With a few more cuts and bruises than they'd left with, the super spy and the intern return, mostly unharmed.
Physically.
"You were reckless. You put everyone's life in danger. You didn't even belong there." When Natasha is angry, she speaks in quiet tones with rapid words. There is never yelling from the calm, cool, and collected spy, just cold.
Darcy, though, is a screamer, active and animated in everything she does, with her hands clenched in fists down by her knees, her face screwed up in anger and shame because she knows Natasha is right, completely and totally, but she cannot pull away now- Natasha is always right and Natasha always wins.
"Oh, booooo, Natasha! What're you gonna do? Spank your bad little girl?" Natasha's eyes flash and Darcy instantly regrets her words, instantly wishes she could take her mocking away, but before she can murmur a half-assed apology, the redhead is stalking away towards her library/study.
Good. She'll have time to cool down, and then Darcy could..
"Darcy!"
She never yells. Never. Cold terror builds in the pit of Darcy's stomach and she is frozen to the spot, unable to move.
"Darcy, don't make me call for you a third time!"
Almost obediently, Darcy pads downt he hall, more curious than anything else. The study is a strange place to the intern. She is not forbidden from it, but she leaves it to Natasha, thinking it more the domain of the older woman than somewhere she belonged. Cautiously peering in, she finds Natasha sitting straight-legged in a hardback chair, her face blank as she regards Darcy.
"Come." A pale finger curls and Darcy concedes, shuffling across the hardwood floor to stand infront of Natasha, full of confusion and uncertainty.
"Lay across my lap."
"What? Nat, you can't be ser-"
"Darcy. Lay. Across. My. Lap. I will not tell you again." Natasha is ferocious, her voice a quiet, low hiss and there is no doubt in Darcy's mind that if she does not do as Natasha says, it will not end well for her.
It never does.
With as much grace as she can manage (it isn't much, Darcy ever the clumsy one), she settles herself down across Natasha's legs, stomach down, so that her bottom was displayed to the spy. Warm fingers dance under the edge of Darcy's skirt, dancing along the pale, smooth skin of Darcy's thighs before there's a rush of cold, and the skirt (along with Darcy's Day-of-the-Week panties) are gone, tangled down around her knees.
Silence for one whole moment, a second that felt like a marbeled eternity.
And then it happened.
A swift strike, firm, upon Darcy's right buttock. It didn't quite sting- but the first one never did. Darcy hardly has a chance to take a breath before the flat of Natasha's hand lands on the other ass cheek, harder this time. And again. Again. Over and over, the target spaces alternating, and each strike built upon the last, growing stronger.
Darcy has watched those fragile-looking hands break a man's jaw, and now they unleash on her, the pain bright and unforgiving until, finally, she thinks there cannot be anymore pain, her teeth clenched together, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
She yelps.
And then, Natasha relaxes.
"Do you know why you're being punished?" Her voice is smooth and fair, but not kind. Darcy knows she deserves it.
"I was stupid."
"You were foolish." Natasha affirmed. "You could have killed people. You could have killed yourself. Do you understand?"
Silently, Darcy nods.
It is not enough.
"Do you understand, Darcy?"
Blue eyes pressed closed and the tears that had collected trailed down her cheeks.
"Yes, Natasha."
Those fingers that had caused so much pain were suddenly soft, stroking gently across the curve of Darcy's ass, which ached and burned. Soothing, she traces circles in the red skin, and Darcy melts against the touch. It's over as suddenly as it began, however, and Natasha is leaning away from the younger woman.
"Clean yourself up, Darcy, and then I will show you how fortunate it is to be good."