swaqcenix

[swaqcenix]

Closer

Summary: Every night the same dream, every morning the same nightmare. Now, she's here to make all the nightmares put to a stop—bringing them all in reality.

Pairings: Dark!Wanda Maximoff x SHIELD Detective!Female Reader

Word count: 8k

Tags | Warnings: +18 smut, angst, top!Wanda, bottom!reader, Wanda being a perv criminal, fingering (r), enchanted strap (r), dubcon, breeding kink, pregnancy, comic/tarot reading inaccuracies, jealousy if you squint, friendzoned!Nat, there's a VS lingerie in another universe yes (this is set after the MoM, Wanda being stuck on Earth-818, where she is a multiversal criminal after killing the Illuminati—the planet's mightiest heroes)

Author's note: Scheduled repost. This is the original plot so this might be different from the one I posted before.

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She had killed the Illuminati, the very protectors of your universe. You couldn't understand why she would go after them, they were the ones who were keeping your universe safe and sound. It seemed that the only reason she had for doing this was to gain more power somehow and that's the only thing you got as of now.

But you couldn't help but wonder if she's up to something…more or personal? If she isn't after more power, then what is she up to? She could be plotting something far more sinister than anyone could imagine.

Or something she just lost.

As you stand in front of the interrogation room door, your heart is pounding fast, your hands are cold and your breathing hitched.

"I'll get you to talk." You murmured to yourself.

You then took a deep breath before signaling the agents that you are ready, then you watched as the door slowly opened before you. Sitting behind a desk facing you was the most wanted criminal on your planet.

As you stepped inside you examined her, you noticed that her body was covered in a number of devices which were meant to restrain her from using her magical powers. There's something on her temple, something that looked like an electric device. She also had the same thing collared around her neck and in her cuffed hands, you also took note of her blackened fingers. But both her feet seem to be free and in full display. She seemed to be unfazed by all the devices though, despite the fact she looks restrained in almost all parts of her body.

You were one of the top detectives in your field, but you had never seen any of this stuff, let alone be in a high security room with the most wanted criminal in your universe.

"Worried about me? Detective?" she asked as if she could read your mind.

"Comfortable with those on your body?" you huffed lightly, you hoped that you were able to keep a straight face while asking that question. You were doing your best to keep your cool, but it wasn't easy with her looking at you like that. "Sadly, you can only have those removed if you cooperate with me."

Wanda's face started to form a smirk before letting out a small chuckle as if to torment you even more. It was as if she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on you.

"What about you? I don't think those clothes are comfortable on you…" she spoke with a wolfish grin, "want me to remove them?"

You force yourself to look away from Wanda, your heart rate slightly elevated. You take a deep, subtle breath, trying to compose yourself completely, focusing instead on your mission. There is no room for any distractions right now.

But God, this woman is a breathing distraction.

"Wanda Maximoff, is that your name?" you started, putting down the files you were pretending to fix a while back.

"Yes."

"Where are you from, Wanda?"

Silence.

You pressed on with the same question rephased, "Could you tell me where exactly you came from?"

She still didn't respond. Her eyes were like ice, cold and emotionless. You sighed disappointingly that now made the woman curve her lips upward.

Now, you began to lay out the facts, "You're not from here," you stated. "We've figured that one out. You're not from our universe and you killed our heroes." You slid a photo in front of her, the sound of the paper touching the cold metal table. "Do you know who that is?" It was a cropped photo of her. She was wearing a sweater and wide pants. She had a soft and gentle expression on her face, unlike the cold and emotionless looks she had been giving you so far. You observed how she looked at the photo and there is something you can't put a finger on her expression as she stared at it—jealousy?

"That's me."

"Wrong," you said firmly. You saw her eyes shot through you faster than the lightning. You were pleased that you were finally getting some sort of reaction from her. You could tell that you had caught her off guard. It seems like she wasn't used to being contradicted like this, you'll take note of that.

As a detective, if you cannot get an answer from your culprit you will get a reaction out of them. It was a fun game for you.

You held up another photo, before sliding it down on the table. This one is a closeup shot of her looking eye to eye at one of the monitors of Illuminati headquarters that was recovered. She was covered in blood and her eyes were glowing red.

The photo that has been haunting you since this case was given to you.

She just stared at it like a mirror. Then slowly, she began to tilt her head to the side, imitating the pose in the photo—taunting you. You could feel her eyes piercing into your soul.

Before you could lose yourself at her stare, you slammed your fingers down the photos. "This is not you, this is the Wanda Maximoff of this universe." You pointed at the photo of her variant with the soft and gentle expression on her face. You slid it towards you before grabbing the photo that is left, which was a photo of her showering in blood, "This…this is you."

Silence.

"Happy," you flick the photo of the happy Wanda. "And miserable." You pout, putting down the bloody Wanda in front of her.

Well, your tactics seemed to be not working. Because silence is all you got.

You took a deep breath and spoke again, trying to keep your frustration in check. "I'm going to ask you again, why are you here in my universe?" You stared at her expectantly, hoping for some kind of response this time. But Wanda remained silent, her face impassive as she stared back at you.

You were just starting, you just got here for like twenty minutes. Usually, during this part of interrogation you aren't frustrated yet unless you didn't have your pack of gummies before you started. You still should be cool and calm, but right now? You don't think you are at all.

She seemed to relish in your frustration. Taking pleasure in watching you struggle to get a straight answer out of her. This only added to your growing annoyance, making you wonder how long you could keep up this interrogation without losing your temper completely.

"Don't breathe too hard, detka."

You swear to your dead grandparents, you are going to lose it.

Your face flushed red like a fool, stomach was in knots as you tried to ignore the growing feeling of something you will slap yourself about.

Now, you managed to compose yourself back again, it's your turn to be silent. Fun games for you to play—the silent game where you'll sit on your chair while the culprit moves themselves in every way they could think of, walk, sit on the floor until their ass gets sore while you sit comfortably on your chair and this will go on for long painful hours. You've got to have years of training before you can master it.

So you sat comfortably, not saying anything. You waited to see what she would say or do next. But it seems like she was playing a waiting game as well, trying to see who would break first.

The two of you only sat in silence but the tension was too obvious in the small suffocating metal room.

You looked up from your file folder over and over again, taking notes of everything you got so far and that is the unknown name she had given you—detka. Now, you blinked as you realized how much time had passed. Your eyes shifted to Wanda and you noticed that she was tapping her blackened fingers impatiently on the table. It was clear that she was growing restless.

Good, you told yourself before getting back to your papers. One thing you're sure about is you have been here over and over, you had sat in a small cramped room for ten to twenty four hours half of your life. You're used to it. You do it for a living.

You'll last longer than she will.

"Detective Y/L/N, we got something for you." You heard through the comms of the suffocating room.

You got up and went to the door, waiting as a folder was delivered through a small opening of the door. As you walked back to the table, you couldn't shake off the feeling that Wanda was watching you intently. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the folder in front of you. But the weight of her gaze made the hairs on your neck rise. You glanced up at her, and sure enough, she was staring at you, a smirk written all over her face.

"It's quite disappointing I am not unwrapping something," she commented suggestively as she watched you unwrap the manila envelope on your hands. Then, her gaze drifted up to your lips and to your chest, your cleavage showing slightly on your low cut blouse that seemed to be taunting her from the moment you had stepped into the room.

Your jaw tensed as you tried to ignore the effect her nonsense comments were having on you, you tried to remain focused and professional, but you couldn't deny the heat building between your thighs.

You shame yourself.

You crossed your legs awkwardly, trying to conceal your discomfort. Wanda's smirk only grew wider when she noticed your movement. You could feel her eyes on you, and you wondered if she could tell how this back-and-forth was affecting you. Your mind raced, trying to come up with a way to regain control of the situation without giving her any more satisfaction. So you just decided to shift the focus of the conversation back to the interrogation. You examined a photo of a young girl wearing a denim jacket, taking note of a slight glow on her knuckles before showing it to Wanda.

"Do you know this girl?"

Wanda lets out a small huff, then leans on the table, her sore cuffed hands resting on the cold surface.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what color those pretty little panties of yours are."

"Who is this man?" you pushed another photo towards her that you weren't even able to see first just so you could dismiss her painful teasing, hoping to shift the conversation back to your hands because clearly, it's in hers.

"You want answers? Come on, detective, it's a simple question. Red? Black? Maybe something a little more innocent, like pin—"

"If stupidity is the only thing that will come out of your dirty mouth, then don't talk to me or don't speak, at all." You finally snapped, "I had asked you simple questions as well but I think you're too dumb to answer them since you're all silent." You knew that this was a low blow, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratification as you threw her own words back at her.

But still, you didn't last long.

You gathered the papers, folders, and envelopes in front of you, you couldn't help but feel Wanda's venomous glare burning into you. When you glanced up at her, you gulped by the sight of her face. Her expression was a picture of barely contained fury, suddenly feeling like prey being stalked by a predator—like the photo of her showering in blood. You immediately avoided her fiery gaze, you swore you saw it flicker red. You shake your head and take a hold of your documents.

You couldn't believe she had gotten the best of you in this interrogation and you only got defeated and frustrated. All you can do is huff, straightening your collar and smoothing your hair as you try to regain a sense of composure and the little shame that this investigation left you. You glanced towards the one-way mirror, knowing that the other agents and your colleagues were watching this whole ordeal unfold. They watched as you got humiliated by this multiversal criminal.

Taking a deep breath, you spoke up, your voice firm and decisive. "I think I am done here," you said, signaling them to open the door for you. But before you could even step outside, Wanda suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

"It's not stupidity if it's all true," her words dripping with a cold and thick accent you are not familiar with that sent shivers down your spine.

You knit your brows together but you didn't turn around because you knew you would only see the annoying smirk plastered on her face.

"Victoria's secret, it's lacy and has a floral pattern, scarlet. And it's wet."

You clenched your jaw tightly, your nostrils flaring in anger. Now, you felt violated and humiliated, she had really gotten under your skin in a way that no one else had ever managed before.

As the door shut behind you, you felt a sense of relief at finally getting some distance from her, and you took a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself down—a routine you usually do.

"You okay?" Natasha immediately asked, removing her leather jacket and placing it on your shoulders, "I swear, allow me to do this."

Wanda rose from her chair and tried her best to stretch, trying to pop and shift some bones in her restrained neck and her back. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she was savoring the moment. Then, she walked towards the one-way glass mirror.

"No, Nat. If I allow that to happen one of you will come out in that room in a body bag." You walked to put your files down briefly staring at Wanda who was now hovering closely to the mirror.

Natasha then grabbed you by your right arm, her face dangerously close on yours. She clearly didn't like how this multiversal criminal talked to you. "And who do you think that will be?" Natasha asked intimidatingly.

You just huffed playfully, rolling your eyes on her making Natasha let out a few laugh.

"Are you sure those devices are really working on her?"

"Well, we don't know where she's from or what entity she really is. So we don't really know what else she can do," Natasha said and you already know that fact. "As of now it is the highest and most secure restraining device that they have. At least that's what they told me. Why?"

Well, you don't think it is working or restraining her powers at all.

Natasha didn't speak as if she already knew what's going on in your mind. "So it's true?"

"What is?" you asked as you crouched down to your bag, stuffing all the heavy documents you had dragged to and fro wherever you go.

"What she said."

"Natasha, she said nothing but taunt and—"

"Eye fuck you, yes."

Humiliate, humiliate is what you were going to say.

"The last thing she said, was it true?"

Natasha's question hung in the air, you found yourself frozen in place, your mind racing to come up with an appropriate response. You then slowly turned around and your eyes first landed on Wanda. You still have no idea if she can hear or see everything despite her being locked inside, but you can see her staring right at you as if she can see you through the one-way mirror. Now, you are both staring at each other even with the glass standing against the two of you.

Guess there is only one way to find out.

"Why don't you drop by later and find out, agent?"

You stepped back, almost like a flinch as you watched Wanda hit the mirror with her cuffed hands, her jaw shaking and her eyes flickering with a terrifying red glow, as if the rage within her had taken on a life of its own.

ᱬ

Your fingers flew over the keyboard of your laptop as you delved into the files that had been recovered from the headquarters of the Illuminati. The video footage was particularly compelling, showing Wanda's abilities at their most devastating. You watched in horror as she unleashed a barrage of powerful magic, tearing through the ranks of the Illuminati with ease.

Black Bolt was killed having his mouth covered.

Captain Carter was cut in half with her shield.

Reed Richard was grated to death.

Photon was blasted with her own powers and was crushed by a statue.

And Professor X's neck was snapped by Wanda after what you think was a telepathic duel.

"Why did you do all this, Wanda Maximoff?" You whispered to yourself.

You knew that what had happened there was unprecedented and that the implications were far-reaching. Another set of evidence was given to you stating where this multiversal criminal was, Earth-616—from a different reality. With the Illuminati gone, multiversal travel was impossible, and the potential for catastrophic consequences seemed to loom around every turn with her being in your reality.

You watched another video footage of a young girl who was clearly in the throes of something far beyond her control. The way she was running and in a second she was being consumed by a star-figured portal she made herself, as if her own power was turning on her, devouring her from within.

A theory now begins to take shape in your mind. You theorized that perhaps Wanda was here in your universe because of the young girl. But again, it would always fall back onto why Wanda killed your world's mightiest heroes.

"Think, Y/N. C'mon."

As a seasoned detective, you couldn't help but consider all angles and possibilities. Then, another theory popped, what if Wanda used the girl to get to your universe? But the question that nagged at you this time was why she would do such a thing. What was her motive? Was she trying to escape from her own universe or did she have some greater purpose in mind? The uncertainty of it all made your mind tangle, as you desperately tried to piece together the puzzle that was Wanda Maximoff of Earth-616.

"What do you want?" you whispered, your gaze was locked repeating the footage of Wanda going on to Illuminati one by one.

ᱬ

"Thank you for meeting me."

Wanda nodded in acknowledgement, as she locked the door of the cafe behind you. You carefully watched her actions and movements as you followed her. And as a detective yourself it was your nature to observe and it was clear that she was a bit nervous, a far cry from the confident and aggressive that is her variant.

She led you to a small table for two, as you two finally settled in, you spoke.

"So, uhm. I'm detective Y/N and I think you kno—"

"I-I know who you are, I know what happened," Wanda interjected, cutting you off mid-sentence. Her tone was sharp and clipped, as if she had already anticipated your attempt to broach the topic of the devastating events that had transpired within the week. "You don't need to repeat it all over again," she said with finality.

It was all over the news for days now, hell it would be for the next few years. The death of the World's mightiest heroes and footage of the one who killed them, which was her—not technically her but her variant from another universe.

"I have received threats and so are my children. I had to close my shop since then," your gaze darted around the surroundings. Before you got in, you'd seen the words "murderer, witch, killer, anti-hero," painted on the shop's windows in bold, aggressive strokes.

"But…I have nothing to do with it," Wanda's voice trembled with emotion, you could hear the undeniable anguish in her words. "There would be times that I can't control my powers and it frightens me. My body was present but my mind was something else...someone else," she continued, her voice growing fainter, almost like a distant echo. "I had glimpses of a star…more like a portal, a shattered mirror and a book. But it's…I swear, it's not me I have nothing to do with it."

"Hey, it's—" you carefully edge in. But she quickly stopped you.

"No, I want to get this over with. I just want my children to be safe." She looked at you with glossy eyes. She looks so tired and defeated. "I used to dream every night," she continued, her words tumbling out rapidly, "I was…I was happy, I was with my children, I was in control of everything. But then it's gone. I put my kids to sleep then everything slowly started to disappear, I watched it. I watched everything I created, everything I loved disappear right in front of me."

"You lost your children…" you whispered unintentionally.

"Not me, I'm with my children," Wanda shook her head lightly before looking at you.

"It's not you who lost them…"

It struck you deeply, and suddenly, the pieces started to fall into place.

"What we see in our dreams are what is happening on our alternative selves. They may not be our exact selves, but they're our counterparts from different universes, and when we sleep, we inadvertently tap into their experiences."

"H-How sure are you about that?"

"I came to my old mentor, I told her everything about it. She might give you better answers than I do, I stopped learning more about my powers since I retired," she paused briefly, her gaze dropping to the ground. "Besides, I…I'm just a sitting duck variant here."

"Hey—" you blinked when she handed you a piece of paper. Stopping your attempt to comfort once again.

"I don't need it. Here is the address if you still need answers. That's all I can give you."

She stood and you panicked, you hurried after her. As she reached the door, she turned to face you for a brief moment, her expression unreadable. Before you could utter a polite goodbye, she had already shut the door behind you, leaving you standing in the cold street.

You took an exasperated sigh, then, you quickly pulled out your phone and dialed Natasha's number, asking her to send some SHIELD agents to keep an eye on Wanda and her kids for protection. After the call, you felt lost, it's like you're close to hitting a brick wall, but then you remembered the paper Wanda gave you.

"This sounds like a sham."

ᱬ

"What are you doing here in our universe?" Natasha asked for God knows how many times now. But Wanda remained silent.

She unbuttons her suit jacket, revealing her holstered gun. She watches Wanda's silent form, she is unfazed—unthreatened. She wishes you were here, with how easily you extracted information just using your eyes and laughter. How your disarming smiles could crack even the hardest facades, including hers.

"Was I right?" Natasha freezes, surprised by Wanda's sudden voice.

"What?" Natasha responds sharply, trying to hide her shock. "What did you say?" she watches Wanda closely. Her eyes are no longer empty. They're stormy and intense. "Right about what?"

"C'mon you know what I am talking about." Wanda's eyes crinkled to the side. And Natasha's eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the smirk. Remembering the last thing this criminal had said about you before you got out of the first interrogation, Natasha catches herself slowly smirking as well before she can stop it, leaning back confidently in her chair. She hoped this play of hers would look natural.

"Not going to lie, it was impressive 'cause you were right about it. Saw it upclose, it was black, lacy Victoria's Secret, and it's wet—for me."

"It's red." Wanda immediately corrected, the colors of Natasha's face started to drain in embarrassment. "Dark red," she emphasizes, "Almost burgundy, like wine...or blood." She grins mischievously, enjoying how the agent in front of her clenched her jaw.

Natasha intended for it to look like she indeed saw what you were wearing that day. You even told her to come to your place and find out even though she knew it was just a play to get something out of this criminal, only for the two of you to do nothing but investigate and investigate. She even bought wine! But since then you had made it clear to her, that you two cannot be a thing—that she's just a friend.

"Listen here, you twisted criminal," Natasha strided and grabbed Wanda by the collar of her prison suit, pulling her closer. "Try to disrespect her like that once again, you will never be back in your universe again."

Wanda laughed despite Natasha's threat. "In just one snap I can go through your mind and see the very not-so-respectful things your twisted brain has thought of doing to your boss," she spoke calmly, unfazed by Natasha's grip on her collar and how close their faces were to each other.

"Give me your boss or you'll get nothing from me."

ᱬ

You find yourself standing in front of a quaint, old-fashioned shop, nestled between two larger buildings. The sign above the door reads "Madam Calderu's Psychic Readings" in a flowery, Victorian script. As you push open the heavy wooden door, a bell chimes merrily, announcing your arrival. The shop is dimly lit, filled with an eclectic mix of incense burners, crystal balls on a small, round table.

Before you can take in your surroundings properly, you hear a sudden scream.

Your hand goes for your holster, gun drawn instinctively. The woman freezes, seeing the gun pointed at her. "Wait!" She throws up her hands, the shawl falling back to reveal a middle-aged woman with sharp features and piercing dark eyes. The woman's gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, it's as if she's peering right through you, seeing something that only she can comprehend. Her eyes widen slightly, and she takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

"You…"

Taking a deep breath, she forces a calming smile. "I apologize, dear. You just gave me quite the surprise. Please, have a seat. I am Madam Calderu."

Even though something about this feels off—hell, everything about this feels off, you holster your gun and take a seat at the nearest table. The smooth wood is cool to the touch, just like her hands when she places them palm-up on the table.

"What's your name, dear?"

Her eyes seem to pierce through you as she awaits your response. There's a strange intensity to her gaze, like she's trying to unravel the very fabric of your existence.

"Y/N…" you were about to get your badge to show her that you are a detective but she gently stopped you.

"Y/N, no need for that," She repeats softly as if she already knows what you really are.

The goosebumps you're feeling made you want to finish whatever this is. "I am here about Wanda Maximoff."

"Which one?" she asks, laying out a spread of cards you thought are tarot cards across the table.

"What? Wh-what do you mean which one? Hey I-I am not here for that." You rushed out, but she already flipped a card.

"The Fool. Bare…untouched, pure." You cringe slightly, what a nice way to say you are a virgin…which you truly are. "You are going to bring a new life."

"W-What?"

She turned to another card that was placed vertically. "The Hermit. You're in deep search for something. The Devil, upright. You are bound...constrained by circumstances beyond your control." Another card was flipped. "The Empress Meaning, upright. You are a vessel…meant to contain something immense, powerful. But you're unprepared. A fragile container for a force that could shatter you at any moment."

The last card made her eyes widened as she saw the image—a hanged man suspended upside down from a tree, with his right foot bound and his left foot free. "Someone is after you…" She mutters under her breath, then she looks at you who was in a deep frown, images of something red…a crown, something powerful flashed her mind that made her scream. You immediately took a hold of her hands with yours, as if you pulled her out of her nightmare, she stopped screaming but she was breathing hard.

"You wait here, young lady." She stood, shaking as she rushed from her seat disappearing through the string curtains.

The room grows silent again as you wait for Madame Calderu to return. Your phone suddenly rings, making you jump slightly. You pull it out, seeing Natasha's number.

"Romanoff."

"She wants you."

Realizing what she meant, you shifted on your seat in frustration. "Romanoff, I told you not to…" you didn't finish, sighing defeatedly knowing that scolding Natasha would get you nowhere. She had always been like this, stubborn and would sometimes go against you and your higher ups. "I'll be there." You say, ending the call and tucking the phone back into your pocket.

Madam Calderu came rushing back with a wooden rectangular sigil in her hand only to see a 20 dollar bill on top of the table.

You were gone.

ᱬ

"Y/N, I'm sorry." Natasha followed you behind as you strided toward the interrogation room. You have not been giving her any words or any blink of an eye as you arrived. And she has been apologizing, following you around like a lost puppy.

"I want you out of this case, Romanoff. This is not the only time you went against my orders." You say with finality before disappearing behind the door of the interrogation room, not wanting to hear any of her reactions.

You took deep breaths before you turned around and saw how the criminal had been staring at you. She was wearing a wolfish grin, elbows on top of the table while her cuffed hands together were in the air.

"How are you holding up?" you asked, much calmer like you were the first time.

"I'm good, detective," she said, simply. "I'm good now that you're here."

"I could say that." You quipped, making her let out a few chuckles that made your stomach flutter.

"I didn't like the attitude you have the last time we saw each other."

"Well, I didn't like how you didn't cooperate with me."

Wanda smirks teasingly, her black fingernails tapping against the metal table. "I missed you, detective," she purrs softly, her voice dropping an octave. She manspread her legs slightly under the table, unnoticed by you.

You respond in a neutral tone, your expression giving nothing away. "I could say that," you repeated, never breaking eye contact with the criminal.

She chuckles softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She leans forward slightly, the movement subtle yet intentional. "Didn't you miss me too?" she just threw you a bone, looking for a reaction—any reaction. She watches your face carefully, eyes picking up every tiny muscle twitch. She sees your jaw tighten slightly, your shoulders stiffen. She notes how you never left her gaze, how you keep your voice neutral and unreadable.

But then, you remained composed. Chuckling but you didn't give any response to her question, instead you answered with a question yourself.

"Wanda, have you had dreams?"

She frowned before huffing softly, but failed to hide the slight uptick in her lips. She leans back slightly, her gaze drifting away before slowly returning to meet yours.

"It's here, right in front of me."

As Wanda answered, a smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth draws Wanda's attention back to your face. She sees the genuine smile hiding behind the smirk, and it makes her pause. She's not used to seeing genuine smiles, especially not directed at her. Wanda's eyes linger on your smile, her gaze seeming to drink in the sight. She notices the way your indifference during the first interrogation melts away, replaced by something warmer. Something that makes Wanda's heart skip a beat.

"Have you lost someone?" you asked another question, much personal this time. But silence was the only answer you got back from Wanda. You expected for it to not work for now but you know that eventually, later on, you will get something out from her—you will make her say something.

"I used to have dreams, Wanda." When the words escape your lips, you see Wanda's eyes widen slightly, hanging onto each word. "I dream of my kids, and I dream about losing them every single time." You continued. Your dreams have become a nightly ritual, an obsession. Every night, you relive the same scene, sitting on the couch, surrounded by laughter, playful shouts and calls for you—their mommy. You're surrounded by your children, their faces blurry but their joy unmistakable. And then, next thing you know is you're awake in an empty bed, no signs of your children.

"Every time?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

You hesitate, then nod. "Like clockwork. I see them, hear them. They feel so real…" you trail off, smiling at the memories. "Then they're gone." You add softly, unconsciously wrapping your arms around yourself. Wanda swallows hard, her fingers twitching slightly. "It's funny because I don't even want kids, but after those dreams, when I wake up the first thing I expect to see is them beside me."

As she sits there, watching you wrestle with the ghosts of your dream children, she feels an unfamiliar pull. She's seen the same thing in her own dreams—blurry faces, laughter that turns to silence.

"Every night the same dream, every morning the same nightmare." She murmured under her breath.

For the first time since you've seen her, Wanda's mask completely slips.

"I can say the same, Y/N. I've lost people I loved…but I am here to get them back now."

Bingo.

Wanda blinks, momentarily taken aback as she watches you rise, a flicker of confusion passing over her face.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Wanda." You say before disappearing, leaving her alone in the cold room.

ᱬ

Later that night, as the prison settles into a quiet routine, you find yourself back at your apartment.

You pour yourself a glass of wine, the cool liquid sliding down your throat as you relax on your couch. This case has been tough, but tonight, you finally made a huge progress. She had opened up, shown emotion. You smile smugly to yourself, confident that tomorrow, with your newfound insight, you'll finally break the case wide open.

You finish your glass of wine, feeling tired. You've had a long day of investigating and interrogating. You let out a breath, your body relaxing as you slide into bed in your silk nightgown. You close your eyes, ready for sleep. But you felt dizzy. As the room spins around you, suddenly, unmistakably, you hear it—laughter. The clear, joyous laughter of children echoes through your darkened bedroom. Your eyes fly open, but the sound doesn't stop. It surrounds you, bouncing off the walls, growing louder.

Figures begin to take shape right before your eyes. Two boys—the same children from your dreams. They're laughing, their faces fully visible this time, and they're reaching out their little hands towards you.

"Mommy!" you laugh, reaching to them.

But then, in an instant their laughter turns cold, their smiles disappearing as they hiss, "Mommy, go away! Run, mommy, run!" They push you back, their small hands shoving you towards the bed. You saw a glowing figure just outside your door, a woman with horns in her head—glowing red.

Your kids continued to scream, "Run! Mommy!"

Your heart was pounding in your chest, you wrapped your arms around your children, pulling them close. You can feel their small bodies shaking, mirroring your own fear.

"Mommy, go." The first boy whispered.

"You have to go now, mommy." The other one said.

But you didn't let go of them. The footsteps grew louder and the figure was just right beside your bed. Blocking out the light on the hallway of your room.

You jolt upright in bed, your nightgown damp with sweat. You pant, looking around your room. No children, no figure. Just you and your phone ringing loud.

"Y/N," Maria's voice is tight, "Wanda escaped. We don't know how but we need you here. Now."

"2800 Sherwood Street, Eastview." You rattled out. Your heart pounds in your ears as you stand still. "Maria, 616 is after 818's kids, she might be on her way to get them now. Target is the variant Wanda of Earth-616. Presumed armed and dangerous. Objective: Contain and capture." You stood, walking to where your closet is, "Eliminate if you have to." You ended the call swiftly, pulling on your tactical gear—bulletproof vest, cargo pants, combat boots out of your cabinet.

When you were about to get undressed, there was a figure that loomed over your room's doorway. You can't be wrong but it was the same figure you saw in your dreams just a while back. A woman with little horns, glowing red.

As you sweep the hallway, you think you're alone. But then, a movement catches your eye—a shadow darting between rooms. You turned around, gun raised, heart pounding. "Who's there?" You call out, voice echoing through the empty house. Then, a shadow appeared right at the end of your hallway and it started crawling to your direction. Without thinking, you spin around and dash back to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. You lock it immediately, and aim your gun straight at the door as you step back.

You felt an energy behind you so you whirl around, gun still pointed at the air, only to find yourself face to face with the towering figure. It looms over you, the red light pulsing violently. Your hands tremble slightly as you raise the gun higher, aiming at the center of the shadowy mass. You gasp, eyes widening as you recognize the features hidden beneath the glowing shadow.

"W-Wanda?" your voice is barely a whisper.

Her blackened fingers extend, reaching to the gun aiming at her and it disappears in a flash of dark energy. Before you could react, she snapped and in an instant you were up in the air. An unseen force lifts you off the ground, suspending you in mid-air with an invisible restraint tying your feet and hands. You struggle, legs kicking uselessly as you float higher but her eyes glow with an intensity you've never seen before, almost burning with the red energy that surrounds her. She watches you like a predator eyeing its prey—calculated, intense, and completely focused.

"Miss me?"

"What are you doing?" you manage to choke out, heart is now hammering to get out of your chest as you stare into her glowing eyes. Her appearance is disturbing; she wears a crown that looks like horns, and a suit that looks like it was drenched in blood. The red energy seems to be seeping from her very pores. Her features are still beautiful, but twisted into something dark and terrifying.

"To get what I lost. To claim what's really mine."

Your frown deepens as you process her words.

Then, a chill laughter escaped her lips. "I thought you already figured it out, detective," she says mockingly, her voice dripping with condescension. "You're supposed to be the smart one. The one who sees through every lie and unravels every mystery." She leans in closer, her face inches from yours as you elevate in the air. "But you've got it all wrong."

Your mind races, trying desperately to connect the dots. Your detective mind isn't working at the moment and she tilts her head, studying your baffled expression with cruel amusement. Her blackened fingers gently caress your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw. "You really don't get it, do you?" she murmurs, her touch icy cold. Her fingers started to caress your stomach. "Let me give you a hint...what's the same thing we lost every time we close our eyes?"

Your kids. Her kids.

You shake your head, trying to clear the confusion. "But…I-I don't have your kids, Wanda."

"Oh, you will." Her voice drops to a threatening whisper as she snaps her fingers again. In an instant, you find yourself falling backward onto your bed, the familiar indentation of your pillow against your head. Wanda begins to crawl up your body, her blackened fingers digging into the blankets, pulling her closer. Her face hovers above yours, her twisted crown casting ominous shadows on the walls. She darkened fingers caressed your cheek like she had done this before.

"I not only dream about losing my children. I dream about you too, losing you, being taken away from me. In every universe, you aren't mine, in some you were once mine but then you get away and be with someone else, Natasha or Carol, anyone but me." Her voice drops to an intense whisper, eyes blazing with dark obsession. "I scoured the multiverse, seeking a world where you picked me. None existed."

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying desperately that this is all just a nightmare. But as Wanda's cold hands begin to roam over your chest, pulling the knots of your nightgown, you realize with a sinking heart that this is no dream. This is terrifyingly, undeniably real.

"So, I embarked myself on a mission—bloody, chaotic crusade across the multiverse. Where every version of you is going to know my touch, my dominance that they wouldn't want anyone else. Every version of you is going to learn who truly owned them. Every universe would bear witness to your soul belonging to me."

A shiver runs down your spine as the cold air hits your bare skin. You have nothing under your nightgown, just your lacy panties. You're exposed, vulnerable, lying naked beneath her. She takes a moment to admire the sight, her red eyes burning with a fierce intensity. "You're mine. There would be no universe where you aren't ruined by me." She murmurs, tracing a finger down your chest. She then squeezes them roughly, pinching your nipples between her fingers until you gasp in pain. Her other hand reaches up to grab your throat, squeezing tightly as she attacks your chest with a frenzy of kisses and bites.

You arch your back in pain as Wanda's cold hands maul your breasts, her fingers digging into your flesh like claws. Her hand around your throat tightens, cutting off your air supply as she nuzzles her face between your breasts, inhaling your scent deeply. Your body goes limp beneath hers. You spread your legs wider, letting her settle deeper between your thighs. Your arms lift up, wrapping around her neck possessively. You whimper softly as she bites down hard on your collarbone.

Her fingers slip beneath the lacy fabric of your underwear and immediately find their way inside your warmth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, her skin so cold it burns against your sensitive flesh. She begins to move her fingers in and out of you brutally, ignoring your cries. She silences you with a brutal kiss, her cold fingers continuing their relentless assault on your insides. Her thumb finds your clit, pressing down hard as she forces another finger inside you. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate her blackened fingers, your body trembling with a mix of pain and pleasure.

You should be fighting, clawing, biting, anything to make her stop. Instead, you find yourself wrapping your legs around her waist, pulling her closer as she invades your cunt with cold, blackened fingers.

Letting her darkness in.

"Hng—W-Wanda..." you whimpered.

She smirks wickedly as she hears you cry out her name, your pleasured gasps mingling with anguished moans. Her eyes glitter with cruel triumph. "Say my name again," she commands.

"W-Wanda…" you stuttered.

Then, she curled her fingers inside you agonizingly slow, hitting that perfect spot. "Louder."

"Fuck! Wanda!"

Just as you're about to release the coil on your stomach, she pulls her fingers out of you suddenly, leaving you gaping and empty. You whimper in protest, but before you can even process what's happening, she shoves two of her blackened fingers into your mouth instead.

"Suck."

Magic crackles in the air as Wanda presses her blackened fingers against your lips, demanding obedience. Shimmering sparks dance before your eyes before you reluctantly close them, submitting as your mouth envelops her fingers. The metallic taste of chaos magic and your wetness coats your tongue, making you shudder.

She pulls her fingers free from your mouth, leaving behind trails of dark magic. Kneeling between your legs, she lets you see the crimson strap-on secured around her waist—it looked so real, enchanted.

As you finally register what's happening, adrenaline shoots through your veins. Your body goes instantly rigid, eyes wide with realization and fear.

"No..." you whimper, trying to close your legs, but she holds them firmly open with her knees. The alarm bells in your mind scream to fight back.

With a cruel smile, she rips your delicate underwear to shreds, discarding the remains aside. She grabs your thighs tightly, spreading your legs as far apart as they'll go. The enchanted strap-on hangs between her legs, the chaos runes pulsing with dark energy.

"It's time to make what we lost."

She rubs the tip against your wet entrance, coating it with your arousal. You watch in horror as she throws her head back, moaning softly. "You're so tight, around my cock," she hisses, gripping your hips. Without warning, she snaps her hips forward, burying the entire length inside you brutally. She shushes your cries, her free hand caressing your cheek, kissing your forehead soothingly as she continues to brutally thrust the strap-on into you with each heartbeat. With every painful push, you let out a little whimper, your body trembling beneath hers.

"It hurts, Wanda…" you sobbed.

"I know, detka." She placed her forehead against yours before kissing them again, her thumb gently stroking your cheek as she continued to ravage you with the cock. "It's supposed to hurt." She murmurs against your forehead, "This pain will remind you who you belong to now." As she continues to brutally thrust into you, she starts to feel pleasure from the enchanted device. The chaos runes absorb your pain and convert it into dark energy, feeding into Wanda. She moans softly, nuzzling your face, "You're hurting so nicely…" The pleasure builds inside her, her hips snapping forward with increased force, the strap-on plunging deeper into your torn and stretched flesh. She buries her face in your neck, kissing and biting your skin as she chases her orgasm. "I'm going to cum inside you, my love."

All you can feel is the relentless pain, your body bruised and your pussy battered by her cock. But despite the agony, you nod dumbly, willing to take whatever she gives you. "Yes, Wanda," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. "Please, please."

She presses a palm firmly against your stomach, feeling the prominent bulge of the strap-on inside you. "Feel that, detka? Feel how deep I am?" she pants harshly, her hips grinding against yours. "You'll be filled with me, marked from the inside out."

"Then, we will never lose them again."

"Please…I don't wanna lose them again, Wanda. Please, give me my kids. G-Give me your babies."

Your statement throws her over the edge. She groans loudly, her body tensing as she forces her cock deep inside you, releasing wave after wave of hot, enchanted seed. The chaos runes pulse dangerously, filling your womb with dark energy.

She collapses onto you, panting heavily as she caresses your stomach, feeling the warmth of her release inside you.

"My kids…" she slipped out of you. Making you whimper from the empty feeling. Then, her hand slowly trailed down to your pussy, feeling the wetness of her cum mixing with yours as she pushed it back inside you.

"Take care of them while I ruin your other multiversal self."

[swaqcenix]

[swaqcenix]

i crave attention, but i refuse to humiliate myself by asking for it.

i want to be loved, but i don’t want anyone to truly know me.

i am trying to make myself digestible, i don’t want to leave a sour taste in the mouth of my consumer.

[swaqcenix]

Back home and time to write my fics now! wohoo <3

[swaqcenix]

A trip to A&E after all.. Might as well live at these hospitals?!

[swaqcenix]

Just wanted to clarify after a serious altercation today i'll be logging out of my socials and taking time on mh health. take care lovelies! 🫶

[swaqcenix]

bobs burgers & ice cream wohoo! <3

[swaqcenix]

I have no words other than she's so hot & I'm so gay and constant panic over her 🫠 What a lovely start to a week!

[swaqcenix]

watching my gf on tv is everything, she's so cute!!

[swaqcenix]

I love away weekends for mh! <3

[swaqcenix]

MILE HIGH CLUB

summary — after a week away with natasha, she’d thought you’d be pliant and soft on the flight home, but you’ve had other plans in mind since she first booked the trip last year

warning(s) — established relationship, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, domestic dominance, spanking, public play, elements of exhibitionism, public humiliation, panty handoff mid-flight, bratting, verbal warning, hair pulling, teasing, degradation, mention of praise kink, pet names, bladder control, light piss kink, fingering, orgasm denial, hickies, mention of oral fixation, neck kisses, mile high club, punishment, whining, cuddling, mention of headspace, crying, packing, strap-on, condescending tone, ¿maybe one small instance of attempted gaslighting?, cockwarming mention, dirty talk, elements of aftercare, mean dom natasha, men/minors dni

authors note — the title does in fact say it all, my horny friends.

Natasha’s palm is clammy, but it clamps tightly around your hand as bright lighting casts white refractions on speckled tile floors beneath your mismatched shoes only tied together by brand. Designed this way only to conceal the unavoidable stains and scuffs that would accumulate through the decades as millions pushed and shoved their way to undisclosed and ever changing destinations, Natasha continues to remain your anchor as she guides you through the terminal with one hand on your shared carry-on and the other on you. 

“Let me take it.” You argue, cheeks puffed out, grip loose and passive around her palm as you make little effort to keep up with her broad steps on the speckled tiles. Notably, you never made a move to interlock your fingers with Natasha’s when she first grabbed your hand after security and pulled you to the left when you’d attempted to stomp right, and she’s stubbornly allowing you to continue asserting your personal autonomy and remain connected as little as possible, despite the fact that you have no idea where you’re going and she doesn’t think you’ve been in a clear state since you first rolled out of bed to pee at barely three. 

“No.” She answers simply, sharply. You’re already functioning on time you don’t have, and it’s truly no fault of either of yours that there was a twelve car pile-up on I-405, but she’s not in the mood to dilly dally with you in the middle of LAX no matter where fault lies, and you’ve already pushed every button she has today. “Hurry up.” She directs instead, and it’s the final push that has your skin prickling just from contact with her.

You don’t know what your problem is. You want her. In every sense of the word, but you’ve done nothing all morning besides attempt to work your way under her skin and sink your claws into her exposed, probably pulsating, nerves. It’s the gruesome imagery that severs your ability to maintain any physical connection, because truly what the fuck is wrong with you right now, and with as much briskness as you can muster, you pull your hand away from hers and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Do not do this right now.” Natasha’s voice cuts through to you clearly in the overstimulating crowd of voices, beeping, and squeaking wheels that either need to be tossed away entirely or shown a serious amount of WD-40. It’s clear, sharp, an undeniable warning that attempts to scorn your skin and have you back peddling into submission, but it only irritates you further as you curl your fingers around your biceps and pointedly stalk ahead of her. “I’m serious, now is not the time.” 

You think she groans behind you, but it could’ve just been one of the few other hundred thousand people around you, all rushing around in their own journeys, but still padding down against the same speckled tiles. Your breathing hitches when an arm snakes around your waist, surprise claiming your feelings for a handful of seconds before you recognized the heavy weight of her hand on your hip, fingers curled into the waistband of your sweat shorts folded down twice around your waist — still too big despite the amendments and drawstring; still perfect for her to curl her fingers into with just enough space for her knuckle to dig into the meat of your hip.

“You’re going to have to let me do something! You can’t open the boarding passes with a fucking death grip on my shorts and the damn carry-on!” You seeth, blinded with frustration, and overstimulation, and the all encompassing need to just be in her. In her skin, her clothes, her pussy. Any way you can manage it. 

It happens before you can even process her fingers leaving your waistband, but before you turn the corner, terminal B clearly and proudly in sight with a stampede of passengers already lined up at the wing and check desk, her palm, open and flat, claps against the globe of your ass barely concealed by the black shorts that slowly ride up your thighs and fall down your waist with every step. She overcompensates for the thick fabric, and in the seconds that follow the spreading sting, you know she’d reeled her hand back far for that one, and at least three people had seen the full encounter, let alone the tail end that echoed through the room that somehow felt eerily quiet now.

Your cheeks flame with heat you’re not sure she can even see on your skin, but you feel it fully as it burns down your body in a fast pursuit to claim you. To say you hadn’t been expecting that was an understatement, and you’re so thrown off that when you glance down at your converse quickly padding across the speckled tile floors, finally keeping an equal pace with Natasha, the brown and gold specks look different somehow. 

Her hand falls on your waist again, heavy and possessive, but you don’t attempt to shove her away again as she pulls you in close to her side and continues to drag the carry-on along with one hand, her fingers straining just to maintain the unequally dispersed weight inside. “Knock it off. Understand me?” 

“Mmm.” It’s a simple whine, a petulant response that boils her blood and you know it, but you don’t give her any time to further scold you on your lack of manners and serious attitude problem. Instead, your eyes scan the terminal and the surrounding booths and carved out entrances, an illuminated sign displaying a single woman’s silhouette beside a water fountain with an automatic spout. “I have to pee. Do you want me to fill your water?” It’s a soft question, a sweet one too. Your aim isn’t to cover up the hours of poking and prodding, but a sudden reprieve washes over you as the reality of your cross country flight settles in. You should’ve thought about that hours ago. Natasha knows she did. 

“Did I ask about either of those things?” She scoffs, continuing to drag you toward the sea of people ever so slowly becoming a single file line as more passengers travel through the tunnel toward the plane, filing into seats you hope aren’t directly next to yours. 

Your cheeks flame again, hot and tingling with flustered humiliation as your eyes flicker down to the floor where yellow converse still stomp over speckled tile. Your hand curls into the hemline of her top, tight and possessive as your knuckles twinge pale. “Oh.” You whisper, confronted with the crudeness of her control that you’d allowed yourself to so easily forget you gave over to her blindly and willingly. It’s not often she extends her reign like this; nitpicks the miniscule details of your routine, but evidently you’ve pushed her beyond the point of refined control. diving headfirst into a sea of strict actions and hard to earn permission. “No.” 

Natasha makes a sound high in her throat, something similar to a scoff or maybe a groan, you’re not entirely sure what the origins of the sound were, only that it rattled her chest and you realize just how tightly flush against her side you are when it vibrates your bones tantalizingly. “No, who?” Her fingers pinch the flesh of your hip, right above where the strings of your thong roll together from the constant friction of your thighs padding and stomping through the Los Angeles airport. 

“No, Daddy.” Your head shakes, sweeps from left to right. You’re sure you look the perfect image of a scolded child with your shoulders pulled up to your studded earlobes and your eyes downcast and twitchy as they anticipate Natasha’s order to direct your focus on her; just her, only her. 

“Look at me.” You’d been expecting it, but you still find hesitation slows your reaction time as you pull your eyes off the speckled tiles, trace her sweatpants and her baggy hoodie, over her jaw that’s tense and locked with not only frustration, but genuine annoyance. She’s annoyed at the situation. At the traffic that pushed your arrival time back two hours. At the fact that you’d missed early boarding because of it. At the fact that you just cannot seem to fall in line and help yourself just once. 

“Hi.” You whisper softly, captivated by the green of her eyes that seems to glow beneath the bright, unforgiving lighting that subsequently highlights every tired pore on her face. She hadn’t looked so worn down yesterday when you’d been sprawled out on a boat, but travel unveils the worst sides of yourselves. 

Natasha’s eyes soften for only a moment, her jaw loosening as she levels her stare on your own eyes, drinking you in and forcing herself to take a deep breath now that all she has to focus on is you. “Hi, baby girl.” She greets you back, only because she feels rude when she doesn’t, not because your momentary lapse of soft, delicate submission gets you off her list and into good graces. “You’re going to hold it until I say that you can go. You’re going to turn your damn ears on and listen to me like a big girl, or I swear, malysh, your ass will be over my knee the second we get home tonight. Little girls that listen to their Daddy’s get treated nicely, do I need to remind you that girls who act like brats get treated as such?” 

Truthfully, you wouldn’t really mind being reminded all that much of where misbehaving gets you, but there’s a difference in her punishments when she’s aiming to torment and get even, and just correcting behaviors that she expects from you regardless. Right now, having your ass turned red doesn’t sound like the most horrible outcome for an entire day, but you know that by the time the plane touches down in Jersey, you’re more than likely not going to want anything more than to fall into the car beside her and listen to the engine burn gas as she presses the pedal into the floor and shreds rubber to get back to Manhattan in record time. You know that unless you safeword, nothing will get you out of a fate she seals verbally, so you choose this moment to reclaim all the self preservation skills she’s pawned off on you for circumstances outside of her control, and nod your head breathlessly as your mind wanders to the ebbing sting dissipating from your left asscheck. “Okay Daddy.” You whisper, eyes glassy, lost somewhere in space that only she can reach out to and grab. She makes no effort to meet you halfway though, her jaw locking once again like you’ve missed something vital. 

“I’ll listen to you and stop being a brat, Daddy.” She settles, grabbing onto your elbow and dragging you toward the end of the line where an elderly man wheels along an army green tote bag that must’ve been from a stint in the Army, but has evidently been turned in a bag of all trades as his wrinkled sausage fingers dig between the midway open zipper to retrieve a charging cord and a chain that you think keeps a house key from slipping to the depth of the carry-on. “Say it.” 

You’ve been told all your life that your lashes are envious, and sometimes you feel like they’re luxuriously long when you layer just the right amount of mascara over them ahead of a night out, but when you’re most aware of their length is in moments like this, when your eyelids bat so dreamily up at Natasha that you can feel the tips of your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones and then your brow bone when you finally regain focus on her stare. “I’ll listen to you and stop being a brat, Daddy.” You whisper, beneath a trance that is purely just her and the easy way she somehow commands your entire body even when you don’t want to lean into it. 

Natasha hums, half-satisfied. She knows you better than you know yourself at this point, and it’s something that she holds onto with so much pride and passion. She’s subdued you now, gotten you twisted up into her spell and pliant beneath her wing like a baby bird, but she knows that you’re coming undone at the very core of your being whether you realize it or not. She’s given you a lot this week. Orgasms, denials, extravagant scenes that really just riled the both of you up more than it helped anything, but there hasn't been the stability you both had created at home without even realizing. You’re going to push her again, because she’s let you get away with far too much this week, and every time she’s really been at her wits ready to snap and remind you of your place, someone has interrupted and yet another thing got swept under the rug — something that never normally happened, but was now just second nature. She needs this just as much as you do, but the difference is she’s in control. Not you. The difference is she knows everything, and all you know is half of what she tells you because your brain can’t process it fast enough to get it all in a cohesive string.

“All you need is for someone to tell you what to do and you get all dumb, huh?” She laughs softly, beneath her breath but not nearly quite enough to avoid the old man ahead of you hearing it. His shoulders square, somewhat defensively, and you think his chin cranes as if he’s assessing the situation from his peripheral, but Natasha shoots him a glare before you can burrow into her chest and sink in shame that does successfully subdue you for the rest of the night, effectively ending any and all attempt at confrontation on his behalf. “That’s all it takes to empty out that little brain? That’s right baby, focus on me. Just on me. Only ever me.”

As it turns out, Natasha couldn’t balance the carry-on, your waist, and the boarding passes while maintaining a steady pace through the gate like everyone else had, but without missing a beat she’d turned her attention on you, told you to ‘stay still’, and scanned both electronic passes with a smug, dominating smile to the desk attendant and a scowl of perfectionism toward you over her shoulder when she let the brisk flushness fall off of her shoulders. She’d never admit that the slight trip up had knocked her confidence a little, and she was beyond grateful that you were in no state of mind to pick up on how her cheeks flushed the slightest shade of pink as she overplayed the interaction in her head.

”What row?” You question, stumbling down the path toward the plane without much intention other than to find your seats and sink into the cheap blue cushions that pad plastic prisons armed with floating devices and breathing masks. Sometimes it's a comforting thought to dwell on the safety features wired into the basic makeup of an airplane, other times it feels like escaping certain death when the plane does touch down in one piece. 

“Nobody fucking told you to start walking again, first of all.” Natasha huffs breath her breath, taking two large steps to catch up with you and relink her arm around your waist as she steels you closer to the center of the platform, mildly concerned about the diseases you’d contract if you tumbled into the thick plastic walls like you’d been looking like you were going to. You’re too dazed to flush at her easy dominance, too strung out to really harp on how simply she’s taking control of even the most mundane elements of your activities. “Second of all, I’ll worry about what row we’re in. All you have to do is stay nice and pretty at my side and keep your hands to yourself.” Her tone tightens at the tail end, her fingers grabbing at your wrist and pulling it in sharply when she catches your fingers sneaking out to run along the wall in her peripheral. 

Your lips downturn at the specific mention of your wandering hands, your eyes flickering down to look at how her fingers still hold your wrist tightly, not willing to let go until its no longer possible to walk side-by-side like this. She guides you through the hallway strongly, like an unwavering anchor in a still sea, but you’re a buoy, constantly bobbing, constantly fighting waves, constantly on the verge of drowning as water engulfs you for seconds that tick by longer and longer until it feels like there isn’t any air left in your lungs and all you can do is act with impulses you don’t think about nearly enough. 

You struggle against her when the plane comes into view, wrestling your hand out of her grip only to tap the side of the plane with a pleased smile and wait patiently for her to do the same and step ahead of you down the single file row where the pilot and three stewardesses great you with wide, seemingly commercial smiles that you wonder if they bought specifically for this position; this lifestyle. One of them eyes Natasha up a little too long, sweeping her gaze across your girlfriend's tousled and beach waved hair that falls over her shoulders and covers the strings of her grey hoodie that have been bitten to shreds by you over the course of your relationship. You don’t know why she won’t just throw it away and get a new one, and she doesn’t know why you continue to ask her questions she thinks the answers are silly to.

Natasha huffs softly in response to the blatant staring by the flight attendant. She doesn’t take much consideration for it, rather shuffling ahead of you to keep moving down the row with effectiveness that hopefully contributes to the plane pulling off the runway at the right time, despite all of the chaos you’d already ensued. She reaches back for your hand, and softly, you allow your fingers to lace for the first time that day as she drags you past first class into business, only smiling down at somebody when they do it first, and only ever making eye contact when she has no choice; when her hand is forced. It’s not a far walk to your seats, but every row from the front of the plane to Aisle G is speckled with people that had managed to arrive on time, and glare up at you with dead expressions as if your sole entrance onto the plane was the reason they hadn’t blasted off into the sky yet. 

“Window seat.” She ducks her head down, cranes her body into yours just enough for her chest to brush your shoulder, pert nipples concealed by thick fabric suddenly hard and pebbled against your already buzzing skin, overstimulated from sensations and sounds you can’t avoid at all. Her words are stone, they cut through you with effectiveness that has your knees crumbling. You’re more than thankful nobody’s claimed the aisle seat yet, leaving you no body to awkwardly stumble over top of. Your knees are not steady enough to survive that kind of close quarter gymnastics, and generally you’re just not quite sure Natasha’s even bendy enough to succeed at all. It’s still cramped, nonetheless, and your cheeks are puffed in annoyance once again by the time you plop down into the seat and cross your arms over your chest, fingertips digging into the skin of your biceps. ”Buckle.” Natasha adds next, still in the aisle, preparing to place the carry-on in the overhead bin once the man to her immediate left gets his in securely. 

The gentle prompting like you’re nothing more than a child on this trip with her has your cheeks flushing pink visibly now, no longer able to hide the humiliation and warmth that wraps around your spin tightly, unwilling to let go. She hadn’t treated you like this when you’d first begun your vacation, there weren't directions, or controlled behaviors to adhere to. You’ve been tired since you woke up the first time, exhausted from the very inside of your body and overstimulated simply by the continuous lack of familiarity. It’s not your fault. Natasha’s built security into your routines so perfectly. She’s broken you down and fit you right into the palm of her hand so elaborately over the years that you need it now just to regulate your emotions, even when you don’t realize what it is you’re actually craving in the moment; without her guidance to get to the root of it all, it’s her that’s the answer. 

A soft whine falls off your lips when you clasp the buckle together over your belly, the metal jaws pressing just right against your abdomen to remind you of your full bladder. Her words wash over you again, ‘You’re going to hold it until I say that you can go’. She has complete control over you. You gave it to her years ago. Your cunt clenched around nothing, desperation filling your bones with something petulant and pitiful as your panties dampen with an onslaught of arousal that drips out of you tantalizingly. 

“What’s the matter, malen’kaya shlyushka (little slut)?” If Natasha caught the whine from the aisle, you don’t want to consider who else had heard it. You sink further down into your seat, fingers working frantically to loosen the buckle and alíviate some of the pressure that both torments you and excites you. If anyone knows Russian within a three row span, there’s a definitive certainty that both heard and understood Natasha clear as day. Another whine falls off of your lips, this time genuinely saddened and submissive as your fingers still on the metal jaws of the buckle and instead seek comfort in the dainty chain around your neck, a single pendant handing just above the swell of your breasts, but quickly finds a place between your lips as your allow paralysis to captivate you beneath her strong stare for a handful of seconds. 

Natasha easily takes up the entirety of the middle seat, and without much of a fight you let her take the armrest that separates the two of you, leaning most of her weight onto it as she crams her body into the limited space that's left once she gets the backpack beneath the chair ahead of her feet. The buckle is still uncomfortable around your belly, and it’s made worse when she huffs in false concern and reaches down to tighten it more, until you’re squirming and your tongue presses into the harsh edge of the pendant between your lips to distract from the desperate need to pee. 

“No, thank you.” You whine, attempting to win some kind of sympathy from her as you bat her fingers away from the buckle when they attempt to wiggle between your skin and the slowly warming metal, evidently intent to push you to the very edge before the wheels even retract. 

“Can you hold it?” Natasha asks, only taking her hand away from your waist to fasten her own seatbelt and readjust the way her toes were twisted beneath the bulky backpack. 

“I don’t want to hold it.” You whine, soft and petulantly as you lean further into the window, seeking out the chilled cold of hard textured plastic against an inch of exposed skin. The material of the seat is cold against the backs of your thighs, and no matter how you shift nothing warms it up any faster. 

Natasha scoffs, her eyes blazing with frustration as she works a piece of gum between her tense jaw. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to hold it. I asked if you could. This is not the place to prove how messy I can make you, moya lyubov.” At this point, you’re certain that everyone on the plane is clued into the conversation happening between you, but when a middle aged woman sits down in the aisle seat, smiling pleasantly, entirely oblivious, something inside you snaps like a twig on an overpopulated path, trampled over and forgotten about as you dive into Natasha’s shoulder, aiming to hide every inch of yourself in her warmth. 

A hand, her hand, tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, just intimate enough to look passionate, comforting, to the people behind you, but her knuckles lock in a way that’s anything but soothing. Your sharp intake of air is muffled by the fabric of her hoodie before the leverage of her fingers pulling at your scalp creates enough distance for her to lower her face to yours, her forehead resting against yours, her eyes looking into yours, only focusing on the swirl of colors she’s been trying to memorize for years. “You don’t get to hide after being a brat.” She seethes, beyond annoyed that you thought she’d allow you to find solitude in her body when you hadn’t listened to a single thing she’d asked of you all morning. “Can you hold it, or are you going to have an accident like a little baby? My little baby.” 

She knows what she’s doing, but you don’t have the sense to fight the alluring comfort of her complete dominance. “I can hold it.” You whisper, finally finding your voice, still staring deep into her eyes trying to block out everything else around you. 

“Mmm. Good.” She hums, and it’s so close to what you want to hear, but it fails to miss the mark at the last second, and your heart sinks at the prolonged absence of praise that follows your path through the day. She’s usually overly affectionate, not always with her actions, but usually with her words. Even after all these years, you forget how easily she’s willing to take praise from you just to lay the foundation of her expectations. “Let me know if that changes.” 

You frown when she pulls away, suddenly cold without her heavy touch on your skin. A year ago, when she’d first booked this trip out to California to visit with Yelena at her fashion university, you’d concocted all kinds of scenarios that could unfold between the East coast and the West. You’d fucked Natasha a lot of places, but never an airplane, and it enrages you to know that she’s shared the experience with somebody else. What pisses you off even more is that there’s a strap on beneath the loose fabric of her sweatpants, you know because you watched her settle the harness of her hips in the bathroom before you left the hotel, and not once has she allowed you to feel it, touch it, kiss it, take it. You made this bed, but you don’t want to lay in it. 

You can’t listen to the flight attendant when she comes to the center of the row and begins to go over the exit strategies and safety protocols at length. Your head is fuzzy, filled with static blackness that you can’t really see through at all, but distinct shadows are still recognizable when you focus hard enough on them. At one point, your hand dropped into Natasha’s lap during the speil, entirely unconscious and innocent, born from only a desire to feel her comfort for its purest affection, but she removed it with a pointed huff seconds later, before you could even begin to venture toward her core, or the thigh where you can just hardly see the tip bulging against the material. 

You sat like that for three hours. With your hands in your lap, your face pressed up against the side of the plane as your eyes traced the clouds and ebbing sunlight that vanished slowly as the afternoon carried on. At one point, the flight attendant had come by with snacks. Biscoff cookies in a neat little red wrapper, and soda that fizzled in the clear plastic cup and taunted you without even taking a sip. 

Eventually, it got to a point where you couldn’t sit still. Your foot had been tapping against the floor for ten minutes before even that wasn’t enough to take your mind off of the need pooling in your belly or the desperation to pee slowly driving you crazy and turning your veins to electrified live wires that fizzle with energy you can’t escape. The cookie had crumbled on your fingertips, and as you sweep your thumb over your pointer finger for the third time, still feeling the coarse granules on your skin, you can’t take it anymore. Something has to give before you explode. 

“Where are you going?” Natasha strains to question you quietly when your fingers pry apart the buckle still tightly around your waist, despite the fact that hers had been unclasped and dangling over the edge of the seat since the seatbelt light had flickered dim after takeoff. Her fingers hook around your wrist, keeping you pinned to the seat as she leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Daddy’s slut gonna have an accident? Or did she just forget that she’s lost the privilege to choose when she goes potty?” 

Every ounce of peace that you’d found since she’d scolded you in the terminal dissipates in an instant, tension bubbling beneath your skin as you rip your wrist away from her touch and glare back at her sharply. “I need to wash my fucking hands.” You seethe, quiet enough for only her to hear, but loud enough, unfortunately, for her to hear. 

Natasha’s jaw clicks, and you know that if you were anywhere else, your ass would be fire hydrant red without care for whoever was around to witness the scene. She grinds her teeth together, fingers curling into the arm rest as she nods. “Still not done, huh?” 

You’re smart enough not to respond, but not smart enough to stay seated or ask her nicely to relieve your bladder. That’s what she’s waiting for. For you to ask nicely. She’d like an apology too, maybe even some begging, but all she’s really holding out for is a white flag being waved from the shorelines. “Excuse me.” You whisper sweetly to the woman beside Natasha, half hovering over your girlfriend as you wiggle out of the row. She smiles kindly, though tiredly, and moves her legs out of the way for you to pass by. 

The toe of Natasha’s shoe taps your ankle. A final warning to think about your actions that you allow to roll right off your shoulders. The afternoon is slowly passing you by, and it's not late, but the clouds are thick, and even though most windows between row G and the bathroom are open, there’s a particular darkness that seeps in. 

You hadn’t been too unbearably cold. The seat beneath your thighs never warmed up, and without Natasha you felt chilly from the inside out, but once you stepped into the bathroom goosebumps prickled your skin thickly. Everything around you felt off, slightly dystopian even. The rounded edges on all of the appliances, the greyscale aesthetic of the room, the constant whirling of engines and wind. You were floating. Lost in the endless stimulation that isn’t even the stimulation you need. 

You do wash your hands. Twice because the first time didn’t feel sufficient enough after a full morning touching just about anything and everything a few million people had also touched as well. You didn’t pee, even though just looking down at the toilet had your thighs pressing together and a sweat breaking out across your forehead as you tried to focus on the original task at hand; the thing you’d been planning and mulling over for twelve months before Natasha had gone and messed up every plan you had simply by being herself in a way you’d failed to predict at the time. 

Your panties are damp, and admittedly not your most attractive pair, but Natasha loves how easily your arousal shows against the baby blue material, so you’d packed them anyway. They slip down your thighs easily, crumbling onto the floor for only a second before you step out entirely and pick them up between slightly damp fingers, droplets of persistent water still falling from your knuckles every couple seconds if you’re still for long enough. 

Your shorts are baggy enough to conceal the bulge of delicate cotton fabric when you shove it into your pocket in a ball, but you still take a moment to fix your appearance in the mirror as best you can. You flatten out the sleeves of your crewneck, pull your shorts up just the slightest bit higher in an attempt to wipe away the trail of glimmering wetness on your inner thigh. 

It could’ve been two minutes, or it could’ve been ten. Time hasn’t felt like anything substantial since you climbed into the Uber with half open eyes and a deep pout, but it’s especially twisted now as all sense of light is blocked out; not a single window in the bathroom offering additional light. 

It couldn’t have been too long. Nobody glanced up at you in concern or knowing pity like they’d concluded the worst from your escape, and Natasha didn’t seem to appear all that untrustworthy in your actions either, nodding in satisfaction as you stumbled down the aisle like she could tell you’d listened to her. She probably could tell. Without the baby blue panties doing its best to conceal moisture, every brush of your thighs as you take a step jolts through your core, and it prickles the sensation of desperation already all consuming within you. 

You scoot past the woman again. This time she looks half asleep, her head tilted toward the right as she uses her shoulder as leverage. She doesn’t seem to mind your passing, or shuffling her feet when it becomes evident somehow there’s even less room to pass then their was the first time, but your belly still burns with anxiety that’s multiplied by the sinking floaty feeling in your head Natasha just won’t seem to help you with. It’s entirely lost on you that she’s waiting for an apology. That at the very least, she’d be willing to be your anchor if you just said you were sorry. 

You can’t fight the magnetic attraction to her body when you sink down into the seat again. Your head falls onto her shoulder, your hand into her lap while one remains in yours. For the first time, Natasha doesn’t fight it, but she makes no effort to loop her arm around you and pull you closer. 

It’s ten minutes of silence and your body seeking warmth before the woman in the aisle seat lulls off, her wrinkly arms crossed over her shoulder somehow uncomfortably, but she’s managing just fine as lips part just an inch with a deep breath. It’s in that moment that the panties in your pocket feel like they’re burning a hole through the thick material, and you fish them out with emboldened fingertips that drop them into her lap brazenly — for anyone to see if they’re paying enough attention. 

The baby blue color has lost its softness as arousal dampened the material, and as Natasha glances down, assesses what’s in her lap and subsequently what’s not on you, her jaw clenches so tightly you fear it may just break or lock like that indefinitely. 

“Do you fucking understand that you are playing with fire right now? Fire, baby girl.” She asks, her voice low, threatening. Your eyes are an endless galaxy as they float around her face, down her neck, her torso, until they reach the waistband of her sweatpants. You can’t help it. You’re not listening to her and she knows it. She’s accepted that you’re so far gone into your head you don’t even know how to get yourself out of trouble, but when your hand grabs onto the strap and gives it a testing jerk until the harness rocks into her clit and shoots pleasure through her spine that’s been electrified since last night, she can’t keep her own impulses under control anymore. 

“Daddy.” There’s a whine in your voice, an undercurrent of need that cannot be quenched with warnings or petty humiliation that barely strikes your skin. Your eyes hold a million uncharted constellations, sparkling and glimmering just out of reach as Natasha removes your hand from her lap and drops it back into yours. 

She thinks you’re pacified for a moment, competent enough to recognize the clear threat of following her unspoken directions right now, but when she reaches to pocket the panties, because begging discovered like this is not how she wants to spend her day, you lean in close again, insatiable and needy as you coil clammy knuckles into her hair and attach your lips to her neck, flicking your tongue against the textured skin slightly salty from the Burbank air. Natasha stumbles for a moment. Her eyes close. 

“What the fucks gotten into you?” She seethes, coming to her senses when your kiss becomes a bruising suck, tight pressure shocking her system enough to have every dominating impulse fighting for a chance to break free all at once. “Daddy lets petty shit slide for a week and now you don’t know how to behave at all? Was the freedom too much for you, baby? Is it all Daddy’s fault that her little girl is acting like a slutty little brat right now?” 

The tables without warning turning startled you completely, combined with the way she moves to grip your left thigh, prying it away from your right until her fingers find a place between the apex of your thighs, teasing the existing trail of wetness that slickens skin, teasing your lips that she pulls apart with two fingertips, allowing your pebbled, aching, needy clit to pulse unprotected along the seam line of the sweatshorts. 

“Couldn’t even behave like a good girl, so now Daddy has to punish you right here.” Natasha scoffs, and without warning a single digit claims your entrance, making room for its existence with or without permission. Your walls, already sensitive, already clenched so impossibly tightly to distract from the sharp sensation of fullness in your bladder that has your toes curling past the border of pain and pleasure. “Who’s in charge here, malysh?”

Her fingers, thick, skilled, typically impossibly quick moving within your walls, remain still as she levels her eyes with yours, entirely unmoving, unblinking, waiting for your response. When you don’t answer fast enough, trying oh so hard to clear your mind enough to find an answer, not a plea, on your tongue, Natasha gets impatient. You’ve been beneath her skin all day. But you’ve also been beneath her skin on and off all week. She’s been as patient as she can be with you, but you’ve pushed her too far, she doesn’t care to be nice anymore. 

“Who. Is. In. Charge?” She reiterates, and each pointed word is matched with her finger curling so perfectly against your g-spot, working against you in a way she knows is cruel because it’s everything you can’t stop your body from reacting to. She thinks you’ve forgotten just how well she knows your body and how to use it against you when it counts. 

“You, D-Daddy.” Your breath shakes, soft and wobbly as your glassy eyes begin to blink up at her, closing for a moment before they reopen even more dazed than the last time. Natasha hums, satisfied but not impressed, and slips another finger into your entrance. It fits beside the first snugly, almost too snugly for you to handle, but she makes you take it with a hand on your belly that hips your hips down on the seat and your belly filled with thick, heavy pressure that glitters like a firework in your vision. 

When her thumb falls over top of your clit, her fingers fucked so deeply into your core that the heel of her palm cups you tightly, and her thumb slips beneath skin to rub tight, fast circles along the your most sensitive part right now. Her fingers don’t slow down in your core, and it’s not enough to satisfy the wild sensations beneath your fingertips, but it’s enough to have your eyes rolling into the back of your head with intense pleasure you can’t delay, or withhold, or even begin to know how to control without her help. 

“You’re getting so tight around my fingers, baby girl. You’re not close yet, are you? But, I haven’t even really touched you yet. Haven’t even let you sit your pretty pussy on my strap and be all nice and full and warm for a while. But, if you’re close, and you can’t hold it, I guess we can be all done now. My love, doesn’t even need to be fucked anyway, right? She’s not my good girl, right now. She’s bratty, and whiny, and really getting on Daddy’s last nerve, and she just doesn’t seem to get that. It’s hard for her, I know. I know it is. That little brain has had to focus on so so much this week. But, Daddy’s been telling you to let go. To trust her. So do that for me, angel. Let go for, Daddy. Let’s be all done.” Natasha’s fingers and thumb don’t relent, and it quickly becomes impossible to do anything other than follow her directions even when you don’t want to. You don’t want to be all done. You don’t want to be a brat anymore. You don’t want it. It’s taken you this long to be affected by her pointed avoidance of calling you her good girl, but now that it’s scorned your skin, implanted itself in your memory, it’s all that consumes you and your belly fills with stones that sink quick and heavy to your feet. 

“Oh, are you going to cum? Gonna cum around my fingers like a little slut that just couldn’t wait until we even got to the car? Daddy’s fucked you in the car, sweet girl. You know how good it is. But you just couldn’t wait, huh? That needy pussy’s been trying to get you in trouble all morning and it finally broke you. That’s okay, baby. It’s not your job to worry about that cunt. Daddy knows what she needs. I know what you need.” Your brain turned off a long while ago and Natasha can tell, but she doesn’t comment on it, because you need this. You’ve been fighting this headspace all week and she doesn’t know why. Even in your isolated moments of protected peace in a lavish little hotel room that doesn’t even come close to the comfort of your Manhattan apartment, you hadn’t let her really be Daddy. You both need this. 

When your eyes squeeze shut, head thrown back against the headrest. Your lips are closed tightly, a habit Natasha’s spent years breaking but appreciates quite heavily in situations like this, when you’re already barely concealed due to sunlight slipping in from the clouds over top of the east coast, and anyone who really wants to know what’s happening can easily figure it out. Your walls flutter around her knuckles, pulling her in, trying to keep her there. She’s stronger, and her fingers leave your cunt before the end of the orgasm call even call over you, and your hips attempt to search for pleasure she’s taken away, but fall short when her hands keep you still, her eyes a blazing warning. 

When your eyes open, a single tear falls down your cheek, almost cinematic as it drips down your chin and splashes onto Natasha’s hands on your hips. “P-Please.” You whisper, voice shaky, desperate. Natasha’s missed this too much to ruin it, so she shakes her head, wipes her fingers on your shorts with disinterest, and pulls you into her chest because she knows that at the very least you need something grounding before you spiral even more than you already have when you’d thought she wasn’t paying attention. 

“Did you really think I was going to let you cum, moya lyubov?” Natasha frowns, dropping her forehead against yours as she leans down to kiss your lips softly, just enough to ease some of the worry in your belly. “Ten minutes, and then you’re going to go pee before we land. Got it?” 

“Mhmm. Got it, Daddy.” You whine, voice soft, sleepy. Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tell you there’s only half an hour left of the flight, or that your night is a long ways from over once you get home, but she lets you bask in the comfort right now, trying to worm your way back into her good graces to acquire a good girl at the very least. 

“Thank you, baby girl. Those listening ears on and working now?” She checks to assure, even though she knows you’ll listen to anything she tells you to do right now so long as she accepts that you’re going to whine about it first without intention to really say no at all. You nod against her chest, eyes closed, fingers with fistfuls of her hoodie between them. “That’s what I thought.” She hums, and you don’t even have the energy to roll your eyes or huff at her smugness, content to just exist against her chest for a while.

[swaqcenix]

if anyone can share and/or donate, i would really appreciate it 🙏🏻 she’s really important to me and anything helps. thank you <3

[swaqcenix]

The view from up here | N.R.

Summary: after a sleepless night haunted by nightmares, you find comfort in Natasha. It turns into a late-night motorcycle ride, and a quiet moment that finally turns into something more.

Content warning: mention of nightmares, Insomnia, comfort, fluff, mutual pining, (Nat on a motorcycle!)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 2k

a.n. To everyone who deals with sleeplessness and self doubt late at night <3

You were sitting on the balcony of the quiet Avengers compound, knees pulled against your chest. It was the middle of the night. The smoke from your cigarette filled your lungs, trying to soothe the lingering weight of the nightmare still stuck in your chest.

You were still a new Avenger—barely a year in—but it didn’t feel like enough time to handle the pressure that came with the job. The nightmares weren’t always the same. Sometimes they were flashbacks from failed missions. Other times, they reflected your worst fears. They changed shape, but the feeling they left behind never did. That emptiness always stayed. And every time it happened, you found yourself here.

You were caught in a spiral of racing thoughts, fidgeting with your favorite knife, when you heard the balcony door creak open. You turned your head and saw her.

Natasha.

She stepped outside slowly, like she already knew you’d be here. She looked like she hadn’t slept either. Her green eyes were sharp, awake, and fixed on you. It didn’t surprise you. Since you joined the Avengers, the two of you had shared a lot of sleepless nights. Sometimes on the rooftop, other times curled up in the living room in comfortable silence.

Natasha was the one you trusted the most. There was something between you two—something neither of you talked about. A quiet understanding that lingered beneath the teasing, the sarcasm, the shared looks that lasted a little too long. God, the looks. The ones that made your chest tighten and your breath catch before either of you looked away like nothing had happened. Whatever it was, it had always been there. You’d never said it out loud. Never dared to name the feeling. But it was always there.

“Well,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “looks like I’m not the only one losing a fight with insomnia tonight.”

You gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t expect company.”

“I could say the same,” she replied, walking over and settling beside you on the couch. “This spot’s supposed to be mine, you know.”

“Oh, sorry,” you said, flicking ash from your cigarette. “Didn’t see your name engraved on it.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “I’m slipping. Normally I’m more territorial.”

You nudged her gently with your shoulder. “We can share. I promise not to take up the whole brooding corner.”

Natasha’s lips curled into a small smirk. You felt her gaze on you while you stared up into the night sky. “Rough night?” she asked, a slight hint of concern in her voice.

You shrugged. “Nightmares. Thought the balcony might help.”

Natasha didn’t say anything right away. She just nodded, like she understood what that meant.

“They’re not just nightmares,” you murmured. “It’s everything. The pressure. The expectations. Feeling like if I mess up once, someone could die.”

Natasha leaned beside you, silent.

“Some nights, it’s flashbacks. Others, it’s just… voices in my head. Doubts. Fear. Like I’m waiting for someone to figure out I don’t belong here. I keep wondering if it ever stops.”

Natasha’s voice was quiet, almost lost in the breeze.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, and I still have those nights. But you learn to keep moving. And you learn who you can lean on when it’s too much.”

You looked over at her, the corner of your mouth twitching in a faint, almost-sad smile. “I’m not good at leaning on people.”

“I know,” Natasha said simply, like it wasn’t a judgment—just a fact. “Neither am I.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment. It wasn’t heavy. Just honest.

“But I’m trying,” you said softly.

Her eyes met yours. “And that’s enough.”

You felt her hand reach out to rest on your shoulder. Silent reassurance. Natasha was never good at doing that, but she was trying. You were more important to her than she would ever admit. You glanced at her, your expression softening.

A moment of silence passed.

“Come on.” She stood up. “Let’s go.”

You blinked, confused. “Going where?”

Natasha smirked a bit. “Clearing our minds. You ever sat on a motorcycle?”

“Uhh… no, never.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“What can I say? I had un-cool teenage years.”

Natasha let out a quiet laugh. “Well, lucky for you, you’re hanging out with a professional bad influence.”

————————————————————————

You followed her through the quiet compound, the only sounds your footsteps echoing softly in the halls. Everything felt still—like the whole world had gone to sleep, except for the two of you.

When you reached the garage, the lights flickered on automatically. Rows of sleek vehicles sat in perfect formation, but your eyes were drawn straight to the black motorcycle parked near the far wall—a sleek, black Harley-Davidson LiveWire.

Natasha walked over to it, grabbed a second helmet hanging from a hook, and turned to you, holding it out.

You hesitated for just a second before taking it. “You sure about this?”

She smiled teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “You fight Hydra agents and fly Quinjets, but you’re scared of a bike?”

You took the helmet from her with a mock glare.

“I like my adrenaline rushes with a seatbelt, thanks.”

Natasha chuckled, clearly enjoying this.

“Relax. I don’t go that fast with passengers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh good. So just mildly reckless.”

She smiled as she slung a leg over the bike. “You’ll be fine.”

You both pulled on your helmets—your hands slightly shaky—and climbed on behind her. You weren’t entirely sure where to put your hands.

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. “I’d suggest arms around me, unless you want to fall off.”

You gave a nervous laugh and wrapped your arms around her waist, more hesitant than you wanted to admit.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, loud in the quiet of the garage. You felt the vibration in your chest—a strange mix of nerves and something… freeing.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Not even a little.”

Natasha grinned. “Good. That’s the fun part.”

And with that, she rolled out of the garage into the night. She took a sharp turn into the busy streets of NYC and you held even tighter onto her waist. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and it wasn’t only because of the adrenaline.

���You good over there?” Natasha called out in a teasing voice, well aware of the physical closeness. “You’re holding on like I’m about to launch us off a cliff.”

“Can you blame me? I’ve seen how you drive…”

Natasha let out a low chuckle in response.

The engine roared beneath you as Natasha took the next turn. You held on tight at first, shoulders tense. The speed, the wind, the unfamiliar weight of the helmet—it all felt just a little out of control.

But Natasha didn’t rush. She rode steady, her movements almost calming. She stopped at a red traffic light and took a brief glance behind her.

“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be.”

You answered half-joking, half-serious:

“Trying not to scream.”

“What a shame. You’ve got a nice voice.”

The unexpected comment made the tension crackle, and you chuckled, shaking your head slightly.

“Oh, shush.”

Natasha joined your laughter and placed one hand briefly on top of yours—a silent gesture of comfort. You were glad the helmet was covering the blush on your face. The traffic light turned green, and her hand left yours as she kept driving. Little by little, your body relaxed. You let your cheek rest against her back, the warmth of her steady and real beneath your hands. The noise in your head dulled. No fear. No pressure. Just the road and the fresh air. Just her.

The road curved gently upward as Natasha guided the bike up the hillside. The city lights behind you faded into soft glows, replaced by trees and open sky. You held on tight, but this time it wasn’t from nerves—it was just part of the ride now.

“You’re taking me somewhere to kill me, aren’t you?” you called over the wind, half-laughing against her shoulder.

Natasha laughed back, her voice sharp with amusement. “No promises. Depends how annoying you get.”

“Oh wow. That’s comforting.”

“Hey,” she called, leaning slightly into the next curve, “I could’ve ditched you back at that red light. You should feel flattered.”

“Oh, I do. Nothing says trust like handing my life over to someone with a known history of morally questionable decisions.”

She barked out a laugh, louder this time. “Keep talking like that and I’ll hit the gas.”

“You would,” you shouted, laughing—the wind catching your voice.

The last few minutes of the drive were filled with laughter, and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

The road straightened out and the city came back into view—tiny and far below. The motorcycle rolled to a stop at the top of the hill. Natasha cut the engine and removed her helmet with ease, shaking out her hair as she exhaled.

You followed suit, your heart still racing—not from fear anymore, but from something warmer. Lighter.

“That was…” you started, “both terrifying and amazing.”

Natasha smirked. “You didn’t scream once. I’m proud.” She held her hand out for you, helping you hop off the bike.

“Only because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.” You smiled smugly, holding her hand a bit longer than necessary.

She chuckled and set her helmet on the seat. “Please. You were clinging to me like I was about to drive us off a cliff.”

“Hey, I was just saving my life. You took very… sharp curves.”

Natasha laughed softly—a sound you didn’t hear often. But it was real. She stepped forward to stand beside you, gazing out at the view. Her shoulder brushed yours, and neither of you moved away from the contact.

“Seriously though,” you said more quietly, “thank you. I needed… this.”

She looked over at you, her smile softened. “You don’t have to crash alone when things get heavy. I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one—just thick with something unspoken.

Natasha’s voice dropped a little. “You’re different when you laugh. Lighter.”

You tilted your head toward her, eyes meeting. “So are you.”

Another pause.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe both of you did, just a breath apart. But suddenly she was closer, her hand ghosting along your jaw, and her eyes searched yours—checking, waiting.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent or dramatic. It was soft. Careful. Like a question. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment to exist.

You kissed her back.

When you finally pulled away, you both lingered close, her forehead brushing against yours, your breaths still caught between you.

“Well,” you whispered, heart pounding, “that was… unexpected.”

Natasha smiled, just a little. “Not really.”

———————————————————————

Time slipped by after the kiss, but neither of you seemed to be in a rush. You and Natasha sat on an old bench near the edge of the hill. You spent every minute talking and enjoying each other’s presence—so far away from everything—that you didn’t even notice the sun starting to rise. Your head rested on her lap, your gaze fixed on her: the strong line of her jaw, the way her lips curled slightly like she was still thinking about the kiss too.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, not looking away from the skyline.

You smirked. “Glad you’re noticing it now—after one year of me constantly staring,” you teased.

“You did? God… how did I miss that?” she asked, amused, realizing what had been right in front of her the whole time. “But I was just as hopeless.”

“Guess we’re both idiots, huh?”

She let out a low huff of laughter, moving her hand to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. A thought crossed Natasha’s mind—one she wasn’t sure she should say out loud. Her voice was quieter now, a little vulnerable.

“I think I was too scared to admit how much I like you. I—” Her voice faltered for a moment. “I’m not good at this. Feelings and stuff.”

You looked at her with softened eyes, full of understanding. “I know. Me neither.” You took her hand in yours, fingers intertwining naturally.

“Are you still scared?”

She shook her head, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Terrified. But it turns out, I like terrified—with you.”

You laughed softly. “One terrifying step at a time,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss her again.

And from now on, you knew you wouldn’t hold back anymore.

[swaqcenix]

SINFULLY

summary — it’s been a tantalizing exchange of passion and tension for seven days. they’ve pushed you to the edge, forced you to the cliffs peak, but in a moment of weakness, you become the problem in need of solving, and it only spirals from there

warning(s) — porn with plot, established relationships, threesome, dom/sub, bdsm elements, age gap relationships, professor maximoff, personal trainer natasha, beefy!natasha, innocent!reader, brat taming, choking, pussy inspection, punishment, daddy kink, professor kink, faux pity, manhandling, pussy spanking (w/ rings), spanking, edging, verbal humiliation, light anal play, plugs, ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionism, threats of bondage, vibrators, dildo, mean dom wanda, crying, begging, dirty talk, name calling, praise kink, subdrop, anxiety, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — i definitely missed some tags but i think you get the hint that this is absolute filth regardless of if i mention anything else. enjoy ;)

“Sorry.” You apologized when your phone pinged with a message from your girlfriend. The one with fiery red hair that encapsulates the effects of her unrelenting passion; not the one with blonde hair that falls around her shoulders in a choppy cut she did herself two weeks ago. Your eyes glance down at the screen, not needing to guess what Wanda had found to warrant texting you so randomly in the middle of the afternoon.

You’d been waging an internal bid since that morning, when you’d enveloped her waist in a tight possessive claim and rested your head on her shoulder beneath her craned head so sweetly she didn’t notice your hand dipping into her pocket and discarding the yellow panties she’s picked out for you that morning, wondering if she’d notice then, or in the car, or in the middle of a lecture with students around to watch her flush and darken with lust. Natasha hadn’t noticed then either, and she’d been standing at the front door, already halfway outside with a thermos of coffee and a yoga mat under her bulging bicep as she waited. She dropped Wanda off at campus on Fridays. You should know. The first time you’d established that the cute girl you were seeing at the gym was your college professor's girlfriend, was on the street corner at 7th and Park on your way to a Spanish lecture. Natasha had all the windows down, but the roof still protected her sports car from seasonal rain, and her hair had been red at the time, peeking out through the windows as the wind blew. She was wild, reckless. Wanda was never that. Wanda had sat in the passenger side of the car with her hair pulled back in a bun. You’d known it was her because her side profile is haunting, encapsulating, delicious. You see her on campus, from down the hall, around the corner, across the parking lots. It’s not a big school, not by any metrics, but its big enough to never have her classes. It’s big enough for you to have swallowed the guilt of fucking a professor to allow you to boldness to leave your panties in her pocket before a lecture.

“Are you okay?” Kate frowns, glancing at you from across the table. You're in the library, a free period granted by your American History professor who actually has a brain on his shoulders and recognizes that sometimes students just need structured time to get their assignments done, or at least started. Your paper is filled with notes scribbled in purple ink, and the document you have opened on your laptop is highlighted with that dusty pink color that’s third from the bottom on the color gradient in Google Docs. Even with the lack of panties between your legs, the wetness you can’t deny dripping onto your denim shorts that feel like a nightmare against your sensitive clit when you twinge just slightly in your seat, you’ve been productive enough to make Wanda proud if she asks how you day at school went. ”You’ve been kind of quiet today.” Kate frowns, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to find an answer beneath the surface of your features. It’s not something that she can directly name. You’ve laughed at all of her jokes, smiled and teased her all like normal, but there's something that hangs over you that she knows isn’t right. “Oh god, is Wanda sexting you?”

Your face flushes. You’re suddenly aware that you’re not empty, not entirely at least. Your core clenches, slick walls pleading for friction, but your ass is full. It clamps down hard on the flared base of a silicone plug Natasha worked into your ass before she’d peeled herself out of bed to take a shower. It’s not one of the bigger ones, not one of the red princess plugs that came in a set of five that Wanda seldomly pulls out for intense scenes you’ve already discussed at length. It’s small, insignificant enough to be worn daily without much interference. It’s more a reminder of control than an interference, but right now it sparks every nerve in your belly and reminds you that you’ve been wanting for days. Four days.

Four days ago, on Monday, Natasha had pinned you up against the wall and touched you for the last time. She’d dipped her fingers beneath your denim shorts because it had been warm enough to bare your legs for her to ogle, and she’d worked you up on her fingers until arousal was dripping down her knuckles. She’d pulled away before you could cum. That was the third time she’d done that. The edging started Saturday night. For no reason. Wanda had come home from a pilates class at Natasha’s gym, which ironically was never run by Natasha but instead of best employee Pepper, who is actually named Virginia, and had taken you on the couch without even consulting Natasha who’d watched from the door frame with yearning eyes. She said nothing when she fucked your cunt with her tongue, her nose inhaling your scent as it bounced against your clit clumsily, and then she’d stopped and walked away like nothing happened, going into the kitchen to finish up dinner that Natash had thoughtfully already started. It hasn't ended since. It happens like this sometimes. It’s days of edging and denial until eventually Wanda explodes, but it’s never been like this before. It’s never reached the seventh day and still nobody’s let you cum. It’s thrilling. You think. Kate’s question catches you off guard. You’re emboldened by their experience, you allow them to corrupt you however they want, but in the absence of their dominating presence, you're just the innocent girl they plucked up off the streets.

“No!” You snatch your phone off the table like if it sits there any longer, Kate might develop a sixth sense for deception and absorb all the contents of your text chain with Wanda. You’d die if that happened. You have a hard enough time telling them what you want in explicit enough details to satisfy their vulgar desires, you wouldn’t be able to look at the Kate the same if she knew what the text said.

You decided to be a whore today, huh?

It’s simple but chilling. Eight words have unraveled you entirely, but you still have twenty minutes before you can sneak away to your car and drive back to Natasha’s house. It’s not their house, despite having been together for six years. Natasha had told the story as such — one day Wanda came over to spend the night and she never went home, the end. Legend has it, the redhead has a highrise apartment somewhere upstate, but she’s never ventured there with you in tow, and you’ve never seen a picture to prove it either. It’s basically your house now too though. Like Wanda, one day you’d gone over to spend the night, and then you’d never returned back to your dorm where Kate basks in the glory of single living. You think she’s pushed your beds together at this point and made a Queen for herself out of the two Twin XL’s, but you haven’t been back to check on the state of your belongings to know.

“She’s just telling me that Natasha wants meatballs for dinner, so she’ll send me money to get something on the way home.” You shrug, and it feels bad to lie, it makes your belly burn with guilt you don’t typically feel so intensely, but with your period four days off from ruining your entire month, you don’t dwell on the intensity of tears thrusting to prick your eyes and you deceive Kate for no reason. There’s no reason to lie, but you find yourself doing it anyway. There was no reason to leave your panties in Wanda’s pocket and risk her job, but you did it anyway. You’re impulsive without them guidinging you. It’s been months since you’ve been distanced enough to remember that.

“I wish Yelena would sugar mommy me.” Kate sulks, and you make a face as if to say they’re not even together, but Kate pointedly avoids glancing into your eyes to find the unspoken taunt. “Who sugar mommy’s you more? Natasha or Wanda?” She questions, and amusement fills your cheeks with hot air as you close your laptop and throw your highlighters and pens back into your pencil case, aiming to start wrapping this conversation up so that you can get home once your phone pings with the end of the allotted essay period.

“Well, Natasha owns her own business and Wanda’s a teacher so…” You break down the logistics of their finances, because it feels imperative that you remind Kate that regardless of anything else, Natasha still trumps both you and Wanda with inconce rates. Kate should know that though, she’s been obsessed with Natasha’s younger sister since your freshman year, and Yelena’s only finally giving her enough attention for lunch dates to be delusionally morphed into plans of marriage. You’re going to hate the day she learns Yelena’s asexual, and she has a better chance of fucking a fire hydrant than the blonde.

“She’s a professor!” Kate interjects, and your eyes roll. “They get paid more, and it’s hotter.” She’s had the hots for Wanda since she took Slavic Languages last semester on a whim after failing Spanish for the second time. You’ve only ever heard impeccable things about Wanda’s reserve when she’s giving a lecture, so even though your blood boils every time you remember other girls think about Wanda the way only you get to have her, you never can say you blame her for fantasizing about the lengths the redhead goes to romantically.

“Neither one of them really sugar mommy me.” You shrug, finding your voice again after Kate. You hope she doesn’t notice how your hips shift against the leather cushion beneath your awkwardly distributed weight, but you don’t think you’re entirely subtle as you attempt to alleviate pressure on the plug. Thankfully, you’re entirely certain Kate doesn’t even know the first signs to look for. She talks a big game, but you’re certain her last kiss was some douche bag at NYU before she was expelled. “I mean, I guess Wanda pays for dinner when we go out, but other than that it's pretty even.” Your words are a breathless huff when you move and the cushion expands without your pressing weight, and presses against the plug when you least expect it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kate frowns, once again drawn to how something just isn’t completely right with you. It comes in waves, and it makes her uncomfortable for a reason she doesn’t know. You don’t even notice the way she shifts like she wants to retreat to basic elementary school survival skills and go find a trusted adult to confide in. You’d find it funny that sexual tension makes her uncomfortable, especially because all she does is yearn after Yelena Belova and some girl in her chemistry class named Maia, but it doesn’t even crash upon the surface of your mental shorelines. You’re so far from what's actually happening she could call you out on your horny bullshit right now and you wouldn’t know she saw through you.

You’re not great at being deceptive, in fact you’re pointedly bad at selling a lie even when you believe it fully, but something keeps you on your toes now, something like Natasha’s quick wit and self-preservation skills finally rubbing off on you. You find something in your head that’s not entirely a lie, and it falls off your lips before you can consider the implications of this potentially backfiring on you later on. It’s not a big deal, she’s not going to care that you’re horny because you’re in a lovely, healthy relationship where you try new things, but you’re making it a big deal and you don’t know why. ”Yeah, I just remembered I left the Zyrtec in Wanda’s trunk.”

“Oh, you’re still dealing with those allergies?” Kate frowns, and you deflate in immediate relief that you’ve managed to salvage the conversation and her worries all in one go. You let her guide the conversation from there, because you’re not sure you can focus on much of anything outside from how your clit graces against the inseam of your shorts when you cross one thigh over the other and shift your weight until your thighs become one. It’s humiliating. You’re humiliating yourself without their influence. Your cheeks burn. How have you fallen so far? How did you get to this point? If Natasha were beside you, you know she’d be grinning like a devil watching you squirm. If Wanda were here, you know she’d scold you for being so naughty in public, for being so needy that you can’t even sit still like a good girl while your friend tries to talk to you. They’ve ruined you.

Kate walks you to your car despite trying to part ways at the door. She’s kind as she tells you about all the events coming up on campus that you’re certainly going to avoid going to at all costs, but she tells you any way so that you feel included. It wouldn’t have bothered you any other day, but you’re certain that the crotch of your shorts is a shade of blue darker than the rest of the denim material, and you can’t face the realization of her knowing you’re so honry yoru thighs are slick with arousal and it’s your fault. You can’t help but think that you should’ve never left those panties in her bag, because now your thighs glimmer beneath the sunshine of June, and your arsenal that slips down your thighs in tantalizing beads are like high beams for anyone to lock in on at their own will. You’d never know if someone stole a glance from across the parking lot, if they took that image home with them and got off on it in secret, or if they didn’t even wait, just slipped into their office and worked it out then and there. You hate that Wanda’s convinced you that’s a hot possibility. You hate that it only makes the coil in your belly grow more and more until you’re clenching your fingers into fists and forcing back tears as Kate drags out her goodbye at the driver's side door of your little car with hardly any life left in it.

The commute back to Natasha’s has never felt so bumpy, and you’re ashamed that by the time you pull into the driveway, you’ve broken out into a hot flash that turns your cheeks cherry red and threatens to push you over the edge into a touchless orgasm that shatters you completely. The plug in your ass has nearly been pushed out twice, but the force of your ass meeting the seat as you bump against the unevenly paved highway forces it back into place. It’s never been a distraction like this, but your senses have also never been on overdrive like this away from your bed or the exotic spots chosen by your girlfriends with caution. It feels like there are fireworks before your fingernails, burrowed deep into your cuticles and unwilling to move. There’s an agonizing pressure in your belly that is enough to riddle you with tears and hiccuping sobs. You’re desperate, on the verge of an orgasm from roadside construction instead of your girlfriends, but just like they’d been doing to your body all week, the drive home ends before you reach your peak, and for the millionth time, you're edged and left stranded in the middle of blinding electricity and somebody forgot to flip the breaker.

Wanda isn’t home yet. She should be, but she’s not. A part of you is worried that she got fired, That she pulled the panties out at the wrong place, or at the wrong time, but she’d never texted you again, and you have the slightest hope that if she were facing unemployment she’d at least give you a heads up. When you’d slipped the panties into her pocket, you’d wanted someone to see them, but that thought swallows you up and echoes in the back of your head now like a demon willing you down a tainted path. It’s too late now. You’re already down it.

Natasha is home though, and the light gleams through the window and tells you she’s waiting in the living room. Maybe she’s not waiting though. She might just be watching TV, she might not even know that its one o’clock and you’re never home any later than one-thirty. You push through the front door like it weighs a million pounds, and there’s not one second to consider if Natasha knows what happened today or not. The minute you glance at her all comfortable on the couch, her biceps bulging as she crosses her arms over her belly and hides the handfuls of skin on her hips from you, you know that she knows, and she knows that you know that she knows. It makes your head swim. You want her with a burning passion.

“Oh, you’re home?” She asks, already rising from the couch though her tone feigned disinterest. You swallow thickly, shrinking beneath her stare. It feels so hot, so heavy. She’s unmaking you entirely, and yet she doesn’t seem to give a fuck whether you’re coming or going or somewhere in the middle. Her eyes sweep over your frame, and you know she’s reading every miniscule emotion portrayed across your demeanor, so you try your best to appear unassume, innocent, even if your belly churns knowing evidence of your disobedience stains your car seats now and your inner thighs. Your denim shorts feel heavy around your waist, the center weighed down by arousal that continues to collect. It’s uncountable, sticky. There’s no hiding the difference in hue anymore, sodden denim exposing your desires.

“I’m home.” You whisper, your throat bobbing as you swallow dryly. It doesn’t help anything. Your head is no clearer and you find your words no easier, but you force yourself to swallow again and hope that this time it helps. Natasha quirks an eyebrow, and the uninterested reserve drops entirely as her green-blue stare — you can never decide which color she wears more authentically — darkens into mystical lust that almost resembles charred ashes.

“Were you proud of yourself?” Natasha backs you up against the door. She’s not a tall woman, she’s only a handful of inches taller than you depending on what kind of shoe you’re wearing, but you feel impossibly small beneath her right now as your back meets the hard wood of the door and one of her buff arms comes up to frame the side of your face. It slams against the wood at first, hard, aggressive, aimed to startle you, and then it slides so slowly you think she may be tracking a fly, before it settles on your cheek with a burning weight that has you itching for more. It doesn’t last there for long. Natasha’s never been a woman skilled with stillness. She’s always moving, always finding ways to keep herself busy, so it doesn’t surprise you that she can’t even keep her palm on your cheek for long enough to capture your attention the way she wants. Instead, she trails it down to your throat, and you know then that you’re entirely screwed. She squeezes, not tight, but firm, and your eyes become wide as your reel beneath the easy dominance. “Were you proud of yourself when you snuck those pretty panties into Wanda’s jacket? I bet you wanted everyone to see them, huh? You probably couldn’t help but think about them falling out onto the floor during her lecture, or maybe you thought she’d find them during her meeting. Yeah? While she was sitting right next to Eleanor Bishop talking about you, and your major, and the future of your program.” Your belly is suddenly filled with a weight you know is guilt, and Natasha can see that. She’d aimed to let the reality of your decisions wash over you, and only when she’s satisfied that you’ve sat with the realization long enough does she lean in to kiss you and simultaneously work the button of your shorts open with the hand that's not around your neck.

“I didn’t think-“ When she pulls away from the bruising kiss that makes your head spin and the coil in your belly threaten to wind up again, you desperately try to find confirmation on your tongue that will assure her you’d never wanted anything to happen to Wanda outside of a little frustration. Even then, you weren’t sure what your aim had been this morning. Maybe it was to get her back. To make sure she knows how much this is killing you. Maybe you’d just wanted the attention. You don't know.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it, moya lyubov? You don’t think. You just let this cunt tell you what to do, even if it gets you in trouble. I bet she’s wet, huh? Oh yeah.” Natasha groans when she cups your core through the denim shorts, not even having to attempt to prod at your entrance through the thick layers, she can feel the moisture and heat radiating onto her calloused skin just from the possessive grip she’s initiated. “You’re always wet, always so easy to fuck. It doesn’t take much does it? I bet that plugs been driving you crazy all day, and you thought you were gonna be a brat and outsmart Wanda, but I bet not having any panties on only made it worse, huh, princess? I bet you’ve been wet since you left. Did you break my rule, baby? Did you touch this cunt without permission?”

A gasp falls off of your lips when Natasha cups your core harder, grinding the heel of her palm into your clit just hard enough to move the inseam of your shorts with it, forcing pleasure on you thats too rough and too intense all at once. Tears prick your eyes, but there’s still a question to be answered, and you’re not gone enough to have forgotten that if nothing else, she expects you to find an answer for her. “N-No!” You wail, frustration bubbling up inside of you when the pressure ebbs into nothing and your clit is left unsatisfied again. “I didn’t!”

Natasha’s tuts, clicking her tongue against her front teeth as she cranes her head at you sympathetically. The hand around your throat eventually trails away, cupping your face and then wiping the tears off your cheeks. “See, I don’t believe you, detka. I’m gonna have to check for myself. Open your legs wider.” She removes her hand from between your legs all together, tapping your hip in warning as she gives you space to comply with her request. When you just stand there, floundering for something to grasp onto and pull you through the dark waters with, Natasha huffs. “Open your legs wider. Now.”

You do as she asks, because it’s only natural that you do. You had half a mind this morning to do that exact opposite of what they asked, and yesterday, you’d pointedly avoiding doing what Wanda asked until there was no other choice but to comply or stand beneath her disappointed glare from across the kitchen, but that wingless push of confidence has evaded you now. It’s nowhere to be found even when you try to find the courage to stand up to her in your fingertips.

Your zipper doesn’t stand a chance against the force of her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties until he bypasses your clit and france’s her fingers along your labia. There’s a distinguished squelching sound that meets the air when she dips just one knuckle into your entrance, filling you up for the very first time since Monday afternoon, and you gasp with so much relief that you don’t even recognize the sinister smirk on her lips as she reads your expression like a book she’s memorized dutifully.

“You’re so wet.” She comments, “Are you sure you didn’t touch yourself?” She knows you didn’t. The way you contract against her fingers as she eases another one into your walls and spreads you out like she’s preparing for a game of rock paper scissors tells her that you’ve not had an ounce of real pleasure since the last time she’d allowed it. She thinks it was two days ago. You’re unaware that she’s seemingly lost in a haze of days and mundane adult routine.

“I didn’t! I didn’t! Daddy, please!” You gasp, your back arching off the door when her fingers scrape along your walls. She makes an interested sound high in her throat, like she’s surprised to find that your sensitive there, and does it again, this time with full intention to overwhelm you with pleasure.

”Oh, are you sensitive right there, detka? Is that your spot?” She coos, and it feels so wrong so be treated like this by her. Natasha isn’t soft, but she’s not cruel, and right now she’s wearing Wanda’s condescension with her blonde hair that tickles your cheek when she drops her forehead against yours. “I didn’t know.” She pouts, and you wonder why for a second, but then it makes perfect sense when she pulls her fingers away and you’re left clenching around nothingness. She’s apologizing for giving you pleasure with nothing else. She’s pretending to care that she’s just wound you up for the hundredth time this week and left you high and dry in the middle of a puddle with wild electricity sparking in the close distance.

A broken sob leaves your lips and your hips chase her fingers but its useless. Natasha doesn;t care that you're desperate, she doesn’t care that nobody’s fucked you good in days, it’s not about that right now. You lost the right to her sympathy when you decided to be a brat. Again. She remembers the last time you were in this position. She remembers leaves changing colors and apple cider always being in the fridge because you love it more than apple juice in the middle of October, and she remembers how your ass had gleamed red for days after Wanda bent you over the island because you just wouldn’t watch your mouth and mind your damn manners. It’s been a while since either one of them had dished out a punishment that actually forces you to think about your actions. It’s been a while since either of them have really fallen hard on their swords as dominic acts and truly sacrificed you to the wolves of letting go.

Natasha will never apologize for loving you to deeply to keep her roles separate. She will never apologize for loving you so much, she gives into your pouting face and crying eyes when you just need her more than anything else in the world. Wanda won’t either, and she’s notorious the hardest nut amongst you to crack. None of you care that your dynamics have been muddled with pathetically sweet domesticity and romance for months at this point, but its beginning to catch up with all of you now. You have all of these limits beneath your belts, all of these wild impulses that you only ever indulge in with each other, these kinks and desires are derived from real trauma, and real connection, and real willingness to be the most unapologetic version of yourself no matter how socially unacceptable, and she’s allowed all of you to forget that the beauty of building a dynamic outside of romance is the freedom to hold grudges and correct behavior. She won’t give in so easily anymore, because before you, she never would’ve allowed anything less than perfect obedience and that had been the one thing that lured you back to her workout classes.

“Please, Daddy!” You beg, and Natasha can’t help but smile at how desperate you sound for her already. She’s barely touched you, and she knows that's your problem,that the root of your begging is the pointed lack of attention her and Wanda have been giving you since Wednesday night in her head, but there's nothing you can do about it right now when she has the cards and its her body that pins you to the door and keeps you immobile beneath her.

“Turn around.” She muses without interest for your tears, she’s already wiped them away once, it wouldn’t be the first time she told you to strop cry before she deems it acceptable. Your cheeks always flame when she does that, like its your fault that she’s unmade you to the point of tears.

“No.” You choke on a desperate cry, reaching out to attempt to tangle your fingers into her hair, but she intercepts before you can succeed, and her grip on your wrists is strong as she pins your hands above your head and glares deep within your eyes like she can see every part of your soul and the privilege doesn’t astonish her. It does astonish her. She can’t believe that you;ve given all of yourself to her like this, but who would she be if she allowed you to read the gratitude rolling off of her so easily? “No, I want to touch you!” You cry out, trying to fight her, trying to convince her to let you win. Natasha knows you well. She knows when you’re being bratty, and she knows when you’re just so overwhelmed with pleasure and emotion that you just don’t even process what they’re saying to you. Sometimes she thinks you make up conversations in your head, but she knows that you’re just drunk on sensations they’re withholding and your body is desperately trying to make up for the lack of stimulation however it can. You’re somewhere in the middle right now. It’s not bratty defiance that keeps you and her in a standstill, wasting precious minutes before Wanda gets home, but its not entirely blind submission either. Your trying to keep yourself above the tide, key word is trying, because you’re failing faster than you even register, and Natasha knows if she plays her cards right you’ll be putty before Wanda even gets in the door. You’ll have no idea whats in stores or you then, and she knows you need that. You need to be caught off guard. You need to be grounded, and humbled, and reminded of your place beneath them. “I want to touch you, Daddy!”

“Daddy gets to decide when you’ve earned the privilege to touch me, and you haven’t yet, little girl, so turn around and stop whining before I give you a reason to stick that lip out at me.” The threat hangs in the air before you and it paints your face white with shock as your eyes meet hers with crystals of tears brimming in your waterline. You don’t have to think about complying on your own regard, because Natasha tugs you how she wants you against the door and doesn’t think twice before pushing your shorts down your legs once your cheek is flush with the wood she’d once thought about painting green after moving in.

You gasp when her hands brace against the globes of your ass, not making any pointed moves, but you know what she’s aiming for when she pulls your cheeks apart and allows cold air to assault your dripping, glimmering core. A whine escapes your lips when she drags a finger down the crack of your ass to your entrance, collecting wetness of the pads of her fingers that she then spreads around your puckered hole that holds tight to the princess plug keeping you open. She circles the jeweled base of the plug with disinterest almost, never grabbing at it, never pushing at it, she just circles it to remind you that it's there, that she’s the one who placed it there and gave you firm orders to keep it where it was until she took it out. At least you’d listened to her. She’d know if you didn’t. You can’t get the plugs in yourself, and it enrages you to no end when she’s away on a business trip and Wanda has no desire to pull them out of the closet where you keep all of the toys you cycle through routinely and healthily. This is Natasha’s fortier, it's one of the only things that she can give you that you haven’t learned how to give yourself. She hopes you never get comfortable enough with the plugs to put them in yourself. She hopes you always gasp and squirm like it's the first time anything has ever breached your puckered hole when she bends you over to do it herself from time to time. It’s intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.

The jewel is a baby pink color, shaped like a heart, but what matters most is the shade that you’d never thought specifically about until Natasha leaned in close to kiss you with lips glittering in arousal to tell that it matches the pink of your cunt after Wanda fucks you raw with the strap and she gets to lick you clean. You’ve never been able to keep your composure around baby pink since then. You still can’t now just imagine the sight she’s seeing as she spreads you open for her and fiddles with you however she pleases.

“How did it feel? Wearing this pretty plug to class today?” Natasha asks, leaning in to let her lips trail along the clammy skin of your neck that only aquires a thicker sheen the longer you stand without any airflow on parts of your body that matter. It’s hotter than hell in the house, or at least it feels that way to you, but the air that continuously brushes against your core is cold and unwelcoming.

”We had a study period in the- in the library.” You gasp when Natasha grabs the base of the plug and turns it clockwise just slightly, enough to let your ass feel the stretch of the plug as sit spins within you. The pleasure is intense, but only because anything would be enough to push you over the edge right now. “I— Daddy, please.” You beg when she presses the plug deeper into you once, and then twice, and then it seems like shes setting a tempo as she taps her fingers against the jewel.

“Keep telling me about your day.” Natasha directs, unbothered by your frustration and arousal, unaffected by the fact that she knows it's hard for you to think straight with her hands holding you apart like you’re some object to ogle, not even considering your prolonged frustration and desire. “Be a good girl for me.”

“I couldn’t sit still.” You whisper and your cheeks flame with embarrassment that you know she enjoys every second of. “Gave Wands m-my panties and was so sticky, Daddy! Please, it hurts. It was dripping all down my legs, and I just hope Kate didn’t see. Please Daddy, I need you.”

“Oh, so now you gave Wanda your panties. Spinning the narrative, are you?” Natasha quirks and eyebrow, and she pulls your gaze back to look at her with a tight grip on your hair. You whine, wince, your entire body tenses and becomes a light with electric sensitivity that has you gasping and moaning and writhing against the door with no reprieve. She slams you back against the door, her tongue clicking against her teeth as she reminds you to stay still, to be good for her, you’re not being good right now.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, dropping your face against the front door again when she lets go of your hair and instead grabs the base of the plug and plucks it free from the confines of your ass without any chance to adapt to the stretch or subsequent emptiness.

”You don’t know anything, because all you are is a slut for Daddy to play with.” She sighs against the shell of your ear like this isn’t a new development for her, and your chest burns with shame as you moan and thrash.

“No, please! I want it back, please Daddy. Please, I want it back. I want to feel good. Please, please. I want to feel good, I want you to make me feel good.” You're a mess of tears and pleas when it finally dawns on you that your ass spasms and clenches around nothing — that the only consistent pleasure you’ve found all day, for the first time in a week, has now been ripped away without so much as a soft, fake apology.

“Shh, come away from the door.” She guides you away softly, affectionately — the gentlest she’s addressed you since you first stepped inside the house. You think it’s because she’s giving in, letting you win, getting ready to led you to the couch or the bed nad make up for seven days without relief, but instead she forces you to stand still beside the front window where Wanda’s somehow appeared despite Natasha’s car still being in the driveway beside yours. She didn’t pull you away from the door to cut you a break, or even pretend to feel pity for your tears and quivering lip, but only so that Wanda could come inside and destroy you in her own way. “Hi, my love.” Natasha smiles brightly when Wanda steps inside the house, her hair glowing with the radiance of summer sunrays brightening her naturally vibrant waves. She drops her briefcase by the door, and you notice for the first time that she brought the meeting bag with her, not the bag she brings that had daisies on it and is filled with extra handouts she expects her students to have lost between their last meeting. You hadn’t noticed that this morning. You’d been too consumed with need that was left untouched.

“Hi.” Wanda smiles, drawing Natasha in for a warm kiss that makes you wonder if she’s still frustrated and mad about your disobedience and boldness. It’s evident that she’s still mad when she doesn’t glance in your direction, instead keeping her eyes on Natasha as both of them pretend like you’re not within ear shot. Wanda fishes the panties out of her pocket, and your cheeks burn as she holds them up to the light for Natasha to see clearly as well. “Ten minutes in these and they’re ruined.” She hums, and you whine like you’re incapable of formulating any kind of response or rebuttal. It’s futile, they're not talking to you, or even paying you any ounce of attention, but you still feel the need to interject because you just haven’ t learned that they’re not going to cave yet. That’s their fault, but you’ll learn.

“She was humping my fingers like a bitch before. I’d say she only made it worse for herself. The little exhibitionist was hoping that people would see her. Was hoping someone would notice that she’s dripping down her thighs like a slut. Couldn’t even behave herself and sit still in the library with Kate, apparently she was all over the damn seat trying to rub one out.” The words are vulgar and they cut against your sharply, enough to have you shaking on your feet by the television, hardly even aware of the face that your ass and your hips are in perfect sight for anyone outside to see.

“Oh yeah?” Wanda quirks an eyebrow, and it takes you a minute to realize she’s addressing you. There isn't an ounce of warmth in her tone as she crosses her arms and unmakes you with a cold sweep of her crystal eyes across your half naked frame, but she’s not looking at you like she hates you either. It’s sheer dominance and lust that overcomes her now, and it's a combination you’ve never seen so deadly and aimed solely at you. Natasha's been on her shit like like this before, but never you, never their good girl, their angel who has only ever seen herself over their knee for punishment four times in an entire years long relationship. Someone should be picking up on the signs, but nobody is. Not you, not Natasha, not Wanda. “Come here.” Wanda arches a finger when she realizes that you’re directly in front of the window and don’t even seem to register it. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve toyed with the idea of giving the neighbors a show, but even with the cold reserve she’s giving you, untempted by her love to go easy on you, it unsettles her to take your vulnerability for granted in any way, especially like this. If you seemed to realize you were giving anybody a show, if it seemed like showing off was an underlying current in the scene, maybe she would’ve left you there for a while after realizing, but she can’t stomach to do that now. She’s mean, she’s cruel, but she’s not a monster and there’s still boundaries to her wild fantasies that unmake you from the very inside out.

You only come close enough for her hands to reach you if they try, but she doesn’t invite you any closer when you stop to look at her uncertainty, so you take her silence as rejection and continue to stand on your own — cold, but so uncomfortably hot. “Is Daddy telling the truth? Were you acting like a slut in the library? Hoping anyone could see how wet you were?” She taunts, and the words creep up your veins until they reach the middle of your belly where pleasure and frustration and emotions you’re too hazy to name take over entirely.

“No!” You plead with her to believe you, because it had never been your intention to be anything but good for them in the library, but you just couldn't help yourself when your clit caught on the inseam of your jeans or you shifted just right on the chair, and you’d hoped Natasha would see the honor and integrity in your coming clean, but instead she’d weaponized it into this. You were in enough trouble without her meddling, and it turns your lips downwards, but you never have any leeway to say that it’s more than just the teasing that’s weighing you down, so Wanda never stops to consider your pout or sparkling eyes.

“So now Daddy’s a liar?” She digs deeper; sinks her claws into you unrelentlessly without even touching you at all. She doesn’t need to touch you to own you. You’re beneath the wings of her control so beautifully right now she almost hates to be so cruel. Almost. It’s a fleeting moment of hesitation that allows you to think you’ve found reprieve from punishment for a moment, but then she remembers that this is what she really loves when you peel her layers back like an onion, and just like an onion she makes you cry but you keep coming back for more because it adds something, it spices things up, it makes dishes complete and she completes you. And for a moment you think that maybe she’ll bend, that maybe she’ll wind you up with this teasing and condescension and then she’ll let you down soft, let it all be some elaborate mind fuck that renders you a blob beneath their touch, but then she sets her gaze on the staircase beneath your body, and her jaw is locked so tensely you think she might chip a molar. “You’re digging yourself a deeper hole the more you open that mouth, so why don’t you keep it closed and go wait for me upstairs. I want you naked and on the bed waiting by the time we get up there.”

“But I want—“ You’re ready to tell her exactly what you want. It takes a lot to get you to this point of open communication. You’re their shy girl, their innocent angel that still blushes when it comes to asking for sexual acts from your girlfriends, but they have you wanting enough to throw caution to the wind and scream to the entire town that you’re a whore; their whore. You haven’t been broken down entirely, but you’re so close to the edge of fuzzy bliss that you have no morals to stand firm on. You’re malleable in their hands, and they know how to make you into exactly what they want.

“I didn’t ask what you wanted. I gave you a direction, and I expect you to follow it. Am I clear?” Wanda takes a step toward you. Just one. She’s taller than Natasha. You know this, and you love this, but sometimes you forget that she’s only a couple inches away from reaching six foot, and she towers over you with a completion and complex you can’t even begin to mimic to even unsuspecting strangers. She’s alluring. That’s the simplest way to put it, and she unmakes you even further as she sizes you up and makes you feel small like you’re nothing to her. It’s been a while since you’ve fallen so heavily into these roles. It’s been a while. It’s an echo in your head, a warning to tread carefully, but you don’t see it as anything more than a reason to fight harder, claim victory and finally find release in your center.

Your head bobs — just once. It feels so simple to think about motions as numbers right now. One pass of Wanda’s eyes over your exposed thighs and hips. Two taps of Natasha’s heel on the hardwood as she waits for you to comply with the direction you’ve been given. Four seconds before you realize that Wanda’s waiting for words, and that you still haven’t moved even with your nonverbal acceptance. “Yes.” You whisper when you find the words on your tongue, and you think that it’s going to satisfy Wanda, that maybe she might praise you for finally finding the right choice to make, but instead she clicks her tongue against her teeth, and she cranes her head to the side, and her eyes squint as you like you’ve just done the worst thing you could do; not try at all.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve played like this, but I didn’t think my angel was dumb enough to forget such a simple rule. Are you dumb, princess? Or are you just too needy to think straight?” Wanda sneers, and your face flushes with heat that makes your belly twist with something sickeningly sweet. It’s all encapsulating. You can feel it in your toes, and your gallbladder, and your left lung all the way into the very back section of your brain that probably does something really important and specific. You don’t know. It doesn't matter. The sky could be green and chickens could be flying, and still all that would matter to you would be Wanda and Natasha.

“Not dumb.” Your voice is breathy, soft enough to be delicate and breakable. Wanda knows you, she knows what you can take, and so she lets her eyes sweep across your body until they meet your eyes, and when she finds nothing but bubbling tension beneath your surface, she hardens her glare and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing her tits farther into your line of vision. She’s wearing a generic t-shirt, but she’s dressed it up with a pair of black slacks, kitten heels, and a blazer that you think she’s probably only worn for the commute there and back. Her bra is black, the thin strap sticks out from the collar of her shirt when she moves her arms, and the cups push her full breasts up even further. It's almost considered sinful by your standards, and that's a hard metric to meet, but Wanda does it without breaking a sweat.

“Then address me properly.” She settles you, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of this corner you’ve backed yourself into, so without any other choice, you submit to what she wants of you, and with that last ounce of control out of your grasp, your brain goes fuzzy around the edges until you’re taking the stairs one at a time at a pace that's almost robotic, but Wanda and Natasha are tuned in enough to know that you just can’t move any faster without your thighs creating friction that gets you in even more trouble. They laugh as you retreat, and the sounds of their echoing amusement following you into the dark, empty and cold master bedroom leaves a chill in your bones that you're not sure is ever going to warm again.

“Yes, Professor.” Your words echo in Wanda’s head even after you’ve disappeared into the bedroom. She assumes you’re doing what she asked, getting further undressed and settling into the bed with full intentions of being good for her, but she gives you time to marinate regardless. She kicks off her heels, kisses Natasha twice, three times, four times, until they’re backed up against the wall ripping off layers until it's bras and panties on both of them and t-shirts scattered on the floor beneath slacks and leggings. They don’t go any farther. As mean as they’ve been, as cruel as they still plan to be, it feels premature to go any farther when you’re waiting upstairs and Wanda hasn’t touched you since Sunday.

She thinks that Natasha took care of you. She was under the impression that you’d been given as many orgasms as you were allowed by Natasha while she was at work, handling end of year papers and exams that she just couldn’t focus on in her office at home. Her absence at home had been planned for weeks, she’d forearnderd you the day before she packed up all her favorite red pens and headed for the office that the next couple of days were going to be long without her home, but you had persevered and she had thought that your lack of whining over text meant that Natasha had satisfied you. Natasha just couldn’t keep the days straight without Wanda home to be nagging in her ear about recycling day and bulk collection day and how Pepper always goes to Yoga on Thursdays so she needs to stop counting on her to get finances in for the pilates class at her gym. She hadn’t realized that the last time she touched you was cruel and unsatisfying and four days ago, she has no reason to dwell on the specifics and she doesn’t even now. Not when Wanda breathes against her lips that she’s so happy its Friday, that she’s so relieved the semester ends next week and exams are two weeks afterward. It’s a small tidbit left undiscovered in a glass bottle on the coast. Her eye hasn’t caught the sparkling reflection of sunbeams bouncing off like warning signs.

Natasha enters the bedroom first. She glances at you, and she almost smiles when she finds you on the center of the bed, naked like Wanda asked, but holding a yellow throw blanket over your body as you shiver in direct line of the air conditioner that points toward the bed. She pads over to the thermostat without saying a word, turning the air off entirely though she knows that’s a dangerous game to play for later on when you’re all hot and sweaty and too tired to peel your bodies out of bed and deal with numbers and math and perfect temperature debates that never get settled but instead mulled over with compromises and grumbles of annoyed and reluctant compliance. For right now, she’s okay to sacrifice future comfort for present comfort, but there’s hardly enough time to take note of her wordless gesture because Wanda comes stalking in after her, and she pushes the door closed with enough force to have the sound reverberating through the bedroom. You flinch, grab the blanket a little bit tighter, and for a moment Natasha frowns, narrowing her eyes, trying desperately to see if there’s something beneath the surface that she’s missing, but your eyes are blown with lust, and you crane your body towards Wanda’s with a yearning desire that is so automatic you don’t even seem to realize you’re closing the gap between your bodies until the mattress dips beneath your ebbing weight and you nearly topple off of the bed.

“Drop the blanket and come here. Edge of the bed.” She clicks her tongue, her fingers too. It’s degrading. It makes your belly do flips and your eyes glaze over. “Spread your legs. Wider. Wider. Stop trying to hide from me.” She growls and the first touch of her skin against you is harsh and cruel and demanding as she spreads your thighs wider and opens up your cunt completely. Arousal drips from your entrance onto the bed sheets, pearls of glittering desperation unable to be hidden between your thighs any longer, and now that the moonlight shines upon those inches of skin too, evidence of lust is painted against your skin and it looks like it’s been that way for hours with the way your skin is red and raw with moisture. It’s pathetic, and it’s so unbelievably hot that Wanda isn’t even embarrassed to moan wantingly.

”She’s dripping.” Wanda hums, glancing over her shoulder to look at Natasha who hasn’t taken her eyes off of you yet, though she isn’t intent on unmaking your inner emotions anymore, but rather watching as Wanda sinks a finger between your thighs, spreads your labia, and prods your weeping hole with a featherlight touch only long enough to collect a bead of arousal on her fingertip and hold it up to the light. She pinches her fingers together, rubs the moisturized pads together until they’re both effectively lathered in slick, and then she pulls her fingers apart like they’re a sizzling mozzarella, and the pull of arousal following both of her fingertips makes your cheeks flame worse than any cheese pull ever has. You whine. It’s desperate, and wanting, and so small, but it only fuels Wanda further. She needs to feel you now. She needs to have her way with you for the first time since Sunday and remind you that you’re hers until the word goes up in flames. “You’re so sweet, princess. I could just eat you, but I won’t. No, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet. Right now, I’m going to spank that pretty pussy raw, and then I think I’m going to fuck Natasha, and you’re going to watch it happen, and you’re not going to get more than I give you, and you’re not going to break me down, and you’re not going to complain. Do you understand me, detka? This is your only warning.”

You don’t have the words to answer her, so instead your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and for the very first time her lips curve into a smile and she nods like you’ve done something right. “Can’t find your voice? Too dumbed down to think straight?” She sneers, and her eyes are filled with something that you can’t decipher. Natasha knows its pride. She can practically see it dripping off of Wanda as she basks in your obedience even after deliberate disobedience for days on end. Again, neither of them realize that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve found peace with their touch. Again, neither of them realize that they’ve failed to communicate with each other and in turn left you stranded out in a sea you don’t know how to navigate on your own.

Neither of them realize you are giving them exactly what they want right now because it’s the only thing you can think to do to get any ounce of attention anymore.

Your fingers tap against your thigh again. Two times. Wanda nods acceptingly. “Good girl using your signals.” The praise washes over you like a blanket, and if you’d forgotten how you got into this mess at all, you remember now with every sense you have left in your head. The praise is warm, like sunshine or cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and homemade in the dead of autumn. It wraps around your bones first, just hot enough to warm them for a moment before the feeling travels and it drowns your sensitive little heart in lightness that can only mean good things. It’s a momentary encouragement, but it’s enough to get you further into the scene at least. “Show me what stop is.”

Your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and then you stop, and then they tap three more times. Wanda doesn’t acknowledge you at first, so you repeat the action, and this time she nods with satisfaction that you remember. She doesn’t offer you any ounce of praise again, instead she just sinks behind you on the bed and wraps her arms around your waist until you’re flush against her chest and even more spread out than you were before.

There isn’t a warning before her hand comes down on your core with full force, her palm open, aiming to hit all of your sensitive parts with cruelty. It only takes one hit for you to realize that she wore rings today; more than just the promise ring Natasha had gifted the both of you on your respective one year anniversaries. The sting of metal is conflicting. It’s cold, sharp, what you imagine a venomous snake bite to feel like in the wild when it catches you by surprise and flashes through your veins with lighting speed. It’s a quick sensation, but it lingers on your labia and your clit and your weeping cole that caught the brunt of the friction from her palm that’s always rough with dryness.

Your hips jerk upwards, they chase her palm because the sensation is sharp, and it's painful, but as it ebbs away, it’s so sweetly pleasurable that your core jolts with burning desire to find more, to drown in it until there’s nothing left to feel or process besides euphoria. Wanda doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that your hips jerk, and she wasn’t expecting them to. She doesn’t like that you’re still finding ways to misbehave even beneath her touch.

“Stay still.” She warns, her teeth nipping at your earlobe sharply. It stings, and she never soothes the ache with her tongue, and you whine so earnestly that Natasha almost feels bad, because she’s mean, but not as mean as Wanda, but she doesn’t feel bad enough to save you, and so nobody tends to the ache in your ear, or the pinch in your cunt when another slap doesn’t land in quick succession like you’d hoped. “Can’t even take a punishment. It’s like you’ve forgotten everything I taught you. Did you forget, detka? Do we need to start from the beginning? Reintroduce everything? Do you want to go back to only getting Daddy’s fingers because your tight little cunt can’t handle the strap?”

Your head shakes frantically, and you must look absolutely wild beneath the light that spills in from outside. The city is bright, shiny, dazzling, but Wanda Maximoff is a burning star and Natasha Romanoff is the very universe she explodes in and lights up with brightness that’s too hot to touch let alone look at nad see the full picture without being blinded and breathless and useless and you’re spiraling, you’re spiraling so far down into darkness that your train of thought abandons you and in the very moment that you lose all sense of where you are, drowning the scent ofWanda, and your arousal, and Natasha pacing across the room, apologetic but not enough to intervene, another slap lands between your legs and you howl with pain that becomes licks of tantalizing pleasure you can’t get enough of. You manage to stay still this time though. You don’t jerk, don’t chase her palm. You tense, you tighten, you bite down on your bottom lip until you almost taste copper, but you never move a single muscle.

Another slap comes down, and then another. She didn’t ask you to count them, so you lose count after the sixth. There must’ve been a nineteenth, because that number always makes Natasha laugh, and through thick tears in your eyes you registered her shoulders jostling from across the room before she’d turned away from the sight of you so completely unmade against Wanda’s chest to rummage through the closet. It weighs on you that she doesn’t even stick around to watch you be taunted and pulled apart so slowly and cruelly, it burns in your belly like shame, and for the first time you gasp in pain that has no pleasure, but before you can spiral, grasp onto sensations that have always been beneath the surface, that have fueled your every action since Wednesday afternoon, your brought back beneath the current of lust and willingness to do whatever the the hell they want when a slap comes down on your pussy that perfectly hits your clit. You're close. So close. Wanda knows. Of course she knows.

“Little sluts gonna cum from getting her cunt spanked!” Wanda calls out to Natasha, and your face burns with humiliation when you hear the thick laughter rumble from the closet. She slaps your core again, directly against your clit again, and that’s enough to have you dangling over the edge. You’ll take this orgasm. This orgasm that's going to be painful not just right now, but tomorrow morning when there's no pleasure left and only swollen lips and bruised skin, but for right now you’re willing to take it because it's the only thing they’ve given you outside of half asleep cuddles since Monday.

A gasp falls off of your lips when Wanda’s hand slaps against your clit again, but not with the same cruel pressure. It’s light. Deliberate. Your hips attempt to follow her palm when she retreats, her skin sparkling with slick, but she’s faster than you now, more coherent and intune with her body and its functions. She holds your hips down, forces your thighs wide. Your orgasm crashes over you and then it's gone, ebbing away into waves of pleasure that never dwindle, but never quite crash against the surface either. You’re sobbing, a mess of snot and tears, but no words escape you, and your fingers never tap your thighs, and your hands desperately shoot to Wanda’s wrists and try to pull them back to your core that weeps and drips lips a faucet or a widow, you’re not sure which one it is at this point — an inconvenience or a tragedy.

“Oh, you didn’t think I was just going to let you enjoy that orgasm, did you?” Wanda frowns, cupping your cheeks and bringing her thumbs against the damp skin, clearing away tears that are like diamonds on your flush skin. “Silly girl, you didn’t even ask for permission.” She clicks her tongue, and your brain is too fuzzy to comprehend that she’s blaming you for the ruined orgasm. She’d expected you to ask permission when she knew from the start that you couldn’t vocalize your wants even if you tried. It’s a thick blanket of something uncomfortable that smothers you when you realize that it had been a trap from the very beginning. You can’t handle another trap, another bout of teasing and creautly, but Wanda still has half of a plan to hatch, and you know she’s not going to stop unless you call it completely, but no part of you has the cognition to do that right now. Your brain is muddled, your thoughts aren’t your own, and the only thing you can process is them. Professor and Daddy. Professor and Daddy. Professor. Daddy. You need them. You need them fully and spiritually. You need them sinfully.

“Get on your belly.” Wanda moves away from you until her feet are on the floor and it's just you in the bed that feels too big for just your body. You do as she asks, even if you barely comprehend the task, and let your weight sink into the mattress as you finally lay down. It dawns on you now how tired you are, but Wanda can’t see your face, and Natasha watches your hands closely, but they never tap at your thighs in any fashion. You’ve always spoken up when something was too much. You’ve always used your signals when you were too deep into subspace to drop. She trusts you, and you’re showing clear trust in them, so they keep going, their reserves don’t break, and nobody sheds an ounce of pity as you whine and drip onto the comforter beneath your knees that Wanda props up like you’re just a doll for her to manipulate.

Somebody settles something between your legs, and only when your knees are guided back down and your hips are repositioned do you realize that it's the vibrator Wanda apparently bought three weeks after meeting Natasha. It’s big, and bulky, and you think superpowered though you have no proof, and when somebody flicks it on, you’re not sure who, it nearly sends you flying over the edge before somebody taps the button once, twice, three times and changes the setting to a low pulse that fades and goes at an uneven and deeply unsatisfying rhythm that you think must’ve been invented by a clueless man with no hobbies in life.

“You move a single muscle and I tie you up, understand?” Wanda waits for your fingers to tap against your thigh, even when it takes a full minute for you to process that she asked you a question at all. You tap twice, a silent confirmation of your understanding and acceptance, and so nobody thinks twice before they move on, Natasha pouncing on Wanda and stripping her out of her bra and underwear whilst Wanda does the same with her. They work in tandem. They always have. Wanda moves one way, Natasha moves the other. Even when Natasha’s searching for something dominating in Wanda, allowing her softer edges to shine through, they still move in harmony like its a practiced dance they’re showing you and ever so slowly teaching you. Even though you can’t see them, your face still buried in the blankets as your hips fight to remain still, you can imagine that they’re not moving with any less harmony and unity right now than any other moment you’ve witnessed them in. It makes everything ten times harder to handle, but when you finally do glance to the side, needing air that wasn’t restricted by the fabric that genuinely attempts to smother you in plain sight, you erupt into a whole new world of isolation when you watch Wanda hammer a dildo into Natasha’s cunt while the blonde’s fingers are burrowed between her legs, aiming to pull a quick and harsh orgasm from the redhead who doesn’t seem to have any complaints about not wasting time.

“Please!” It’s the first time you’ve spoken in a while, and your throat is scratchy and dry as evidence. You sound utterly pathetic, you look even worse, but there’s something soft about you as you fight to keep your head held up, twitching and jerking and so utterly helpless but in full control of your body. It’s addicting, alluring, intoxicating. It fuels Wanda on, but she doesn’t say a word, just rubs her thumb harder against Natasha’s clit and works the dildo faster, rougher, angling up to hit that spongy part in her walls that makes her head spin.

You can hear the vulgar squelches of their cunts as they work each other to orgasm, but you can’t distinguish which incessant squeak is Natasha’s and which is Wanda’s. They’re both moving too fast, with rhythmic paces that appear chaotic and unorganized to you right now. The soft tufts of hair between Natasha’s legs are red, ginger really, and they curl just slightly when she lets the bush grow out in the winter, but for summertime, her bikini line is cleanly waxed and her mound is adorned in only short strands of coarse hair that Wanda finds intoxicating to run her fingers over in the middle of the night aimlessly.

You’re still watching them when Wanda leans forward and captures Natasha in a kiss that looks bruising and rough and all encompassing, and your reserve breaks entirely when you watch them both come undone in climaxes that look satisfying and rewarding and soft as their fingers move slower and their wrists snap softly and they work each other through the height of blinding pleasure sweetly and tenderly — everything that you want, that you’ve been denied. It’s like they don’t care about you anymore. Do they not care about you anymore?

Suddenly it's hard to breathe, and even though Wanda never followed through on that threat of tying you down, you feel like your limbs are shackled to the bedpost and even though every nerve screams with oversensitivity from sensations you haven’t even been awarded yet, you can’t seem to move away from the vibrator that still torments your clit.

Natasha catches it first, the way you break,the way your knees lose their tension and your elbows unlock and your head drops against the bed like you just can’t bear the weight, and its confirmation that you’ve been off all along that has her rushing to your aid on the bed and quickly pulling the vibrator out from between your legs. “Hi, my love.” Her words are soft, sweet, so gentle you don’t recognize them and you continue to sob, gasping for breath, clawing at your throat, looking at her like you can’t even see her, twitching beneath her hands like you can’t feel them at all.

Natasha pulls you up into her lap, and apologizes when your clit catches on her thigh and pleasure shots through you so intensely that it hurts and you cry harder, coughing, spluttering, probably covering her with splatters of saliva but she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t close her eyes and try to avoid the spray of your unruly emotions. She just lets you feel, and she lets herself feel, and she grounds herself in this moment because how did she not see it before? You’re never bratty. You’re never blindly disobedience nor are you rash or sexually impatient enough to do something as bold as slip Wanda your panties.

“It’s Friday.” Natasha blanches, her eyes trailing toward Wanda. She doesn’t let go of your cheeks, but she recognizes that you can’t hear her right now, that over the blood rushing in your ears and the sensitivity in your core not just from arousal but from Wanda’s unrelenting spanks too, you can’t even begin to process anything she’s saying. “I… I knew it was Friday, because I drove you to work, but I was convinced it was Wednesday because Pepper rescheduled the newsletter. Fuck.” Natasha pales, but Wanda’s still confused. Wanda still doesn’t know that you haven’t been properly touched in a week, or shown any kind of affection really, and so while she has sympathy and concern for your state, and her heart aches wondering where she went wrong, she’s not picking up on what Natasha’s trying to get across to her.

“What?” Wanda stalks closer. She’s unbalanced, slightly wobbly, but she doesn’t let it bother her anymore than she can control. You’re her entire priority, her entire world, and Natahsa’s scaring her immensely the longer she dances around the truth in burning shame and personal disappointment.

“I.. the last time I touched her was Monday. Did you let her cum at all?” She whispers and Wanda’s face pales, it’s her turn to realize that they’ve neglected you for days after scenes that warranted aftercare all on their own, let alone when they were strung together so closely and pointedly. She’d wanted to drive you crazy, she’d wanted to fuel you up, but then life had gotten busy, and it’s no excuse, but she’d forgotten all about your sexual escapades because it was just easy to move on with you. You take what life throws at you, and you always do it with a smile on your face — even when it’s breaking you apart.

“No.” Wanda shakes her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder and tickles her cheek as it sways and shifts with the motion of her head. “No, I told you to let her cum. I thought you did. Oh, my baby.” Wanda frowns, rushing the bed with a desperate urge to feel you and protect you. She can see it now, what she couldn't before, or perhaps didn’t want to. The blind devotion, the emotional withdrawal, the attitude and bratting. All the signs were there in theory, but you were just too damn good and appealing to their every desire. You were too damn good at sacrificing yourself for them even when the entire premise of your relationship is to do exactly the opposite. “It’s all done, moya lyubov. All done. Come back to me.”

It doesn’t happen right away. Not for a couple of minutes. But, eventually you begin to recognize hands on your cheeks, and you recognize hands on your lower back and thighs. Wanda touches you everywhere; wherever you can reach. Natasha stays in one place, she never moves, never even brushes her thumbs against your cheeks to clear your tears, she just holds your cheeks and keeps your eyes on hers even when Wanda moves around in your perphieral vision.

The ginger appears entirely calm, cool, and collected in your peripheral and hazed sense of cognition, she always appears so perfectly put together, but you know that she’s not somewhere deep inside of you. That small voice of reason doesn’t find a way out in this moment, instead, you drown in the promise that Wanda knows what to do, that Natasha won’t let you fall, and that they’re the only things that exist in this entire world even if they’re mean. that’s all you can think. Mean, mean, mean. You’ve stopped crying, but then your bottom lip begins to tremble again, and Natasha makes quick work of shaking her head and guiding you back to calm collectedness.

“Can I ask you a question, honey bee?” Natasha whispers, scared to hurt you, to scare you, to break you anymore than you already has. She recalls how you’d flinched when Wanda slammed the door unnecessarily and her heart clenches. She should’ve stopped the scene then. She should’ve trusted her gut in that single moment and stopped before it got to this point. Before it broke you so sinfully. She may like to see you cry, but she hates when it’s because she’s hurt you, failed to see you fully like she promised she always would. She loves when you tremble, when you twitch and jerk beneath her, but not when it’s from anxiety, when it’s because you’re so on edge and wound up that you don’t even know how to regulate your own emotions without her full guidance and attention on you. Wanda fares no better, but she can handle the mistake with grace because she has to, but Natahsa’s one tear away from joining you in your deep pit of darkness — dom drop. Wanda’s about to be playing a dangerous game if she doesn’t get the both of you under wraps before chaos really ensues.

“Natalia.” Wanda cuts in, and your eyes shot to her in alarm, a whine falling off your lips at her harsh tone. Wanda melts beneath your attention, scooping you up into her arms and leaving Natasha alone on the bed and still half dressed. “Idi, perevedi dukh i prinesi yey stakan vody. Tebe nuzhno uspokoit'sya, poka ya ne poteryal i tebya, ladno? (Go take a breath, and get her a glass of water. You need to calm down before I lose you too, alright?)” Wanda lets the words fall out naturally, like it takes no effort to switch back to Sokovian Russian and dance with Natasha intimately and personally. It dazzles you, it’s the first true glimpse at relief you’ve felt, and Wanda’s not lost on how you always seem to fold whenever her native tongue or accent comes out. You’re worse when its Natasha, and there’s evidence in your reaction as you whine and melt into Natasha like you’re just a little kitten desperate for warmth.

“I’ll be right back, printsessa.” She whispers, and her words are husked with a twinge of Russian that drives you absolutely crazy and clears the fog in your head just a little bit, but not enough to earn your voice back or pull away from Wanda’s chest at all. You nod, blink slowly, and grab at Wanda’s bra strap desperately until your knuckles are white and there’s no chance she can leave.

“I’m sorry we didn’t realize sooner, angel.” Wanda whispers once Natasha is out of earshot. Natasha may not be an outwardly emotional person most times. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen her cry, but you’ve learned that she’s more sensitive to failure and human mistake than Wanda is. If you were any clearer headed, you would’ve recognized that she’s beating herself up over this, but you don’t, so instead you just accept Wanda’s apology and believe her when she follows up with a whisper of, “It’ll never happen again.”

When Natasha comes back, she’s carrying two glasses of water and a protein bar that she only makes you eat when you don’t have enough energy to fight her because you hate the chalky taste. She feels like an asshole for bringing it to you now, but she always worries about you eating enough, call it a Russian stereotype, and she definitely would have brought Wanda one if she thought the ginger would’ve humored her for a second and even grabbed the bar when she handed it over. You weren’t as tuned into your surroundings, your cheek flush against Wanda’s chest as you cuddle as close as you can into her, desperately leeching her warmth. That’s another sign she missed, or maybe wanted to ignore. You’re always hot, their little furnace, but the second she’d come up to you shivering and hiding beneath the yellow blanket, she should’ve known something was wrong. She can’t change it now, and she can tell that Wanda’s already amended all that she can when you’re still so floaty, so she doesn’t waste time on another apology when you’re only half awake as it is, mindlessly chomping your teeth together because she’d fed you a bite of the protein bar when your eyes were closed.

“Off.” The first word off off of your lips is a breathy plead for more contact with Wanda, and she doesn’t hesitate for a second before she’s reaching behind her and unclasping her bra with one hand, freeing her breast for you to cuddle into all while Natasha merely admires the sight like she’s never seen it before. Not Wanda’s breasts, although she does spare a couple of seconds to admire them, but just how tender you are with them, how you let yourself be loved and comforted even when they caused it. She doesn’t deserve you, but she cherishes that you picked her regardless of her worth.

“Take a sip of water.” Wanda coaches when Natasha raises the glass to your lips but you refuse to drink, keeping your lips firmly pressed together and your hands on her breasts, squeezing, touching, just trying to feel as much as she’ll let you. She shifts when your weight becomes too much for her thighs, pins and needles shooting through her limbs, and you gasp when your clit catches on her thigh, and you're reminded of the sensitivity that is simultaneously blinding need. “Nu uh, not tonight, my love. Tomorrow I’ll make it all better, but we’re all done tonight. You were so good for me, so good, but it’s time to rest, so have a sip of water, and then were going to lay down and rest our eyes. We’ve had a long week, huh? You just need some cuddles and sleep to make it all better. I know. I know everything, baby girl. You never have to think when I’m here, so just stop, okay? No more thoughts, take a sip of water.” Wanda pauses, waits for you to comply, and when you do, greedily gulping down half of the glass when you realize how thirsty you are, she smiles. “Good girl. Such a good girl, my perfect girl. My best girl. That’s it, one more and then we’re going to lay down.”

You push Natahsa’s hand away after the last sip you take, feeling full and probably very buoyant fi you tried to go for a swim out back, but you don’t even think to move when you realize you have to pee, or that Wanda and Natasha haven't peed yet despite always going after a scene. You don’t have the entry to remind them, and Wanda, the stickler of the two, doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t say anything that doesn’t need to be said. She guides you down into a laying position, soft and slow, cautious of the sensitivity in your head after so much crying. It makes you dizzy regardless, and you whine into her chest as she shifts and gets you comfortable.

“Shh, I know. I know. You’ve had such a long day, my brave girl. It’s all over now. All you need to do is close your eyes.” Wanda’s fingers tickle your back, gentle patterns that mean nothing but hold the potential of everything luring you to sleep until you jolt with sudden anxiety, reaching out for Natasha who seems too far away and too clothed.

“Off.” You huff again, and she laughs, but this time not like she did before, when it was cruel and mean and uncomfortable to handle and stand beneath without wilting. It’s soft now, charming, that laugh that fills you with light and love and energy, but there’s no energy right now. You’re tired, burnt out. You settle equally into her chest and Wanda’s when she takes her bra off, throwing it onto the floor to be added into the laundry later on along with your clothes and hers and Wanda’s that are still downstairs in the living room in a heap.

When your eyes finally close, and you fall asleep, you don’t wake up until one o’clock the next afternoon, but Wanda and Natasha are still beside you, wrapped up in bedsheets and t-shirts that drown them and conceal their chests from sunlight. For the night though, their skin is yours to feel fully beneath every inch of your body, because it had been far too long since they gave into this instinctive pleasure that keeps you all going. Never again would they let a week pass without prioritizing this — you. You’re everything to them, and Wanda tells Natasha as much before her eyes close, sleep winning the battle as you breathe deeply and evenly between them.

[swaqcenix]

Tell me why I'm currently writing a Valentina fanfic.. What's happening to me?

[swaqcenix]

ROUND 3 GUYS

[swaqcenix]

Grief is so hard y'all do not understand..