Whispers under the moon

You had been dreading tomorrow for weeks. It hung over you like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting, a day you had shoved to the back of your mind until there was no more room to ignore it. Your parents were coming to visit.

You loved them, you truly did, but love didn’t erase the tight coil in your chest, didn’t mute the small, precise criticisms that always seemed to find their mark. You knew the routine by heart: the looks that left your stomach twisting, the faint edge in your mother's voice that carved at your confidence, the subtle, almost imperceptible gestures that made you question yourself long after they’d left. Every encounter ended the same, you left with your mood low, your confidence splintered, and an anger you’d never learned to hold properly. 

You should have told Natasha and Wanda. You knew that. They would have met it with their usual patience, with warmth so steady it felt like a safe harbour. Wanda’s soft frown, Natasha’s calm voice, the gentle insistence that you breathe, it would have anchored you, kept you from being swallowed by the rising tide of dread. 

But the thought of it made something inside you twist. You didn’t want them to worry. You didn’t want to be the source of their concern. You didn’t want to seem fragile, weak, or, worst of all, like a burden they had to shoulder.

So you lied. Said you were spending the day with Kate. The words slipped out too easily, smooth and convincing, as though rehearsed a thousand times. Wanda had only smiled and said to tell Kate hello. Natasha had brushed a thumb along your cheek, murmuring, “Behave yourself,” before pressing a light kiss to your forehead. You had smiled back, hiding the tremor that ran through your hands, the tight tension in your shoulders, and slipped away before either of them could notice.

And now, as you made your way back to your dorm, preparing yourself for tomorrow, your stomach tightened with a preemptive ache, a loop of anxiety that had already begun. You could picture every glance, every half-word that would cut too sharply, every sigh that would echo in your chest. You wanted to rewind, to disappear, to find some corner of the world where the weight of expectation couldn’t reach you. But you couldn’t. Tomorrow was coming, whether you were ready or not.

—

Kate was already there when you returned to your dorm, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her laptop balanced on her knees, a packet of crisps between her hands. Her hair was tied in that messy way that somehow looked deliberate, and the glow from her screen painted her face in shifting blues.

“Hey, roomie,” Kate greeted, glancing up from her laptop with a grin that faltered almost immediately. “Jesus, you look like shit. Did Nat and Wands do something? Do I need to get revenge for you?”

You tried to laugh, though the sound came out thin and tired. “I’m good. Just tired.”

“Uh-huh.” She gave you one of her sceptical looks, the kind that made you feel like she could see right through your skin. “That’s your lying through your teeth voice.”

You dropped your bag by the desk and sat on the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing dramatic, honestly. I have to see my parents tomorrow,” you said with a groan.

“Oh.” The teasing in her voice vanished instantly. You’d mentioned your parents before, vaguely, during one of those late-night conversations where the words came out half as jokes, half as quiet admissions. 

Kate closed her laptop with a soft click and turned fully toward you. “Do I need to fake a sudden allergic reaction? Because I can. I’m excellent at making a scene.”

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “Aw, you’d really do that for me?” you asked, trying to sound playful, anything to hide the part of you that desperately wanted to take her up on it.

“Please,” she huffed, tossing a crisp from her half-eaten packet in your direction. “I live for the drama. Give me a reason to clutch my chest and collapse into someone’s arms. I’ve been practising.”

You shook your head, the tension in your chest easing just enough for the smallest laugh to slip out. Kate always had that effect; she could weave humour into the cracks of your anxiety, softening the edges without ever dismissing them, easing what you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say aloud.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the low hum of the radiator and the faint thud of music somewhere down the corridor. Kate crinkled the crisp packet absently, her gaze flicking over you with that half-worried, half-calculating look she got when she was trying to decide whether to press further or not.

“You gonna be alright?” she asked at last, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual playfulness. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to… but do you?”

You hesitated, staring at the floor where your trainers left faint marks on the carpet. “It’s not—” you started, then sighed, your voice dropping lower. “It’s not even worth the conversation, honestly. It’s just dumb.”

Kate tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You say that about a lot of things that aren’t dumb.”

A humourless little laugh escaped you. “Yeah, well, this one probably is. It’s just… parents being parents, me overthinking everything. Same story as always.” You picked at the edge of your sleeve, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but her. “I should’ve grown out of this by now, shouldn’t I? Getting worked up over nothing like some teenager.”

Kate leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she studied you. “You really think being messed up by your parents is something people just grow out of?”

You let out a long sigh, shaking your head slightly. “Other people have it worse. I shouldn’t even feel like this. I just… I don’t know. I make everything bigger than it is.”

Kate was quiet for a moment, just watching you. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand an answer, didn’t rush to fill the space. Then she sighed softly, sitting back a little.

“You know,” she said, her tone light but steady, “that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve heard all week. And I watched a guy on YouTube try to deep-fry soup yesterday, so that’s saying something.”

You glanced up before you could stop yourself, and she caught the faint flicker of amusement in your eyes. It wasn’t much, but she grinned like she’d won a small battle.

She leaned back, resting on her hands. “Seriously, though. You can’t just rank pain like it’s a competition. You don’t need to hit some kind of trauma quota to justify feeling awful.” Her voice was gentle, but it carried that quiet conviction that always made it hard to argue with her. “You feel bad, it hurts. That’s enough.”

You looked down again, fingers worrying at the frayed cuff of your hoodie. “It doesn’t feel like it should be enough,” you murmured. “I don’t know. Other people go through things so much worse and just… handle it. I fall apart over a few passive-aggressive comments and suddenly I’m back to being fourteen again. It’s pathetic.”

Kate tilted her head, watching you closely. “Hey,” she said, her tone softening even more. “It’s not pathetic. It’s human. And it’s okay that certain people still get under your skin, especially the ones who helped put those cracks there in the first place.”

Her words made something twist in your chest, a painful kind of understanding that sat too close to home. You took a slow breath, but it still came out shaky. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” she said, and though her voice was still quiet, there was no room for doubt in it. “Definitely.” She shifted closer, reaching out to nudge your knee with the tip of her foot. The light touch was grounding and casual, but intentional. “Look, I know I joke around a lot, but I mean it, you’re allowed to have a hard time, even if someone else has it worse. That’s not how pain works.”

You nodded faintly, eyes still on the floor, your throat tightening as you tried to push out the words. “Thanks, Kate.”

Her expression softened, a quiet warmth flickering behind her usual smirk. “Anytime,” she said, then paused, letting the seriousness ease just a fraction. “I’ll be invoicing you later. Premium emotional support package, top-tier stuff, it doesn’t come cheap.”

A small, reluctant laugh escaped you, quiet but genuine this time, and Kate’s grin widened like that had been her goal all along. “See?” she said lightly. “Already getting results.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore; it drifted through the room, soft and forgiving, like the air itself had loosened. Kate didn’t try to fill it, and you didn’t feel the need to, being quiet together felt like its own kind of relief.  

—

You’d been drifting in and out of restless half-sleep all night, thoughts looping endlessly, each one circling back to the same dread that sat heavy in your chest. Every time you closed your eyes, it felt like your mind refused to let you forget what the morning would bring.

By the time the alarm went off, exhaustion had already settled deep in your bones. Your head throbbed faintly, that dull kind of ache that comes from too little rest and too much thinking. You lay still for a moment, eyes shut, pretending you could delay the inevitable just a little longer.

Somewhere across the room, you heard movement, drawers opening, a cupboard shutting, the faint clink of a spoon against a mug. Then the familiar smell of coffee drifted through the air, warm and grounding.

“Wake up, sunshine,” Kate called, her tone light and teasing, though you could hear the careful edge beneath it, the way she was testing the waters, gauging your mood. “I made coffee. You clearly need it.”

You cracked one eye open, managing a small, sleepy smile. “You are the best,” you mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Kate appeared beside the bed, setting a steaming cup on your nightstand with an exaggerated flourish. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, sitting up and reaching for the cup. The warmth seeped into your palms, soothing the tension that had been sitting in your chest since last night. You took a sip, strong, a little too sweet, exactly how you liked it.

But even as you stared into the mug, trying to focus on the small comfort it offered, you could feel her eyes on you. That kind of not-looking look she’d perfected, phone in hand, gaze supposedly fixed on the screen, but the quiet weight of her attention resting squarely on you.

You could almost feel her studying you, cataloguing every tell you thought you were hiding, the tightness in your shoulders, the dark circles under your eyes, the way you kept your jaw clenched.

You eventually forced yourself to start getting ready, pulling open your wardrobe and sifting through the hangers with a kind of grim determination. You weren’t looking for something you liked, not really; you were looking for something safe. Something that said you’d made an effort, but not too much. That impossible middle ground between trying too hard and not trying enough.

After a few false starts, you settled on a pair of your nicer jeans, a top that fit just right without drawing attention, and your favourite jacket, comfortable, familiar, a small piece of yourself tucked into the armour. 

You slipped under the spray of the shower, hoping the heat would loosen the knot sitting in your chest. It didn’t. The water ran over you, too hot, too sharp, but you didn’t turn it down. You scrubbed harder than you needed to, chasing the idea that you could wash the nerves away, rinse the tension from your skin. When you finally turned the water off, the mirror was a blur of fog, mercifully hiding your reflection, for now at least.

Once dressed, you moved to the sink, combing through your hair, weighing every choice like it mattered, up or down, neat or casual, natural or styled. The same battle continued with your makeup, just enough to look put-together, not enough to invite questions. Simple, but polished. Presentable.

Anything to avoid the comments. The sighs. The way your mother’s eyes would flick over you, assessing, unimpressed, like she was already disappointed before you’d even opened your mouth.

You let out a slow breath, easing your shoulders down with deliberate control, the kind of composure that left nothing to be picked apart. Then you took a step back from the mirror, taking in the reflection you’d assembled piece by piece, a version made for containment, for surviving scrutiny. The longer you looked, the more foreign it felt, like you were watching someone else entirely.

And then your phone buzzed.

Mother: “Change of plans, meet at our hotel.”

You stared at the words, the familiar anger rising like heat in your chest. It was supposed to be brunch. Casual, quick, neutral territory. But this meant she was hungover. Or still drinking. Probably both. And if that was true, she’d be worse.

You scowled as you stepped out of the bathroom, finding Kate waiting, perched on the edge of her bed with her mug in hand. Her eyes flicked to you instantly, sharp and searching. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, sighing heavily. “She wants to meet at the hotel now.”

Kate frowned, confusion crossing her face just long enough for you to add quietly, “She’s probably already drunk. I just… don’t want to deal with it. I’m just being moody. Don’t worry about it.”

Her expression shifted, understanding first, then frustration, then something softer. “You could just not go,” she said. “Stay here with me. We’ll watch movies, order food. I’ll even let you pick.”

That earned a weak chuckle from you. “I can’t. They came all this way. If I don’t go, it’ll just cause drama. Or worse, they’ll show up here.” You grimaced, the thought alone enough to make your stomach tighten.

Kate nodded slowly, accepting but not happy about it. “Okay,” she said at last, “but like I said yesterday, I've got you. If you need to bail, text me. I’ll call with a fake emergency. Maybe I’ll actually set something on fire for realism. And once you are home, we are watching movies and eating junk, no excuses.”

That pulled a small laugh from you despite everything. “I know I already said it this morning, but you really are the best.”

Kate’s grin came back, easy and bright, as if she was determined to keep things light for both your sakes. “Oh, I know,” she said, her voice soft but teasing. “I take my best friend and roommate duties very seriously.”

She hesitated then, the humour fading just enough for something gentler to take its place. Her eyes followed you as you slipped into your coat and slung your backpack over your shoulder, movements slower than usual. “Just… be careful, okay?” she said quietly.

You swallowed, the words catching somewhere in your chest. The weight of what was waiting for you pressed in again, dull and familiar. You nodded, glancing toward the door without quite meeting her eyes. “Yeah,” you murmured, voice low. “I’ll try.”

—

You were barely present when you arrived. Once moment you were walking, eyes unfocused on the pavement, and the next you were stopped outside a pub with a confusing knot in your stomach. Your phone dangled loosely in your hand, the map app still open, but before you could even check the address your mother sent, a sharp gust of wind cut across the street. 

Then the smell hit, sudden and violent, wrapping around you like a vice. Stale beer, cheap perfume, and that acrid cleaning fluid that never quite covered the sour rot beneath. The smell that clung to everything, skin, hair, the corners of your memory, and yanked you backwards before your mind could brace itself. 

Suddenly, you are small again, curled up on two bar stools, knees pressed to your chest as the air thickens with laughter and shouting. The sharp edge of the wooden seat is digging into your side, and the music is pounding so hard that you can feel it in your ribs. 

You beg her to take you home, you always do, but she just waves you off with that slurred smile, another drink sloshing around in her hand. You eventually give in, knowing this is a battle you will never win, curling yourself up tighter beneath your coat as the night drifts on. 

You start counting the hours until morning, doing the sums in your head to see how much sleep you could get before school if she decides to leave now, but she won’t, she never does. By the time the last of the pub crowd thins, you have managed to fall asleep across the stools, a practised balancing act after too many nights of rolling off onto the sticky floor below. 

Then comes the walk home. Her arm hangs heavily over your shoulder, her laughter too loud, slicing through the quiet streets. You walk slowly, painfully aware of each unsteady step she takes, your body leaning into hers to keep her upright. Every time she drifts too close to the road, you shift her back, guiding her with hands and murmurs you shouldn't have to give, “we’re nearly there…not long now”, “careful”, “it’s okay”. The words fall automatically, soft and steady, but they feel wrong. 

These are words she should be saying to you. She should be comforting you. Nonetheless, you feel your stomach tighten with every wobble, every misstep. If she falls, it is your failure. This is your responsibility. You have to get her home safe. 

When you finally get home, you guide her carefully into bed, tug off her shoes, and pull up the blanket, pretending not to notice the slurred, biting words that slip from her between her hiccups. You linger, though, your heart hammering in your chest, silently pleading that she won’t vomit, that she won't start choking again, not tonight. Just not tonight. You are so tired. 

Only when you are certain she has settled do you finally allow yourself to slip away to your own bed. You realise that you are still in your uniform, the same one you had worn when she dragged you to the bar that afternoon, promising it would just be a “quick drink”. 

Your body feels unbearably heavy, your head is pounding, and the exhaustion coils through every limb. You fall asleep in it anyway, only to wake up shortly after to your alarm, the room thick with the lingering stench of beer and cigarettes that had clung to your clothes and hair. 

You are still bone-tired, starved of both sleep and proper food, yet there is no choice; you have to get to school. It would be worse if you didn't. So you force yourself up, make your own breakfast, and get ready alone, before making your way to the bus.

Then suddenly you were back, and a sharp, bitter anger coiled through your chest, twisting around your ribs like barbed wire. Why did she do that? Why did she always choose alcohol over you, and why the hell is she still doing it? 

And your father? Why did he never step in? He knew, he saw it all, yet he stayed silent. He chose to work away, he chose a quiet life, while you stayed home, carrying it all alone. He had peace, safety and warmth, and you carried fear, exhaustion, and the impossible weight of responsibility that should never have been yours. 

Your eyes stung as you lifted them, taking in the bar in front of you once again. You checked your phone, as if that would make sense of it, but the address was right. And then you saw it, the small cracked sign above the door advertising rooms. Of course. Of course she had chosen a hotel above a bar. 

The realisation hit like ice rushing through your veins, a cold fire that twisted in your chest tight as it coiled down into your stomach, making each breath jagged, heavy, almost impossible. She will never change. No matter how many promises she spills, no matter how many tearful apologies, she will always find her way back to what she truly loves, her home, the one thing that makes her happiest, alcohol. 

—

You closed your eyes and drew a slow, steadying breath before pushing through the door, forcing yourself forward. The hallway stretched dim and grim, the carpet frayed, walls scuffed; the hotel was cheap, chosen purely for convenience. You made your way to the room number your mother had texted, each step heavier than the last.

When you knocked, your heart thundered in your chest, a fire of anticipation and dread simmering through your veins. The door creaked open, and your father appeared, his face softening as he pulled you into a hug. 

You couldn’t help but melt into him, if only for a moment, despite the resentment coiling in your stomach. But the way he held you, too tight, spoke volumes. He was already worn down, and that was enough warning that today would unfold exactly as you feared.

You eased back slightly, giving your father room to step aside, and that was when your gaze fell on her. She was half-lying, half-sitting on the edge of the bed, a posture that seemed to wobble between effort and collapse. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, the dull sheen of alcohol catching the morning light that filtered through the curtains. 

The nightstand beside her was a scatter of proof of her morning activities. An empty bottle lay toppled, its contents long gone, useless. Another bottle teetered against the lamp, precarious and careless, a half-full glass with condensation beading and dripping down its side.

It wasn’t even noon. You swallowed, your throat was dry, your voice low and measured, trying to keep the tremor out of your words. “Hey, Mom… how are you?” You forced a small, careful smile, hoping for something ordinary, maybe a soft start, a few minutes where it could just be normal.

Her huff came quick and sharp, cutting through the quiet of the room. “I shouldn’t have had to travel here to see you. You abandoned me.” 

Your stomach tightened, your hands flexing at your sides. “I never abandoned you, Mom. I had to go to college. I wanted to start a life.” Your words trembled despite your effort to keep them steady.

She leaned forward slightly, her glare hard, eyes narrowing as though trying to drill into your very soul. “You left me alone. You don’t care about me. You never have.” The accusation rolled off her tongue like a sharpened blade, and it was familiar, every syllable dredging up years of helplessness, resentment, and quiet self-blame you’d tried to shove down for the sake of surviving.

The room, the faint smell of stale alcohol, the harsh morning light filtering through the blinds, the distant hum of traffic, it all pressed down on you, dragging you back into that small, exhausted girl you had once been, the one who had carried far too much for far too long.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” you murmured, voice careful, almost brittle. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted you to be proud.”

Your father’s voice broke through, soft, hesitant, almost pleading. “We are proud, so proud. You’ll be the first of us to graduate. If it means being away for a while, we understand.” His words were gentle, but there was an edge of fear in them, the unspoken worry that your mother might turn on him instead.

She turned her sharp gaze on him before taking a long, deliberate sip from her glass, eyes narrowing as if measuring everyone in the room. “Yes, proud… but I would like to see you more,” she said, and then her attention drifted to you. Her eyes ran over your body slowly, deliberately, like she was scanning for faults. A faint grimace tugged at her lips. “It’s clear you’re not taking care of yourself properly.”

You tugged at the sleeve of your jacket, heart tightening. “What do you mean?” Your voice was quiet, careful, too aware of the tension in the room.

Her tone shifted, deceptively casual, like she was letting a passing observation slip. “Look at you. Did you even try today? You can’t tell me you think it is appropriate to walk through the streets like that.” 

You wanted to laugh at the absurdity. She was sprawled on her bed, hair messy, her shirt stained, and she thought she could judge you? But you couldn’t. Instead, your chest constricted, a familiar ache settling there.

You tried to defend yourself quietly, but even your effort felt insufficient. “I did try, Mom. I did my hair the way you like, and I put on makeup. You said you liked these jeans last time.”

A short, humourless chuckle escaped her lips. “You fit in them properly last time. Seems like you’ve put on a few pounds since then, eh?” The words were light, almost careless, as if teasing, but each syllable landed with surgical precision, pressing into the tenderest parts of you.

A tight, twisting knot of disgust coiled in your stomach, an old, familiar companion from years of whispered judgments, of mirrors and scales and the relentless inner voice that had once dictated every bite you took. 

Before your mind could process anything, your mouth betrayed you, spilling words like water over a dam. A need to defend yourself, to prove that you were still deserving of love, still allowed to exist in your own body without shame, even if you had gained weight.

“If I’ve put on weight, it’s because Wanda makes sure I eat properly. She checks on me every day… It’s been… nice, having someone who wants me to thrive.”

The instant the words left your lips, your chest tightened and your stomach dropped. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy and suffocating. You knew exactly the storm you’d just unleashed. There was no undoing it now. 

Your mother's head snapped up, eyes sharp and incredulous, her lips parting as though she could barely process the words. “Who is Wanda?”

Panic clawed at your chest, heat rushing to your face. Your stomach twisted, your mind frantically spinning for a way to fix the slip-up. “I… uh… she’s my roommate in my dorm,” you managed, sounding smaller than you felt. The weight of her gaze made it harder to hold your composure as you prayed she wouldn’t remember if you’d ever mentioned Kate in passing on the phone.

Her eyes narrowed, disbelief hardening into accusation. “Your roommate is called Kate. Why are you lying to me?” Her voice had sharpened now, the quiet, sly cruelty of before replaced by the sting of direct confrontation.

The walls seemed to press in, closing the space around you until each breath felt stolen. Heat burned up your neck and into your face, hands trembling at your sides, while a cold sweat ran down your spine. Your body wanted to flee, but your feet were nailed to the floor, your hands frozen, and somewhere deep inside, your heart screamed in warning. But there was nothing you could do; you had no choice but to tell the truth. 

You lowered your head, forcing your eyes to the floor, trying to make yourself smaller, maybe even invisible. “Wanda… she’s… she’s my girlfriend, okay?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

You risked a quick glance at your father, and for a fleeting second, relief softened his features, a quiet light in his eyes that seemed to say he understood, that he was on your side. But it evaporated instantly.

Your mother’s voice cut through the room like a whip. “Girlfriend? I thought we got over that little phase!” She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “I made it very clear I expect you to marry a man, sooner rather than later!”

Your father stepped forward, hesitant, voice tight. “Love, she—”

“No! Don’t say she can’t control it!” your mother snapped, cutting him off like a whip. “She can! This is a choice, and she is choosing sin!” Her words struck your chest like blows, sharp and relentless. Her face was a storm of fury, every muscle taut with disgust.

Something inside you broke, a dam you hadn’t realised was still holding. How could she see something that gave you warmth and safety and call it sin? 

“You know what, Mom?” Your voice cracked, raw and trembling, but louder than it had any right to be. “Neglecting your child all these years, that’s the real sin. But it’s fine because it’s you, right?”

She stood up from her bed and lurched toward you, unsteady, the movement sharp and full of venom. “You think I neglected you?!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I gave you a roof over your head! I made sure you did well in school! I left food for you to cook! Other kids have nothing, and you—” she jabbed a finger toward you, voice rising to a snarl— “you ungrateful little brat, you dare to complain?!”

Her words slurred together, each one soaked in alcohol and anger. Her chest heaved, her eyes wild, and you could almost feel the heat rolling off her as she stumbled another step forward.

This time, you didn’t back down. You’d learned from Wanda and Natasha how to stand your ground, how to speak even when your voice shook. You weren’t going to be silenced again.

“I know I was lucky in some ways!” you shot back, each syllable cutting through the thick air. “But you never treated me like I mattered! Like I was loved! I wasn’t a daughter to you, I was just a carer!”

Tears blurred your vision, hot and relentless. The anger and grief tangled together, building until it erupted from you in a scream that cracked your voice. “But I needed you! I needed a mother! I needed to be seen, to be loved! And all I got was shame and fear!”

For a heartbeat, the room went still. Then your mother slammed her hands down on the desk next to you, suddenly much closer than she was when you last looked up. “You dare talk to me like that?!” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage. “I raised you! You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re safe! Where was your father, huh? Never there! I gave up everything for you, and this is how you repay me?”

You shook your head, trembling, breath coming fast. “I don’t care about your excuses! I don’t care about what you think you gave me! I don’t even care where Dad was! You weren’t my mother, not really. You were a stranger who screamed and drank and left me to fix you when I was still a child! I deserved a mother. I got you. And I hate what you did to me!”

Then she moved. It happened fast, her face twisted, hand swinging before you could even think. The slap cracked across your cheek, the sound sharp and final. Your head snapped to the side, skin burning, eyes watering from the sting.

You stumbled back, hand pressed to your face, and for a second, you just froze. You were numb, your breath caught halfway in your chest. Of course it ended like this. It always did. Every fight, every confrontation, it always came back to this.

Your father caught you before you fell completely, one arm steadying your shoulders as he moved to position himself fully between you and her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice quiet, breaking. “Are you okay?”

You stared at him, your cheek throbbing, your heart still hammering. The fury hadn’t gone. It burned hotter now, sharper. “You’re just as much to blame,” you spat, voice trembling with hurt more than rage. You didn’t fully mean it, but it slipped out anyway. 

His eyes filled with shame, and his mouth opened once, twice, before the words came out in a whisper so soft it barely reached you. “I know,” he said, voice cracked and raw. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That was all it took for the fire inside you to die out. The anger, the strength, the desperate courage that had pushed the words from your chest, it all vanished in an instant. What filled the space instead was heavy and suffocating, crawling through your body like smoke after a fire. Regret. Shame. Guilt. 

The girl who had stood her ground was gone, buried beneath the one who bit her tongue and kept the peace. The old instinct was all that remained, the need to disappear, to stop taking up space. Your shoulders curved inward, your throat tight with words you’d never say again. And before you even realised it, your body was already moving, turning towards the door.

Your mother’s voice split the silence like a whip. “Oh, so that’s it?” she barked, her tone sharp and wet with tears. “You’re just leaving now? You come in here for ten minutes, tear me apart, and now you’re walking out like the victim?”

You turned slowly, your lips trembling. “I can’t do this every time, Mom.” The words came out as a sob, your throat aching from the effort to speak through it. “I love you, I really do, but I can’t—”

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped, cutting you off, her eyes blazing. “What about me? You think I wanted this life?” Her voice cracked into a bitter laugh as she snatched up her glass, draining it in one swallow. “This is why your dad worked away. This is why I drink. You… You’re the reason everything fell apart!”

You flinched. Every word landed like salt rubbed in an open wound. You wanted to argue, to say she was wrong, to tell her that it wasn’t fair, but the fight had bled out of you completely. The tears that slipped down your cheeks burned. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. You didn’t even know what you were apologising for. For yelling? For not being what she wanted? For being born?

Your father still stood between you, hand half raised, like he might reach for you but couldn’t quite decide if he had the right. You turned to him, eyes blurred, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Dad,” you said, the words cracking under the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

He looked at you then, and the heartbreak in his eyes was unbearable. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence was deafening, proof of all the times he hadn’t spoken before, all the times he’d let it happen.

You nodded without looking at either of them, because if you did, you might never move again. The room seemed to tilt slightly as you turned, each step heavy, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You reached for the door, and your hand shook so badly that you almost missed the handle.

“Go on then,” your mother muttered behind you, voice brittle with drink and bitterness. “Run away like you always do.”

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The door creaked open, and the cool air from the hallway hit your face, but it didn’t bring relief. You hated yourself for ever opening your mouth. For believing, even for a moment, that this time might be different, that honesty might reach her where silence never had. 

You hated the fragile hope that had made you brave, the foolish part of you that still wanted her to understand. And as the sting on your cheek throbbed in rhythm with your heartbeat, you cursed yourself for thinking she ever would.

—

The walk back to your dorm felt endless. Every step was heavier than the last, each breath scraping through your chest as your mother’s voice looped in your head. Every word she’d said replayed with cruel clarity, laced with disappointment you could still feel in your bones. The cold bit at your cheeks, but it did nothing to cut through the fog of panic that clung to you like smoke. You told yourself to focus on the pavement, on breathing, on getting back, but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

By the time you reached the dorm, your fingers were numb, clumsy as you fumbled with the keys. The lock stuck once, twice, before giving way, the door creaking open on its hinges. You pushed the door open, hoping Kate might miraculously not be there. But as soon as you stepped inside, the hope vanished. She was there, eyes flicking immediately towards you, her brows knitting together with that sharp instinct that made you feel seen, even when you didn’t want to be. 

Her gaze scanned you from head to toe. “Hey… you okay?” she asked, voice soft but probing. “I thought you’d be gone for longer.”

Your stomach lurched. “Yeah… Mom was tired. I didn’t stay long.” The lie sounded fragile, unsteady. Your voice pitched higher than you meant, trembling around the edges. You kept your gaze fixed on the carpet, on the faint tear in the seam, anything but her eyes.

She rose slowly from the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight. “Look at me,” she said, her voice calm but deliberate, refusing to let the moment slip by.

You shook your head quickly, forcing out a laugh that felt thin and wrong. “Kate, I’m fine. I just… I just need to go to the bathroom, okay? Then we can watch something. You can pick the film this time.” The words tumbled out too fast, too rehearsed, brittle with the kind of cheer you used when everything inside was breaking.

She moved across the room, her gaze fixed on you. You could feel it tracing the tiny tells you couldn’t control, the way your shoulders hunched, the way you flinched as her shadow fell across you. “Why won’t you look at me?” she asked again. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight, pressing right through the fragile barrier you were trying to keep up.

“Kate, please,” you whispered, stepping back. If you could just get to the bathroom, two minutes, maybe less, you could cover the mark, fix your face, breathe long enough to pretend again. You’d learned that early, how to patch the damage before anyone noticed. You didn’t want questions; questions meant exposure. Questions were dangerous. But before you could reach the door, she caught your wrist.

“Wait.” You barely had time to react before she spun you around, her grip firm but careful. The movement was fast, a flash of motion, a blur, and then you were facing her, the light from the window catching your cheek, exposing everything.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Then Kate’s eyes widened, confusion flickering first, chased quickly by shock, and then by anger, fierce and burning. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

Her jaw tightened, breath shuddering. “I fucking knew it!” she burst out, the words tearing free like something she’d been holding back. Her voice was caught between rage and something rawer, almost frightened. “What the hell did she do?”

You froze. Words crowded at the back of your throat, useless. You wanted to say it was nothing, that you’d tripped, that you’d fallen, anything but the truth. But the lie wouldn’t come. Not when the guilt was sitting in your chest like a stone. You’d pushed too far; you’d made her angry. You’d caused this. It was your fault. 

Her eyes narrowed, fierce and unyielding, and you felt their weight press against you until you could barely breathe. You wanted to shrink, to curl in on yourself, to vanish into the silence you knew so well. But Kate didn’t give you that option.

“I’m not looking away,” she said quietly, but her tone was hard as steel. “Tell me what happened.”

Your throat burned. For a long moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t even lift your head. When the words finally came, they barely made a sound. “I… I made her angry. I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed her too far.”

Kate went still. Her face drained, just for a second, before her anger surged back, fiercer than before. “You made her angry, so she hit you?” Her voice cracked on the last word, disbelief giving way to something that sounded dangerously close to grief. “On purpose?”

You nodded weakly, shame flooding you. “I… I messed up, Kate. I upset them both…I deserved it.”

Kate’s breath hitched. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, but every syllable was deliberate. “No,” she said, her tone steady as steel. “You never fucking deserve that.” She took a slow step forward, gaze locked on yours. “I don’t care what you said, or how angry she was. You don’t ever deserve to be hurt for speaking up. Do you understand me? Not ever.”

You swallowed, the words tangling in your throat before they could even form. “Kate… it isn’t that simple,” you muttered, quieter than you meant.

Her brow furrowed, confusion cutting across her features, softening the edge of her anger. “What do you mean? How isn’t it simple?” There was no fury in her voice now, just the restless frustration of someone who cared too much, someone desperate to understand.

“Just drop it, Kate,” the words snapped out, faster and sharper than you intended. And the instant you heard yourself say them, guilt hit like ice in your chest. You’d done it again, you’d snapped, lashed out. Why couldn't you control yourself? The shame coiled tight in your stomach, and your voice wavered as you added, “…I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Kate blinked, startled, mouth parting as if she might argue, then closing again when she saw the tension in your posture, the way your shoulders curled inward. For a long, heavy moment, she just watched, breathing steadying, gauging how far you’d retreat this time.

Finally, she spoke, her voice softer, even careful. “Okay… okay, we don’t have to talk about it,” she said gently. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

You let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with the ache in your chest. “Yeah… yeah, let’s watch a movie,” you murmured, voice barely above the quiet hum of the dorm. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Kate chuckled, low and warm, the sound grounding in a way that almost made your chest ache less. “Shut up, idiot,” she teased, shaking her head. “You’re allowed to set boundaries. If this is one, then that’s okay. Don’t get me wrong, I do want us to talk about it eventually, but while you’re not ready? That’s fine.” She reached out then, pulling you into a firm, brief hug before letting go. “Go get the laptop ready, I’ll grab drinks and snacks.”

You nodded, a strange, uneasy weight settling low in your stomach, though you couldn’t quite name it. You obeyed anyway, letting yourself sink onto your bed and opening the laptop to Netflix, your fingers fumbling over the keys as if on autopilot. 

A few minutes later, Kate returned, sliding onto the bed beside you. She set down two cans of Coke and a small pile of snacks between you, the smell of chocolate and salty popcorn filling the small space.

“I can’t wait to show you this movie,” she said, her eyes bright, a soft grin tugging at her lips. “It’s my favourite.” She nudged the laptop awake, fingers lingering for a moment on the trackpad as she loaded the film. Then she leaned back against the wall, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth with a casual, easy motion, as if trying to make the moment feel normal, light.

—

An hour later, the two of you were wrapped in blankets, Kate’s attention fixed on the film, her lips moving softly as she mouthed the lines she’d probably seen a hundred times before. You couldn’t have said what was happening on the screen if someone had asked. You’d been staring at it, yes, but you hadn’t been watching. 

Your thoughts were spiralling, a mess of noise and flashes. Every harsh word that had ever been thrown at you seemed to echo again in your mind, blending with your own voice until you couldn’t tell the difference.

You needed to be punished; that slap was not enough. That was the truth clawing its way up through the chaos. You’d done wrong, hadn’t you? And when you did wrong, you were meant to pay for it. That was how it had always been. The memory of it lived under your skin, raised voices, the sting, the humiliation, the cold silence afterwards. It was all you knew growing up: mistakes were fixed through pain.

When they stopped hurting you, you’d simply taken over. You’d learnt how to do it yourself, quietly, efficiently, without the need for witnesses. It had made sense at the time. Pain was order, pain meant control. It meant you could make the guilt stop before it drowned you.

Even now, years later, the memory of it hummed in your bones, soft and seductive. You knew exactly how it would feel if you went back to it, how the noise in your head would fade, how your breathing would even out, how you’d feel clean again.

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t. You’d promised yourself that much, and it had taken years to pull yourself out of it, to learn how to stay away. Natasha and Wanda had already seen the edges of that damage, the faint, almost invisible scars that you’d brushed off with some half-hearted explanation. 

They were barely noticeable now, and you told yourself that was a mercy. It meant you wouldn’t have to tell the truth. You wouldn’t have to see the look on their faces if they ever realised what you’d done to yourself. You’d sworn you’d never let it come to that again.

And yet the thought wouldn’t leave. Natasha and Wanda. The names themselves seemed to spark something dark and desperate inside you. Maybe there was another way. If they punished you, if they took control, then it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t count. You could pretend it was something else, something loving, even as you used it to quiet the guilt. They’d never know.

The idea was vile, but it rooted itself all the same. You knew exactly how to push them, how to get under their skin, how to provoke the reactions that would hurt just enough to make you feel better. 

The thought made you sick, but that didn’t stop it from making sense. You always hurt the people closest to you. It was what you did, wasn’t it? That was who you were. A bad person pretending to be good. Always taking something pure and turning it into something rotten.

Your thoughts kept spiralling, looping tighter and tighter until you barely noticed the world around you. It wasn’t until Kate stretched beside you with a long, satisfied groan that you realised the film had ended. The screen was dark, and in that silence, something in you settled, cold, certain. The decision had already been made.

“Would you mind taking me to Natasha and Wanda’s, please?” you asked, forcing your voice into something light, almost innocent. “I told them I’d see them this evening,” you added, the lie slipping out far too easily.

Kate’s face softened instantly, her smile gentle and full of understanding. She probably thought you just needed comfort, that you wanted the safety of their arms, the warmth of home. And you did, just not in the way she believed. “Of course! Let me find my keys,” she chirped, already moving.

You nodded, though your throat felt tight and your breath wouldn’t settle into anything steady. You slipped into the bathroom quickly, closing the door with a soft click. The mark was easy enough to cover, no swelling this time, just faint discolouration that makeup would hide without effort.

A sick kind of relief, dark and unclean, spread through you as you left the bathroom to gather your things. It was wrong. Every part of it was wrong. But even knowing that didn’t change the quiet certainty that this was the only thing left to do.

—

You’d spent the entire drive over trying to work it out, running through scenarios in your head like some sort of twisted rehearsal. You knew which buttons to press, but pressing them without revealing what was really going on inside your head would be the challenge. 

You weren’t the type to act out without reason, not really. You didn’t push boundaries for fun. You only broke rules when you needed something, and this… this was a need. The question was whether they would see it for what it was.

When Kate pulled up outside the house, you thanked her softly, leaning over the centre console to give her a quick hug before unbuckling your seatbelt. You opened the door, stepping out into the sharp afternoon air, but when you glanced back, she was still there. She gestured for you to go on; she wasn’t leaving until she saw you safely inside. You managed a small wave before pulling out your key, unlocking the door and slipping quietly into the house.

It was still. Too still. That was when you realised it was mid-afternoon. Were they even home? Natasha wouldn’t be working today, you were sure of that, but she could have been at the gym, or running errands, or spending time with Yelena. Wanda might be at the café. For a moment, panic clawed at you. What if you’d come all this way for nothing?

You walked further in, footsteps soft on the wooden floor, and then you saw them. Curled together on the sofa, the kind of sight that would’ve made your chest ache if your mind wasn’t such a mess. 

Wanda was reading, her voice barely audible as she murmured under her breath, while Natasha rested her head against her shoulder, eyes closed, utterly content. It was a perfect moment, so gentle, so loving, and for the briefest second, you considered turning around and walking out. Leaving them undisturbed. Almost.

Instead, you cleared your throat before you could change your mind. Both of them jumped, clearly startled, their heads snapping up toward you.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here? You said you’d be with Kate today,” Wanda said, a smile blooming across her face, the kind that made her eyes soften. She sounded happy, relieved even. Natasha looked up too, her smile smaller but no less warm.

And that was when the idea fully took place, it was sharp, it was cruel, and it was mean. The lie would come easily; you’d already told one today. You could twist this, turn it into what you needed. “I… I need to tell you something,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. The guilt in your voice wasn’t entirely feigned.

The change in them was instant. The light in their expressions dimmed, replaced by concern. Natasha straightened, tension flickering through her posture as she tapped the space beside her. “Come sit, tell us,” she said, calm but guarded.

You shook your head slightly, choosing instead to lower yourself into the armchair opposite, keeping that deliberate bit of distance. “I lied to you about where I was going today,” you whispered, and the weight of it sat heavy in your throat. You could feel the guilt pressing down, not just from the lie itself, but from what you were about to do next.

Wanda leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, the book long forgotten on the coffee table. Her voice was gentle, but the worry threaded through it was unmistakable. “Okay… so where were you?”

The question felt heavier than it should have. You could hear your own pulse in your ears as you swallowed, your throat dry, the lie already sitting bitter on your tongue. You drew in a slow breath, forcing the words out, each one feeling heavier than the last. “I… I met up with Carol.”

Natasha’s head snapped up, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before they hardened into something sharper. “What?” The word sliced through the quiet, low and dangerous. Her voice rose, but it was laced with disbelief. “Why would you lie to us?”

You felt your stomach twist, but you forced the mask on anyway, the posture, the attitude. You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, trying to make it careless even as your pulse raced beneath your skin. “I just wanted to hang out with her,” you said, keeping your tone deliberately flat and defensive. “And I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it.”

Wanda straightened up, her expression tightening, the softness receding as she took in what you said. Her voice was still calm, but now there was an edge to it, it was disappointment. “So you lied instead of talking to us? You know communication is everything, we could have discussed it.”

The disappointment in her voice stung in a way you hadn’t prepared for. You needed it to hurt differently, though. You needed anger. So you let the next words fly before you could stop yourself. “So you could tell me no? Dictate who I can see, what I can do, stop me having friends?”

The accusation hung in the air. You could almost see the flicker of confusion in their faces as the tension shifted. You didn’t believe a word of it; you knew they trusted you, that they would have listened if you’d asked. But that wasn’t the point. The truth wouldn’t give you what you wanted. The truth wouldn’t make them react.

Natasha’s voice broke the silence.“Excuse me?” she said, each syllable deliberate, controlled, the danger beneath it coiling like a blade ready to strike. “When have we ever stopped you having friends? We actively encourage it. We just want you safe.”

“As long as you can control it, you mean,” you shot back, the words biting and cruel. You could feel the heat in your chest, that trembling, dangerous thrill that came with stepping over a line you couldn’t uncross.

“Darling…” Wanda’s voice softened, though there was a warning threaded through it now, her brows knitting together as she studied you. “Where is this coming from?”

You looked up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting moment. Her eyes were warm, and too full of understanding, it nearly undid you. The pounding in your chest was so violent you were certain she could hear it, could see right through you. You dropped your gaze before she could read what was really there.

You shrugged, the motion weak, unconvincing. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do,” you said finally, forcing the words out with a feigned calm you didn’t feel. You prayed it would be enough to shift something, to make them stop seeing you as fragile and start seeing you as something that needed to be handled.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed immediately, her tone low and disapproving. “Are you testing us, little girl?”

A flicker of something dark and electric ran through you, and you forced a smirk, even though it felt wrong on your face. “Maybe. What if I was?” you said, letting your tone drip with false indifference. 

You wanted it to sound like a challenge, like you weren’t trembling inside, desperate for them to take the bait. You knew what that kind of behaviour earned, and you wanted it, needed it, in all the wrong ways.

Natasha rose slowly, the authority in her posture unmistakable. “Then I think you’d need to be reminded what happens when you do,” she said, her voice calm and dangerous.

But before she could take another step, Wanda’s hand reached out, touching her wrist. “Wait,” she said firmly. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “You don’t just test for no reason. What’s really going on, sweetheart? Tell us, or this goes no further.”

Natasha hesitated, her jaw tight, before sinking back down beside her, her frustration visible but restrained. She was waiting for the truth you couldn’t possibly give them.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of their attention, and then fell back into the script you’d built for yourself. “I need Mommy and Daddy,” you whispered, adding a pout that felt hollow even as you forced it. “I… I’m just needy…”

Wanda’s eyes softened a fraction, but her voice stayed steady. “And you couldn’t just say that?” she asked quietly. “You had to act out instead?” There was no anger, only concern. It was as if she already knew this wasn’t about what you were saying.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking between them. “I… want to be put in my place,” you said finally, the words soft but deliberate. It wasn’t a lie, not really, but it wasn’t the truth either. 

What you wanted wasn’t discipline or dominance, it was punishment. The kind that stung, that left marks, that made the noise in your head go quiet for a while. 

Wanda’s breath caught audibly, and Natasha’s jaw flexed, the faintest tremor in the muscle there betraying her restraint. “And why is that?” Wanda asked, her tone gentle but lined with concern, like she was walking a tightrope between curiosity and dread.

You hesitated, letting the pause stretch long enough to seem real, long enough to let the lie build shape in your mouth. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about the time you punished Mommy,” you said, quiet but clear. “I… I want to try it.” You dropped your gaze halfway through the sentence, letting your voice trail at just the right pitch of timidness.

For a moment, the room was still. Both women were watching you, but not in the same way, they were reading you. Wanda’s eyes were searching, cautious; Natasha’s sharp and assessing, like she was peeling back the layers to see what hid beneath. 

You made yourself stay still beneath their gaze, every breath measured, every twitch restrained. Your expression stayed soft, open, that quiet kind of shy you knew they found endearing. You’d learned a long time ago how to adapt, how to become what someone needed you to be, even when it felt wrong.

You’d never had to use it with them before, though. With Natasha and Wanda, submission had always been something different. They drew it out of you so carefully, so patiently, that it never felt like giving up control, but like being held. This wasn’t that. This was mimicry, hollow and cold beneath your skin. But you knew how to pretend to submit, pretending had always been the safest thing you could do.

“Come here,” Natasha said finally, her tone steady but low.

You rose immediately, moving across the space like a reflex, eyes downcast, heartbeat echoing through your chest. You could feel her watching you the whole time. When you reached her, she guided you easily onto her lap, her hands grounding in a way that made your breath hitch. You hated that it felt comforting. 

Her thumb brushed a strand of hair from your face, the tenderness of the gesture so at odds with what you were chasing that it almost made you flinch. “Tell me what you want,” she said quietly.

You blinked, trying to find words that didn’t sound wrong, that didn’t sound like what they really were. “I told you,” you said, your voice small and fragile. “What you did to Mommy.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly, just enough to make your stomach twist. “No,” she murmured, her voice a warning. “Use your words. Tell me.”

You took a shaky breath. It felt heavy in your chest, shame pressing against your ribs. “The… the wall,” you whispered finally, your voice trembling. “And the flogger.”

Her pupils darkened, and a slow exhale slipped past her lips. The shift in the air was palpable, heat curling, tension thickening. “Yeah?” she said softly, her voice dipping low, dangerous. “You want Daddy to tie you to the wall and flog that pretty chest until it’s purple and red for me?”

Your body betrayed you, a shiver running through you at her words. It wasn’t arousal, not exactly, it was need, raw and confused and far too familiar. You nodded before catching yourself, forcing the word out in a whisper. “Yes.” Then, remembering what they expected of you, you added, “Yes, please.”

Natasha’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb tracing a slow circle against your skin. Wanda’s eyes were still on you, watching, cautious, like she could sense that something underneath this wasn’t right, that your submission wasn’t born from desire but from damage. But you couldn’t let that show. You couldn’t let either of them see that this wasn’t about play, it was about penance.

You all made your way upstairs together, the air thick with something unspoken, something that buzzed against your skin. Each step seemed heavier than the last, your heart a dull, unsteady drum in your chest. By the time you reached the bedroom, the tension was almost unbearable, an odd mix of anticipation and dread twisting inside you.

Wanda turned to you first, gentle hands finding your waist as she drew you close. Her lips brushed yours, soft and cautious. “Are you sure about this?” she murmured, her voice so full of care it almost broke you.

“I’m sure, Mommy,” you breathed, your tone dipping into that familiar, needy whine. “Please.” It slipped out like muscle memory, the way it always did when you wanted her touch, except now, it made your stomach churn. You hated how easy it was to sound like that, how natural it felt to beg for something that wasn’t what you truly wanted.

“Okay, darling,” she whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “But you tell us if it’s too much, all right? You might’ve pushed us today, but if this isn’t fun, then it is not happening. Understood?”

Her warmth, her sincerity, it burned. Guilt crawled up your throat like acid, thick and choking. You were going to make them do this. Make them hurt you, believing it was for play, for pleasure. You told yourself it didn’t matter. It would still be something, still a release. Maybe satisfaction and pleasure were close enough to count.

“I understand,” you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’m green.” You kissed her before she could look too closely, before she could see the cracks. She kissed back with a quiet sound of need, and you deepened it, desperate to drown her questions in desire. 

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were darker, her voice lower. “Come here,” she said, guiding you toward the wall. Behind you, Natasha had already opened the concealed panel, the metal hooks glinting under the soft light.

Wanda kissed you again as her hands moved to your clothes. She slid your jacket from your shoulders, your shirt following, then your bra. Her breath hitched. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” she murmured, her lips tracing down the line of your throat.

You didn’t feel beautiful. You didn’t feel anything but the sudden, sharp urge to hide. The words from your mother’s voice echoed in your head, and shame rose like bile. You fought the instinct to cover yourself, fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. If you flinched, if you hesitated, she’d stop. She’d ask. And you couldn’t afford that. So you stood still, bare and burning, and let her believe this was what you wanted.

Natasha returned a moment later, her footsteps steady, deliberate. In one hand, she held the flogger, its tails glinting softly under the light; in the other, a set of silk ribbons, not the rope she had used on Wanda. Of course she’d chosen those. Easier to untie, gentler against skin, forgiving if you panicked or needed out. Always thoughtful, always careful. You felt a flicker of something, shame, affection, maybe both curl inside your chest.

“I see Mommy has started getting you ready for us, kotenok (kitten),” Natasha said with a smirk that was equal parts fondness and command. Her eyes roamed over you, slow and assessing, and you felt heat rush to your face and chest. You nodded, unable to find words, watching as she set the flogger down on the edge of the bed before guiding you closer to the wall.

But as she moved, the reality of it hit you. The wall meant exposure, meant being seen. They’d be able to read every flicker of your expression, every tremor that slipped through. They’d see too much. Panic stirred low in your gut. “C… can you…Could you do my back instead?” you stammered, voice trembling despite your attempt to sound casual.

Natasha paused, her gaze softening immediately. “Yes, printsessa (princess). Of course. Thank you for telling me what you want,” she said gently, her voice warm with approval that made your throat tighten. That pride, it was so genuine, and so undeserved, it made it all that much worse. 

She stepped behind you, turning you slowly until your front faced the wall. Her touch was patient, tender. The ribbons brushed your wrists as she tied them to the hooks, loose enough not to hurt, secure enough that you wouldn’t slip away. 

When she leaned in to kiss the space between your shoulder blades, her lips were soft, reverent. And for a moment, your chest loosened. The world dulled around the edges. The familiar haze began to settle in, that floating quiet of real submission creeping into your bones even though you’d sworn you wouldn’t let it.

“You ready, kotenok? (kitten)” Natasha murmured, her voice low enough to send a shiver through you. Her breath brushed your ear, warm and steady, grounding and unsteadying all at once. “What’s your colour?”

“Green, Daddy,” you managed, though the word caught in your throat. It came out smooth enough to sound sure, but inside, you were trembling, a knot of nerves and determination sitting heavy in your chest.

“Good girl,” she said softly, and the praise cut through you like a blade wrapped in silk. It shouldn’t have felt good, not when you were doing this for all the wrong reasons, but it did. It settled somewhere deep in your stomach, twisting tight, shame and longing tangled beyond recognition. “You know your safe words,” she continued, her tone steady, protective. “Wands and I will both be watching, all right?”

You swallowed, forcing the smallest nod, your voice barely holding. “I know. Thank you.” The words tasted false, like they belonged to someone else entirely.

Because you didn’t mean it. You had no plans to stop this, no intention of pulling back. Even as your body softened under their touch, even as that familiar haze began to creep in, your purpose stayed sharp. 

You weren’t chasing pleasure, not tonight. You wanted the pain, the kind that silenced everything else, the kind that made you feel clean again. And you were going to make sure you got it.

You leaned forward until your forehead rested against the cool wall, the texture grounding you as your breathing slowed into something steady, deliberate. Behind you came the soft swish of the flogger slicing through the air. 

Natasha was testing the weight, feeling the rhythm, the same careful warm-up she did before she used the same flogger on Wanda. The sound alone sent a shiver through you, a strange blend of dread and anticipation curling under your ribs.

“Can you tell us why you’re here, maličká (little one)?” Wanda’s voice floated across the room, calm but edged with that quiet authority that made your body instinctively want to obey. It wasn’t harsh; it was controlled, commanding, the tone that always made your knees weak.

You exhaled shakily, the haze already thickening in your head. It took a moment to remember your own lie, to recall the script you’d set in motion. “I… I lied to you. I…I went to see Carol,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Mhm,” Wanda hummed, the sound low and deliberate. “You did. And why is that bad?”

“Because…” you swallowed hard, your chest aching with the irony of it all. “Because we should communicate our needs.” The words left a bitter taste in your mouth. They were right, of course, but saying them now, while manipulating them into hurting you, felt like tearing something out from inside yourself.

“Exactly,” she said, her tone dipping lower, softer, almost pitying. “And all you wanted to see was how it felt for me. And you didn’t ask.” She paused, letting the silence press against your skin. “Does it feel good to know you lied to us?”

The question broke something loose in your chest. Tears pricked at your eyes before you could stop them, and you shook your head, the movement jerky and small. “No,” you choked, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Wanda murmured after a moment. “Daddy will give you what you need. You are not actually in trouble, but next time, I want communication. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mommy,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the storm in your chest. Guilt coiled through you like a living thing, thick and choking, turning your throat dry. You are not actually in trouble, she had said, but you should be. 

It was suffocating, the weight of your lies, your needs, your craving for punishment pressing down from all sides. You wanted to explain, to spill the truth that this wasn’t about disobedience, that you hadn’t seen Carol, that this was something else entirely, but the stubborn, broken part of you knew better. If you revealed even a fraction of your intent, they would stop. You couldn’t risk that.

“You’ll take ten,” Natasha said, her voice level but edged with command. “No thank yous in between. I want you to think about how you’ll communicate next time.” But it wasn’t the sharp anger you’d hoped for. 

“I will,” you murmured, and for once it wasn’t a lie.

The first strike landed across your back with a dull, stinging crack. It hurt, but not enough. The pain was shallow. You knew immediately she was holding back. Natasha wasn’t angry; she was being careful, treating it like you were learning something new, it was not a punishment. 

That was the problem. The second hit followed, then the third, and each one fell with the same precision, the same restraint. Between each blow, she pressed a kiss to your skin, her lips soft and unbearably tender, her hand trailing over the fresh warmth to soothe what she’d just caused.

It was meant to comfort you, but it only made it worse. The warmth of her mouth, the soft drag of her fingers, the sting fading under her touch, it pulled you somewhere you didn’t want to go. Your body betrayed you, pleasure creeping in where punishment should’ve lived. You could feel heat low in your stomach, your breathing uneven, your underwear sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t punishment. This was something else entirely. “Harder… please,” you choked out, the words trembling against the wall. It had to hurt. It had to, or none of this would mean anything.

The next hit cracked sharper across your back, the sound splitting through the air, the sting biting deep into your skin. It was satisfying in a horrible, hollow way, finally, an ache that felt real. Natasha’s rhythm was steady, each strike blurred into the next until the pain spread hot across your shoulders, climbing and blooming in layers until it became everything.

You wanted this, you needed this, but the longer it went on, the more something inside you began to twist. Each hit seemed to carry more than the weight of leather; it carried the past. Every impact dragged you further from the room and deeper into memory, into moments you’d buried and sworn never to revisit.

Your mother’s voice, her insults, her disappointment. The slaps that burned for days. The bruises you’d hidden beneath your clothes. Your father’s devastated eyes when you’d told him it was his fault. Kate’s face when you lashed out at her. Wanda’s when you lied. Natasha’s when you pretended.

Each strike tore open another wound that had never really healed. Until all of it, the punishment, the memory, the pain, it all bled together. You started to sob. Not the kind of sobs that came from catharsis or release, but the broken, guttural ones that clawed their way out of your chest. 

The sound of it was raw and ugly, your throat straining, your lungs struggling to catch up. You couldn’t breathe. The room faded to nothing, just pain and that terrible voice in your head whispering over and over, you deserve this, you deserve this, you deserve this.

Natasha stopped. The absence of sound was sharper than the strikes had been. You felt her stillness behind you, her breathing uneven. “Do you need to stop?” she asked quietly, the calm command in her tone unmistakable. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. She wanted you to safeword. She knew.

But you couldn’t. You shook your head, hair sticking to your tear-wet cheeks. You couldn’t stop, not now, not when it finally felt like you were paying for everything. “I’m green,” you croaked, the words shaking apart as they left you.

Wanda moved closer. “maličká (little one), I don’t think you are. Please, can you be honest with us?”

“I am!” The lie burst out, tangled and desperate. “It just hurts, but in a good way! I want the rest, please, Mommy, please.” Your voice cracked. The tears wouldn’t stop. You tried to swallow them down, to blink them away, but they only came harder, faster. “Please,” you whispered again, the sound collapsing into another sob. You didn’t deserve to stop. Not yet. Not until it hurt enough.

You were shaking when Natasha spoke again, her tone unbearably gentle. “You know, you don’t have to finish this punishment. We’re not angry with you. This was never about that. This was for you, because you asked for it.”

Something in you splintered. “No!” you cried, turning your face enough that your words didn’t muffle against the wall. “You should be! I was bad! I need this. I need to hurt! Please, please finish, please!”

A silence stretched out before Wanda’s voice broke it, soft but shaking slightly, as though she was trying to hold herself steady. “Even if you’ve done something wrong, even if you feel bad,” she said slowly, “you never deserve to actually be hurt, little one.” Her hand found your shoulder, warm and grounding, and the contrast made your chest ache. “What we do here can be painful, yes, but it’s meant to bring you pleasure, or clarity, or safety. It’s never meant to break you. It is never just to make you suffer. And right now… You are suffering.”

You shook your head, words tumbling out between sobs. “I need to suffer… please.”

Wanda sighed, the sound soft and cracking at the edges, as though she were close to tears herself. “No, zlatíčko (darling). That’s not what this is. We love you, and that’s not love, that’s abuse. And I won’t let you confuse the two.” Her voice gentled further. “Remember what I said, hm? If this isn’t fun, it isn’t happening. Now I want you to use your safe word. Can you do that for me?”

You shook your head even harder, dizzy from crying. “I don’t need to safeword, I just need you to finish,” you said, defiant even as your voice broke apart.

“Call it,” Natasha said quietly. “I won’t be finishing either way, but I want you to call it.”

There was no escape in her tone. You realised then that you’d gone too far, said too much, that they finally understood. The guilt tangled with the fear, pressing against your chest until you could barely breathe. And even though it felt like a defeat, even though every part of you wanted to resist, you forced the word out through shaking lips.

“Red.”

—

“Good girl, thank you. So good for us,” Wanda whispered, her voice soft and warm against the raw edge of the moment. But you didn’t feel good. The words didn’t settle like they usually did. They scraped. You hadn’t finished your punishment; you hadn’t earned anything. The relief you were supposed to feel never came. Instead, the shame spread wider, sinking deep into your stomach. 

Natasha and Wanda worked together in silence, untying the ribbons from your wrists with slow, deliberate care. Your arms ached from tension, from holding yourself still. You flinched when Natasha’s fingers brushed your skin, not from pain, but from guilt. She noticed, but said nothing. She just helped you put on a soft t-shirt, before trading your jeans for your favourite pyjama bottoms.

The silence between them was unbearable. They weren’t speaking, not to you, not even to each other, but you could feel the weight of it, the quiet, knowing glances, the unspoken communication you weren’t part of. They were disappointed. They hated you. They’d realised what you really were: broken, deceitful, impossible to love. You weren’t useful to them anymore. Not as a partner, not as a submissive. You couldn’t even give them what they wanted.

You wanted to apologise, to drop to your knees and beg them not to leave, not to replace you with someone better, someone whole. You wanted to tell them you were sorry for lying, sorry for ruining everything, sorry for being you. But no words came. Your mouth refused to open. Your body wouldn’t move. You just stood there, waiting for them to decide what to do with you.

The atmosphere shifted the moment Wanda spoke. Her voice was quiet, warm, and impossibly gentle, the kind of softness that made your chest ache. “Mommy and Daddy are here, little one,” she murmured, and the words wrapped around you like a blanket you didn’t think you deserved.

You nodded numbly, allowing her to guide you to the bed. She lay down in the middle and held out her arms, an invitation to come closer. For a second, your brain refused to process it. She was offering comfort now? After everything? That wasn’t right. You were supposed to be shut out, left to sit alone in your guilt until it swallowed you whole. That’s how it always worked.

And then it broke. All of it. The tension in your chest, the shaky control you’d been clinging to. A strangled sob tore from your throat as you stumbled forward, collapsing against her. You buried your face in her neck, the air hot and wet against your skin as you tried to breathe, but couldn’t, not properly, not when everything hurt this much.

Wanda shifted slightly, turning your head just enough so you could breathe again, her hand sliding up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes. “I’ve got you, baby,” she whispered, the sound barely audible over your sobs.

Natasha climbed onto the bed too, though she kept her distance, sitting near the foot with her elbows resting on her knees and her hands laced tightly together. Neither of them spoke. They just stayed with you while everything inside you broke open. 

Wanda kept humming quietly, fingertips tracing slow, weightless shapes over your back as you trembled and hiccupped, until the noise of your crying dwindled into a soft, uneven breath.

After a long pause, Wanda spoke, her tone soft but deliberate. “Are you ready to talk now, sweetheart?”

You froze, the question landing heavy in your chest. You’d known it was coming, but hearing it still made your throat tighten painfully. “Do I have to?”

Wanda’s hand stilled on your back. “No,” she said gently, “you don’t have to. But I think it might help. We can go slow. Just start wherever you can, okay?”

Now it was up to you, whether to tell them everything, to confess what you’d done. You needed to. They needed to know how bad you’d been, how much you’d lied. Maybe then they’d stop being so kind, maybe they’d treat you the way you deserved.

And you did. You told them everything, about seeing your parents, about the argument, about how you’d snapped at Kate and lied to them. You confessed that none of what you’d said about Carol was true. Then came the hardest part, the one that made your voice tremble and your stomach twist. You told them that you had manipulated them into hurting you and why.

You heard Natasha’s sharp inhale behind you, though she said nothing. The silence stretched out, thick and tense. You forced yourself to keep talking. “I just… I wanted you to… to punish me.” Your voice broke on the last words, and your eyes filled again. “I manipulated you… again.”

The sound of Natasha’s breathing changed, it was uneven now, heavy, strained. She stood abruptly, pushing off the mattress with both hands. “I… I need a minute,” she muttered, voice rough. “I’ll be back.”

You flinched as the door closed behind her, and Wanda exhaled, the sound full of quiet sorrow.

“She left?” you asked, barely a whisper. 

Wanda hesitated for a moment, then smoothed her thumb along your spine. “She just needs to decompress a little,” she murmured, her voice gentle but steady. “It’s alright, sweet girl.”

You shook your head, panic rising in your chest. “No, she’s angry,” you blurted out. “She’s angry, and she hates me. I didn’t finish. I couldn’t even do that right. She’s mad, and she’s going to replace me, she’s going to find someone else.”

“Hey, hey, no,” Wanda said quickly, sitting up and cupping your face in both hands. “Look at me.” Her tone softened again, her thumb brushing away a tear. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s proud of you, baby. I promise. She just needs a little space to calm down, that’s all.”

But your breath was hitching again, breaking apart into ragged sobs. “She stays for aftercare now,” you managed between gasps. “She always stays. She’s supposed to stay.”

Wanda’s own expression flickered, grief and empathy mixing behind her eyes. She pulled you closer again, tucking your head beneath her chin. “I know, baby,” she whispered. “I know she does. She will come back. She just needs a moment to breathe. That doesn’t mean she’s gone, or that she’s angry with you. It just means she’s human too.”

You buried your face in Wanda’s shoulder, trembling so hard your teeth almost chattered. “I don’t want her to hate me,” you whispered, the words catching and breaking as they left your throat.

“She could never hate you,” Wanda murmured, her fingers sliding gently through your hair. Her voice was calm, steady in a way that felt like a tether. “You’re her heart. Both of us just want you safe. And what happened earlier—” she paused, her breath shuddering slightly “—that wasn’t safe.”

You swallowed thickly, shame pressing at your chest. “I know it was wrong,” you whispered. “I do. I just… It’s been so long since I messed up like that, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I panicked. It’s like my brain just… went somewhere else.”

Wanda nodded slowly, her expression soft but firm. “And when that happens,” she said gently, “you come to us. You tell us what’s hurting. You don’t have to carry it alone or try to make sense of it by hurting yourself. You let us remind you that what was done to you wasn’t love, that you never deserved it. You let us hold you and help you find your way back.”

You hesitated, voice cracking as you mumbled, “My mom wouldn't agree that I never deserved it.”

Wanda exhaled, a quiet, sympathetic sound. “Your mom,” she said carefully, “is very clearly unwell. She needs help. And from what you’ve told me, your dad does too. They’re both stuck, sweetheart, trapped in their own pain.”

Tears welled again, hot and sharp. “I told my dad it was his fault,” you whispered, guilt threading every word. “And it isn’t. I know it isn’t.”

“No,” Wanda said softly, shaking her head, “it isn’t. He’s being hurt too, just in a different way. But listen to me. Feeling angry with him for not protecting you, or for not being what you needed? That’s okay too. You can love him and still wish he’d done more. You can understand that he’s suffering and still feel that he failed you.”

You looked up, eyes red and glassy. “It feels wrong to be angry,” you murmured.

“I know it does,” Wanda replied, her thumb brushing your bruised cheek. “Because you were never allowed to be angry. You were punished for it. But you’ve been hurting for a long time, and pretending you’re not angry doesn’t make that go away. It just turns it inward. That’s what you did tonight. You turned it on yourself.”

Her voice softened even more, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to do that anymore. We may be Mommy and Daddy, but we’re not your parents. We never want to hurt you that way.”

Wanda’s hand stayed in your hair, combing through the strands slowly, rhythmically, until your breathing began to even out. Her body was warm beneath you, solid and steady, the rise and fall of her chest grounding you in something that felt almost unreal after everything that had just happened.

“You’re safe,” she whispered against the top of your head, her lips brushing your hair as she spoke. “You don’t have to earn safety, or forgiveness, or love. You already have it.”

You wanted to believe her, desperately, but your chest felt tight with the old, familiar panic that told you it couldn’t be true. “What if I mess up again?” you asked, voice barely audible. “What if I hurt someone again?”

Her hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its slow motion down your spine. “Then we deal with it together,” she said simply. “You talk to us, we listen, we work through it. You’re not a child waiting to be punished anymore. You’re not powerless. You don’t need to bleed or break to make things right.”

You turned your face slightly, cheek pressed against her collarbone, and whispered, “But it feels like I do. If I don’t, it feels like I’m getting away with it.”

Wanda’s breath hitched softly, but she didn’t pull away. “That’s because for a long time, pain was the only kind of consequence you were given,” she said. “It’s what you were taught. That hurt meant control, that suffering meant balance. But zlatíčko (darling), that was never justice.”

Your lip trembled. “I don’t know how to stop,” you admitted. “It’s like my brain doesn’t let me.”

“I know,” Wanda murmured, leaning forward just enough to kiss your temple. “It won’t stop overnight. Healing isn’t about pretending those urges don’t exist, it’s about letting us catch them before they catch you. Letting us hold you until they lose their power.”

You felt her shift slightly, one hand moving from your back to cradle your jaw, guiding you to look at her. Her eyes were soft, but they glistened faintly, her own emotion showing through the calm. “You don’t have to be perfect for us to love you. You don’t have to be good all the time. You don’t have to earn anything. You just have to let us in.”

Your throat tightened again. “Why do you still want me?” you whispered. “After everything?”

Wanda’s smile was small, sad, and impossibly tender. “Because you’re ours,” she said. “Because underneath all the noise and guilt, there’s a heart that still wants to do better. Because you’re trying. And because you’re not broken, no matter how much you believe you are.”

Wanda caught your face gently between her hands, her thumbs sweeping away the lingering tears as if they were something fragile. Her voice came quiet and steady, each word sinking into you like warmth seeping through cold skin. “You don’t need to be punished to be forgiven, sweetheart. You just need to be loved, and that part’s already taken care of.”

Your chest ached at the tenderness in her tone. “I love you, Wands,” you whispered, your voice cracking halfway through. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” You trailed off, swallowing hard. “When… when can we see Nat?”

Wanda’s expression softened even further, though hesitation flickered across it. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “How would you feel if I went to speak to her for a bit? I just need to make sure she’s okay before we bring her back in.”

You nodded slowly, even though your chest tightened at the thought of her leaving. “She needs you too,” you murmured. “I’ll be fine here. I promise.”

“Good girl,” Wanda said gently, leaning down to press one last lingering kiss to your lips. It was soft, grounding, full of that wordless care she was so good at giving. When she pulled away, the space she left behind felt vast. You rolled onto your side as she stood, watching her move toward the door.

Part of you wanted to call her back, to ask her to stay, to let you hide in her arms a little longer, but you bit your tongue. Natasha needed her too. And loving both of them meant letting them take care of each other, even when what you wanted most was for Wanda to stay and keep holding you together.

—

Wanda POV

Wanda lingered at the edge of the living room doorway, her shoulder resting lightly against the frame as she watched Natasha curled up on the sofa beneath a heavy blanket. The soft glow from the lamp painted her in muted gold, but it couldn’t soften the shadows under her eyes or the taut line of her mouth.

“Nat?” she said quietly, her voice low and steady, meant to reach without startling.

Natasha stirred at the sound, head lifting just slightly. Her eyes found Wanda’s, unfocused at first, then weary. “Hm?” The syllable was small, tired. Her voice carried no defences, just fatigue. Wanda’s chest ached at the sight, the exhaustion in her expression, the tension gathered around her eyes, the tight clench of her jaw holding back everything she couldn’t say. Her breathing had steadied since earlier, but the calm was brittle.

Wanda crossed the room slowly and lowered herself onto the sofa beside her. She didn’t touch her right away. She simply let her presence fill the space, close enough to be felt but not pressed. “What do you need, moya lyubov’ (my love)?” she asked softly, the endearment slipping from her tongue like instinct, her tone a careful blend of compassion and grounding strength.

Natasha’s answer came after a moment, quiet and uncertain: “Davay, idi syuda (Come on, come here)”. The Russian hit something deep in Wanda’s chest. She always reverted to her mother tongue when her composure fractured, when emotion outweighed logic. Wanda moved immediately, closing the distance, her warmth a gentle tide against Natasha’s cold skin.

Natasha leaned forward, gathering Wanda into her lap and burying her face into the crook of her neck. It was desperate, the kind of embrace that spoke of someone trying to breathe again. Wanda wrapped her arms around her in return, holding her close, feeling the tremor in Natasha’s muscles gradually begin to fade. 

Each breath evened out a little more, though the ache beneath it remained. Wanda stayed quiet, letting silence and the slow rhythm of touch do what words couldn’t. Natasha had been here before; Wanda knew that. She’d learned to wait, to let her come back in her own time.

After a long stretch of quiet, Natasha pulled back just enough to speak. Her voice cracked, the words trembling. “YA yeyo ranila. YA pravda prichinila yey bol'…” I hurt her. I really did hurt her…

Wanda’s heart squeezed. She reached up, brushing her thumb across Natasha’s cheekbone, grounding her with that simple, steady touch. “Ya znayu, lyubov’ moya,” I know, my love, she murmured. “No ty zhe ne znala. Kak ty mogla znat'? But you didn’t know. How could you have known?

Natasha’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her hands tightening on Wanda’s arms as though holding on for balance. “YA ne zametila. YA dolzhna byla ostanovit'sya.” I didn’t notice. I should have stopped.

Wanda shook her head gently, palm moving to Natasha’s back, firm and reassuring. “Net,” no, she said softly but with resolve. “Ty ostanovilas'. Ty proverila. Ty zadavala pravil'nyye voprosy. Ona skryvala to, chto delala.” You stopped. You checked. You asked the right questions. She was hiding what she was doing.

Natasha’s breath hitched, a sound between a sigh and a sob. “YA videla priznaki, no pozvolila yey ikh otmakhnut'. YA vso isportila.” I saw the signs, but I let her brush them off. I ruined everything.

Wanda exhaled softly, resting her forehead against Natasha’s temple. “My obe propustili eti priznaki,” We both missed the signs, she murmured. “no teper' my znayem, na chto obrashchat' vnimaniye.” But now we know what to look for.

She let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before continuing, her voice tender but firm. “YA znayu, chto ty seychas chuvstvuyesh' sebya plokhoy dominatriks, no eto ne tak,” I know you feel like a bad domme right now, but you’re not, she whispered. “I ona vso yeshcho nuzhdayetsya v tebe.” And she still needs you.

Natasha made a small sound, half sigh, half broken laugh, and buried her face into Wanda’s neck again. Her words came out muffled, quiet, trembling. “Net, ty yey nuzhen.” No, she needs you.

Wanda smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to Natasha’s hair. Net, moya lyubov'. Ona nuzhdayetsya v nas obeikh.” No, my love. She needs us both.

Natasha shuddered, a small, involuntary tremor that ran through her entire body, but she nodded faintly. Wanda felt it as a fragile kind of acceptance, a quiet opening. 

She knew the emotions wouldn’t vanish instantly, the guilt, the self-reproach, the echoes of everything that had just happened would linger, pressing at Natasha’s chest for a while yet. 

But she also knew her wife was listening, that even in the haze of shame and fatigue, the care she offered would begin to thread its way through. Slowly, with steady warmth and the soft insistence of presence, the tension would ease, the edges of torment smoothing, just enough to breathe.

Wanda began to speak softly, walking Natasha through the details you had shared after she’d left the room. Her voice was measured, explanatory, but gentle, guiding, filling in the gaps without rushing, giving context where it was needed.

Natasha stayed quiet, absorbing each word, nodding occasionally, exhaling in short huffs when she heard how harshly you had spoken about yourself, about your mother, about the ways you had been treated.

Despite the weight of the conversation, Wanda could feel Natasha slowly letting go of some of the tension, her muscles relaxing just slightly, her breath deepening. She wasn’t fully free from the guilt, not yet, but she was no longer drowning in it. 

With each word, each careful pause, Wanda’s presence reminded her that she could sit with the pain without being consumed by it, that she could allow herself to calm, to exist in the room, in the moment, without carrying the full weight of blame.

—

You felt as though you’d been holding your breath for hours, every second stretching thin as you tried to give them space. You wanted to be good, wanted to stay put like Wanda had asked, but the quiet pressed in too tightly. Restlessness crawled beneath your skin, fraying at the edges of your control, and the longer they stayed away, the more the spiral tried to claw its way back in.

Eventually you couldn’t sit still any longer. You pushed yourself up from the bed, your legs unsteady beneath you. A sharp pinch flickered across your back, fleeting but enough to make you wince, before you forced yourself fully upright, anchoring your breathing one slow inhale at a time.

The house felt too quiet as you crept through it, each step careful, almost guilty. You finally spotted them on the sofa again, curled into one another. For a moment it felt like a strange echo of earlier, like stepping back into a scene you weren’t meant to witness twice. Something in your chest twisted, and instinct pulled you back. You turned slightly, ready to retreat before you disrupted them again.

Natasha’s voice stopped you cold. “I know you’re there, Kroshka (little crumb). Come here.”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t commanding. It was warm, worn-out, soft in a way that sank straight into your ribs. You froze for a heartbeat, stunned by how easily she had sensed you compared to last time, and then your feet carried you forward without resistance.

This time, you didn’t keep your distance. You lowered yourself onto the sofa beside them, hesitant for only a fraction of a second before Natasha shifted, pulling back from Wanda just enough to open her arm. The invitation was quiet but unmistakable.

You folded into her immediately. Her arms wrapped around you in one smooth, instinctive motion, guiding your head to her chest. The steady thrum of her heartbeat radiated through her shirt, through your cheek, through every part of you that had been trembling since they left the room.

Wanda eased off Natasha’s lap, settling beside her, and Natasha’s second arm wrapped around her just as firmly, holding her wife close with the same protective certainty she held you. The three of you pressed together in a warm, tangled line, the kind of closeness that made your chest tighten, like your body couldn’t quite decide whether to melt or break open.

The breath you’d been clutching finally slipped free, a fragile whisper against your lips. Then another, shuddering and uneven, followed quickly by a surge of tears that caught you off guard, wracking your body until it seemed you might shatter. 

It hit you all at once, the crushing mixture of guilt, exhaustion, and shame, the heavy certainty that you were falling apart again, and that somehow, despite your own fears, you were dragging them into your storm. The thought made your chest tighten, but their hold around you was unrelenting, steady, and protective, and slowly you felt some small part of yourself start to loosen.

“I’ve got you,” Natasha murmured, her lips brushing the top of your head in soft, steady kisses. Her arm contracted around you, pulling you in deeper, as though the more you crumbled, the more secure she became. “I’ve got you.”

You pressed closer, sobs shaking through your shoulders. Each shuddering breath felt too big, too jagged, but Natasha’s rocking was slow, deliberate, and it matched the beat of your heart as if she were carrying it for you. “Let it out, baby.”

Wanda shifted closer, her hand slid across Natasha’s stomach before finding your cheek, cupping it with firm, steady pressure. Her thumb traced long, slow, soothing circles along your skin, a rhythm that grounded you deeper than you could have anticipated. 

“You’re safe,” she murmured, her voice low, controlled, and sure, threading through the storm of your sobs. “Let us hold it for you.”

Her words sank into you like heat into frozen limbs, spreading through your chest and limbs in a way that made your body feel small, pliant, and entirely hers and Natasha’s to care for. Your shoulders sagged, your knees bent a little further, and another shuddering sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it.

“I’m sorry…” You choked out, voice trembling. “I don’t know why I’m crying this time…”

Wanda’s palm cupped your cheek more firmly, her thumb brushing slow, circular motions over your skin. “Shh… none of that,” she said softly but with an authority that sank into your bones. “You are not a burden. Not now, not ever. Let us take care of you.”

Natasha’s arms somehow tightened again, fingers pressing lightly into your back as she adjusted you impossibly closer, anchoring you. “We’ve got you,” she whispered, soft and sure, her warmth wrapping around you like a shield.

Neither of them tried to quiet your sobs or coax you into pulling yourself together. They didn’t urge you to breathe, didn’t tell you to calm down, didn’t try to tidy the mess of your emotions before you were ready. They just held you and let you break as deeply as you needed to.

Your tears rose and fell in uneven waves, but they never wavered. They simply stayed with you through every swell, every shudder, every desperate clutch for air. It felt like being carried in a small, sturdy boat while a storm tore at the world outside, their bodies the solid hull keeping you afloat, their warmth the ballast keeping you stable, their presence the anchor that kept you from being carried into the dark.

Eventually, your voice found its way back to you, thin and shaky around the fading hiccups. The storm inside you had eased just enough to let a thought surface, the need to apologise, the need to make sure she wasn’t hurting because of you.

You swallowed, breath catching, and finally managed, “You… you okay, Nat?”

The words came out soft, almost fragile, as though you were afraid they might shatter between you the moment they left your lips. Your tone carried that timid edge, the one that always surfaced when you convinced yourself you’d caused too much, taken too much, been too much.

She lifted her head slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and gave a slow, measured nod. “I’m okay… just had a bit of a moment. But you know, Wands always fixes us, huh?” A faint smile tugged at her lips, though her eyes still carried the faint tension of lingering guilt.

Your throat tightened. “I’m sorry for what I did…” You admitted, each word heavy with the weight of everything you had done.

“It’s okay. I understand,” Natasha murmured, drawing you closer. Her hand found the back of your neck, steady and grounding, and you leaned in instinctively, letting your head rest against her chest again. “And I’m sorry for hurting you. I never want to make you feel pain just for the sake of it. That’s… never the point.”

You exhaled shakily, letting a little of the tension in your shoulders slip away. “You don’t need to apologise. I know what I did was wrong. I hid what I really wanted… and I knew exactly what to say to get past your checks. You did everything right. Everything.” Your voice dropped to a near whisper, but it carried sincerity.

Natasha’s fingers lingered in your hair, tracing small, deliberate paths as she spoke, her voice calm but edged with reflection. “I… should have noticed. But now I know what to look out for.” She echoed Wanda’s words carefully, as if saying them aloud helped her truly believe them herself, letting the meaning settle between you both.

“I won’t ever do that again, I promise,” you said, pressing a little closer, letting your cheek rest against her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s going on, every time.”

“You better,” she replied, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips as she mimicked Wanda’s accent. “What does Wands always say? ‘Communication is key.’”

Wanda swatted her arm playfully, though a soft laugh betrayed her amusement. “It is! And I’ll keep saying it over and over until you both actually communicate properly, inside and outside of scenes.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, though a reluctant grin crept across her face. “Yeah, yeah… Mommy knows best and all that.”

You let out a small, relieved laugh. Wanda tilted her head, her smile gentle and warm, but with a hint of mischief. “Mommy does. And don’t start ganging up on me now, both of you,” she warned, though the warmth in her eyes made the joke clear.

Natasha leaned back slightly, letting her head rest against Wanda’s. “Fine, fine… Mommy’s right, as always,” she muttered, low and teasing, her fingers still brushing your arm in quiet reassurance.

The ease between them, the teasing, the softness, and the complete lack of tension melted the last stubborn bit of fear inside you, the part that still worried they’d pull away now that the worst had passed.

The tension in your body finally began to ease, each breath loosening the tight coil that had gripped your chest for so long. Natasha’s warmth pressed along your back, steady and reassuring, while Wanda’s hand moved slowly across your arm, tracing gentle lines that seemed to whisper, you are safe. 

The storm inside you quieted enough to simply exist in their presence. Not calm, not fixed, but safe enough to rest, safe enough to let them hold the pieces together until you could find your own balance again.

—

Thank you so much for reading! I’d love to hear any requests or feedback you have, seriously, even tiny thoughts make me happy. Likes and reblogs are also alwayssss appreciated and honestly brighten my day more than you know 🩵.

Wanda glances up at you from across the room, a gentle frown overtaking her features as she assesses you. “Is everything okay, solnishko?”

You make a non-committal noise, burying your face further into the cushions as if you can hide from her and her loving concern. But of course Wanda isn’t going to be pushed away so easily. You hear her footsteps approach before a familiar weight settles beside you on the couch. A steady hand settles on your shoulder, fingertips gently stroking patterns on the fabric of your t-shirt.

“Bad day, malyshka?” she asks gently. You just hum, afraid that if you speak, what comes out won’t be words but sobs. Wanda hums sadly, her fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, dekta. Do you want to talk about it?”

You manage to choke out a ‘no’, ever determined to keep your defences up. It’s something that upsets Wanda to no end, even if she understands that your struggles with vulnerability have nothing to do with her and everything to do with all the people who have hurt you in the past. Sometimes it takes all of her self-control to not slip into your thoughts, to see what’s wrong and ease her anxieties. But that’s a boundary she told herself she’d never cross without permission, and she holds herself to that.

“Okay,” Wanda says, her hand moving to card through your hair. “Can I do anything to make it better?”

Your request comes out as a whisper, as if you’re scared of rejection. “Please hold me.”

Of course, you didn’t need to worry. Wanda murmurs a soft ‘of course, solnishko’ before gently manipulating your body so your head is on her chest, one hand resting on your waist while the other continues to soothe your hair.

“Is this okay, dekta?” she whispers. You just nod, words eluding you as the exhaustion of the day begins to catch up with you and settle heavy in your bones. Your eyes slip shut as you focus on Wanda, on the rhythm of her fingers through your hair, the steadying hand on your waist, and the faint beat of her heart beneath her chest.

The distant thump of the front door rips through the calm, your eyes shooting open as you tense in Wanda’s arms.

“Shh, dorogaya. It’s okay, it’s just Nat.”

A quick glance at the clock, as well as the familiar sounds of Natasha sorting out her bag by the entrance, confirm Wanda’s words, that Natasha is home from work. You do your best to relax again and take a few deep breaths to calm your heart rate. You’re so grateful for the way that Wanda and Natasha don’t judge the way you jump at the smallest things, or the paranoia that creeps in at night and the nightmares that wake you up most nights. They’ve never judged you or belittled your trauma - they just do everything they can to make you feel safe.

Sure enough, a familiar face soon appears in the doorway, green eyes impossibly soft as she takes in her girlfriends curled up on the couch. She looks to Wanda, asking a silent question. Wanda slightly shakes her head in response and Natasha’s expression only softens further. She  pads over to join you on the couch and you lift your legs to allow her to sit before settling your feet on her lap.

“Hey, what’s up, malyshka?” Natasha asks, gently probing. “Did something happen today?”

Something about being held between them, both of them radiating concern and their intentions nothing but pure, broke your silence.

“Everything-everything just went wrong today,” you choke out, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I barely slept last night, and then the train was late, and my laptop died during a tutorial, and then the train home was so loud and I-“

As a sob escapes your chest, Natasha’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, her thumb gently brushing away a stray tear. Combined with the reassurance of Wanda’s fingers through your hair, that’s all it takes for you to finally break down. Sobs wrack your frame, tears falling freely down your face, as the stress of the day all comes out at once. Wanda holds you firmly against her, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, as Natasha gently massages your feet, a silent promise of her presence.

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that you should be embarrassed, to be so open like this. A small part of you is waiting for the invalidation, to be told that you’re being ridiculous, to just get over it. But of course, it never comes. You’re simply held, cherished, reassured by the two women who love you more than you ever thought possible. With them, you are safe to feel whatever you need to.

Eventually, your sobs start to ebb and your body relaxes into Wanda’s hold. A strange tranquillity settles over you as your mind clears, the burdens of the day dissipating like mist on a warm summer’s day.

“Back with us, milaya?” Natasha asks gently, still rubbing soothing patterns onto your sock-covered feet.

“Y-Yeah,” you manage through the haze. Embarrassment starts to settle in your cheeks, mixing in with the guilt of needing your girlfriend’s help, and you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no, detka,” Wanda gently scolds, tilting your head up from her chest so she can meet your eyes. “Never apologise for your feelings. You have nothing to feel sorry for.”

“I know, Wands. I’m-“

“Don’t you even think about apologising again,” Natasha breaks in. You turn your head away from Wanda to see the corners of her lips twitching into a smile, betraying the teasing nature of her abrupt words. As soon as you meet her eyes, you dissolve in a fit of giggles, ever-amused by your girlfriend’s stern facade. Sure enough, Natasha’s mask shatters immediately and she laughs with you as Wanda just grins.

Once you’ve both settled down, Wanda speaks, “I need to go and finish making dinner, moya lyubovs.” She tilts your chin up to meet her gaze once more. “Are you okay if I leave you here with Nat, solnishko?”

“Wands, you say that as if I’m some scary predator,” Natasha huffs.

“Your code name is Black Widow, is it not?”

Natasha just rolled her eyes, shaking her head with mock annoyance as you dissolved into giggles once more. You wordlessly shifted off of Wanda, letting her get off the couch and cross the room back to the kitchen. Your attention turns to Natasha, giving her a quick peck on the lips before you settle your head on her shoulder.

“How was your day?” you ask her, your hand coming up to absentmindedly toy with her braid.

“Better now I’m home with you two.”

You sit in companionable silence as Wanda potters around in the kitchen. The aroma of pasta sauce begins to fill the air and makes your mouth water. With all the stress of the day, you haven’t eaten much, and you are suddenly all too aware of your empty stomach. Thankfully, Wanda didn’t have too much left to do and before you know it, she’s serving pasta onto plates and placing slices of garlic bread on a board to share.

“Table or living room, malyshka?” Natasha asks softly as Wanda finishes up.

Your answer is almost instantaneous, brought about by a desire to be as close to your girlfriends as possible. “Living room.”

Wanda must have heard you, because she walks over to rejoin you on the couch, plates and cutlery floating along behind her before settling perfectly on the coffee table. The Sokovian settles on your other side, feet tucked up beneath her on the couch cushion as she turns on the television with a flick of the wrist.

The stresses of the day melt away as you settle between your girlfriends, enjoying Wanda’s cooking while some lighthearted game show fills the silence. And a few hours later as you curl up in bed, Wanda reading to your left and Natasha gaming on her Steam Deck to the right, you can barely even remember what upset you that day. All you know is Wanda and Natasha, and the comfort of their love.

You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve left hours ago, but there’s a gentle glow coming from beneath an office door, and you’re reminded that you’re not alone, that you’re never alone — anywhere you go, she’ll be there; at work, at home, at the corner store across from her apartment with Noah when you’re just trying to surprise her with flowers — her favorite flowers, the kind that die in days but evoke a smile anytime the eye catches their colors. It’s wrong, straight up sinful really, dating your boss, engaging in explicit sexual scenarios with your superior officer, letting personal mix with professional, but you crave her like a rugged addict. Maybe you’ve never experienced addiction. Not true, stone cold, shivering, bone shattering addiction, but you’ve experienced Olivia Benson, and her withdrawal symptoms come at a much larger price. She’s unavoidable poison, and she takes pleasure in your pain. Distance pulls your heart to shreds, but proximity gets you drunk. Either way, she’s compromised you, but you’re too far in it to care anymore.

The blinds are drawn, an attempt to dissuade any disruptions. You know she wants to get back to Noah, how she likes to spend her nights, and how she gets unruly when things go unexpectedly even though she’s been within the claws of unpredictability for decades. You know her skin is stained with blood from its sharp unforgiving grasp over the years, and you can only think of how it’s probably slickening with more as the unpredictable crimes of New York City keep her tethered to her desk like she’s the criminal. You want to go in. Every muscle aches to be caressed beneath her fingers. You want to sit with her, share the lemonade you just pulled out of the vending machine, but you couldn’t possibly pull her away. Not when you’re the reason she’s here.

You swallow thickly, not sure if you want the lemonade anymore. You feel queasy, hot and cold. The belt around your waist had been noticeable when you’d gotten dressed this morning, and it’s outright insufferable now. You know your skin is rubbed raw, red and probably irritated. The marks on your thighs had been just as raw days ago, but bearing those had been different, consensual and somewhat dizzying. There’s no room for arousal at the memory of Olivia between your thighs when you so violently remember how you’d frozen during a chase. How you could’ve detained the suspect before he’d shot himself if you’d just moved faster when he turned the gun on himself after shooting at your feet. Your heart hammers now. You can hear the gunshot. Feel the reverberations through the bones in your feet even though there’s no bullet mark on these tiles. You shake your head. You told 1PP you were okay. You’d been cleared by psych. Everything that should’ve been broken was intact, but everything that could be broken and allow you to still function was shattered into a million pieces.

You’d never been shot at before.

Not like that. Not with the wind in your face, the blush in your cheeks, the clip already half empty. It was a messy fight. He shot back behind him. You shot head of yourself, only ever missing him by an inch as he weaved and zipped. You fired your gun twice. He fired nine. Seven shots had missed. Bouncing off windows, cars, bricks. One had so nearly grazed your toe for a second you wondered if it was gone. The second after that he had shot himself, and you thought it was you. Olivia had run past you, you only know because her fingers brushed your side as she made sure the suspect was dead and you’d never mistake the tingles she provoked, and that was the only confirmation that you hadn’t been shot before you’d been thrown around by medics and officers all questioning you, only some concerned about your health.

Your fingers pass across the cold metal of a broach pinned to your right pocket. It’s important to note that it wasn’t a necklace. Not one that would tangle on your hair when you ran. Not a bracelet that could catch on the safety of your gun or the brackets of the taser holstered to your belt. It’s a thoughtful sentiment. A meaningful one. A small mouse head sits sparkly against the dark thread of your slacks. Sterling silver. A notable addition. One that keeps you pushing toward one day having a metal to decorate you as a detective instead of a pin that represents a stupid nickname in the department. Mousey. Benson’s creation.

You live up to that name as you continue past her office, the only evidence of your prolonged presence in the precinct the scrape of the rolling chairs wheels on the floor. Your body feels heavy as you fall into the cushions. You set the lemonade down, sure it’ll stay there to die until Olivia inevitably grabs it off your desk and throws it away. The paperwork is standard follow-up, something that can certainly wait until the end of the week when everyone else stays late to overcompensate for the things they pushed off, but you can’t leave. Something tethers you to the precinct the same way it chains Benson to her desk. If you leave, you’re out there again, and the streets of Manhattan have never felt so unsafe; so changed. You’d been in SVU six months, but every day was opening your eyes to fears you’d ignorantly thought out of reach.

It could’ve been minutes, but it might’ve been hours before something shifted in the quiet building. The buzz of every device in the room quieted, letting you hear the creek of hinges behind your back. Olivia. You want to fall into her, to crash against her, but you failed today. You didn’t step up despite her laying the stepping stones for it to be possible. It wasn’t the end of the world. In the end, a criminal got taken down, but this wasn’t just about karma coming around. For six months Olivia had gone to bat for you. She’s taken you beneath her wing and you let her down. That’s never felt good, and it certainly doesn’t now.

“Sweetheart,” Olivia’s voice calls for you, sweet, soft, dripping with velvet affection. “Come see me, hm?” She attempts to draw you in, even opens her arms and nods her head toward her off in just the oddly specific way she knows makes your heart soar, but you don’t look up from the black ink stained page to realize she’s putting this much into comforting you.

She should’ve comforted you before — you’d wanted her to comfort you before. When you’d thought you’d been shot twice. When your heart was pounding in your chest and your hands were trembling and you could see the way all of your wrong doings piled up on her shoulders in an instant. It was too late now. You felt submerged in the weight of your guilt and anxiety. You were drowning in your feelings, beneath the crushing knowledge that you’d disappointed her; the one person who’d ever seen you.

When she realized you were purposefully ignoring her, your muscles flexing in unconscious acknowledgment of her presence, her jaw set, and her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t seen it before. You’d put up a mask of indifference and she’d let herself accept it, but just the simple fact that you’re still here says enough. She doesn’t think you realize that you do it, that you gravitate to her like an affection craving kitten seeking attention, but you do, and that need for closeness only strengthens when you’re distressed.

Olivia’s heart hammers with guilt. She knows that you can handle so much. You’ve proven that fact and yourself time and time again — in ways you weren’t even aware of — but so often you fell short recognized your own personal needs and feelings. As she’d learned you, memorized your every emotion beneath her fingertips, your heartbeats pulsing as close as they possibly could, she’d learned that certain events and feelings could leave you fuzzy, uncomfortable in your own skin, grappling for structure that gives way at the slightest touch. Your misstep had caused quite the commotion within 1PP and the precinct, it had pulled her away because it was job, but she can’t let that keep happening. You’re hers. She loves her job, honors her duty and serves it fully, but you’re worth more. At that moment, Olivia decides she’s done with paperwork for the night.

“Detective.” Paperwork may be done, but the badge hasn’t yet been unclasped from her waistband, and she can’t help but take advantage of that — of you. “My office. Now.” Her voice is thin, leaving no room for arguments of failure to comply. Your insides bristle. Prickly and uncomfortable. Her tone sent shockwaves through your bone marrow.

You need her.

When you still remain stationary, heavy in the rolling chair clutching your favorite black clicky pen that Olivia steals to sign rushed documents, she clicks her tongue demandingly, rolling out the kinks in her neck. “Detective, that was not a suggestion.”

You bristle again, but you swallow that sharp sting of stubbornness to finally give into the yearning in your bones. Your body moves towards her automatically, and when you blink up at her, swayed by the authority in her hard stare, she knows it’ll only take a moment before you’re in the palm of your hand, the way you should’ve been hours ago.

She lets the office door close behind her body before she draws you into her chest in a manner that convinces you to sink against her. “Hi, sweetheart.” Her ribcage rattles beneath your cheek, her fingers twisting into your hair and pulling down, gently tugging the roots behind your ear — your weak spot, one of the quickest ways to get you to crumble that Olivia has found. You preen, knees buckling, and Olivia smiles tenderly. “Look at you.” She cooed, her fingers trailing across your cheekbone now, so high that your eyes flutter closed on instinct. The darkness that consumes you paired with the heat of her touch only draws you into that fuzziness further. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

You nod, just slightly, your eyes still closed even though her hands have wandered down to your waist, unbuttoning your pants that she knows are driving you crazy. You sigh when the pressure is released, and her fingers do wonders to ease the string where material had rubbed soft skin raw.

“I need words, my love.” She encourages, tilting your chin upward until your eyes meet hers. They're so soft. The love she holds for you makes your eyes sting, and your lip quivers at the release of all the emotions you’ve been keeping inside.

“Yes.” You whisper, the words hoarse as they cut through the air, slice your throat. Your lips downturn, something Olivja anticipated. You never were a fan of her religious checks for consent and understanding, and when you found yourself in this state, drunk beneath her affection and overworked from life, you don’t exactly have a way with words.

“And I wasn’t very attentive, was I?” She frowns sympathetically, letting you know that she’s aware of her shortcoming in your relationship, even if you never expected her to guide your flight through life at every new gust of wind. You shook your head tentatively, because you know she wants an answer, and she accepts it. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I’m here now. I’m here now. Just let me have you, okay? That’s all I need you to do for me.”

“Okay.” You whisper, because the prospect of falling into your roles, your discussed dynamic, it just sounds too tempting after thinking your life had met an untimely end. Maybe some would call that dramatic, but some things couldn’t be explained. Something changed today, your perspective had been more fragile than you’d realized.

“Okay.” She nodded, patting your cheeks before she let you go, “Come on, we’re just gonna sit down for a little while, okay?” Olivia asked softly, guiding your languished body toward her couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as the King sized bed in her bedroom, but it made for a decent spot to steal five minutes of affection throughout the day. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me, sweetheart.”

Olivia sat down first, and the look that crossed your face was one she wished she could memorize. Your lips downturned, your eyes glassy and wide in betrayal. A short whine slipped out, but before you could stamp your foot into the ground, though it would’ve been a welcomed sight, Olivia clicked her tongue disapprovingly at your impatience and guided you into her lap by the belt loops on your pants — and action that always made you feel small.

You sighed in content when she allowed you to sink into her chest, moving your hair and hers away from her chest so you could feel the soft pulse of her skin beneath yours directly. She didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t needed. Her fingers thrumming against your back, her breath against the shell of your ear, her perfume surrounding you… it was enchanting.

“Your strong, sweetheart, but you don’t always have to be.” She reminded you, and even though she’d been speaking those words to you for months, they only just settled in now, and your blissful state amplified.

Olivia chuckled warmly when you nuzzled your face up into her neck, blocking out the office light until that comfortable darkness got to you again. Olivia didn’t let you get too comfortable, she never let you get too comfortable. The unpredictability of her love was adventurous and addictive, another dilemma to conquer whenever distance forced your heart to grieve what wasn’t dead, just suspended. Before you could fall asleep, your breathing enough indication to say that was coming, Olivia tapped your thigh, shifting with the motivation to stand.

You whined, shaking your head, grabbing a fistful of her blazer to assert your claim over her even if she was in charge. You didn’t want her to leave, to be any farther away then she already was right now. “None of that, come on, let’s go, sweetheart. We can get you home and all comfy.”

When you remained unmoving, she tried another approach, trailing her fingers up your thigh until the tickle of her touch became prickles of arousal you weren’t at liberty to shove aside at this time. Your breath caught and Olivia smirked knowing you were in the palm of her hand. “The sooner we get home, the sooner we can work out some of these knots, baby girl.” She coed, her fingers curling around the fleshy part of your thigh until your breath trembled and your eyelashes fluttered tellingly.