued to listen in on the conversation that was unfolding.

“I agree with Patri.” Irene chimed in, swirling a plastic cup with her hand. “I’d hate to be single and always end up masturbating at night. That would make me miserable.”

Patri nodded, as she raised her bottle high up. “Exactly, exactly!”

“The orgasm you get from a girl does not compare to one you get alone.” Irene added on, garnering a slow clap from the drunken Patri.

You laughed at the interaction. Lucy turned to you with a small smirk. "How about you? What do you think?"

You paused. You noticed Alexia move closer to our group. You hummed in thought, returning your gaze back to Lucy. "I don't know. I feel like it depends. It's a case-to-case basis and it just depends on who your partner is and what you want." You said, loud enough for others to hear. “So, yeah, I don’t have a clear cut answer.”

Mapi nodded to what you said. “Yeah, but having to find someone who suits you… it just takes too much time. If you’re single, you’re basically gambling every single time you decide to sleep with someone.” She said as she shook her head. “Besides, why would you want someone you barely met handling your precious goods?”

“We get it, Mapi. You’re in a loving relationship where you have sweet, sweet, compatible sex.” Patri said, rolling her eyes and making the crowd chuckle.

Before the two could continue debating, Pina chimed in. “Capitana,” She called Alexia over. "Settle the debate for us. What's a better way of unwinding after football season — masturbating or going out to have someone take care of it for you?"

Alexia moved closer to the group, an arm wrapped around a girl and her other hand wrapped around a red cup. She looked serious with her eyes still fixed on you. "She hasn't actually answered the question yet." She responded, looking at you as she tilted her cup at your direction.

You rolled your eyes and sighed, defeated. "I guess, I'd choose just making myself cum."

Mapi nodded smugly at Patri who felt annoyed.

"Really? I always pegged you as a pillow princess type. Like... the type who has to be pleased by someone else?" Lucy asked, fingertips still suggestively grazing your thighs

You hummed in thought. "Well, I haven’t found anyone who pleases me better than I do myself.” You lied with a shrug, looking directly at Lucy and avoiding Alexia’s gaze. “Why bother trying to find someone to aimlessly poke at me until I fake it when I can just take care of it myself?”

The group laughed at your statement but Alexia remained stoic and stiff. "Really?" Her voice dripped with thinly veiled annoyance. "Are you trying to say that no one has ever made you cum before? You always just fake it?”

“Yeah, no one really comes to mind.” You shook your head. "Besides, I'd much rather spend a night getting tired out by my vibrator rather than to be disappointed by some tryhard who fingers like they have carpal tunnel or eats me out with the same limp energy of an old man with his porridge."

The crowd laughed even harder but Alexia looked even more annoyed. If everyone was sober and in the right mind, they'd catch on to her reaction to your bold statement and figure out there was definitely something between the two of you.

You tried to laugh along but you felt weirdly nervous about lying. Alexia didn’t seem too pleased with your statement. Why is she so pissed off? It’s not as if anyone here knows we’ve slept together.

You were pulled out of your worries when you felt Lucy’s hands move higher up your leg, skimming the skin under your tight dress.

"Why don't you give the poor vibrator a rest from tiring you out," Lucy whispered, playfully using your own words. "And have me give it a try?"

You moved closer to her. "Hmm, I don’t know. Aren’t we just friends now?" You said softly so that the group wouldn’t hear too but still loud enough for Alexia to hear, if she tried hard enough. “Sex might just complicate that.”

“C’mon, we already kissed.” Lucy smiled with eyes that flickered from your eyes to your lips. "Besides, isn’t it worth risking it? I know I can pleasure you better than anyone else ever had.”

You smiled and playfully caressed her strong jaw with your fingers. “Well…” You trailed off seductively in a low voice, moving closer to Lucy’s face. "I've always wanted to feel that strong jaw against—"

Your flirting was cut abruptly when Alexia angrily threw her crumpled red cup to the ground and walked out of Lucy’s place. Everyone looked around confused, including the girl she was with. She blinked curiously as her eyes stuck at the door, wondering why Alexia had left so abruptly; the poor girl was just talking about her new manicure.

"Damn, I guess, no one's making her cum either." Patri joked, garnering a bunch of playful slaps and chuckles from the group but the room still seemed to be confused; Alexia was never the type to storm out in anger out of nowhere.

You tried to just shake off Alexia's mood swing and returned to flirting with Lucy but just minutes later, Alexia was storming back into the living room. She stomped her way to you and grabbed your hand, basically yanking you off of Lucy. You nearly tripped over your own feet as she grabbed you.

"What the fuck, Alexia?" You exclaimed as you were pulled by the arm by the tall blonde. "That fucking hurts. What's your problem?"

She didn't speak up. She basically dragged across the house until you reached what seemed like Lucy’s bedroom. She slammed the door loudly and locked it behind her.

Now that you were alone, you could see the annoyed look on her face, the redness across her cheeks, the tightness of her expression… and the slight bulge in her pants. Oh... that's what she had to get from her car when she stormed out.

She slammed you against the bedroom door, towering over you and trapping you with her arms. You gulped as you felt your back press flatly against the door.

Alexia suddenly grabbed your face with one hand, gripping so hard your lips were almost puckering out. "Why are you running your mouth about how no one's made you cum?" She said with a low, threatening voice. Her hazel eyes had darkened under the dim lights of the bedroom.

You stared at her, blinking your eyes in fear. She was so frightening when she was mad; it was like she was a completely different person. Her eyes, which were usually warm, were staring at you pointedly. All of the muscles in her face clenched as she slightly grit her teeth. And, while you were actually scared, you were also getting incredibly turned on.

Alexia squished your face harder, slamming her other hand on the door. You felt the wood pressed behind you vibrate with the force. "Answer." She leaned in and aggressively bit the side of your neck, sinking her teeth into you.

You gasped loudly in shock. "Ahh, Alexia, that really hurts."

She ignored you. She moved her head back to stare you in the eyes before she wrapped her hand around your throat. "Tell me who makes you cum." She asked.

You gulped as you felt her hand tighten slowly. "I'm sorry, Alexia." You responded, feeling incredibly nervous and intimidated. "I'm sorry I lied. I was just joking. I just missed you so much and I was frustrated that you never contacted me and I just wanted to see you react to —"

You gagged as her hand suddenly got tighter. "I didn't ask for an explanation." She growled. "I asked who fucking makes you cum."

You gasped for air as her hand loosened a bit. "It's you, baby. It's just you." You croaked out.

"What did you just fucking call me?" She growled in your ear; you felt the familiar electric tingle in your spine as she breathed heavily against your ear. “You don’t get to fucking call me that when you’ve been such a brat.”

"Alexia," You moaned, correcting yourself. "It's you, Alexia. It's you who makes me cum. Only you make me cum, Alexia.."

You felt like a blubbering mess but Alexia seemed pleased because she let your throat go, and fondly touched your cheek instead with her thumb. You inhaled deeply before leaning towards her to kiss her but she moved away.

"Bad girls don't get kisses." Her mouth quirked up into a smirk. "Bad girls get on their knees instead and offer their mouth like a slut."

You looked down again and you were once again reminded of the strap poking against the front of her denim pants. You gulped but got on your knees and slowly unbuttoned her baggy jeans which revealed a harnessed strap-on above her Calvin Klein underwear.

You bit your lip. You gasped when Alexia grabbed a chunk of your hair and looked down on you. "Open your mouth." She said as she tilted your head back with her hand.

You opened your mouth, obediently. "Now, stick your tongue out, you fucking slut." She ordered in a low but firm voice.

You didn't let a second pass before you followed her instructions, opening your mouth wide and sticking your tongue out as far as it could go. She smiled at your obedience before leaning over and spitting in your mouth. You nearly moaned just from the action but before anything could escape your mouth, she slammed her hips against my throat and fucked your mouth with her silicone member.

She grunted and cursed as she watched you suck and gag on it. "That’s right. Suck like a good girl."

You moaned in response as you eagerly sucked on the strap as if your life depended on it. You were gagging a lot with Alexia’s force and your face was streaked with tears but you felt incredibly turned on by the sight and the feeling.

Alexia was gasping and groaning as the base of her strap pressed against her own clit, forming a dark pool on her grey underwear. You moaned at the combination of the sound of her guttural moans and the smell of her wetness. You could practically feel your core grow more and more moist by the second.

"Fucking suck harder, you fucking slut." Her voice sounded venomous with all the expletives she was hissing out. "You don't get to flirt with other bitches in front of me. I own you."

"Or do you just let any other bitch fuck you like this?" She grunted out, looking down at you. Alexia never went this rough with you before but she was starting to enjoy it, especially the sight of your tear-stained face and puffy lips wrapped around her strap. "Are you that much of a pathetic whore? You just let anyone fuck your throat like this?"

You shook your head, unable to speak as she was filling your mouth with the silicone. She moaned out as she pushed your head even further.

You felt tears sting your eyes as she thrusted in your throat with such vigor and roughness. For a moment, you felt like you were just a doll made to satisfy her lust and oddly, it made your core ache more for her.

Alexia tilted her head back, thrusting against your throat. The base of the strap was perfectly hitting against her clit. It felt satisfying knowing she was getting off of fucking your mouth with her strap even if that meant that your throat would be sore in the morning.

"That's right, cariño." She moaned out. "Take all of me.”

It didn't take long until Alexia moaned out. She pulled your head off of her, making a satisfying sound as it exited your mouth. You coughed and wiped the tears and saliva off of your face, clutching your throat as you started to feel the discomfort spread.

Before you could even do or say anything more, Alexia yanked you up immediately and pushed you towards the bed. You fell backwards on the bed, feeling your dress ride up on your body, pooling together near your hips which meant your underwear could be easily seen by the blonde gir.

You felt so exposed and vulnerable.

She took off her jacket and her shirt, revealing her Calvin Klein sports bra and her toned stomach glistening with sweat. You bit your lip as she walked closer to the bed. The dim light entering the windows from the street lights outside and the small night light in the corner of the room was accentuating every contour of her body.

"Strip. Now."

You frantically tried to remove your tight dress. It made it so difficult to remove as some of it clung to your sweaty skin. You felt unsexy wriggling out of it in bed. But, you also felt nervous, knowing Alexia wasn't always the patient type in bed.

"Hurry the fuck up." She groaned. You tried but she grew more frustrated. She took your dress and pulled it off your body roughly. You heard some seams rip as she did but you didn't give a fuck. You were more concerned about her impatience and how it was gonna affect you.

You were mostly bare in front of her, only wearing a pair of lacy black underwear which was now glistening with your translucent nectar.

She chuckled. "You really are a little slut." She said as she used a finger to graze your core, making you whimper. "Look how wet you got just from getting throatfucked by me. I haven't even touched you and your cunt is all drenched."

"Yes, Alexia." You moaned out as she pressed a finger against your clit.

"You really were talking your shit about how no one makes you cum while your cunt is quivering and soaking wet just from giving me a blowjob." Her fingers were so delicate against your core — a weird juxtaposition with the roughness of her words. "I wonder what everyone else would think if they heard you moaning out my name just after you lied out there. They'd think less of you... they'd think you're a dirty liar who loves to provoke just to get fucked. Isn't that right?"

You gulped and bit your lip as she gently moved her fingers up and down your opening, teasing you with the pad of her fingers.

You were broken out of a trance when her hand was squeezing your face again. "Answer me."

"Yes, yes, Alexia." You responded, almost out of breath. “I’m a liar.”

"And I don’t like liars. Right, cariño?" She let go of your face and backed away slowly.

Before you could respond, two fingers were thrust into your hole, roughly fucking you. You moaned out loudly as you felt Alexia's fingers rapidly move inside you with complete disregard of letting you adjust to her fingers. She leaned over to your breasts, sucking on them so roughly that it was almost painful.

"Alexia," You moaned out. "Please give me your strap. Alexia, please."

Alexia ignored you as she continued to fuck you with her fingers and suck on your torso, leaving you branded with bruises all over and glistening with a mixture of your sweat and her saliva.

"Alexia, please." You whimpered.

She groaned loudly before pulling her fingers out of you. You don't know how but she managed to get you off of the bed and pressed against the door again in a swift motion. This time, your front was pressed against the door — hands against the cold wood — with your butt sticking out.

She grunted out curt instructions for you to steady yourself against the door as she positioned herself behind you. She gripped your waist roughly with her long fingers as she rubbed your cunt with the length of her strap. You bit your lip, holding back your moans, too afraid that your proximity to the door would mean everyone out there would hear you, even with the music they were playing.

You grunted out when you felt her grab your hair and mutter in your ear. "You better not choke down those moans, cariño."

She let go of your hair before slamming the entire length of the strap inside you. You moaned out loudly, struggling to grip yoyr hands against the flat door.

"Baby, it hurts.” You winced as you felt her begin to thrust.

"Who said you can call me baby again?" She practically shouted it before raising her hand, landing it on your right ass. It made a loud sound, quickly followed by your loud cry of pain and pleasure.

"I’m sorry, Alexia." You responded. Alexia grabbed on to your waist again, thrusting her silicone dick in and out of you. You were feeling the pain in your core as the silicone stretched you but it was such an addictive pain. It felt so satisfying being filled by Alexia like this.

Alexia must have sensed how close you were to an orgasm because she picked up the pace. The base of the strap hitting your slick vagina which made a loud sound, accompanying your loud moans and Alexia's grunts.

"Alexia, don't stop. I'm so close. Please." You moaned out, hands and legs shaking.

"Don't cum until I tell you." Alexia's voice was strained as well. You knew the base of the strap was rubbing against her own clit too. "If you cum before I do, I will take you out of this room and fuck you in front of everyone else so they can see how much of a fucking, lying whore you really are."

You moaned at that statement, making it even harder for you to delay your orgasm. You felt your walls clench against the strap. Alexia picked up the speed even more, driving you into a frenzy. You were practically a blubbering mess — face pressed against the door and hands trying to cling on to the flat surface as a string of incoherent moans and words left your mouth.

"Alexia, please." You felt like you were going to collapse any moment soon, struggling to keep your clammy hands from slipping off of the door.

Alexia slammed her dick into you a couple times more before saying, "Cum."

You almost shouted in pleasure as you felt the orgasm ripple through your body, making your legs feel like jelly. You felt the warmth spread through you as you exclaimed her name another time as Alexia thrust a few more times to ride out her own orgasm.

You wanted to fall on the floor and just lay there but Alexia's grip on your hips remained firm that it was almost impossible for you to fall over. She put you upright again, one hand firmly on your hips and the other cupping your chest as she helped you up. She gently guided you back to bed.

You laid on your back, out of breathe as she crawled on top of you. "No one makes you cum right?" She teased.

You rolled your eyes to playfully smack her but she caught your hand smoothly and put it above your head. "I'm not done with you." Her serious face was back.

Your eyes widened. You felt like your body would give up on you if you werefucked again but that didn't seem to stop Alexia.

Her hand found its way to your cunt. You felt her thumb and index finger gently fiddle with your clit before pressing roughly, then pinching it.

"Alexia!" You yelped, instinctively pushing on her shoulders a bit

She let go of your clit and began roughly rubbing instead. You put your arms around her shoulders, holding her closer as she rubbed your core. She moved closer to yoy before kissing and sucking on your neck, leaving more bruises for you to worry about the next morning.

"Oh, Ale, that feels so good." You said in a hum of pleasure as your eyes fluttered shut.

Alexia managed to push the hood off of your clit and began gently rubbing and flicking against the tiny, sensitive part of it, overstimulating you. You moaned out again and tightened your hold of her.

"Who makes you cum?" She asked in your ear.

"You."

"Say my name." She ordered before sinking her teeth on your collarbone and sinking her two fingers back into your vagina.

You gasped before you shouted. "Alexia! Alexia! It's you, Alexia!"

She continued to kiss your neck as she fucked you with her fingers and rubbed your clit with her thumb.

"Alexia, I'm close! I'm so close!" You moaned out as she pumped in and out. "Alexia! Please!"

"Cum for me, cariño." She whispered so gently and as she did, you shouted out her name as you held on to her, experiencing the most intense orgasm of your life.

She chuckled. "Hmm, I don't think you've squirted this much before."

Yoy blinked a bit before sitting up to see that Lucy's bed was completely drenched. You felt your face become red as you realized the mess you two have made.

Alexia was smiling, satisfied at her work. You pouted your lips as you looked at her. "Baby, can I have kisses now?"

She leaned close to your face again. "Only if my princess promises she's going to be a good girl from now on."

"Yes, Alexia." You said, pouting your lips as you looked into your eyes. You gave her an irresistible wide-eyed innocent look — the kind you knew she could never resist.

She smirked before she leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss. You grabbed on to the back of her neck to deepen the kiss but just a while after, she pulled away. "Why don't I take you back to my place and then you can let my neighbors hearyour pretty little moans too?"

You chuckled. "Okay, Alexia."

You got up from the bed, and got dressed with Alexia. She apologized for ruining your dress but she didn't really look sorry for it. She actually looked proud and smug. You straightened up your appearance as much as you could before Alexia and you stepped out of the room.

To your shock, a few people from the group earlier were hovering near the bedroom door with mixed expressions of horror and amusement. They tried to not make it obvious that they heard you get absolutely wrecked by Alexia.

“Damn,” Patri shook her head as she turned to Mapi. “I want whatever those two are having.”