author’s note: decided to actually go through with it and write a threesome with cassie and baran..god my horny ass thoughts were on something, but i DESPERATELY need them both, please please please
It’s been a stressful work day, you’re gathering up your things before leaving the hospital to head back home. You just needed to relax, especially after being juggled around by Baran and Cassie between patients. It was obvious that the other nurses knew you had a crush on the both of them, but you shook your head as you began to walk towards the exit of the hospital to leave after clocking out of your shift.
In the corners of your eyes, you can see both Baran and Cassie chatting it up with your fellow nurses then next thing you heard were the words, “Yeah, she liked you both for a while now but she feels..guilty about the entire thing.” followed by your name and you froze in place. Holy shit.
“Come here for a moment, yeah?” Cassie said, you sighed and turned to walk towards them—your gaze on the floor, refusing to look up when you got close.
Baran pinched your cheek, her thumb grazing your bottom lip as she tilted your chin up with her index finger. “Is it true? You have a crush on both Dr. McKay and I?” Her voice stern.
Your eyes widened, your eyes gazing between the both of them—not wanting to say anything, you were struggling to find the right words. “Someone’s awfully quiet, I bet you she probably has wet dreams about the both of us.” Cassie teased, patting your shoulder and your face immediately turned red.
“I do not, that’s absolutely absurd.” You replied, you grabbed Baran’s hand and moved it away from your chin then looked at Princess, glaring your eyes at her as if telling her that she’s dead to you. Baran raised a brow at that, her arms folded now as she stared at you then back at Cassie.
“Can the two of you quit staring like you’re about to pounce at me?” You shook your head as you began to walk away, back towards the exit but instead of proceeding to walk out of the hospital—you found your body standing there frozen, then suddenly you turned back around and approached both Baran and Cassie.
Next thing you knew, you were back at your apartment with both Baran and Cassie—Baran’s front pressed against your back as you rode Cassie’s strap, your hips stuttering slightly as you felt Baran’s fingers rubbing your clit, a faint cry escaping from your lips.
“Oh god, oh my god—” you panted, your head pressed against Cassie’s shoulder, her hands guiding your movements as the tip of her strap kissed your sweet spot with every thrust of her hips up into you. Your walls began to flutter around the toy, the sounds of the bed creaking filling up the bedroom followed by..a buzzing sound?
You move your head from Cassie’s shoulder, turning your head to see Baran holding a vibrator in her hand and your eyes widened. Baran brushed her lips against your ear, dragging the vibrator down to where you and Cassie are connected.
“Deep breaths, sweet girl.” She cooed, you whined and jolted slightly as you felt the vibrator pressed against your clit. Your entire body trembling, your orgasm building up rapidly by the second. A loud groan escaped from Cassie’s lips, she could feel your walls fluttering around her once more. One of her hands trailed up to your breasts, her fingers pinching, twisting, and pulling on a peaked nipple while Baran’s lips pressed gentle kisses against your neck. A loud gasp filled up the room when you felt her teeth biting down into your neck, her tongue licking where she bit to soothe the pain.
“I can’t— oh fuck, I’m cumming!” You sobbed, your orgasm washing over you in an instant, your breathing heavy as you went limp against Cassie. Your eyes fluttering shut for a moment, catching your breath, the sounds of heavy breathing in the room now followed by a faint buzzing sound. Baran pulled the vibrator from between your legs, turning it off and tossing it to the side before her hands found your waist—helping you off of Cassie’s strap, placing you down carefully on the bed, your back on the mattress.
“Eyes on us,” Cassie whispered, you slowly opened your eyes at her voice after coming down from your high, your cheeks flushed, sweat beads on your forehead. “Do you know where you keep your towels at, sweetheart?” Cassie asked, you weakly nodded your head.
“In the closet in my bathroom,” you replied faintly. Cassie nodded her head, getting up from the bed but before she walked away—her lips brushed against Baran’s ear, whispering something in her ear. You couldn’t hear what was said, but as soon as Cassie disappeared into the bathroom, you can see a smirk tugging on the corners of Baran’s lips.
Baran’s eyes glanced towards yours, “Ever been tied up before?” She whispered, she reached over to your nightstand—opening the drawer and reaching in there, grabbing a rope as her eyes stared at the other toys you had in the drawer.
“Kinky much?” She closed the drawer, grabbing your wrists and pinned them above your head then grabbed the rope. She made two loops, overlapping and passing each loop through the other by their opposite edges, then pulled on the loops out up to match the size of your wrists before putting your wrists through the loops and tightening them to complete the knot.
Your eyes widened in surprise, your eyes staring into Baran's as she settles herself between your legs—her body hovering over yours. She pulled you into a deep kiss, her tongue sliding into your mouth while her hands explored every curve and dip as if you were an art piece. She pulled away from the kiss, her lips dragging down to your jaw planting harsh kisses along your jaw before moving down to your neck. Her teeth grazed your pulse point before biting down, leaving a faint red mark in its waking.
Your back arched against the mattress, a faint gasp leaving your lips. You watched as she moved down your body, planting kisses wherever she could place them before she settled her head between your legs. You heard footsteps again, Cassie walking back into the bedroom with a small towel in her hand. When Cassie saw Baran's face between your legs, she paused for a moment with a raised brow.
"Going down on her without me here to watch? Bold move, Al-Hashimi." She said, she began to move again towards the bed—placing the towel on your forehead to clean the sweat off then tossed it into the laundry hamper.
Baran groaned at Cassie's sentence, pulling her face out from between your legs to look at her with annoyance. "You got to fuck her with your strap, let me have this for once, yeah? She's mine as of right now." She replied before diving back between your legs, her hot breath against your clit and you whined desperately—your hips trying to buck up against her mouth, needing friction this instant.
A smirk curled on Baran's lips, she instantly laughed at you for trying to buck your hips up against her mouth. Her hands moved to your hips, pressing you down against the mattress to keep you still. "So whiny and needy, one orgasm wasn't enough for you?" She teased then suddenly; her mouth was on you. Her tongue swiping one filthy stroke up against your pussy slowly, your head immediately tossing back against the pillow.
"Oh god.." you gasped, her tongue pressing against your clit; her mouth latching against you hard.
The sounds of obscene wet noises filling up the room followed by your whines, then suddenly the word "mommy" slipped out from your lips and Baran froze while a groan escaped from Cassie's lips. She pulled back, her eyes looking up at yours from between your legs. Fuck.
"Say that again." Baran breathed, "Call me that name again." You shook your head, refusing to give in, and Baran couldn't help but laugh at that.
"Oh? Quiet now, are we? Fine, but you don't get to cum until you call me that name again." She said, then she dove right back in—her tongue working fast against your clit and pumping two fingers inside your entrance without any warning.
A loud cry filled up the room in a heartbeat, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure began to take over you completely. Your chest rising and falling fast, your heart pounding hard in your chest, heat building up fast in your lower abdomen. You were close and she knew, but she wasn't going to allow you to fall over. "Oh fuck, oh g—" you were cut off at sudden feeling of her fingers suddenly slowing down, not enough to help you push you over the edge and you whined.
"Fuck, Baran please!" You protested, your hips bucking against her hand and mouth trying to chase your release. She shook her head, a smirk curling on her lips as she heard your pleas, "Call me that name again or I stop." You whined even more at that, but with no other choice, you gave in.
"God, mommy please—" you whimpered, Baran immediately caved in—her fingers pumping in and out of you fast, her lips sucking hard against your clit. Her fingers curled hard against your g-spot, a broken sob ripping out from your throat as she continued to curl her fingers relentlessly: instantly pushing you to the edge.
That second orgasm had you seeing stars, your head immediately going dizzy, your legs clamping shut around Baran's head while her fingers and tongue slowed down; helping you come down from your high. After you came back into reality, Baran withdrew her fingers that were now coated in your juices as she got up from between your legs. Cassie leaned over, untying the rope from around your wrists then reached over to grab Baran's wrist, taking Baran's fingers into her mouth sucking your cum off and moaning at the taste.
After cleaning off Baran's fingers, Cassie climbed into bed—pulling you between you and Baran, her fingers tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "That's it, such a sweet girl..let both of your mommies take care of you now." She cooed as she glanced at Baran, smiling at one another before returning their attention back to their sweet girl.
or: the one where you finally discover the limits of cassie’s patience
cw: age gap relationship (cassie is 42, r is in her early 20s), med student!reader, porn with very little plot but it’s kind of long, brat!reader, brat tamer!cassie, bottom!reader, top!cassie, butch!cassie always and forever, spanking (r!receiving), dirty talk, mean dom!cassie, degradation kink (r!receiving), praise kink (r!receiving), strap-sucking (cassie!receiving), pussy eating (cassie!receiving), face-fucking (r!receiving), ‘jesus christ’ used but neither of u r religious and it’s not used in a religious context, fucking with the strap (r!receiving), face down ass up, a lil dacryphilia??, rough sex, daddy kink, overstimulation (r!receiving), squirting, cassie’s a lil ooc im sorry i got carried away🥹 a little bit of aftercare at the end, only proofread once cuz im tired lmfao bear with me pls
Remember when I said you loved to tease the shit out of Cassie, seldom getting an entertaining reaction out of her but doing it nonetheless? Yeah, today was the day you discovered the extent of said reactions, just how entertaining they can get.
She wasn’t even in a bad mood— you’ve just been playing in her face all day, like you always do. Deliberately selecting the skimpiest indoor attire to walk around in, occasionally adding a painfully slow bend towards the floor when you just happen to be standing with your back to her; letting a poorly suppressed giggle escape as you feel her ogle at your ass, before standing up straight and strutting to another room of her flat. You’ve been downright insufferable for the past 12 hours of her off-day; not in the way that rained on her parade, but the way that set her on flames from the inside out— like a Spanish bull being tantalized by crimson cloth. Her last straw was when you decided to make it clear to her that you were braless under that camisole top, raising a shoulder and letting the left strap slip down to reveal a shadowy sliver of your areola. And you had the sheer fucking audacity to snicker at her under your breath, like testing the boundaries of her patience was most exhilarating.
And yes, usually she had an uncanny tolerance for your shenanigans— experiencing rehab, jail-time, a childish ex-husband, an actual child, and a restraining order by she-who-must-not-be-named indeed does numb you into a monk over time. But even monks have their limits…hers just happened to be a little brat half her age whom she loved very dearly. Who also happened to be getting on her last nerve right now.
McKay wasn’t the type to play the game with you; she humors you, lets you poke and prod and tease, which typically led to one of two outcomes: your act crumbling in the face of your neediness and pushing you to beg, or her getting fed up and giving you what you want times ten. Both paths ended with you getting plowed into the mattress, but one could get much…crueler than the other. You were about to find out just how much, though.
And it’s safe to say that you were succeeding, much to Cassie’s dismay (not really). She marched into the living room, only to see you lounging on your stomach, back slightly arched, emphasizing your short-clad asscheeks. You were casually scrolling through your phone as you swung your legs languidly, no indication that you’ve taken note of her commanding presence other than a tiny smirk playing at your lips. All you did was shift your hips subtly to place her attention on your body (as if it wasn’t already on there), and go back to fixating on TikTok— that dumb app that seemed to consume your generation in swarms.
“Enjoying yourself?” Cassie asked pointedly, her eyes boring into the back of your skull until you were forced to divert your attention to her.
“Very much,” You answered with an innocent smile.
“Yeah, I can tell.” She edged closer, which marked the beginning of a battle for your composure.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me, baby,” The older woman hummed, now leaning over and casting a shadow over your outstretched body. The ravenous look in her eyes made you gulp.
“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do, hon,” She chuckled dangerously. She approached the curve of your back with her index finger, tracing a slow, torturous line along your spine and narrowing her eyes when you shivered.
“Surely you don’t think I’m that dense, do you?” Her hand arrived at the top of your ass as her rhetorical registered in your brain, groping the now slightly tensed flesh there intently.
“N-No…”
Her hand relaxed on top of your right asscheek for a few seconds, before she lifted it and landed a sudden, uncharacteristically hard smack on your skin, prompting a startled yelp from you. “Can’t fucking hear you. Give me a full sentence.”
“No, I don’t think you’re dense,” You breathed out, your tone growing unusually meek given that bratty streak you’ve been on lately.
“Damn right I’m not, good girl,” She grunted, shooting you a wolfish grin as she palmed your asscheek through the fabric of your shorts.
“Aww, why so tense, sweetheart?” The mocking tone of her coo made you squirm.
“I-I’m not te–“ The denial earned you a second, harsher smack, on your left asscheek this time. Your precedented squeal was followed by a weak glare over your shoulder, to which Cassie responded with a smug raise of her brows.
“Maybe it’s because things aren’t going as smoothly as you want them to,” The redhead mused. “Am I right?”
You resorted to shaking your head and mumbling something unintelligible under your breath, but then her other hand reached towards your face and firmly steered your chin to face her.
“You look at me while I’m talking to you,” She snapped, smushing your cheeks in her grip. “And you say your words loud and clear. I shouldn’t have to remind you, sweet girl.”
You gulped yet again, feeling the tormenting heat blossoming between your legs more than ever now, and decided to go down with your ship. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cass.”
“Oh? You don’t?” Cassie spoke slowly, her voice gaining a taunting lilt as her hand descended along your ass, until it was cupping your warm pussy through the seam of your shorts. “This right here says otherwise, baby.”
That earned a strangled, very telling little noise from the base of your throat, as you struggled to keep your eyes on hers.
“It doesn’t say shit,” You managed feebly.
“Does it not?” Cassie sneered. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I take a little look to see for myself.” Before you could protest, McKay was forcefully tugging your shorts down over your ass, and huffing out a snarling laugh at the unmistakable, wet stain on your panties.
“Doesn’t say shit, my ass,” She jeered, poking at your hole through the cotton and making you whine. “Can’t believe you have the nerve to lie to my face with this going on in your pants, babe.”
“Just do something about it!” You hissed with a mix of frustration and neediness, your facade falling apart at the seams. But of course, she won’t comply. All she did was fake a scandalized gasp and give your pantie-clad cunt a rough spank.
“Is this how we ask for nice things, honey?” She scolded you, tugging your underwear until your slick pussy lips and asscheeks were swallowing the fabric. “Jesus, what have I been teaching you this whole time? Huh? Tell me.”
Your cheeks burned with humiliation, knowing that you had no other choice but to answer her. “To say please…”
Apparently it wasn’t enough for her, because she gave your pussy another spank— this time, landing dead on your clit. “And what else?”
“Shit, Cass!” You cried out, turning to scowl at her. “And to say thank you…but to be fair, you haven’t given me anything to thank you for yet–“
“Fix your face,” She barked, forcing you to relax your brows. “And if you keep talking like this, I really won’t give you shit.” You recognized the half-lie. It’s not like Cassie could ever completely deny you your pleasure…but the other half, the true part, is that she can prolong it for a torturous amount of time, just to break you. “Now, what do we say?”
“…Sorry.”
“For what?” She gave you another stinging spank, making you groan.
“For being a brat…”
“Be more specific, hon.” You wanted to strangle her with your bare hands.
“For being an ungrateful brat…and lying.”
She snickered at your begrudging apology, and all you could really do about it was simmer stilly in your debasement. “I fear sorry won’t cut it, baby,” She pouted, moving your hair to the side and loosely clamping her hand on the back of your neck. “You’ll just have to learn that your actions have consequences, won’t you?” With that, she tugged you up so you were off the couch and on your feet.
“Bedroom. You know what to do.” She sent you away with a final pinch to your ass, glowering lustfully at you as you disappeared into the dimly-lit hallway. You couldn’t help but tremble a little on your way to her room— Cassie was stern, yes, but she wasn’t mean…was she? No matter how much you teased her, she never really “cracked”. While she did eventually have enough and fuck the shit out of you, she wasn’t this…demeaning about it. Quite the opposite, as Cassie McKay loved praising you. But you had to be honest with yourself, this new and intensified side of her had you feeling sticky between the legs.
The minute you had finished stripping, Cassie seemingly materialized out of thin air. You yelped and hugged your arms over your bare tits defensively, loosening up a little when you saw your girlfriend staring at you in the dark.
“What, you thought I was an intruder?” She muttered sarcastically, smirking at you before gently smacking your hands away from your chest. “And stop doing that. I’ve already seen you like this more times than we can both count, babe.” The pet name slipping from the tip of her tongue, typically sweet and endearing, felt belittling in the best way now.
She circled you like a lioness, giving you a once-over and wolf-whistling at your nude body. When you pressed your thighs together in increasing anticipation, she cackled and slapped them apart. “Look at you, baby,” She remarked almost flirtatiously, if not for the menacing lilt in her tone. “You’re trouble through and through…not to mention in trouble.” She took obvious notice of your embarrassingly wet pussy, reaching down and spreading your syrupy, soft lips apart with her index and middle fingers. “And look at this…you not ashamed of yourself, sweetheart?”
All you could do in response was mewl weakly, knees threatening to lock as she massaged your pussy lips and moved inwards. She scoffed at your very telling lack of words, languidly dipping the tips of her two fingers in your wet hole and withdrawing them just as slow.
“Oh, now you don’t have anything to say?” Cassie tutted. Without waiting for a sound from you, she assertively grabbed your shoulder and pushed you to your knees, right over that Persian rug she has spread out near the foot of her bed.
“I’m not giving it to you this easily, hon,” She muttered, the corner of her lips twitching at the beggarly look in your glossy eyes. She tilted your chin up, and bent forwards to bring her face closer to yours. “You wanna get fucked? You give me a show first. Show me how sorry you are.”
You almost thought, for a split second, that she was gonna let you eat her out— the thought triggered an influx of saliva from your glands. But then you noticed the faint bulge near the seam of her sweatpants. Oh.
The look of realization dawning upon you made her grin widen, as she pulled the strap-on dildo out of her pants. 7 inches. Opaque. A dark, navy color. Slightly curved. The boxer type, because Cassie found the harnesses on her first strap very uncomfortable and didn’t appreciate the chafing they left her with.
She didn’t have to tell you what to do, or when to start. One look from her was enough. You reluctantly leaned closer, capturing the phallic tip between your lips and giving it a slow suck. You could feel her sigh as you did this, one of her ringed hands traveling down to cup the back of your head without pushing…yet.
“Suck, baby,” She murmured under her breath, slightly tipping her chin up when you gradually took the dildo deeper and deeper into your mouth. It wasn’t long before you were bobbing your head along the length of it, slicking it with your spit as you eased it into your throat. You only pulled away to dribble on the artificial vein on its left side and encircle it with your hand to “jerk it off”. She wanted a show, didn’t she?
Clearly, that seems to do the trick for McKay, because she swallowed back a low groan and pushed your head down with her hand until you let out a reflexive gag— which only made her thirstier for your debauchery. “There you go,” She huffed softly, her rings getting tangled with your hair as she fisted it roughly. “Good, fucking whore.” The blend between praise and degradation made you choke against the silicone and squirm on your knees. It’s not that Cassie never dabbled in verbal belittlement in the bedroom, but it felt more intense right now…and you liked it.
Apparently, she could tell you liked it too, because a twisted smile carved itself onto her face, utter amusement in your humiliation dancing in her eyes. “Oh, you like that shit?” She pressed your head down further, forcing you to deepthroat the toy while she delighted in the way you gagged around it. “You like being called a whore, baby? My whore?” She knew you couldn’t give her an intelligible response, and yet she asked anyway. The best you were able to do was give her a muffled whine.
“I know you do,” She cooed, now pulling at your hair instead of just gripping it. “You should see how pretty you look like this, baby…like a dirty, little slut.” Another writhe of your hips drew her attention further down, to where your poor, neglected pussy was drooling all over her carpet. She barked out a laugh at the sight.
“Isn’t that right? My dirty little girl, getting all hot during her apology…Christ, what would your mother say?” Frankly, you didn’t want to think about your mother and her opinions while you were blowing the strap that has been inside you countless times, and she knew it. She was just tormenting you, adding yet another layer to your punishment.
“So fucking easy,” She hissed, shoving your head down until your nose pressed against a sliver of her auburn pubes (thank fuck the boxer briefs were slipping at the right angle) and your lips met the base of the strap— and held you there. You gagged, trembled, tried to move your head instinctively, but her hold on you was too strong.
“Relax,” She grunted. “Breathe through your nose, sweetheart.” A few, more choked sounds from you made her snicker quietly. She held you there for a few seconds before pulling you off, groaning at the way you heaved and got drool all over your neck and tits. Just as she was about to pull you back in, she’s suddenly aware of the shifting, damp weight on her right food. You pause as soon as she gets a good look at what you were doing, but it’s too late.
“Oh, you shameless slut,” She laughs in disbelief, prompting a dry sob of abashment from you. She takes a step back and drags you by the hair, forcing you to lean forwards. “Don’t even think about it.” It really was stupid of you to even think you can pull it off inconspicuously. Not on Cassie McKay’s watch. You were barely a grind in before she caught you.
“What did I tell you, hm?” She tutted. “You’re not getting what you want this easily, dirty girl. Need to really know that you’re sorry.”
“Then let me show you!” You cried out, desperation digesting you from the inside out as you pawed at the waistband of the boxers. Your intentions were crystal clear. Cassie simply raised a brow at you, letting you tug the boxer briefs with the spit-soaked attachment down her legs to reveal her glistening, bushy pussy. However, she made it a point to hold you back from putting your mouth on her (for now).
“Yeah? You wanna apologize for real now?”
“Yes, yes! Just– fuck! Just let me, please!” The way your voice heightened in pitch and your hands shook as they gripped her mildly-striped thighs, it was all too pathetic for Cassie to ever deny you. She planned on being even meaner than this, but the look in your eyes, wrecked with need, was softening her demeanor more than she let on.
McKay muttered a soft “fuck” under her breath, and finally released her grip on your head. As an immediate consequence, you unceremoniously shoved your face between her legs.
Your tongue quickly found home in her slit, the pink muscle writhing against your girlfriend’s moist, sensitive skin in such a way that it made her gasp and fist your hair again. You only moaned quietly against her pussy, head languidly swiveling from side to side to aid your tongue. You could spend centuries down there, sucking and licking at her cunt while listening to the combined lewdness of her groans and the sticky, slurping noises that accompanied your actions.
“Holy shit,” She exhaled sharply, pressing herself flush against your face. “Just like that, baby– oh, you’re so hungry, aren’t you?”
Your hum was the only indication that you were listening to her, eyes half-lidded in a pussy-drunk haze as your tongue prodded her whole, using your index and middle fingers to part her labia for easier access.
“Fucking–“ She gasped, now fully grinding her pussy on your face, her coarse hair tickling the bridge of your nose and the apples of your cheeks. “Don’t fucking stop, I swear to god– you’re not getting shit if you stop.” She didn’t even need to threaten you with a lack of orgasm; you’d eat her out for free forever, because getting to taste her and unravel her like this is all the reward you need. You decided to introduce your index and middle to her hole at this point, sliding them in deep but only pressing down on her walls while you feasted on her flesh. Her moans grew louder in response, and you smiled against her smugly.
You kept at it, inhaling her musk in deep, making content little noises as you flicked at her clit and suckled on her sensitive outer lips. God, you could die in utter bliss here. The last thing you’d feel is her inner thighs clamping down on both sides of your head, her soft skin engulfing you as she cried out and soaked your face with her pearly, viscous essence…which she was doing right now.
You were left elatedly lightheaded, higher on her than on any drug you ever imagined while she asphyxiated you with her sopping flesh. Cassie let out a final, broken moan, before pulling you off of her and taking in the mess she made out of you: drenched from nose to chin in her cum, your cheeks dusted with the slightest hint of red as you stared up at her with a dazed, fucked-out smile— fucked-out despite her not even touching you yet. All of that just because she let you drink her like ambrosia.
“Good, fucking bitch,” She panted, detangling her fingers from your hair to cup your jaw. “You liked that, huh? I know you did.”
You barely got a nod in before she was pulling you to your feet. The gentleness of her hands almost fooled you for a hot second, until she pushed you face-first into the bed.
“I think you’ve apologized enough, no?” You almost cried in relief at that statement, arching your back in anticipation and looking over your shoulder.
“Please, Cass…” She cooed at your pleas, advancing towards you until she was kneeing the mattress. Now looming over you from behind, she took a moment to run her fingers through your mortifyingly wet pussy, guffawing at the ease in which the tips of her fingers dipped into your hole.
“Don’t even need to prep you, do I?” Cassie teased, rubbing your sticky cunt lazily. “You’re fucking flooded down there…” She gave your mess a few, mean slaps, making you jerk and squeak. Before you could beg her once more, you felt the tip of her strap swim shallowly up and down your spread pussy. She must’ve put the boxer briefs back on after tossing you onto the bed like a ragdoll.
“On three,” She declared, and you can hear the predatory grin in her voice.
“Seriously?”
“One…Two–“ You should’ve seen it coming. She cuts herself off before three by breaking into your pussy with one, deep thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs.
“Fuck!”
“Ouff, big stretch,” Cassie taunted with faux saccharinity, as she began fucking you at a slow, punishing pace. She would sluggishly pull out until you were only clenching around the tip, before slamming back in hard and all the way. A choked moan, followed by the sound of her ringed hand coming down on your asscheeks.
“Make some noise for me, baby.” She emphasized her demand by sharpening the snap of her hips against your ass, drawing out soft little cries from you as you got adjusted.
“Cassie– fuck!” Every single sound you made, every syllable you somehow managed to utter, all of it only made her go both faster and harder. Four minutes in, and she was jackhammering into your pussy like she wanted to gut you.
“Shit,” You gasped wetly, your fingers almost tearing at the seams of the pillow you were hugging. The feeling of her soft tummy and thighs slapping against your tender flesh as she pummeled you with the silicone dick was crossing the wires in your brain. At some point, your thoughts went from mildly scattered to being all about McKay and how good she was plowing you, nothing else. You couldn’t even hold yourself up anymore, arms giving out and landing your face in the puffed cotton.
“There it is,” Cassie snarled, one hand leaving your hips to grab your poor hair again and lift your upper body back off the mattress. Her shadow loomed over you as she pounded you into oblivion, every thrust marked with a loud, wet “plap!” that echoed within the walls of the moonlit bedroom. It felt like she was going harder and harder with every passing minute.
She was so deep inside you, it made your head reel. You could feel her in your stomach, and apparently she sensed that too, because her hand abandoned your hair and tucked itself under your armpit and over your bouncing tits to keep you nearly upright— then she snaked her palm down to press against the barely visible, mobile bulge just below your tummy.
A sharp cry emerged from your chest, and she smirked darkly. “You’re so full, aren’t you?” She purred in your ear, pressing down again. “You like being full of my dick, sweetheart?”
“Fuck, da– Cass!” Oh no.
Somehow, it was feasible in your little scrambled egg of a brain at the moment to pray to whatever deity out there that she didn’t catch it. But you could already tell from the way her thrusts slowed for a moment that she indubitably did.
Fuck. You felt the shivers shoot up your spine at merely the sensation of her smirk widening into a feral grin.
“What was that?” She asked with faux innocence, but the assertiveness in her tone was unmistakable.
“…I didn’t–“ Your attempt at a full sentence was interrupted by a toe-curling snap of her hips, making your eyes roll back and your brain fluid (metaphorically) leak from your skull.
“Say it,” She commanded, freshly-clipped fingernails on one hand biting at the flesh of your ass, nipping at the thin skin of your throat on the other.
You let out a humiliated whine, knowing your fate was unavoidable.
“Say it, or I swear to god I’ll fucking stop and have you use the pillow to cum,” She threatened lowly, the idea making you shake your head vehemently. You were too far gone to be able to get off with the corner of your fucking pillow.
So you decided to sacrifice your ego this time, yet again.
“…Daddy.” It was pathetic, mortifyingly so. Your voice was slightly hoarse from all that moaning, and timid from being cornered into this new level of submission.
Cassie huffed out a quiet chuckle, which grew into a mean cackle. She shook her head with a sigh, inhaling the now sweaty musk of your neck before her lips found the outer shell of your left ear.
“Daddy, huh?” She said quietly, the fingers around your throat squeezing the sides ever so slightly. “That what you want, slut? You want your daddy?” She urged you to respond with a sharp slap to your ass.
You groaned at the added sting to your already tender skin, and forced out a meek “yes”.
“Yes, what?” You tried to look over your shoulder and give her a scathing glare, but her hand traveled up until it was cupping your jaw securely and keeping your head forwards. It was your final straw, the last thing your defiant resolve needed to crumble into compliance.
“Yes, daddy.”
“Atta girl,” She hissed. It was such a difference from who Cassie McKay usually was, inside our outside the bedroom. She always was dominant— it was down to the way she fucking breathed. But she was typically gentle about it. There was nothing gentle about the flame-haired woman at the moment, and you can’t lie and say you weren’t welcoming this new face of hers with open arms…and legs.
She immediately resumed her thrusts after this, her tempo intensifying to the point where you were sobbing and clawing at the sheets. The squelching noises of the strap sinking deep into your slick, velvety pussy and withdrawing with a tormenting roughness, hitting your cervix nearly every single time.
“Daddy!” You squealed tearily, now far too brainless to feel ashamed.
“Take it,” She managed through gritted teeth, pulling and pushing your hips along the phallic plastic brutishly and terrorizing your sweet spot. “Fucking take it, bitch.”
She then proceeded to clamp a strong hand over your wailing mouth, wetting it with your drool and tears as she shoved two of her fingers through your lips at the same time.
“I have neighbors, honey,” She grunted gruffly, never once stopping her assault on your sopping cunt. “You don’t want them to hear you getting your shit rocked by your daddy, do they?”
You couldn’t even answer her with words, because you were too busy gagging on the tips of her fingers and crying over how good she was fucking you.
“Yeah,” She snorted, bottoming out and grinding her round hips in a circle against your ass just to hear you make that sound between a gargle and a whimper. “Breathe through it, baby.”
She pulled back out teasingly slow, then shoved the fake cock back in almost violently, laughing when she felt you scream against her hand. “Holy fucking shit…”
You were now completely broken in, brainless and babbling unintelligibly against the palm of her hand while she fucked the living daylights out of you. The only thing you had in mind was chasing your orgasm, that high that bathed you with euphoria. So naturally, you began to meet her ruthless thrusts with your hips, fucking yourself back on the strap like you’re at risk of being left high and dry.
But Cassie didn’t appreciate that. Of course she didn’t.
In any other circumstance, she’d encourage you to seek your pleasure through this if you must, but this was not any other circumstance. Mumbling something under her breath, she shoved your face back into the pillows, planted her hands back on your ass with an iron grip, and bulldozed her dick into your tight cunt like she was planning on impaling you.
Your heaving sobs of overwhelming pleasure quickly turned into wet cries for more, muffled by her ever-persistent palm.
“Mmmph! Harder please– shit, please, daddy–“
“Jesus Christ,” Cassie panted, plastering her front to your arched back. “You’re a fucking slut.” The degradation only made you drool copiously against her fingers, your whole body bouncing with the severity of her pace. You could feel it, and she could feel it too (somehow). The feral desperation growing in your weeps, the way your shoulder blades tensed against her hard, leaky nipples, the curl of your toes and the scratch of your nails against the papery sheets…
You were getting closer and closer, and she was adamant on getting you there in the most broken condition possible.
It really didn’t take long. There wasn’t much of a dramatic buildup, given how needy you had been this whole time. You cried out gutturally as the high hit you hard, barely even feeling the slick, translucent cream that coated the navy silicone, or Cassie’s snarls of encouragement in your ear.
Just as you were coming back down, you noticed that your vision was still of the pillows, ascending and descending in a recognizable pattern. Your body was still rocking. Cassie hadn’t stopped once. You could sense that she came in the boxer briefs, considering her thrusts were sloppier and her voice was breathier, but she wasn’t stopping.
Cassie McKay was still fucking the everliving shit out of you, and your stretched hole was starting to burn with the consequences.
“C-Cassie, wait–“
“Not my name, hon,” She jeered quietly, absolutely slaughtering your walls with that stupid hunk of plastic. The stupid hunk of plastic that was currently conquering you, rendering you incapable of coherent thought or speech.
“D-Daddy,” You managed through weak sniffles, the overstimulation beginning to ache so good. “Too much, please–“
“You’re giving me another one.” You didn’t even know if that was possible. Well, of course it physically is, but it definitely didn’t feel like it for you.
“I can’t!”
“Yes, you can, baby,” Cassie rasped, dragging your hips to meet her erratic thrusts. “You can, and you will. Just one more f’me.”
Your upper body stayed limp against the mattress as she fucked you, broken snivels and scratchy moans being the only noises indicating your wakefulness as she slid in and out of your sensitive, swollen slit. Every pinch at your nipples, smack on your ass, motion of the strap, every single form of contact from her set your nerves aflame and soaked your pillow with your oceanic tears. When you did come a second time, it was mind-numbing; you couldn’t even scream, only gasp sharply at the blazing bliss as your knees finally gave out and let you collapse fully on the springy mattress. You could hear the sea in your ears, splashing warmly on a hot summer night, just like that night you spent with Cassie on the beach after a draining shift…
It took your girlfriend’s exhale of disbelief for you to realize that you were, in fact, not at the beach.
You were hardly able to lift your head to meet her gaze, brain still molten and sloshing within the confines of your skull as you slowly began to recover.
“Holy shit, baby,” She laughed breathlessly, shuffling into your line of view. You saw her shine with something undoubtedly wet from the hips down, and you slowly put two and two together.
“Holy shit,” McKay repeated, looking down at her abdomen for what you guessed was the millionth time. “You fucking– you squirted.” What if you just died? melted into the mattress until you were nothing but cotton and springs?
Boy, you wished you could speak right now. Instead, you resorted to throwing the pillow at her head with as much force as you could muster (which was not a lot) and scowling at her, trying very hard to ignore the rising heat in your face. She caught the flying sack of comfort and tossed it aside with a look of sheer delight.
“I didn’t even know you could do this,” She grinned toothily, giving your hip a soft pat and cooing as you jerked a little. “As if you couldn’t get any sexier…” You could already see the influx of fucked ideas streaming into her head.
While she cleaned you up, she was all soft kisses and sweet nothings; praise, praise, and nothing but praise. Touches featherlight and accompanied by sincere, whispered apologies whenever they made you wince out of hypersensitivity.
But you knew what your kind, gentle, patient butch was capable of now. And you learned your most important lesson of the day: never tease Cassie McKay for a continuous 12 hours.
Or do, and enjoy suffer the consequences of your actions.
A/N: she’s backkkk😛 i wrote this at a family bbq and felt too embarrassed to post right away but i decided to persevere bc this platform doesn’t have enough cassie smut and i feel like it’s my soul’s duty to change that…anw this was supposed to be released in honor of the new episode but i bawled my eyes out during that one and barely heard mckay speak so i guess not x
summary: in the midst of the chaos of the emergency department, you get injured. fortunately for you, your girlfriend is a nurse. unfortunately for you, and her, no one’s told her you’ve been hurt.
word count: 2.4k
tags: mention of an age gap; fem reader; bff trinity; you’re roomies with dennis and trinity; hurt/comfort; probably medically inaccurate bc i’m not a doctor; pls ignore if anyone is ooc because i just need more wlw dana content
You knew you should’ve punched Ogilvie the moment the word “calm” came out of his mouth. Everyone knew that was one of the first no-nos in the ER. Superstitious bunch of nurses and doctors you all were, but you usually had good reason to be.
So, not even minutes after those forsaken words were uttered, when the news broke of Presby’s ER getting shut down along with an alert of a twenty car pileup, you cursed the med student under your breath. “Thanks a lot, Ogilvie.”
As you entered the trauma bay, latex gloves already clinging to your hands like a second skin, you sighed in relief when you noticed the man’s injuries were nothing severe, probably why you were sent alone. They needed all hands on deck, and as one of the more steady and trusted residents, Robby had no issue directing you to cover a few simple stitches and bandages.
On any other day, you would’ve silently begrudged missing out on the higher-stakes action, but after the week you’d had, you didn’t mind focusing your time on suturing some flesh wounds.
Briefly introducing yourself to the man, you received only a disgruntled huff from him. You were used to annoyed or upset patients, so you brushed it off and continued your work, checking his vitals, doing a quick visual scan, before coming to the conclusion that he needed nothing more than a few stitches and maybe some low dose pain meds.
“Alright, sir–” you gave him a tight smile– “I just need to get that gash on your forehead cleaned up and then you’ll be all good to go.”
“’S not necessary,” he grumbled as he jerked his head away from the gauze in your hand. “I need to go.”
“Sir, this will only take a few–” you calmly tried to placate the man. With your focus being solely on your patient, you failed to notice to the two policemen entering the ER, talking in hushed tones with Gloria. However, the man before spotted the officers through the crack in the curtain, his eyes widening as he slyly grabbed a scalpel from your tray.
“Get out of my way,” he roared, shoving the blade into your side before pushing you to the ground as he made a break for it.
And just like that all hell broke loose—the officers chasing after him through the halls, people shouting in all different directions, the words “lockdown” and “security” being thrown around.
It was all a blur to you, the dull pounding in your head and the sharp stabbing in your side making it difficult to focus on anything else.
“(Y/N)!” You heard somebody yell, too disoriented to discern who.
“(Y/N)?” The voice repeated, this time a lot closer and a lot softer, and when you focused your eyes, you saw Trinity hovering over you.
You tried to say her name, but it came out as a garbled mess, causing the frown on your friend’s face to deepen.
“Trin,” you managed weakly as you barely lifted your hand. Luckily, Trinity could read you like a book and her eyes flitted down, widening when she saw the scalpel sticking out of you.
“I need some help over here,” she shouted over her shoulder.
You couldn’t help the sob that escaped your lips, the loudness of her voice exacerbating the ache in your head. Hearing your cry, Trinity turned her attention back to you, her expression immediately softening as she gently took your pulse.
“I know,” she hushed. “I’m sorry. Just keep your eyes on me.”
Doing your best to follow her directions, you focused on the way her lips pursed and the way her eyes clouded with something you’d never seen in them. Fear.
“What the hell happened?” You could barely make out Jack’s voice approaching. They probably made him stay past his shift after they found out they needed more support.
Incoherently, you tried to apologize, to tell him he shouldn’t have to be here, but the pain became too much. The last thing you saw was two matching worried expressions hovering over you before it all faded to black.
------------
Dana sighed, exhaustion and stress sinking into her body as she leaned against the counter, finishing off a chart before discarding it onto her desk for later.
Looking around the ER, she took in the faint buzz and took another deep breath. The last hour—had it really only been an hour—had been chaotic and stressful, but the pileup injuries were handled and cleared out, and now all Dana wanted to do was to go home with you and take a nice hot bath.
Glancing at her watch, she groaned internally. Only two more hours. She could make it till then, not like she had much of a choice anyways.
As Trinity approached the nurses’ station, fatigue and anxiety radiating off of her, Dana straightened her posture. “You alright, kid?”
The resident nodded shortly as she tried to choose her words. She suspected she’d have to be the one to break the news to the older woman that you were lying in a hospital bed with a concussion and twenty-seven stitches. In all the hustle and bustle, it made sense Dana wouldn’t have known about you getting attacked. As much as it seemed like the charge nurse knew all that went on in the ED, she could only see and hear so much. Trinity’s suspicions were confirmed when she spotted Dana at the nurses’ station routinely filling out a chart instead of panicking and fretting by your side.
Everyone knew you and Dana were dating. Neither of you explicitly said anything, but you didn’t have to. It was obvious. They all noticed the way Dana carefully watched you during your shift, not supervising to make sure you didn’t mess up, but admiring—okay, and to make sure you were taking care of yourself; or how you instinctively gravitated towards her after a tough case, finding solace simply in her presence. And if anybody noticed the two of you arriving and leaving in the same car, nobody said anything. They respected you both, mainly Dana, too much.
While it wasn’t that case that either of you were ashamed of each other, you both understood how your relationship could look to an outsider—a nurse and a resident, two women, a considerable age difference between you—which is why kept PDA to a minimal, if any at all, and told only a couple trusted people.
Well, you hadn’t exactly meant to tell Trinity and Dennis, but living with them was a detail you may have forgotten to tell your girlfriend, who, after spending the night after a long arduous shift, walked out to your kitchen to make coffee, one of your oversized Hopkins t-shirts draped over her body, only to be met by two pairs of wide eyes and the sound of a breaking mug. To say you got an earful from all parties involved would be an understatement, and now it was something you could never live down.
“You did good work,” Dana assured with a comforting smile, moving around the desk to plop down in her chair for a brief moment of reprieve.
“Thanks,” Trinity mumbled, glancing down at her hands before turning to the older woman again. “Hey, Dana.”
The charge nurse only hummed, her focus on the computer screen in front of her. It wasn’t unusual for people to linger around the nurses station, her desk especially, and make small talk, or even gossip and place bets—much to her chagrin.
“You hear about that patient attack?”
Dana hummed again, this time more affirming, as she clicked her mouse a few more times and met Trinity’s gaze with a worried look of her own. “Yeah, how’s John doing?”
Maybe she should’ve been a little more worried about one of her doctors being injured, but from what she’d overheard, it was nothing the attending couldn’t handle himself. Hell, if Dana didn’t know any better, she’d have said John could stitch himself up.
“Right, I figured no one told you,” Trinity murmured under her breath but not quietly enough that the nurse couldn’t hear.
Dana immediately tensed, her chest tightening slightly as the thousands of possibilities ran through her head, her mind immediately going to you.
“Told me what?”
Trinity winced slightly at the sharpness of the older woman’s tone. When you were healed, you owed her big time for this, because of all the people in the hospital, in all of Pittsburg, why’d you have to date the most intimidating charge nurse.
“Santos,” Dana warned, narrowing her eyes into the stare that kept this whole place running.
“It was (Y/N),” Trinity revealed quietly, causing Dana to relinquish her glare, panic and nerves taking its place.
“She was treating the man who apparently caused the accident. Drunk driver,” the resident continued to explain. “He spotted the police and made a run for it.”
“Where is she, Santos?” Dana’s voice was low and urgent. She was doing her best not to completely lose it, knowing full well she was still at work, but when it came to you, her limits were thin.
“Still in bay three, just for observation.”
Dana immediately started walking, people wisely moving out of her way.
“She’s got a grade two concussion and a puncture wound in her side that luckily didn’t do any significant damage,” Trinity rattled off as she trailed the nurse’s heels.
Grabbing the curtain, Dana took a deep breath and paused. “Why wasn’t I paged?”
Trinity didn’t know the other woman very well, but she could hear a twinge of hurt and a lot of anger in her voice.
“I tried,” Trinity protested, albeit lamely. “I did a couple times after she regained consciousness, but then after a certain point Abbot told me to stop bothering you, and then I figured you’d rather hear it in person.”
Dana sighed, letting the frustration that she knew was mainly aimed at herself roll off her. “Thank you, Trinity,” she said gently squeezing the younger woman’s shoulder.
“Yeah, of course.” Trinity let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and offered a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll give you some space.”
Dana nodded appreciatively at the retreating resident and took another steadying breath before pulling back the curtain. The sight of you lying in a hospital bed was one Dana hoped to never have to see, one she never even imagined, and it was enough to take the wind out of her. Letting her instincts guide her, she did a quick assessment of you, briefly skimming the chart before checking your vitals herself.
Although Dana was doing her best to be quiet and stealthy, the commotion was loud enough to pull you from your light slumber.
“Finally,” you sighed as you opened your eyes slowly, the bright fluorescent lights discomforting but the sight of your girlfriend more important. “Can we go home now?”
Dana ignored your question as she finished listening to your heartbeat, the thumping sound coming through her stethoscope grounding her. Wordlessly, she cupped your chin, gently turning your face to inspect further.
“Who stitched you up?”
“My head or my side?” You joked, hoping to ease the creases in your girlfriend’s forehead. When you were met with only a deadpan glare, the worry lines only deepening, you sighed. “Trinity–” you motioned to your temple before pointing to your side– “and Abbot.”
Letting out an approving hum, Dana carefully tucked a loose hair behind your ear. Despite your concussed state, you could still read your girlfriend like the back of your hand. Even if you didn’t, the slight clench of her jaw and the glossiness in her eyes were dead giveaways.
“Hey.” It was your turn to cup her jaw, lightly guiding her eyes to meet yours. “I’m okay.”
Dana smiled as she turned her head slightly so she could press a kiss to your palm. You were too good to her. Here you were sitting in a hospital with a serious concussion and an umpteen number of stitches in your body, and yet you were reassuring her.
“A little banged up, but nothing a little TLC can’t fix.” You brushed Dana’s cheek with your thumb, not at all surprised to find her skin slightly damp. “Good thing I’m dating a breathtakingly gorgeous nurse who can take care of me, right?”
Dana let out a real laugh, one where the corners of her eyes crinkled and her teeth shone, and you grinned, relieved she was no longer a knot of worry.
“Good thing,” she agreed, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll take really good care of you,” she mumbled against your lips because she couldn’t help herself before pecking them once more.
“I can’t wait.”
Rolling her eyes fondly at you, Dana checked her watch as she pushed herself off the stool. “I got two hours left then I’ll take you home, okay?”
You hummed in agreement, too tired to speak, as you felt your eyelids become heavier by the second.
“Get some rest,” she said and leaned over to kiss your head, “and don’t scare me like that again.”
“’M sorry, love,” you managed to mutter, knowing there was a lot more to be said between you.
Dana smoothed down your hair, savoring the last bit of you before she had to go back to work, and shook her head. “Just don’t get into anymore trouble while I’m gone, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“No promises,” you mumbled before adding, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dana replied, squeezing your hand one final time before retreating, closing the curtain behind her.
You were alive. You were going to be okay. Dana repeated those words in her mind as she took a few breaths and calmed herself before slipping back into her charge nurse role.
“Whitaker!” She shouted across the emergency room when she spotted his mop of curls. “(Y/L/N) is in bay three for observation for another two hours. Stay with her until her discharge.”
“But–” he protested motioning to the other patient he was about to help, closing his mouth when Dana raised her eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. “Right. (Y/N), bay three. Got it.”
Dana nodded, satisfied, and rounded the nurses’ station to her desk. Keeping her eyes in your direction, she watched as Dennis carefully pulled back the curtain and entered the bay you were occupying, his own demeanor shifting from doctor to friend, and she finally turned her attention back to work.
You were in good hands. You were alive. You were going to be okay.
Summary: Every God has its own angels. And she needs one for her own.
Pairings: Fugitive!Natasha Romanoff x Church Girl!Reader
Word count: 16.5k
Tags | Warnings: +18 blasphemous content, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, top!Natasha, bottom!r, non-consensual touching, dubious consent, strap-on, scissoring, FLUFF, angst, usage of bible verses, internalized homophobia, manipulation, abuse, emotional distress, and other triggering themes
Author's Note: This was set after the accords (Norway/Nomad Nat). I planned the ending of this story to be dark but now, I decided to post the alternative one instead to avoid being flagged, I will still see if I will be able to publish it but to those who wants to read—send me a DM and I'll see what I can do.
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The green flowy dress accentuated your waist perfectly, the messy bun with stray strands framed your face beautifully, and those glasses...they just added an unexpected touch of intelligence to your already innocent appearance. That was the first time she saw you, watching you hand out leaflets with a smile.
She watched you for a few moments more, seeing how gentle you were with the people who accepted your leaflets, and how patient you were with those who ignored you.
It was like watching a delicate flower sway in the breeze, untouched by the harsh reality of the world around it.
She could faintly hear your voice carrying through the air. It was soft and small, and it seemed to cut through the noise around her.
"Hi there...happy sunday!" you extended your hand, offering the leaflet, "I'd like to ask if you have some couple of minutes…" you're not even done yet but everyone shook their heads already or ignored you completely, passing on you like you were a ghost.
"No thanks."
"Not interested."
"I'm good."
The rejections came one after the other but your smile never faded though. "God bless, have a nice day ahead!" you'd still say softly to each person who refused and completely ignored you or those few who took the leaflets out of habit, only to crumple them up and throw them aside without even reading.
You were a rare sight in this cruel world, and it both fascinated and intrigued her. She felt an unexplainable urge. She watched your sweet smile and innocent eyes, hearing your kind and soft words. While her mind echoed with dark thoughts.
What would you look like if you cried?
If that sweet voice screamed?
If those innocent eyes were filled with fear and tears?
"Hi, would you spare a minute for a word of God?" you asked, completely oblivious to the danger standing right in front you.
"Hmm...yeah." She had a deep, husky tone that contrasted sharply with your soft, melodic one.
Your heart fluttered like a little bird as she agreed. She was the first person today to actually agree to listen to you share what you loved sharing—the word of God!
She watched your giddy expression that was almost infectious. She accepted the leaflet carefully from your fingers, noticing how neatly it was folded.
Your hands were small, soft, clean—unlike hers. Bloody and rough.
"Find your path to salvation." The leaflet says.
You two moved to the side, away from the passersby. You turned to her with a warm smile, your eyes shining with genuine interest. "What's your name?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, waiting for her response.
"Natasha."
"Natasha, I can see you're in a rush. You could've just kept walking, but you chose to stop. That means something. This is God's plan, God has given you these five minutes with me for a reason. So let me share something quick with you."
God's plan indeed...that this pure soul should cross my path today. She thought in her mind.
"Natasha, in the earlier mass I attended today the priest shared the Holy Gospel today about Romans 16:19…" you looked at her with that smile on you that seemed to never disappear. "For your obedience is known to all, so that I rejoice over you, but I want you to be wise as to what is good and innocent as to what is evil." You say, completely unaware of the irony of sharing this verse with her.
Inwardly, Natasha taunted the heavens. Isn't that sweet? The God himself watches over his angelic creature, yet little did he know, a monster stands here among his precious flock…
Does he know?
He does, right?
He's God.
You continued, "It's about being wise in discerning good from evil, but also maintaining innocence. It's a balance, you know? Being aware of the world's darkness without letting it taint your pure heart."
Natasha hummed, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she listened intently, nodding along to your explanation. She seemed genuinely intrigued, or at least pretended to be. You couldn't tell the difference, but you liked that she appeared to be hanging onto your every word.
Suddenly, a loud roar of a motorcycle engine pierced the air. Without hesitation, the womam shoved you hard to the side with surprising strength, causing you to stumble and let out a shriek. You hold on to her leather jacket. The bike zoomed past where you two had been standing just moments before, nearly clipping you.
"He must have an emergency, I hope God blesses him and keeps him safe." Your voice was filled with genuine concern, as you silently whispered the words in the air—just between you and God. But the quiet prayer didn't go unheard by the redhead.
"He's an asshole, sweetheart." She murmured, letting you go after being flushed with her and you simply shook your head gently, your smile never wavering.
"He might be rushing to the hospital to see a family member, or maybe his-his wife is…giving birth? You never know what's really going on, Natasha."
You always have to find the good in everyone, don't you?
"Would you say that would be God's plans too then? Someone running over his…angel?" her voice carried a challenging edge, paired with an almost begrudging admiration for your unwavering faith. She gestured towards you, implying that you were the angel in question.
Natasha watched as you hesitated, biting your lip in thought.
"If that were the case, then perhaps God has a greater purpose even in that tragedy. Maybe that angel is needed back home, or maybe the person rushing had a lesson to learn," you say, "I-I suppose even death serves a purpose in God's plan."
"So you're saying someone's life is more important than yours, angel?"
You were much more confident this time with your faith backing you up, your eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. "God values all lives equally. To Him, everyone's life is no less precious than the other. His love is not selfish. He doesn't play favorites. Sometimes, He asks one life to pave way for another."
"So you will you?" The redhead crosses her arms, challenging you, "Pave the way for others?"
"If that's God's plan," you repeated softly, maintaining eye contact, your expression completely serene, "Then I'm ready."
In Natasha's mind, she wanted desperately to push the question further, to try and make you falter, somehow sow a seed of doubt about God's reasons. Her lips curled into a smirk as she watched you, clearly impressed despite herself.
She took a step back, breaking the intense eye contact. "I think I should get going. As much as I want to listen to you more, angel...I have a schedule to keep."
And some plans to make…
"Oh, okay. Wait, let me just…" you turned back to the small table behind you and reached for your bag, you fished a rosary bracelet and unwrapped it, "here, to keep you safe."
She watched, almost mesmerized, as your small, delicate hands placed the bracelet in her large, rough ones. She doubted the bracelet would even fit around one of her thick wrists. Yet, here you were, giving it away.
"Sorry, I don't even think if it will fit. That's all I have left."
"Don't worry, I will make it fit."
There was a dirty undertone to her words, a hidden meaning behind the simple statement that someone like you wouldn't understand. And as what Natasha expected, you just shyly smiled, not with her kind-of-dirty reply, but with the bracelet you gave her that she tried to fit in her tree trunk wrists.
"Thank you, angel, for this." Her thumb brushed over the beads.
"No, thank you," you said earnestly, your eyes shining with sincerity, "I think you're my angel. You saved me earlier today. If not for you, who knows what would have happened to me?"
Exactly, finally, you're catching her drift. That is exactly the reason why you need to be hers, because if not for her what would happen to you?
God wouldn't mind if someone would take over to take care of one of his angels, right?
After the Accords, Natasha has been always on the run being hunted by the government. The woman who once had controlled now felt like she had no control over anything. But despite everything, just like you, Natasha learned to see the good in things. Being an Avenger trapped her. Every mission, every order—no room for... indulgence. But now? Being on the run? She feels like she's one step ahead—freedom tastes different than she expected.
She felt like God.
Natasha had no trouble finding you. Her ex-spy training meant she could locate anyone, even someone who'd gone off-grid. She knew everything—your name, where you lived, what your favorite food was...hell, she probably knew what you'd eaten the day she saw you.
She scrolled more on the accounts tagged on your Facebook, staring at every picture you're in. Out of all the pictures and people you're with in those photos, you stand out. You were glowing, untouched—like a fucking saint. And she wanted to ruin that. She wanted to break you open and crawl inside that purity. Make you dirty with her darkness.
Or maybe she could just keep you locked away in a cage. Untouched, unsoiled—but all hers.
Every God has its angels.
And she needs one of her own.
One thing that she also liked after being now an ex-Avenger, she didn't need to follow long-ass instructions, didn't need to consult anyone nor concur. The moment she saw you, it was done. The only thing she followed was her heart pounding in her chest in a wild drumbeat of excitement.
The car idled quietly as she trailed behind you on your way home. With one smooth motion, she was out of the car, moving silently behind you. The cloth over your face was quick and efficient, no struggle, no resistance. You crumpled to the ground unconscious almost instantly. She lifted you easily into her arms, carrying you back to her car like a precious cargo.
Was it impulsive? Yes. But was it complicated? No. It was so simple and quick and that's how Natasha likes her work to be done. No more dramas.
Slowly, she swiveled the creaky chair around, staring at your pale skin that seemed to glow in the faint light filtering through the tiny, reinforced window that she noted to cover later on. Natasha had you caged and naked. Her eyes were glued to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, mesmerized by the simple act of your breathing. She had brought you home, to her private hell where only she could see your divine beauty.
While waiting for you to wake up, Natasha disposed of her only link to the outside world—to your world. She had to go old school this time, buying a crappy laptop just to look for information about you. She knew the risks, it could be traceable and there was no help from Stark's technology meant she was truly alone now, but she didn't care. And now, there is no need to wait, no more searching. She had found her angel, and now she would keep you forever.
Your body ached as you slowly opened your eyes, you were curled on the floor. The room was dim, cold, and there is a curtain that connects to the other room. You shivered, realizing you were completely naked and caged. You immediately sat and pulled your knees to your chest to cover yourself. Your breaths came in short, rapid gasps as panic surged through your veins. Your chest heaved, your heart pounding wildly against your ribs. You leaned your head against the cold wall, trying to calm yourself, your hands hugging tightly your body, but the unfamiliar surroundings only amplified your fear. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
So you prayed, like you always do.
"He is my refuge and my fortress...my God, in whom I trust..." each word felt like a shield against the unknown terror surrounding you. Your voice was barely above a whisper, yet every word resonated in the empty room. "Dear Lord, please keep me strong. Please protect me from whatever..." your voice caught slightly, fear threatening to overwhelm you. "Please...please guide me through this. I feel scared, I don't know where I am, but with your name in my heart I know I am safe—"
"You are."
You paused, your eyes widening as a soft, gentle voice echoed in your mind. The words were soothing, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. You were hallucinating, weren't you? Maybe that was God, but it was most definitely a woman's voice, low and rough that tickled your ear. You felt a strange sense of comfort, but also confusion.
A figure finally materialized behind the curtains. You wanted to deny what your eyes were seeing, to cling to the hope that this was just another hallucination.
But no, you weren't. The same woman who stopped to listen to you share a word of God, the same woman you were looking forward to meeting next sunday for mass, not in this state where you were caged, naked and cold.
"N-Natasha?"
"Hey, angel."
Your pulse thrashed in your throat. You wrapped your arms tightly around your chest.
Natasha stepped closer, her silhouette sharpening as she pushed the curtain aside. She wore simple clothes—dark jeans, a loose sweater—as if she had just come from anywhere normal. As if this wasn't a nightmare. As if she had every right to be here.
As if she had every right to look at you like that.
"W-Why…how—" your voice cracked, shame and terror tangled in your words. You tried to swallow, but your throat burned. "Why am I here?"
Her smile was small. Devastatingly gentle. "Because," she said, fingertips drifting across the bars like a caress,
"I finally have you where God meant you to be."
Your heart stopped.
And the woman leaned in, her breath warm against the cold space between you.
"With me."
⧗
Days passed.
At least…you thought they did. Time felt slippery in this place—stretching, collapsing, twisting into something unrecognizable. You slept in fits, woke in panic, and drifted in and out of moments that barely felt real.
One thing did stay constant though is you still didn't understand what was happening. Not why you were here. Not why she was the one visiting you. Not why the person you trusted—someone who listened to you talk about God, someone you smiled one sunday morning—was now the same person keeping you behind iron bars.
Every time you heard her footsteps, your heart would seize. Not with relief or anger. But with a collapsing, desperate hope. Whenever she approached with food, sliding a plate or a bowl through the narrow gap of the cage, you would immediately reach out. Not to the food but to her hands. Your fingers shaking, grazing the beads of the bracelet you had given her.
"Please," you sobbed every time, your voice already hoarse from begging.
"Natasha, please just let me out. Please…I don't understand why you are doing this. I-I just want to go home."
Every time, she froze for a moment—like your touch startled her, like your tears scraped at something inside her. She'd watch your form, all fours wearing her shirt that is like a dress on you, hand gripping hers like your life depends on it. But then her expression settled into that same unreadable calm.
"Eat," was all she would say.
"Rest."
"Don't cry, angel."
And she would gently—so gently it hurt—uncurl your fingers from her hand, one by one, until you were left clutching air.
Then she will walk away.
The first days you held onto hope like it was the only thing keeping your body upright. Every morning still felt like a blessing, even in that cold, suffocating cage. Sunlight barely reached you, but if it did, you would lift your face and let it touch your skin, whispering thanks like it was a prayer that mattered.
You prayed. Always.
Softly, loudly, sometimes barely moving your lips. God, angels, saints… anyone who would listen. You asked for strength, for guidance, for the courage to survive. And sometimes, when the despair gnawed too sharply at your chest, your prayers weren't for freedom at all—they were for Natasha.
And when Natasha would slide food through the bars, your heart would lurch. You would immediately crawl to her and reach for her hands. And you'll beg like you always do but the thing is you don't even know what you are begging anymore—was it for her to let you out? Or simply to reach her, to touch her hand to feel human again, to anchor yourself to sanity amid the fear that gnawed at your mind?
Time had lost all meaning. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? You didn't know. All you knew was the rhythm of your prayers, the brief glimpse of her presence, and the aching need to feel seen—even if only through a touch, a hand, a fleeting moment of her attention.
Hope and faith have their limits, though.
One morning, Natasha placed the small plate with a pancake she had made carefully inside your cage. You didn't move. Your back was to her, your face on the wall, curled up on the thin comforter she had laid down for you. Your body felt heavier than it had in days, as if the weight of fear, despair, and hopelessness had settled into your bones.
It had been twenty-three days. Almost a month. But only she knows that.
Natasha waited patiently, expecting the familiar motion—you crawling toward her, reaching for her hand, begging, pleading for her. But you didn't move. Not an inch. Not a sound.
She let out a quiet, irritated huff when you didn't move. Fine, she seemed to think. You'll come around.
She slid the food dish farther inside the cage and left without another word.
But lunch came, then dinner. Both trays stayed exactly where she'd pushed them. Untouched and cold.
Natasha checked on you each time.
She saw your hand moving weakly, your fingertip dragging across the wall in slow, unfocused lines—shapes, letters, or prayers she couldn't decipher even being a spy. It was the only sign you were still alive. She watched for a moment, jaw tight, she will not deal with this—with you being like this, like a brat. So she simply walked away and closed her bedroom door.
Morning arrived again—day twenty‑four.
The stale pancake from yesterday sat rotting, the stroganoff for lunch and the pizza for dinner, still untouched where she left it. Natasha entered with a fresh plate, the smell of warm food filling the air…but it stopped abruptly in her throat when her eyes found you.
You were crouched in the farthest corner you could reach, knees pulled hard against your chest, your arms wrapped around your legs like you were trying to disappear into yourself. You stank, your hair was matted and oily, sticking to your hollow cheeks. Your lips were cracked, an angry red from days without drinking any liquid.
Natasha held the plate mid‑air, the faintest flicker crossing her face—annoyance? Concern? Frustration? Even she didn't seem sure.
But you didn't look at her. You didn't reach out and beg. You didn't whisper a prayer. You were just…there. Folding inward…shrinking.
Breaking.
Like something inside you had gone quiet.
The older woman clicked her tongue, the sound sharp in the silence. "Stop being a brat and eat," she murmured, shoving the plate inside the cage with more force than necessary.
You didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
She waited a second, just one expecting the usual crawling, begging, desperate reaching. But you remained curled in the corner, eyes focused on the ground, mouth slightly parted just enough to pull in shallow breaths. Natasha's jaw tightened. Without another word, she turned and walked out.
But still, you didn't eat.
It wasn't because you'd lost your faith—you would never. But something inside you had begun to settle, like dust finally giving up and sinking to the floor.
The acceptance that you wouldn't leave this room alive. That your prayers were no longer about deliverance, but about peace.
Your mind began to slip. Whispers curled around the edges of your hearing—soft hymns from your childhood, psalms sung in distant tones. You murmured back to them. You talked to yourself, answers to questions no one asked, conversations with people who weren't there. It was easier than feeling—easier than begging, easier than hoping.
Then one night, you saw your mother, she was smiling at you with so much affection and love, whispering...
"You're home."
You smiled for the last time.
You're going home.
Day twenty‑five came.
Natasha's footsteps were brisk, impatient, echoing sharply as she approached with yet another untouched plate—your third in a row. She crouched, ready to slide it inside. And then she froze.
Your body was slumped on its side, legs awkwardly tangled in the thin comforter. Your chest, it wasn't rising, it wasn't falling either.
It wasn't moving at all.
A strange, cold expression flickered across Natasha's face—something she couldn't name, something that looked dangerously close to panic—then fear. Something she would deny feeling.
She dropped the plate, scrambled at her pocket, fingers shaking as she fumbled for the key. Metal clanged against metal as she missed the lock twice, cursing under her breath before finally jamming it in and twisting hard.
She only checked your pulse and when she felt nothing, she immediately carried your body in a bridal style and brought you to her room.
⧗
Maybe this was heaven. That was the first feeling that drifted through your barely-waking mind. There was something gentle beneath you, something warm and soft. For a moment— a single, suspended moment—your soul loosened its hold on everything it had endured and wondered, Is this what dying feels like? Softness?. Maybe God had finally taken pity.
But when your eyes fluttered open, the instinct that had always lived in you— gratitude, prayer, thankfulness for a new day, did not come. You didn't whisper a prayer of thanks for breath or waking. Instead, something sharp and hot unfurled in your chest—anger. It burned through you before you could swallow it down.
It wasn't heaven. It was a room. A soft bed, clean sheets. You were dressed in fresh clothes, a loose shirt, still no panties on. You smelled like strawberries—like someone had washed the suffering off your body and tried to pretend you were whole. Your hair was damp, brushed away from your face.
A sob ripped from your throat before you even realized you were crying. All the breath you thought you no longer had come rushing out of you in a broken, wounded sound. You scrambled backward until your spine hit the headboard, then curled yourself into the corner like a terrified animal. Your hands trembled, your fingers clawing at the blanket as if it could hide you, protect you, undo what had happened.
You cried from a place so deep inside you it felt like your soul had cracked open. You should have died. You were supposed to die. You had made peace with it. You had surrendered to the idea of rest, to the idea that God would finally catch you when you fell. But He didn't. He let you wake up here. He let you breathe again only to belong to the same nightmare.
And in that moment, for the first time in your life, you felt betrayed by Him. Truly betrayed.
Why didn't He take you?
Why let you suffer again?
Your tears soaked your shirt, your breath stuttered, and all the prayers you had whispered for all days you were taken dissolved into the air like smoke.
Then the door creaked open, your entire body went rigid. You didn't need to see her—you knew that sound now especially, knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the quiet way she pushed doors like she was afraid of waking something precious. Anger, raw and instinctive, clawed up your throat before your mind could even form words. Your hands curled into trembling fists. All the terror, all the sadness, all the exhaustion you had swallowed for all the time you were here. She stepped inside, carrying a plate of food and a glass of water as if she were entering a normal room, visiting a normal person, doing a normal thing. And that quiet ease broke something inside you.
The scream tore out of you before you even felt your mouth open.
"What do you want from me!" you screamed. Tears spilled down your face faster than you could wipe them. You barely managed to stand behind the bed, you couldn't feel your legs after all the time being folded inside the cage. "Why?! Why me?!" you sobbed, fists balled so tightly your nails dug into your palms. "I only saw you once! I trusted you!" your whole body shook with the force of your crying, the betrayal punching through every word.
Natasha didn't flinch. She didn't yell back or apologize. She just watched you with those unreadable eyes, the same calm expression that had haunted you from behind the cage bars. She set the plate of food on the bedside table, placed the water beside it with a soft clink, and moved with deliberate slowness—like approaching a scared animal she didn't want to startle. Then she began circling the bed.
You whimpered and you stepped back even though you had nowhere left to go. Your heel hit the wall. Panic crawled up your throat. You rubbed your arms in tight, frantic motions, as if trying to warm yourself, as if trying to hide. Your forearms covered the outline of your nipples from your shirt, shoulders curling inward, head shaking back and forth as tears poured down your cheeks.
"Please," you whispered through sobs you couldn't swallow, shaking your head harder and harder. "What do you want from me?"
She kept coming.
And you kept shrinking.
Until there was nothing left to fall back into except fear.
Natasha stood still for a moment, her breath steady while yours were breaking apart. Then she spoke in a low, dangerous calm that slid under your skin like cold water. She breathed in slowly, her expression softening in a way so painfully human that it made everything more frightening.
"You keep asking what I want," she murmured. Her voice wasn't angry. It wasn't mocking.
It was…tired.
Old.
Like she was carrying centuries of exhaustion in her ribs.
"The truth is…" she exhaled, rubbing her palm over her sternum as if steadying herself, "I haven't gotten what I wanted in a very, very long time."
Your breath trembled. You didn't understand—you didn't want to.
But the woman kept going.
"You know what it's like," she whispered, "to spend your entire life doing what everyone else needs from you?" she stepped closer, leveling her face with yours again, though you pressed harder into the wall, trembling. "Saving people. Fixing things. Carrying everyone's pain like it's your own."
A bitter, crooked smile tugged at her lips.
"Being the weapon. Being the answer. Being whatever they told you to be." Her voice cracked just slightly at the edges—not enough to break, but enough to reveal a fracture.
"I saved cities, strangers. This…world."
Her jaw clenched. Before letting out an airless chuckle.
"But you know what I never got to be?" Natasha's eyes softened, something raw flickering across them. "I never got to be me." Her fingers flexed slowly, like she wanted to touch you but knew it would make you bolt like a trapped animal.
So she stayed still, letting her words creep toward you instead of her hands.
"Everything I did was for someone else."
Her voice grew lower, steadier. "Every risk. Every bruise. Every sacrifice. Every life I took. Every life I saved…"
You swallowed hard, tears streaking down your cheeks—your soft heart pitying the woman.
"There was never anything that was mine."
Natasha leaned just slightly closer, her eyes searching your face with a chilling, desperate intensity.
"And then I met you."
Your breath stuttered violently.
"You weren't part of the world I had to save. You weren't a mission. You weren't a responsibility. You didn't even know me."
She chuckles, then pauses—a soft inhale.
"You were…the one thing I wanted just because I wanted it." Natasha's voice dropped into something dark, velvety, and broken at the edges. "And I'm done…" her eyes locked onto yours, "Being the person who never gets what she wants."
She tilted her head, looking at you with terrifying clarity.
"I am no longer…someone others expect me to be…I am just the woman who finally took something for herself."
Natasha's thumb smoothed over the tear tracks on your cheek, her touch unbearably gentle for someone who had stolen your entire world. Her voice dropped to a soft murmur, warm enough to bathe your skin, cold enough to chill your spine.
"Don't worry," she whispered, as if you were simply frightened of a thunderstorm and not of her. "You'll learn. You'll learn to accept this. To feel safe here. To...love it here."
You choked out a sob and pulled your face away from her hand, shaking your head so fast your teeth clattered.
"No-No! No! I would never!" you cried, voice cracking as fear drowned every syllable. "I would never love you! That is a sin! It's wrong!" your voice disappeared into a scream you swallowed back down, your hands pressing against your ears as you slid down to your knees.
Because love—love was not something you could give, not like this, not to her…
Not to a woman. A woman who broke your trust and you didn't even realize you were repeating it—your voice hoarse, frantic.
"It's a sin! it's a sin! It's a sin! You're—"
Natasha didn't flinch. She never does no matter how your shout is ringing in her ears. Not even at the word sin, the word that had shaped her life and soul.
"I never said you have to love me," she said softly.
You froze, a fresh wave of trembling overtaking you.
Because she was right. She hadn't said it. But the moment she mentioned love, your brain had spiraled, racing toward the worst, toward the only explanation you could understand. Your faith twisted with fear. Your beliefs wrapped around your terror like thorns. The idea of loving her—loving a woman—felt like falling into the deepest pit of damnation your mind could imagine.
Your faith had been the last thing left untouched, the last thread connecting you to who you were. And now even that felt violated.
Natasha slowly and deliberately, kneels in front of you. She fixed the hair that sticked to your cheek with tears and sweat. "Sinning is good," she murmured, voice warm, almost amused. "People only fear it because it feels too good to let go of." Then, her fingers slid under your chin, lifting your face so you couldn't escape her eyes. She pulled back just enough to study you—your shaking head, your refusal, your horror. "You've been taught to fear the fire, but I promise you…it burns beautifully."
⧗
Life with Natasha slowly settled into a strange rhythm. The cage is gone. You figured you were living in a trailer, she let you roam around, though you knew very well you were not allowed to leave. The place was small—just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, a cramped bathroom, and walls thin enough that you could hear every sound outside yet never reach it.
Nights were the part you dreaded the most. You had to sleep in the same bed as her. It wasn't wide, so the space between you was only a few inches, but she never touched you. She would lie down on her side, back turned, and fall asleep without a word. Her breathing was soft, steady, almost too calm for someone who had done such terrible things. She never reached for you, never moved closer, never tried to cross the invisible boundary between your bodies.
Every morning, she was gone before you woke up. Natasha would wake long before the sun rose, slipping out of the bed without disturbing you. She moved through the small trailer with a kind of practiced silence, opening cabinets and drawers carefully, never letting anything clatter. You could almost imagine she had lived her whole life learning how not to be heard.
She always cooked for both of you. Pancakes, eggs, oatmeal, sometimes fruit she must have bought the night before. She plated your food with a calm precision—not fancy, but thoughtful, as if the neatness alone proved something she didn't know how to say. She would set your plate on the table, pour you a glass of water, and then sit on the other side with her own breakfast untouched.
Then she waited.
She knew exactly when you usually woke up. She must have memorized the rhythm of your breathing, the way your body shifted under the blankets. The way you pray almost half an hour after you wake up but then some days you tried pretending to be asleep longer, but she always knew. She never knocked or called you out for it; she simply sat at the table, hands wrapped around her mug, staring at the door to the bedroom in patient silence.
And then you will finally walk out—hesitant, guarded, still unsure of your place in this strange tiny place. She watched you settle and waited for you to finish your prayer again before picking up your fork. Only after your first bite did she lift her own fork and begin to eat.
That became your routine. You ate together quietly every morning, not because she commanded you to, it's more like a rule you had to follow to avoid upsetting her.
Evenings were quieter. Sometimes the trailer grew dim as the sky darkened and still Natasha wasn't home. Those were the nights she came back past midnight, footsteps soft, the door closing with careful noise. Those nights the doors were locked like always but doubled—Natasha always made sure of that—but deep inside, you knew there were still ways to break out. The windows were small, but not impossible. The hinges on the bathroom door were a little loose. The kitchen knives were real.
It almost felt as if the Lord Himself was laying the chances right in front of you—signs, opportunities, gentle pushes toward freedom. You felt them, you recognized them. Your instincts screamed that these moments were not accidents but invitations to run. And yet…you didn't move. You'd just walk back to the bedroom, breathing slow and shallow, fingers curled in the blanket, telling yourself you were waiting for the right moment but deep inside, you feared there was no right moment at all.
Every chance slipped through your fingers, and every time you found yourself asking, Why, Lord? Why didn't I break free when I could've?
Because what you didn't realize was while you were staring at the door, you weren't waiting for the right time to escape.
You were waiting for the woman to come back.
One night, she was gone again—and you realized just how long you'd been lying awake waiting for the sound of her footsteps. Hours passed, each minute heavier than the last, until finally you heard the soft, familiar creak of the door. Your heart lurched. Relief shouldn't have hit you, but it did—briefly. Then the horror set in.
She stepped inside.
She muttered something incoherent, swaying slightly. Immediately, the sharp, intoxicating smell of alcohol hit your senses. Panic tightened around your throat. Before you could react, her arm looped around your waist, pulling you against her body. You whimpered as you tried to push her away, struggled, but she was too strong—immovable, relentless.
You pretended to be asleep, holding your breath so she wouldn't realize you were awake. Every muscle in your body was rigid, every heartbeat loud in your ears.
Then her lips pressed against your shoulder, peppering marks along your skin, leaving a burning trail. Your stomach twisted, your chest heaving as terror. You felt her teeth on your skin, it stings.
Your mind screamed. This isn't right. This can't be happening. Fear coiled tight in your stomach, turning every breath into a struggle. The warmth of her body, the intoxicated heaviness in her movements—all of it collided with the horror clawing up your throat. You wanted to run, to vanish, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to grab onto, nothing strong enough to free yourself from her grip.
Then she felt that you were awake, well, she knew, she always knew.
"Shh…it's just me." She slurred.
It didn't bring you any comfort. Your chest heaved, tears springing to your eyes as the horror and confusion collided. You sobbed quietly, trembling in her arms, praying silently for it to end.
Her rough hands slowly slid under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing patterns on your smooth skin. You squirmed instinctively, your body tense at the unwanted touch. But beneath the discomfort, there was a strange sense of…grounding, a feeling you shouldn't feel!
Your legs kicked out to push her away. Then all of a sudden, you felt her move prop herself up before a knife was pierced through your pillow making you scream.
"Don't move, angel." She said so calmly, like she didn't just almost stab your skull. She lay back down beside you again, her movements eerily calm. The knife remained lodged in the mattress, a stark warning right in front of your face.
Your tears fell silently onto the pillow, your body shaking with quiet sobs. Natasha continued to touch you, her rough fingers playing with your sensitive nipples. She kissed your shoulders, biting and licking the delicate skin. Her hands moved down to your stomach, caressing the soft flesh gently.
Eventually, your crying subsided into occasional sniffles. The last sight in your eyes was the knife that remained in the mattress, reminding you of who's in control. While Natasha continued her touches, until your breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. She held you close, her body curved around yours protectively. She kissed your shoulder one last time before settling down, her arms wrapped tightly around you.
You woke up alone.
Just a hollow silence and the lingering echo of last night pressed into your skin. Your eyelids felt heavy, swollen, aching when you tried to open them. The world blurred for a moment, your throat was sore, scraped raw from holding back sobs.
And under it all—a numbness that frightened you more than the night itself.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, every movement stiff. That's when you saw it. Your pillow torn beside you, ripped clean open, soft stuffing scattered like snow across the sheets.
The knife was gone.
The sight made your stomach drop. The absence of the blade was somehow worse because it meant she had taken it with her. And it only reminded you how easily she could change, how quickly things could break.
You lifted a hand to your shoulder, then your arm, then your side—touching the places where she had held you too tightly, too close, too possessively. Even with her gone, your body remembered. The faint pressure. Her weight. The heat of her breath. Your lips trembled, but you didn't cry. You couldn't. It was like something inside had shut down, closed itself off. You felt nothing, just a hollow ache in your chest and a sick twist deep in your stomach.
"God…" you whispered, barely a sound. "Please…I don't know…but I know you do. I know you know what I feel and I am asking for your help to get through it."
The words came out broken, incomplete. You didn't even do the rosary. You weren't sure what you were praying for—safety, strength, escape, for her to never touch you like that again—or maybe none of it. Maybe you were just praying out of instinct because you had no idea what else to do or maybe because that's the only thing you know what to do—pray.
You stepped out of the room slowly, your heart beating fast. You weren't sure what you would see, or how she would be. Part of you was still scared, still holding onto the night like it might happen again. But when you reached the small table, Natasha was already there, sitting the way she always did, like it was just another normal morning. She looked up when you came in. She didn't look angry or drunk.
You hesitated by the chair, your fingers tight around the edge before you pulled it back. The wood scraped loudly against the floor, and the sound made you flinch. You did what you always did. You lowered your head and whispered a short prayer, even though your chest still felt empty. She stayed quiet, watching but not interrupting. When you were done and touched your food, only then did she finally start eating too.
Natasha's eyes flicked up for just a second, then stopped. Her gaze settled on your shoulder where the fabric slipped just enough to show the faint purple marks beneath. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Looks good on you," she said casually, before lowering her eyes back to her plate and continuing to eat.
Your nose flared as you pulled in a sharp breath, fighting the sudden sting behind your eyes.
Natasha felt it before she saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your breathing changed just enough to give you away. She didn't look up right away. She kept eating, slow and deliberate, as if nothing had shifted at all. But her voice dropped when she finally spoke, quiet and sharp, meant only for you.
"Don't you dare cry." She said flatly.
You froze.
Her eyes lifted then, meeting yours for the briefest moment, cold and warning. "Or I'll give you a real reason to."
The words landed heavy, sinking straight into your chest. You swallowed hard, jaw tightening as you forced everything down —the ache in your throat, the burn behind your eyes, the trembling that wanted to spill over.
Natasha went back to her food like nothing had happened. The clink of her fork against the plate filled the space between you, loud and ordinary. You stared down at your own meal, appetite gone, breath carefully controlled. You tried not to cry. You just sat there, holding yourself together, knowing she was watching even when she pretended not to be.
After eating, you stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands moving on their own as you washed the dishes. The sound of running water filled the small space, steady and ordinary, and for a moment it almost felt grounding. Almost. Then you sensed her behind you before you heard her. Your shoulders tensed, breath catching as her presence closed in, her breath brushing lightly near your ear. One of her hands came to rest at your waist, not tight, not pulling—just there—and your body stiffened on instinct.
She noticed immediately.
"Hey," she murmured, low and calm, a quiet hush meant to steady you rather than warn. She withdrew her hand, giving you space, and reached past you instead. You watched, confused, as she set something on the counter beside the sink. A rosary and a Bible, all new, all sealed. She nudged them closer to you with two fingers.
The fear you'd been holding dissolved all at once, replaced by a sharp, breathless surprise. Maybe an offering, a way of her apologizing for what she did last night.
You stared at the items, then back at the water, blinking fast as you swallowed hard. You tried to hold it back. The sudden rush in your chest, the tight flutter just beneath your ribs, the way your hands almost started to shake. You focused hard on the plate in your hands, on the warmth of the water, on breathing slowly so she wouldn't notice. Because this—this—meant more than she could ever understand. These weren't just objects on the counter. They were pieces of you. Pieces you thought were lost, taken, buried somewhere you'd never reach again.
You cleared your throat, fingers tightening around the edge of the sink as you tried to speak. "Th-Thank you," you stuttered softly, eyes fixed on the counter, on the rosary, on anything but her face.
"No kiss for it?" she said lightly, like she was joking, like it didn't matter either way.
The change of her emotions is starting to scare you at this point. Earlier, she just wants to give you a reason to cry to and now she wants a kiss?
Heat rushed to your face. For a second you considered pretending you hadn't heard, but the thought of her being mad made your chest tighten. So you rinsed your hands, turned off the tap, and took a small step toward her, just to get it over with. You leaned in and pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to her bruised cheek, careful, fast, almost clumsy. Then you pulled back immediately.
"Thank you…for this, it…it means a lot," you said again, quieter this time, still not looking at her but you tried to smile.
Natasha let out a low chuckle. As she walked away toward the room, she tossed over her shoulder, casual as anything, "This bruise I have? I got it from stealing those."
The door creaked shut a moment later, leaving you alone with the running water, the clean dishes, and the weight of what she just said settling in your chest.
After doing the dishes you stood there longer than you meant to, just staring at the rosary and the Bible on the counter. The shine on the beads, the clean edges of the pages. Stolen. That word sat heavy in your head. You haven't touched them yet. You weren't sure if you should. Your mind twisted itself into knots. Maybe you shouldn't use them. Maybe you should keep them but not open them. Or maybe…maybe God already knew how they'd end up here. Maybe He knew they'd be used for something good. That thought made you pause, unsure if it was comfort or just something you were telling yourself to survive the moment.
You didn't notice Natasha watching until she spoke. She was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp but amused. "You asking forgiveness to God on my behalf?" she said, tone lazy and teasing. "For stealing those for you?"
"You should've asked the church for it, sometimes they'd give it for free or for a very low price." You swallowed, did you just talk back? "They help people," you said quietly. "That's what churches do."
The redhead stopped short instead of leaving this time. She turned back, one brow lifting, her mouth curling into that sharp, knowing half-smile. She tapped the bruise on her cheek with two fingers, not gentle, like it didn't hurt her at all.
"Your church?" she said, voice dry. "Who did this on my face, huh?"
You flinched at the question, shoulders drawing in. You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the counter. "I…I don't know," you said quietly. "I just meant…churches help people. They don't—"
Natasha let out a short laugh. "Help people," she repeated, amused. "Yeah. Tell that to the sacristan boy who did this to my face." She leaned back against the doorway again, arms crossing loosely. "I wonder how he is in the hospital." She muttered.
You didn't ask anything else.
You looked at the rosary and the Bible on the counter and felt your chest tighten. You didn't want to know more. You didn't want to imagine what they went through before they reached you. The thought alone made you feel bad.
You woke up from your afternoon nap to the quiet and Natasha was gone again, like she usually was. You didn't need to check the door or look around to know what it meant. She wouldn't be back until late. Maybe not until midnight.
You didn't panic this time. You already knew what to do. You got up, fed yourself with whatever was easy, and cleaned the dishes right after. You moved quietly, carefully, like the walls were listening. When you were done, you went back into the room and stayed there. You didn't sit outside, you didn't wait near the door because the last time you waited for her like that, standing outside the bedroom because you were worried it ended pretty badly. The memory was enough to keep you still.
So you stayed inside the room, door closed, doing only what you had to do. When the room finally felt still enough, you took what she had left for you. The Bible and the rosary. You sat on the edge of the bed and held them like they might vanish if you didn't. Your hands trembled as you peeled away the seal on the Bible, careful not to tear anything. A small smile pulled at your lips, shaky and unsure, matching the way your mouth quivered as you breathed out slowly.
The Bible smelled new, clean, like fresh paper and something faintly sweet. You pressed it lightly to your chest for a second, eyes closing. Then you picked up the rosary. It was red, deep and warm in color, the beads smooth beneath your fingers. It smelled like oiled roses, soft and familiar in a way that made your throat tighten. You smiled anyway, even knowing how they were taken. The thought lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, but it didn't erase what they meant to you.
You turned the pages slowly, careful not to tear them. You haven't read it like this in a long time now, you don't know. Growing up, you have read it at all times, remembered a few verses by heart. Now, holding the new Bible in your hands, the verses felt alive. Some lines came back to you from memory, quiet and familiar. You traced the words with your fingers, reading slowly, feeling a peace you hadn't felt in a long time.
You read and read, completely absorbed in the words, letting them sink in like they were speaking just to you. Time slipped away without you noticing. You didn't hear the faint creak of the door opening. You were wrapped up in the pages, the verses, the quiet rhythm of reading, as if the world outside had paused and left only you and the Bible.
The sound of footsteps finally reached you, faint at first, but uneven, limping. You shot your head toward the door and froze. Her side was bleeding, a dark stain spreading through her shirt. Your chest tightened, and the Bible almost slipped from your hands.
You set the Bible down carefully and rushed to her side. Your hands grabbed the tissue from the bedside table before you even thought about it.
"Natasha!" you whispered, voice trembling. "Oh, God!" you pressed the tissue to her side as gently as you could as you guided her towards the bed.
Natasha froze, caught off guard by the intensity of your reaction. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she simply stared at you. God…you were so pure like this. So utterly unguarded, so impossibly kind. For a moment, she wanted to shrink, to pull away, to tell you it was nothing—but she couldn't. Not when your tears reflected nothing but worry for her, nothing but the kind of kindness she had long stopped believing existed.
Even after everything she'd taken from you, you were still here.
Natasha didn't feel the pain. The cut on her side was deep, a wound that should have had her gasping, trembling—but all she felt was you. She thought, this is what it felt like to be cared for—not just superficially, not just words—but completely, fully, without holding anything back. Even with the blood and the bruises, even with everything she had endured, even with everything she had done, she only felt the warmth of your touch, and it made the world feel almost bearable.
Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into it, letting herself feel safe, letting herself realize how deeply someone could care for her—even after she thought she didn't deserve it.
Morning light crept across the room in thin, hesitant streaks, touching the edges of the blankets before Natasha even fully woke. She shifted slightly, wincing as the cut on her side throbbed—but that wasn't what made her eyes snap open. It was the emptiness beside her. The cold stretch of mattress where your warmth should have been. For a second she simply stared, her breath caught halfway in her chest, confusion slipping into something far harsher. And then the realization hit her all at once, a bitter, stinging rush that scorched through her veins. You were gone. You had run. She had been wounded and vulnerable last night—showed you more weakness than she had shown anyone in years—and of course, of course the first chance you got, you took it.
The betrayal felt physical, sharp enough to rival the pain in her side. Her throat tightened, her jaw locking into something hard and cold as instinct took over. Natasha practically lunged forward despite the burning in her ribs, her hand going immediately under the pillow for her gun. She didn't allow herself to think. Thinking would mean admitting it hurt. Instead she moved on adrenaline alone, pushing to her feet even though the wound protested violently. She checked the drawers of her cabinet to check if the suspicious red chemical she had to fight her life for last night was still in there, and indeed it is, with the photo of her and her sister as a kid.
She now crossed the room in harsh, determined strides. Her mind raced with possibilities, none of them good. No one would take you so one thing for sure is you had run and she would find you, and she doesn't know what she'd do once she did. She didn't want to think about how that would feel. She didn't want to think about last night—about your hands on her, the warmth of your touch, the way your voice trembled when you said her name. Fuck, you fell asleep on her shoulder! It was the first time you were that close. A fucking weakness. She had been stupid enough to let you see it. And now you are gone. She shoved the anger down like a blade she could sheath, clinging to it so she didn't have to feel everything beneath it.
Natasha slammed the door open harder than she meant to. But the sight that greeted her hit her so abruptly that it knocked the air right out of her chest. You were there, you were standing barefoot in the tiny kitchen, shoulders slightly hunched, tongue peeking from the corner of your mouth in concentration as you awkwardly set plates on the table. A small breakfast—simple, uneven, obviously rushed—was spread out in front of you.
When you heard the door shut, you jolted and turned around, eyes wide. The moment you saw her, your face broke into a relieved, little smile—like you were proud of yourself, like you were happy to see her awake. But the second your gaze dropped and noticed the gun in her hand, your expression collapsed instantly. Your shoulders lowered, your excitement drained out of you, and you instinctively stepped back, almost like a scolded child.
"I-I'm sorry," you whispered without knowing the reason why, voice small, guilt sinking into every syllable. You didn't even lift your head, scared you'd done something horribly wrong that upset her, "Please don't hurt me." You are already crying.
Natasha stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Everything inside her collided—fear, anger, relief—so tightly wound she couldn't trust her voice to speak. Her hand slid the gun behind her jeans, hiding it from your sight, hiding the instinctive panic that surged at the thought of you running.
Of losing you.
She stepped closer, each movement sharp, and yanked at your hair making you whimper. "You weren't supposed to do this," she spat, the words biting.
"You were hurt…" you cried, reaching for the hand still gripping your hair, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I just…I wanted to help. Please, I'm sorry, Natty."
For the first time in what felt like forever, something inside Natasha softened, even as her chest ached and twisted. The nickname slipped past your lips, small and tender, and it made her heart bloom with a strange, unfamiliar ache beneath her ribs. Watching you shrink under her harsh tone, she felt the impossible pull of wanting to punish you and protect you at the same time.
Suddenly, her hand came up sharply, and before you could react, it connected with your cheek. The sting burned and you flinched instinctively. She didn't wait for a response, didn't give you time to cry out.
"Go back to what you were doing."
You swallowed hard, tears threatening again and nodded, your hands trembling as you tried to focus. You lowered your head and returned to your task, your heart still hammering from the slap, the words, and the weight behind both.
After finishing everything, eating and the dishes, you reached for your Bible, expecting it to be on the counter like before. Instead, it was in Natasha's grasp. You hesitated, watching her carefully, not wanting to disturb her. You waited, patience stretching thin, but nearly thirty minutes passed and she still hadn't brought it down.
Then, almost as if she knew exactly what you were thinking, she said, "If you want it, you can get it."
"I'll just wait for you to be done," you said softly.
The redhead smirks, "So respectful, so patient. But you can still read it, you know?" she said while waving the Bible, but there was something sharper beneath it, a teasing edge you could feel even if it was subtle. You reached forward, thinking you could take it, but just as your fingers brushed the cover, she pulled it back. Your hand froze.
She looked at you, the Bible still in her hands, and gestured with a quiet insistence. "Sit on my lap," she said, voice calm but heavy with command.
You shook your head, heart pounding, uncertain, hesitant.
"No?" she smirks. Her gaze darkened, sharp and unyielding. You shook your head again and took a step back.
"Y-Your…wound…" you tried to reason.
But when she started counting, fear gripped you like ice in your chest, cold and immobilizing. Your legs shook, your hands trembled, and before you could fully think it through, your body moved on its own. You found yourself sitting on her lap, careful, tense, unsure how much of this was choice and how much was the power in her presence pushing you forward.
She hummed softly, the sound low and almost comforting, though it carried an edge that made your chest tighten. Her lips brushed the back of your head in a quick, deliberate kiss, and she murmured, "Good girl," letting the words settle over you like a strange feeling of praise and warning.
You sat in her lap, Bible in her hand, reading slowly as the words settled over you. At first, the position felt awkward, your body tense, but as minutes stretched into hours, you began to grow comfortable in her lap, feeling the steady warmth of her against you. As you turned the page, careful not to crease it, her hand moved suddenly, palming your breast, firm but not rough, and pulled you so your back rested against her front. The motion startled you, almost squirming in her grasp.
"Stay still." She just said as she lined up the Bible to your front view properly again.
As you tried your best to focus, Natasha's hand slowly slid down from your waist to your inner thighs. Without warning, she brought your legs up and out, making you straddle her thighs. The new position causes you to squirm uneasily. A strange warmth pooled in your lower belly as you felt something unfamiliar and slightly terrifying.
"Keep reading," she commanded, her hands gripping your hips to keep you in place.
Your voice cracked as you pleaded, "I'm not comfortable...please, Natty." Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Natasha's expression softened momentarily before hardening again.
"Shh...you will be."
She reached into her pocket and pulled something out, the fabric bright against her dark clothes. Before you could see what it was, she lifted it and draped it over your head, careful but firm, letting it fall until it covered your hair, your cheeks, your eyes—soft black mantilla veiling your whole face.
Your breath hitched as the cloth settled, the smell clean and faintly familiar. It made everything feel closer and quieter at the same time, like being tucked away from the room, from her gaze, from everything except the sound of her breathing behind your ear.
"Obey me, and I will be your God, and you will be my people. Do everything as I say, and all will be well." She recited slowly, like the verse was so reassuring. "What verse was that?"
"J-Jeremiah…7:23"
The woman smirks, "Good girl." Afterwards, her hand slipped inside your shirt, violating your tits without warning. You gasped softly through the mantilla veil covering your face. Then, her hand trailed down further until she reached between your legs—no underwear since the day she had taken you. Her fingers found your bare clit and began rubbing circles, you were already embarrassingly wet. A whimper slipped past your lips as an unfamiliar sensation coursed through you, muffled by the mantilla.
"Oh, Go—what...what was that?" you asked naively, not understanding the new pleasure building between your legs. Natasha's fingers continued their gentle rubbing against your sensitive clit, coaxing out more wetness and confused noises from you.
"Shh…just feel, angel."
Your head fell back against Natasha's shoulder, a desperate need to grasp onto something consuming you. But you didn't reach for her or even swat the hand that is rubbing you. Instead, you writhe, hips bucking forward involuntarily seeking for more friction.
She kept one hand on your pussy, making you whimper and buck, while her other hand remained clutching the Bible open to Jeremiah.
Your conscience finally screamed loud enough that you managed to stand on shaky legs, only to collapse onto the floor in front of the woman. As you fell to the floor, your mantilla slipped off completely, exposing your tear-streaked face and parting lips. Your mind screamed that this was wrong in so many ways, being touched like this while she held the Bible, being touched like this while not being married, and the heaviest sin of all—being touched like this by a woman.
The woman just sighed. She set the Bible down gently beside her, her eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, she unbuckled her belt, letting it fall open. A foreign red silicone shaped…like a man's genitalia came into view, attached to something she wore under her clothes—you couldn't figure out. She saw your eyes widen in shock and fear.
"Come here." Tears streamed down your cheeks as you shook your head, backing away from the red head. Natasha grabbed your mantilla off the floor and used it to pull you closer. "Stop crying," she forced you to look up at her.
"You can repent to your God later, but right now...I am your God."
She yanked your head and had you crawling through her spread thighs. She put the mantilla back over your head, but this time she folded it just above your forehead instead of covering your face completely. Natasha gently wiped the tears from your eyes with her thumbs, her touch surprisingly gentle compared to her rough handling earlier. She shushed you softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Quiet now, angel. No more crying." She tilted your head back, examining your face closely.
Without warning, Natasha grabbed your hand and forced it between her legs. She wrapped your fingers around her cock firmly, guiding your hand to stroke it slowly.
"Touch it." She pushed your head down until you were eye level with it. "Spit on it."
When you hesitated, tears still fell down your cheeks. She slapped your face lightly, "I said spit." You hesitantly leaned forward and spat on her cock twice, coating it in your spit before sucking the tip. Natasha smirked, clearly pleased by your obedience despite not giving you a direct order to put it in your mouth.
Then, the woman grabbed a handful of your hair and the mantilla, pulling your head back sharply as she pushed the dildo deeper down your throat. You gagged instantly, your eyes watering even more. She held it there, letting you feel the foreign object stretching your throat. She released your hair and pulled the dildo out of your mouth abruptly. Before you could catch a breath, she spun you around violently so that you were facing away from her. Your back slammed against her chest as she yanked you back against her lap, the mantilla falling over your face.
The warm, wet plastic of the dildo was now pressed directly against your bare pussy, coated in your own spit. Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist possessively, pulling you even closer until the toy was nestled between your folds.
"Can you feel it?" she whispered darkly in your ear.
Natasha slowly dragged the toy along your entrance, teasing your folds before abruptly pressing it against a particularly sensitive spot—the spot where she had touched you earlier. You cried this time, your legs trying to close as intense pleasure overwhelmed you.
"I'm gonna put it in." She rasps. You didn't say anything, you were trembling in her lap, your head dropped back against her shoulder. "I'm going to put it in, angel. I need you to answer me." She paused, letting the toy press against that sensitive spot.
You knew damn well that even without permission, she would have done it anyway. You whispered a trembling "yes" against her neck, your voice barely audible. She gripped the toy firmly and began to push it inside you, inch by slow inch. You moaned loudly, your hands gripping her arm tighter.
"Natty..." you cried out, feeling the toy stretch you open.
"Fuck, angel."
Your body instinctively tries to pull away from the sudden discomfort and pain. But the woman held you firmly in place, one hand gripping your hip while the other slowly pushed the toy deeper. You whimpered and adjusted, learning to bear the intrusion.
"Adjust to it, baby," Natasha whispered soothingly into your ear. Her hand moved from your hip to gently rub your stomach in comforting circles while the toy continued its slow invasion. Then, she grabbed the Bible beside her and put it in your line of view. "Continue reading."
The way you still tried reading the Bible in her hand while your face was covered with the clothed lace, while she thrusts in you was blasphemous, the way your faith didn't leave you even now.
Worshipping a God that wasn't Him. Or worse, being taught to.
Her smirk deepened, can your God see this? Can He see His angel sitting here, making scandalous sounds that can summon demons? Taken by someone like her?
She wondered how a God who was supposed to watch over the gentle could allow this kind of claiming. Her gaze dropped to you, to the way you mewled, the way you started bouncing on her lap, the way your faith hadn't saved you from her hands. You're praying, she thought, but not to Him anymore. Not really. Not when your stillness, your fear, your attention all bent toward her instead.
You passed out from the overwhelming sensation and pain sometime during it, your body finally giving in. You woke up hours later, still straddling Natasha but your front was on hers. As you tried to stand, you let out a soft whimper, your legs giving out beneath you. The pain between your legs was intense and raw, a constant reminder of what had happened.
"Shh...easy, angel."
You broke down completely, crying into her neck. Her scent surrounded you—leather, roses like the rosary she gave you. She held you tightly, one hand rubbing your back soothingly while the other pressed firmly against your lower back to keep you still.
That same night, Natasha lay still on the bed, her eyes half-closed, her breathing slow and even—just enough to make you think she was asleep. She saw a vision of you kneeling in front of the wall, clutching the rosary so tight your fingers trembled. Your whispered prayer cracked mid-sentence, swallowed by a quiet sob you tried so hard to muffle.
Natasha cannot hear every word. But she heard the guilt in your voice and the way you were begging for forgiveness. And she didn't move. She didn't reach for you. She just let you be. So she stayed still, pretending to sleep, even though your muffled crying carved its way into her chest—leaving a bruise deeper than any she came home with.
She closed her eyes tighter.
Maybe it was just a dream.
But the next morning, Natasha immediately felt it—the shift.
You didn't greet her with that soft, sleepy, awkward smile, the one that always made her pretend she wasn't secretly pleased.
And it continued like that for the next few days. You moved through the house like a shadow, soft steps, soft voice, soft everything…but never soft toward her anymore. You did your chores and you ate your meals. You now only answer with a nod and a shake of your head.
You stopped sitting beside her on the couch, choosing the farthest corner of the room instead. You didn't reach for her hand when she came home bleeding. You didn't even look at her bruises anymore. When she entered the room, you went quiet. When she left, you didn't follow her with your eyes the way you used to.
You looked at her like she was something to fear again.
When you woke up the next morning, the house was cold as usual. When you reached the kitchen, the emptiness hit you like a physical thing. Natasha wasn't there. Her seat was empty, pushed in perfectly. No breakfast waited for you, no mug of tea cooling on the counter. She hadn't waited for you to wake, hadn't hovered by the door listening to your morning prayer like she always did now. You stood in the stillness, the Bible clutched to your chest, the cross hanging loosely from your fingers.
You were praying at midday not out of routine, but out of worry—real, growing worry that had been tightening in your chest since morning. Natasha still hadn't come home. You knelt by the bed, rosary wrapped tight around your fingers, whispering every prayer you could remember just to keep from imagining the worst. You've seen her bruises, stabs, what worst can happen to her?
Then—you heard it. Heavy footsteps.
Your breath caught. Before your mind could even form a thought, your body moved on instinct. You scrambled to your feet and ran, nearly tripping over yourself as you threw the door open.
Natasha stood there, chest rising and falling from the long walk back, dust on her clothes, her wet pants, exhaustion in her eyes—but alive. Your relief was so sharp it almost hurt.
She blinked, surprised by the way you rushed toward her. For the first time again, you did that. And then she said, softly—almost like she'd been practicing the words the whole way home.
"Let's go to church."
Your lips parted, breath trembling. A tiny nod slipped out before you even realized you'd agreed. She threw you a dress and a pair of Mary Jane flats that is surprisingly your size, you wonder if those were stolen as well.
The world felt too wide after so long. Endless sky. Trees shifting in the wind. The faint hum of insects in the grass. And then—the river. Clear, moving fast over polished stones, with no bridge in sight.
So this is the view outside her trailer.
You froze at the bank, your rosary tightening painfully between your fingers. Natasha saw the way your breath faltered, the way your legs refused to step forward.
"There's no bridge," she said gently.
Your shoulders curled inward, fear creeping up despite your effort to hide it. Natasha didn't push. Instead, she took a breath, stepped in front of you, and lowered herself slightly, turning her back to you.
"Come," she murmured. "I'll carry you."
You stiffened, eyes widening. Instinct told you to refuse, to step back—but worry and relief and something softer pushed you forward. With trembling hands, you reached for her shoulders, hesitating a final heartbeat before letting your weight settle against her.
Natasha lifted you like nothing, her hands steady under your knees, your arms looped carefully around her neck. You could feel her warmth, her heartbeat, the strength in her back as she stepped into the cold river. When she set you gently down on the far bank, your face flushed hot, your heart pounding loud enough you were certain she could hear it.
The small town ahead felt impossibly real—people walking, children running, old men chatting on porches. You hadn't seen anyone but Natasha in so long. You clutched your rosary with white-knuckled hands, holding your folded mantilla close to your chest.
Natasha stayed at your side, her hand resting at the small of your back.
The parish came into view, its doors open wide, warm candlelight flickering within. As you stepped inside, the second reading was already underway. You lowered your gaze, slipping the black mantilla over your hair with trembling fingers. Natasha stood close behind, like a shadow choosing to stay near.
After mass ended, people slowly filtered out—soft chatter, shuffling feet, doors creaking as sunlight poured back into the church. You stayed kneeling, hands clutching your rosary, heart still steady in prayer. Natasha stood beside you, quiet, restless, eyes never still.
When you finally rose, you turned to her with a small, hopeful look. "Natasha…can we stay a little longer?"
"I'll be here."
You smiled at her before you went and knelt near the side altar, and let your voice fall into the familiar rhythm of the rosary. The world softened, blurred, became holy again. The beads warmed under your fingers. Your shoulders finally dropped as you whispered each mystery.
When you finished, you stood, smoothing your dress, ready to return to her side. But the pew where she sat was empty. You blinked and looked again. Then again. Your heartbeat stumbled painfully. You stepped forward, eyes scanning every passing face—families leaving, elderly women chatting, children tugging at their parents. Everyone blurred into shadows except the person you didn't see.
"Natty…?" you cried, voice cracking. People looked at you in curiosity, some were squinted for how loud you were inside the house of the Lord.
You spun toward the doors, panic rising sharp and fast in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes as you searched. Your breath hitched, your hands trembling around your rosary.
She was gone.
What you didn't know was Natasha was just about to walk out—leaving you inside. She heard the echo of her name inside the church—your call for her. When she looked behind, she saw the way you searched every corner for her instead of running, instead of escaping. Her jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists.
Because this moment was her plan.
She'd brought you here to let you go. To give you a chance to run. To free you without saying the words she couldn't bear to speak.
And yet the first thing you did when you thought she'd left was look for her.
Not escape.
Not freedom.
Her.
Natasha whispered under her breath like a prayer she didn't believe in while looking at you afar.
"Go. Just go. Run. Just fucking run. Please." She spat madly.
But you stayed exactly where she'd left you—small, trembling, eyes full of tears, calling for her.
She broke.
Her feet moved before she gave them permission, boots striking the tiled ground harder than she meant. You didn't hear her until she was right behind you. And then her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm leather and familiar scent pulling you against her chest, then guided you out of the church.
You gasped, collapsing into her hold as if your legs couldn't hold you anymore. The sob tore out of you before you could stop it.
"Where were you?" you whimpered, fingers gripping her jacket, burying your face into her shoulder. "Where did you—"
"Run," she snapped, gripping your arms hard, fingers digging in before pushing you. "Fucking go. Why don't you run?"
A few heads turned toward the sound of your crying. People nearby slowed, eyes flicking over, catching the sight of you—so small and clean compared to the tall woman who has a bruised face—clinging to her and her standing there rigid, breathing hard.
She tried to push you away again, hands coming up to your arms. She nudged you back once, then again, like she was testing how much force she was willing to use. You stumbled half a step, but before she could say anything, you went right back to her, clinging on her leather jacket as if your body had decided for you. Your grip was tight, desperate, stronger than she expected, fueled by fear and something painfully close to trust.
"Fucking go! Go away!" she now shouted, shaking you hard before shoving you with both hands. This time she didn't hold back. You stumbled and fell to the ground, palms scraping against the stone, the impact knocking the breath out of you.
For a split second, she thought that was it. That maybe being cruel enough would finally make you run. That pain would do what fear and anger couldn't.
But you didn't stay down.
You pushed yourself up almost immediately, knees shaking, face twisted with sobs, and before she could react you were back in her arms again. You hugged her tighter than before, burying your face into her clothes, crying so hard it left you gasping. Tears and snot soaked into her jacket, messy and humiliating and completely unguarded.
Her body went rigid. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to leave. You were supposed to save yourself.
Instead, you clung to her like she was the only solid thing left in the world, like being pushed away only proved how badly you needed to hold on. Her hands then stayed where they were, not pushing anymore. The difference felt thin, almost invisible, but it was there.
"It's a sin to be with me." She mumbled, jaw tight, caught between forcing you away again and holding you in place, and in the end she did neither. She just stood there and let you stay.
Then you pulled back, your face wet with tears, Natasha saw the raw fear and longing in your eyes. Then, almost instinctively, you leaned forward. Your lips pressed to hers in a trembling, messy, urgent kiss, soft but full of everything you'd been holding inside for so long—relief, fear, gratitude, and something deeper that scared you even as it burned through your chest. Your sniffles shook the brief contact, and when you broke away just enough to breathe, you pressed yourself into her again.
"Let's go back home," you whispered against her neck, voice choked with sobs. Your words were almost lost in the shivering breath, but they carried everything you felt.
When you reached home, the silence followed you inside. The door closed. The space filled with familiar stillness. She set you down gently, more carefully than before, and moved past you as if everything was the same as it had always been. You didn't mention the kiss. She didn't either. It stayed where it was, unspoken and heavy, resting in the quiet between you, as if acknowledging it might shatter whatever fragile peace had brought you back together.
But in the middle of the tense silence, Natasha suddenly turned to you. Without warning, she grabbed your face and pressed her lips to yours. You froze for a moment, but instead of pushing her away, you found yourself letting her take control.
Her hands moved swiftly, unzipping your dress with practiced ease. Before you knew it, she had scooped you up in her strong arms and carried you bridal-style over to the bed. She threw you down gently but firmly, climbing on top of you instantly. You realized you were still clutching the rosary beads tightly in your fist. The small wooden beads dug into your palm as Natasha settled between your legs, pressing you into the mattress with her body weight.
The redhead kissed along your collarbone and down your chest before suddenly switching to pepper kisses along your inner thighs. You watched through hazy eyes as she moved lower and lower, her mouth never leaving your skin.
She buried her face between your legs and started sucking your clit directly into her mouth. Her tongue dragged firmly over your sensitive spot, knowing exactly how much stimulation would make you delirious with pleasure.
"Praying to God with no panties on? Seems like mockery to me."
You let out a shaky breath as she continued her relentless assault on your clit. Your fingers tightened around the rosary beads, knuckles turning white. You tried to whisper something but your voice trailed off into a moan as she sucked harder.
She suddenly pulled away, leaving you gasping. She quickly undressed herself, tossing her clothes aside carelessly. She looked at your hands above your head and the tangled rosary in your hand before she positioned herself between your legs—her thighs pressing against yours as she rubbed her wet pussy against yours. She started grinding against you, her slick folds sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She then reached up and grabbed your hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. She intertwined her fingers with yours, trapping your hand against her chest as she continued to move against you. The beads dug into her skin, mixing with her sweat and your arousal.
After bringing you to the edge multiple times without letting you fall over, Natasha suddenly leaned down and whispered harshly into your ear.
"Cum. Now." Her command was firm and unyielding as she pressed her forehead against yours, maintaining eye contact.
You cried out loudly as you obeyed her command, your body convulsing with a powerful orgasm.
As your orgasm subsided, Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your lips then moved to your cheek, before slowly pulled away. Instead of getting up or putting space between you, Natasha surprised you by laying her head on your chest. She curled her body around yours, listening to your heartbeat slowly return to normal. You found yourself gently playing with her hair, running your fingers through the silky strands.
As a child, sin was explained to you in small, clear rules, the kind meant to shape behavior early. Don't take what isn't yours, even if it's just a coin from the table or an extra candy. Don't lie when asked who broke the glass, even if telling the truth meant punishment. Don't raise your voice when you're angry, don't roll your eyes, don't question adults who speak with authority even if you think they're wrong—because they know better than you. Keep your hands still, keep your thoughts clean, don't linger on curiosity about your own body. Don't compare your life to others who seemed more blessed, more loved, more seen. And woven quietly into all of it was another rule, treated as obvious truth—a man is for a woman, and a woman is for a man. Anything else wasn't discussed. It didn't need to be. You were simply taught it wasn't right.
When you failed, the lesson was always the same. Pray and be quiet—try harder next time. You were taught that sin wasn't something to understand, only something to control. Something you could press down with discipline, with routine, with obedience, until it stayed buried. You learned to watch yourself constantly, guarding your own heart like it was a problem waiting to happen, believing that goodness meant keeping everything contained and unseen.
But this—this wouldn't stay contained.
No matter how much you tried to deny it, it surfaced in the way your chest tightened when she was near, in the way your body relaxed when she touched you, in the way your thoughts returned to her even when you begged them not to. You tried to name it anything else, good, bad things. Anything but what it was reaching toward. You wanted to deny it because admitting it means crossing a line you were never meant to see, let alone step over.
And yet the question wouldn't leave you alone. Not whispered by father's sermon, not shouted by guilt, but asked softly from somewhere honest and afraid inside you.
Is this love you felt? Not for a man—but for a woman.
You didn't know. You only knew it refused to be hidden the way you were taught sin should be.
"You're sinning," she said—but somehow, even that sounded beautiful.
After that, you stopped running from it. You started seeking her instead. You leaned into her touch, waited for it, missed it when it wasn't there. Sometimes you were the one who moved first, closing the space between you, letting things unfold without stopping them.
What followed was never gentle or calm. It left you both breathless, tangled together, you learned about her toys, but you prefer her fingers more inside you. There were tears mixed with pleasure, relief tangled with guilt, but you kept coming back to her anyway.
You knew what you were doing. You knew what it meant.
You're sinning.
One quiet morning, you were eating breakfast together after a long, long night.
"It's tuesday," she said, she looked at you for a long moment, brow slightly raised, and then checked her watch. "Do you wanna go to church?"
You nodded, heart fluttering, "Yeah!"
"Go finish your food."
Your chest lifted with a mix of relief and excitement. You quickly got ready, folding the little things you needed into a small bag, careful not to make too much noise. She watched you from the doorway, her expression unreadable but calm, the usual weight of her presence always watching you.
When you reached the river, you froze, unsure how you'd cross without getting swept away. Natasha just smirked, bending down slightly. "You know what to do, angel," she said, and before you could argue, she lifted you effortlessly onto her back. You squealed, half in fear as she waded into the water.
The current tugged at her boots, but she didn't falter, keeping you safe above the flow. You both laughed—nervous, breathless, the sound spilling into the open air—as she steadied herself. You clutched her shoulders tightly, feeling her steady heartbeat against your hands and the world felt small and bright all at once.
Once you reached the other side, she didn't put you down. Instead, she carried you piggyback through the forest. When she finally set you down on your feet, your legs felt wobbly, almost like you'd forgotten how to stand on your own. Your heart pounded in your chest, you were nervous and excited as your eyes dragged across the town. The redhead noticed immediately and didn't let go of your hand.
"Stay close," she murmured and you nodded, squeezing her hand back without realizing it.
Together, you stepped into the bustling market, the air full of voices, clanging pots, the scent of fresh bread and spices. People jostled past, shouting prices and greetings, and your chest tightened with the unfamiliar crowd. You wandered slowly, hand still in hers, letting yourself take in the chaos without fear for the first time.
At one stall, someone offered free tastes of strawberries and you couldn't help but say no to free foods! You took one and bit into it, juice sweet on your tongue, sticky on your fingers. Excitedly, you turned to her, holding the strawberry near her mouth, eyes bright, wanting to share it with her. Instead of taking it, she leaned in and kissed you—soft, quick, unexpected. When you blinked, the moment lingered in the air between you, sweeter than any strawberry you'd ever tasted.
Your cheeks burned, a soft blush spreading across your face as you held her hand. The moment felt quiet and sweet—until a group of kids ran up behind you.
"Can we braid your hair?" they asked, they looked at Natasha like she could make their little wish come true with just a smile.
You glanced at her, unsure what she'd say, but the kids were so cute and eager it made your heart lift.
Natasha froze, glancing at you with a small frown, "Me?" she mouthed, clearly not interested in being the center of attention.
You tugged gently at her hand, whispering, coaxing her softly. "Come on…it wouldn't take long."
"Fine," she said quietly, letting the kids gather around her.
As the kids braided her hair, Natasha kept looking at you, eyes asking for help. You could only giggle, covering your mouth, feeling both amused and helpless. She just gave a small shrug and you kept laughing.
When the kids finally stepped back, brushing their hands together and admiring their work, Natasha looked at you, hair braided with little flowers tucked in between the strands.
You couldn't help but smile between laughs. This tall woman who is wearing nothing but black, had her hair braided and styled with little flowers on. "You look…cute."
She glanced at you, sighing like a kid, but the warmth in her eyes told you she liked hearing it. And in the middle of your moment one of the kids, shy but bold, looked up at you with wide eyes and asked.
"Can I get a kiss from you, ma'am?"
Natasha's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare. Where did this kid come from?! Before she could do anything, your hands shot out, tugging her gently and stepping in front of her. You pressed her behind your back, shielding her with your small frame, your own heart racing as you scolded.
"Natty…it's a kid."
You heard her grumble and that's when you faced her. "Behave." But the taller woman just scowled and it made you giggle once more, she looked like a child! "Are you jealous of the kid?"
"No, I am not!" she said, her eyes throwing daggers on the poor boy behind you.
The little boy blinked at her, but then you finally turned and as you bent down, you kissed your forefinger, then touched it to his chubby cheek before ruffling his hair gently.
Without a word, Natasha grabbed your hand and pulled you along. You ran together through the stalls, laughing breathlessly, letting her lead as the market faded behind you.
You kept running, until the streets began to open and the familiar steeple of the parish came into view. Your chest heaved, but a rush of relief washed over you as you slowed, finally letting your feet carry you to the heavy wooden doors.
"Do you…want to get inside?" you glanced up at her, heart still racing from the run.
She looked back at you for a moment, her usual sharp gaze softened and then she nodded.
You two walked in quietly and went into the nearest pew. You finally let go of your hands as you lowered yourself slowly on your knees. Your forehead touching your interlaced fingers. The quiet of the church settled over you like a blanket.
Natasha's gaze slowly lifted from you, drifting toward the altar at the front of the parish. Her eyes traced the lines of the cross, lingering on the image of Jesus, the soft light catching the edges of the carved wood. She stared at the altar, letting her thoughts drift. Is this guy even real? But she didn't question it anymore—not the stillness, not the quiet, not the way you were there, kneeling before him…not her. For a moment, she simply looked, silent, before slowly closing her eyes, letting herself pause there as if she was holding some unspoken thought or prayer between the folds of her mind.
She was so lost in her prayer—though she'd never admit it—that she didn't notice you quietly settled beside her. When she finally opened her eyes, she blinked and saw you smiling at her.
"Hi…" you grinned, nudging your shoulders to hers. "What were you doing?"
She shrugged, crossing her arms. "Nothing."
"You were praying," you teased, grinning.
"No? I'm…just resting my eyes," she murmured, trying to sound casual.
"Yes, you were," you insisted, nudging her shoulder again, and her lips twitched, betraying the smallest flicker of a smile. You tilted your head. "So… what were you praying for?" you moved closer to her as you waited for her to answer.
But the woman just looked at you—straight into your eyes, tracing the curve of your smile with that steady, unreadable gaze. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you and in that quiet, unspoken way, it was clear.
You may not know but the answer to your question was already here—you.
In fact, she didn't need to pray at all. She'd done all the work to have you—every step, every risk, every control—and in her mind, she was the one who shaped this, who held it. She didn't need God.
She is God.
But still…she prayed to Him.
She thanked Him.
She never broke eye contact with you, but then she looked at the altar then back to you. "Do you think…if I kissed you in front of Him, He'd be mad?"
"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Psalm 145:8," your voice trembled just a little as you recited the verse, but the words carried certainty. "He doesn't get angry at love…He wants it, in all its forms."
"Then do you? Want it?" she whispered, her voice low, almost unsure, and for a heartbeat, doubt flickered in your eyes. "Aren't you afraid?"
You drew in a slow breath, letting the echo fade. Your fingers lifted on their own, brushing her cheek.
"There is no fear in love," you said softly, eyes never leaving hers. "Perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. And the one who fears is not made perfect in love."
But the moment was already moving faster than thought. Before the words could completely root in your mind, your lips met hers, soft and urgent, messy and real. When you finally pulled away, your breath was uneven, your forehead still resting against hers.
That was when you noticed it.
Her eyes kept drifting away from you, just for a second at a time, down to her watch. Each glance felt small on its own, but together they built something heavy in your chest.
"I don't wanna go home yet," you murmured, almost to yourself.
She looked at you and smiled before shaking her head, "No, baby, we're not going home. Don't worry."
There was something in the way she said it that felt off, something sharp beneath the warmth. But you didn't think much about it.
The woman reached out again, thumb brushing your cheek, warm and careful. "So…if we get married," she said quietly, nodding toward the altar, "in front of Him…do you think He'd be mad?"
You huffed a small breath, trying to lighten it. "Why do you care about what he'll think of?" you giggle that made the redhead fake a gasp, "What about you gotta have a ring for that first?"
Her smile shifted, slower and certain.
Without a word, she reached into her pocket. She took your hand gently and slid a ring onto your finger. The cool metal settled there like it had always belonged. You blinked at it, then up at her, a small laugh escaping you.
"It's too big," you whined, "And you gotta put the ring when we're together at the altar, silly," you said, half teasing, half nervous. Looking at the simple ring on your finger.
"It's the one you're going to give me," she replied simply before waving a smaller ring, "I have yours." Then she stood and tugged you up with her, already guiding you toward the aisle.
When you reached the middle, she stopped. Her hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and you leaned into her palm without thinking. Her voice softened. "Go. You go from the doors and I'll wait for you at the altar." You giggled, the sound light and breathless, and nodded before turning away. She watched you run toward the doors, your steps quick and uneven with excitement, then turned and walked the rest of the way herself.
When she reached the altar, she checked her watch one last time. Then she turned to look back.
There you were. Standing at the doors, stunning without even trying, waving at her like this was the easiest thing in the world. Her breath caught. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She smiled through it.
Then she laughed, quietly, like she couldn't believe any of this was real—and that somehow, impossibly, it was.
You were about to take your first step towards her when a voice cut through the quiet and called your name.
You turned and your breath caught when you saw them.
"Mom?"
You tried to look back over your shoulder.
Your feet wouldn't move. You stayed frozen as she reached you and wrapped her arms around you, holding you hard, like she was afraid you might disappear again if she let go. Your sister hovered close, eyes scanning you, relief and fear tangled together.
"W-What are you doing here?"
"We got a call from a stranger, giving us information that we will find you here." Your sister said, taking a hold of your cheek.
Natasha was still there, standing at the altar, exactly where she had said she'd wait. She didn't move. She just watched.
Then you saw it—her lips curved into a small, quiet smile. Seeing it made your chest tighten and the tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free, rolling down your cheeks. You couldn't stop them, and you didn't want to.
Your family hovered close, voices soft, worry in every word, hands reaching to check if you were okay. But your eyes stayed locked on her, refusing to look anywhere else.
You wanted to call her, to run to her, to close the distance in an instant. Everything just felt fast, jumbled, like the world had gone loud with your own heartbeat. Sounds were muffled, voices blending into a dull hum and every thought scrambled over the next, there were voices, cries, then there were sirens.
And the moment you finally blinked, even for that one bit second, she was gone.
Six years later...
Though it didn't feel like it. Time had a way of slipping past, unmarked, until one day you realized you were included to those who had been blipped.
Now, you were kneeling on the cool soil, hands pressed to the earth, staring at a gravestone that carried a weight your heart still struggled to hold.
The black mantilla she had given you is placed over your head draped softly around your shoulders. The fabric still carried the faint scent of her—a leather and a rose—a memory pressed into cloth. Carefully, you adjusted the small items that were left by people and the ones you'd brought.
You moved with the quiet care of someone who had done this many times in their head before ever doing it in real life. Straightening the flowers. Brushing dirt from the stone. Adjusting the veil she had given you so it didn't slip from your hair. Anyone watching would have thought you were a grieving wife, tending to the grave of the person you loved most.
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.
Rio Vidal is accustomed to working with brats. Especially one as infuriating as you.
Your temper was as sharp as the knives she kept tucked into the many pockets of her tactical vest, your every movement exuding a mix of defiance and arrogance. It grated on Rio’s nerves, but there was also something strangely captivating about your stubbornness—your refusal to bend, to yield.
She had been assigned to you as your bodyguard—protection for a supermodel who found it too much of a burden to follow simple orders. You were her charge, her responsibility. But that didn’t mean Rio was not fed up to your little tantrums, especially when you stomped around the hotel room like a child who didn’t get what she wanted.
“Stop acting like this,” Rio’s voice was calm but firm as she stood between you and the door. You were already seething, and she could feel your anger radiating off you, but there was no way you were leaving. Not without her approval.
You sneered at her, the lines of your designer dress practically cutting into your skin with how tightly you crossed your arms. “I can do whatever I want. You’re just my bodyguard, not my jailer.”
The words bit at Rio, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she took a step forward, her body perfectly still. She didn’t let your haughty expression distract her. No, she was focused on the task at hand: keeping you safe, even if you couldn’t see the importance of it.
“I know,” she said, voice low and laced with steel. “But this is what you don’t get, sweetheart. You’re not getting past me.”
With a frustrated growl, you turned on your heel, intent on marching toward the door again, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. But Rio was faster. You barely had time to react before her arms locked around your waist, pinning you in place, holding you firm against her chest.
“Get your hands off!” you shouted, squirming in her grip as she dragged you away from the door. She was unyielding, her hold stronger than anything you could muster.
Rio could feel your struggle in the way your body pressed against hers, a mixture of heat and anger seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. She didn’t flinch, didn’t let you go. If anything, she pulled you closer, tightening her grip around your waist.
“I’m not letting you out of this room princess, not until you calm down,” she murmured into your ear, her voice a silky whisper that only made your irritation burn hotter. But there was a subtle tug in her words, something that reached down to places inside of you that you’d prefer to ignore.
You tried again to fight her off, twisting, kicking your heels against her shins, but it only made her hold tighten, her hands gripping the curve of your body with unrelenting precision. The scent of her cologne mixed with the sharp tang of her presence, filling the space between you.
“Stop fighting, doll” she coaxed, her lips dangerously close to your ear now. “You know you’ll only make this harder for yourself. I’ll always win.”
Your body was starting to betray you, the friction between you both making your breath quicken, your chest rising and falling sharply. Despite yourself, you couldn’t ignore the pull between you—the way her grip on you felt almost possessive, the way she anchored you to the present, making you aware of every inch of her body pressed against yours.
“Why are you doing this?” You could barely get the words out as her chest heaved against your back, the warmth of her body seeping into yours, making you feel trapped in more ways than one. You wanted to argue, but your voice had faltered. Rio knew your attraction to her and she used it.
Rio’s answer came not in words but in the slow, deliberate way her lips brushed the side of your neck, a kiss so light it made your knees weak. “Because you need to be kept in line. Your dad will kill me if you left this apartment. And because you want me to.”
You froze, every muscle in your body going rigid, though you were still trapped in her arms. You could feel the steady rhythm of her heart against your back, could feel her breath against your skin, and it sent a jolt of something electric through you.
She leaned in, lips now dangerously close to your ear. “I’m here to protect you. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that my way is the only way.”
The intensity of her words hit you harder than you’d expected. And despite your pride, despite your resistance, a small, treacherous part of you began to acknowledge the truth in them.
And just like that, Rio Vidal’s control over you didn’t feel so suffocating anymore. It felt almost… inevitable.
As she tightened her grip, pulling you flush against her, your breath hitched. “Stop pretending you don’t want this, bratting out more than usual to have me react like this ” she said, her tone low, predatory.
It was the challenge that did it. You knew she was right—you couldn’t deny the pull between you anymore. In that moment, Rio Vidal had tamed the brat you’d been, and what replaced that was something even more dangerous: need.
Rio didn’t hesitate, not for a second. The moment your defiance wavered, she took control. She always did.
She could feel it—the subtle shift in your posture, the brief crack in your otherwise perfect facade. You were still angry, still trying to fight it, but there was a dangerous tension brewing beneath that exterior. Something raw. Something real.
With a swift motion, she turned you around, her hands firm at your waist, pressing you against the nearest wall. The sudden shift left you breathless, your body now trapped between Rio’s steady presence and the cold wall behind you. You tried to squirm, but the warmth of her body pressed against yours, impossibly close, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt your resolve start to slip.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Rio’s voice was low, her words carrying a weight that sent a shiver down your spine. Her lips were a breath away from your ear, teasing, taunting you in the most deliciously maddening way.
You hated how it made you feel. How her presence made everything inside of you tighten. You hated how your breath was already shallow, how your body was betraying you in the way it leaned into hers.
Rio could sense the change. She could feel the vulnerability creeping into your defiance. With a quick motion, she captured your chin between her fingers, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dark with a promise—one that you could not escape, no matter how much you wanted to.
“You’re not leaving this room until I say so,” Rio murmured, her lips ghosting over yours in a barely-there kiss. It was a tease, a challenge. You could feel her control, her dominance, and yet there was something in her eyes that promised something else—a pull, a connection that made you feel both terrified and alive.
You tried to push her away, but your strength was nothing compared to hers. She was unyielding. Her lips crushed against yours with a hunger you weren’t prepared for. She kissed you deeply, forcefully, her hands sliding into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer.
For a moment, you forgot to fight.
Your body melted into hers as she took control, and you didn’t have the strength to stop her. Not anymore.
Rio’s hands roamed your body with practiced ease, pushing you deeper into the wall as she explored, claiming every inch of you with her touch. She made no effort to hide the way her fingers lingered, how she caressed your skin like she owned it—and for this moment, you realized, she did.
You gasped as she pulled away, her breath hot on your neck as she pressed herself against you, her body demanding submission in the most intoxicating way. "You think you’re in control?" she whispered, her voice full of amusement and authority. "You’re mine, sweetheart. And you’ll learn that the hard way."
“You think you can keep fighting me?” Her voice was a low growl against your ear, lips grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The scent of her cologne was intoxicating, mingling with the heat of her breath as she pressed her body into yours, pinning you so you had no room to move.
Your dress was already half unzipped, hanging precariously off your shoulders, but Rio didn’t bother with the rest. Instead, her fingers hooked into the fabric, pulling it down, exposing the curve of your collarbone. Her eyes darkened as she took you in, a predatory gleam lighting up her gaze.
“Such a pretty little brat,” she murmured, her lips brushing down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You could feel her smile against your skin when your breath hitched—a sound you couldn’t quite stifle. “You like this, don’t you? Having someone put you in your place.”
You wanted to snap back, to deny it, but the words died on your lips as her hands roamed lower, claiming the exposed skin of your waist. Rio’s touch was both demanding and teasing, fingers ghosting over your body with a precision that left you aching for more.
Your knees nearly buckled when her hand slipped under your dress, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She watched your reaction with a satisfied smirk, enjoying how your bravado crumbled under her touch.
“Tell me to stop,” she challenged, her voice a sultry whisper against your lips. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
But you couldn’t. Instead, a strangled gasp escaped you when her hand cupped you through the thin lace of your underwear, her fingers pressing on your clit just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Just as I thought,” Rio murmured, a dark chuckle escaping her. “You need someone to take charge, don’t you? To show you exactly where you belong.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her lips crashed into yours, kissing you with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. Her fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding you already soaking wet, and a groan of satisfaction rumbled in her throat.
You moaned into her mouth as her fingers found a rhythm inside your walls, slow and deliberate, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure through your body. The way she touched you, with such confidence, such control, made your head spin. There was no room for defiance now, no room for anything but the fire she stoked with every movement.
“Look at you,” she purred, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed expression, your eyes half-lidded with desire. “So desperate, so needy… I could ruin you right here, couldn’t I?” You tried to reply but your words are incoherent as they are replaced with your whines and whimpers
Her words sent a jolt of arousal through you, your body responding with a shudder as her fingers slid deeper, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot that had you arching into her touch. You tried to bite back a moan, but it came out anyway, soft, high-pitched, and broken, a sound that only seemed to encourage her.
“That’s it,” Rio coaxed, her voice a dark melody in your ear. “Let go, sweet girl. Let me hear you.”
The pleasure built rapidly, an intense wave that threatened to consume you. Your hands found their way to her shoulders, clutching at her for support, as she drove you closer and closer to the edge. Her movements were relentless, a perfect mix of pressure and speed that left you helplessly writhing in her grip.
“Say it,” she demanded, her breath hot against your ear. “Tell me who’s in control.”
“You are,” you gasped, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice breaking as the pleasure became too much to bear.
A triumphant smirk tugged at her lips, and with one final, perfectly timed thrust of her fingers inside your cunt, she sent you tumbling over the edge. Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your body shaking in her arms as she held you up, her fingers never stopping their torturous rhythm until you were completely undone.
As you came down from your high, your body still trembling, Rio pressed a soft, almost tender kiss to your temple. “That’s my good girl,” she whispered, her tone softer now, though still laced with that dark edge of dominance. “I told you I’d tame you.”
You were too breathless to respond, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what had just happened. But as Rio pulled you into her arms, holding you close, you couldn’t deny it—something had shifted between you. You weren’t just a brat to be tamed; you were hers now, in a way that left you feeling both vulnerable and strangely exhilarated.
let me know what your thoughts are, request box is open my loves<3
Top of the Class (Professor!Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)
Synopsis: Agatha finally lets you sit in on one of her classes.
Words: 7.1k
Warnings: Student/teacher relationship, power imbalance, age gap (all 18+), praise kink, possessiveness, swearing, jealousy, mentions of cock warming, mentions of orgasm denial, mentions of overstimulation, mentions of spanking, edging, fingering (R receiving), choking, strap-on (R receiving), blowjob (R giving), degradation, hair pulling, begging, marking
Agatha’s hand was resting on the top of your head, nails scraping over your scalp as she petted you. Your back was pressed against the sofa, leaning against her leg, cheek resting on her thigh. You’d given up on the book in your lap, eyes closed, luxuriating in the feeling of her. You hummed, shuffling closer.
“Are you falling asleep, pet?”
Her voice was a soft hum, almost amused. You mumbled something, curling one arm around her calf, pressing more insistently against her. Her fingers gave one sharp tug on your hair, pain blooming over your scalp.
“Hey,” you protested.
But it wasn’t enough for you to draw away. Nothing could convince you to stop touching her when she was allowing it. Her warmth was seeping into your body. She wound a strand of your hair around her finger, tugging on it again, this time gentler.
“Are you going to sleep if I leave you here during my class?” she asked.
You buried your face against the muscle of her thigh, refusing to answer. She was not one to promote wasted time. Not unless it was to do something she wanted. Like laze around in bed all day, nothing but caresses and kisses and shared laughter.
“I can’t have you wasting the entire afternoon,” she warned.
“You’re the one who kept me up all night,” you grumbled.
“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” she said.
Of course you hadn’t. She’d had your arms tied above your head as she’d kept you on the brink long enough to drive you crazy. You were hardly going to tell her to stop when she was making you feel so good.
“C’mon, just one short nap,” you wheedled, “you won’t even be here to see.”
“Exactly. Don’t you think you should try and get as much work done when I’m not here to…” Her fingers tugged on your hair until you looked up at her, “play with you?”
“How am I meant to when I’m so tired?” you asked.
“If you want to spend the night in your dorm room, be my guest,” she said.
“No,” you said, so fast there was no way to play it off as anything but desperate.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” she asked, “since I clearly can’t trust you on your own.”
“You can trust me. I’m a good girl,” you whined.
“I know you try to be,” she said, fingertips brushing over the apple of your cheeks, “you try so hard. But sometimes you can’t help yourself.”
You whimpered, pressing closer. She lent forward until her breath ghosted over your skin. Her hair, usually wild and free, was pinned up and you could see the long column of her neck. It called to you, begging for your lips to attach to it, your tongue to taste her skin.
“Up here, pet,” she said.
Her finger tilted your chin up until your eyes met hers. The way she was looking at you had your stomach clenching, butterflies springing to life, fire sparking in your veins. It was full of such heat, scorching you, turning your head fuzzy.
“I’m not sure you’ll do as you’re told if left to your own devices,” she said.
“What do you suggest?” you asked, letting yourself gaze at her with undisguised desire.
“I think you’d better join me in class today,” she said.
“I should what?”
You eyes blinked up at her, stomach swooping. You’d never been given the opportunity to watch her teach. When taking one of her classes had felt like a pipe dream, you’d imagined the legend of a woman at a lectern. Now, knowing her, you knew it would ruin you to watch her.
“You need my watchful gaze on you, pet,” she said, “you might even learn something.”
“I promise you I won’t,” you said.
She chuckled, husky, from deep in her chest, making you tremble at her feet. Her knuckles brushed over your cheekbone surprisingly soft.
“And why’s that, pet?” she asked.
“Because all I’ll be able to think about is your mouth, and your fingers, and what you do to me,” you replied.
“And what do I do to you?” she asked.
“Ruin me.”
She seemed pleased with your breathless response, grinning down at you like you were her good little pet, like she was going to swallow you whole, like all your dreams were going to come true. You glowed for her, so pleased, shuffling closer. Maybe you weren’t going to be able to nap, but she was offering you the chance to show her how well you followed orders. You could be so good for her.
An hour later, you were following her across the campus, towards the small lecture theatre that attempted to contain her genius. The usual circle of space was given to the two of you, leaving you in your own bubble with her. It was how you preferred it, not letting the rest of the world in when you were with her. She was the world to you.
Inside the lecture theatre, a group of students sat scattered over the chairs. You watched, a rippling effect of straightening spines, eyes alighting on Agatha. Your Agatha. Of course she got such a response from her students. She was formidable.
Your eyes scanned over the crowd, watching the way they watched her. A few glances passed over your, a mixture of confusion and jealousy. Clearly your reputation had seeped into their collective consciousness, your special place in the ecosystem of Professor Harkness’s teaching career. Too many of them were watching her with an undisguised look of wanting. You recognised it, the same expression on your face when you saw her. The same expression she seemed to find amusing on your features.
“Go take a seat,” she murmured in your ear, her hand on the small of your back nudging you towards the stairs.
You nodded, mute, her breath on your skin raising goosebumps. Even in front of an audience, you couldn’t stop your reaction to her. She was something otherworldly, magical in how she made you feel. Like a magnet, you felt yourself drawn towards her no matter the distance.
You sunk into a chair at the back of the hall, where you could watch her and not be watched by any of her students. You wanted to gaze at her, drink in this moment, watch her in her element. You knew it would wreck you but you craved it, your destruction at her hand. Her eyes alighted on you, a fleeting glance, but you saw it from the tilt of her lips. She knew what she was about to do to you.
With your chin resting in your hand, you could gaze down at her. She waited another few minutes, the air turning electric with anticipation. She fiddled with the laptop, a powerpoint showing behind her. It was familiar, the picture one you’d poured over with her before, heads bent together over a book, close enough that whispers were all you needed. Her shoulder had been pressed against yours, long fingers tracing over the plate, spinning a story for you. When your gaze had inevitably crawled up her arm to her face, she’d already been looking back, blue eyes molten, taking in every single one of your micro expressions. She hadn’t let you kiss her until she was finished telling you the story, but you’d ached to since the first word fell from her lips.
The door crashed open, starting you. A windswept boy hurried in, calling out an apology to Agatha. Her lip curled and those blue eyes flashed dangerously. You watched each sure step as she sauntered over to him. Your stomach clenched and you thought you knew what was coming.
“What time do you call this?” she asked, voice quiet but ringing in the students’ silence. All eyes were watching.
“Sorry Professor Harkness,” the boy said, one hand pushing through his hair, ruffling it in what he must have thought was an attractive way, “traffic was crazy.”
“What did I tell you at the start of the semester?” she asked, head cocking to the side.
You could see him searching for the answer, the slump of his shoulders when he came up empty.
“I told you,” she said, bending down, both hands on the arms of the chair, pinning him under her gaze, “don’t bother showing up if you’re not serious about this class.”
“I am serious. I’m so serious. It was just-” he said.
“Traffic. So you said,” she said straightening up.
You watched him let out a relieved breath, relaxing back into the seat. Agatha turned on her heels and you held your breath.
“Get out,” she said.
The boy stiffened.
“But I am serious,” he argued, “you know I’m serious about this class. I need this to graduate.”
“You should have thought about that before you were late,” she said, not even looking at him to add insult to injury, “everyone was informed that I don’t accept late arrivals. Either show up early or not at all.”
He stood, face going a splotchy red.
“Bitch,” he spat.
She was slow to turn and you could tell from the set of her lips that she was angry. Hidden, secret, not obvious unless you’d spent a lot of time with her, you weren’t sure any of the students realised. The boy certainly didn’t. He had no idea how deep in shit he was.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that if you’re hoping to hurt my feelings,” she replied.
“It’s one minute. What’s it matter?” he demanded.
“The second you start allowing standards slip is the second you give up. I have no interest in teaching burn outs. Get out of my class,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment before he snatched up his bag. His stomping footsteps echoed as he left again, under the watchful gaze of the rest of the students. The door was loud as it slammed shut behind him.
Your thighs clenched together under your tiny table, breathless, mouth dry, heart thundering. Blue eyes found you and the warmth in your cheeks was for no one but her.
“Does anyone else have something they wish to add before I begin class?” she asked, voice carrying through the room.
Quiet negatives came from every corner of the room. You couldn’t look away as a smile spread over her face.
“Good,” she said, “then let me tell you a story.”
You settled back in your seat, the familiar story washing over you. You didn’t need to concentrate, knowing the story, having heard it in her husky voice, late at night, whispered into your skin over and over again, teasing you until you answered her questions correctly while her fingers drew you taut. The same story that played along with the picture of witches dancing in the moonlight hand in hand with demons.
No, you paid attention to her body, rather than her words. The way her hands moved through the air, illustrating something only she could see. Her voice rose and fell, lingering on certain words, her tongue caressing each syllable. She strode up and down, turning dramatically, weaving together a performance that had you throbbing with need.
You melted in your seat, watching her, lips parted, wondering if you could convince her to take you on her desk when you returned to her office. You were being so good. She had to reward you. She had to.
She paused, eyes dragging up to you. You watched as her tongue dragged along her lower lip, her pause deafening. Your own teeth sunk into your lower lip, imagining your own tongue following the same path. Her head titled. And then she was off again, continuing her lecture.
You inhaled sharply, looking away for a moment. You could pick out the students that were hanging on her every word, those that lent forward in their chairs, wanting to be closer to the sparkling woman. She might have had a reputation around campus, but those who managed to stick it out clearly found her as intriguing as you did.
You hated the thought of them thinking about her the way you did. Fantasising. Imagining. Working hard to please her the same way you did in the hopes they would be singled out. That she would look at them as if they were special. As if they would be the one to break through the hard exterior.
You were the only one who got to see beyond the performance to the woman underneath. And you were certainly the only one that got to benefit from those long fingers and flashing eyes and cruel smirk. No one else was hers.
No one else had a claim over her. Just you. Only you. Always you.
Your eyes slipped back to her, finding her leaning towards another one of her students. They were gazing up at her, dazzled, and your jaw clenched. But then her head tipped up and she caught your eye and you knew she was doing it on purpose. She wanted you watching. She wanted you paying attention. She wanted you jealous.
So you sat back in your chair, fingers combing through your hair, playing with the ends. The soft flannel of your shirt fell down towards your elbows, her perfume a permanent scent embedded in the material. She’d never asked for it back after you’d stolen it, the purple material a comfort when she wasn’t around.
You tipped your chin down, watching her intently. Her lips pulled up into a half smirk, leaning away from the student. She turned away from you, hands resting in her pockets, continuing on with the story. Letting your eyes sweep over her body, all you wanted to do was slip between her legs, taste her skin, hear her moan. You loved the noises she made when you were knuckles deep inside her.
The next time those eyes found you, you slipped your fingertip into your mouth, cheeks hollowing, maintaining eye contact with her. There was no stutter, no break in her words, no stumble, but you saw the way her fingers clenched.
If she was playing with you, you’d play right back.
You rested your fingers around your own throat, waiting for her to look back. You tipped your head back, lips parting, hooded eyes daring her to do something. Her shoulders tightened and her words came out a touch sharper than you were sure she’d intended them to be.
Then she gifted a smile to one of the girls in the front row. Not her usual smile. The one that she usually bestowed on you when you were particularly brilliant. You didn’t like the way your heart thudded. It reminded you that she would always hold so much power over you. With a single word she could break you.
Although, you might be able to break her too, if you ever lost your mind and wanted to hurt her.
When her gaze sought you out again, you knew you were looking at her like you wanted her to throw you down on the floor and have her way with you in front of all of her students. That you were imagining the pleasure she could give you. That you were thinking of the ways she could make you scream.
Her own eyes darkened, tongue wetting her lips again. Your lips parted on a soft sigh, fingertips trailing over your own skin in a mirror of the path hers had taken over your body that morning. You traced her name into your skin, slow enough for her to realise what you were doing. The expression on her face was nothing but raw need.
You thought you’d won the game she’d started. Your checkmate move, the one that always had her melting. Making it clear you were hers and hers alone, and that you were proud of the fact. That you luxuriated it. That you loved being claimed by her.
You spent the rest of the class watching her, gazing with what you were sure was a lovesick look, tracing her name over and over again into your skin as you considered all the ways you wanted to show her your appreciation for letting you join her class. And hopefully earn you another invitation.
You were beginning to grow drunk on her, addicted to her, salivating over her as she strode around the room, hands waving, fingers curling in a move you found very familiar. Your teeth sunk into your lower lip, holding in the moan that wanted to be heard.
She wrapped up the lecture, those eyes finding you again, lips curling up when she saw the state you were in. You shifted in your seat, squirming when her expression darkened. Lingering, you stayed in your seat as the students filtered out, a few staying behind to ask questions. She waved them away, her gaze caught on you.
You lent back, watching her approach from under hooded eyes. Hands in her pockets, she exuded powered, the kind that was heady and addictive and delicious. She walked through the row in front of you, leaning over the chair to draw closer to you.
“Did you learn something, pet?” she asked.
“Uh huh.” You nodded, leaning towards her.
“And what did you learn?” she asked.
“That I’m going to have to keep you chained up in your house,” you said, “you’re entirely too sexy when you teach and I’m not the only one who notices.”
“What on earth could you mean?” she asked, widening her eyes, affecting innocence.
“I think you know the exact effect you have on them,” you said, leaning in until you were only a hair’s breadth from her.
“What effect do I have on you?” she asked.
“How about you come here and find out,” you suggested.
Her hand grasped your chin, nails digging into your cheeks. Your mouth fell open, a soundless beg for her to come closer. When her eyes dipped down to your lips, you strained against her hold to get closer.
“You think you’re in control here? You think your little display will get you what you want? You think you have any say in how I teach my students?” Her lips brushed against yours, featherlight and ghost-like, “you have sorely miscalculated, pet.”
The flash of heat that went through you was embarrassing. You shouldn’t be so ready for her with so little work on her part. Leaning into her touch, you whimpered, just loud enough for her to hear you.
“You spent the entire class testing my patience,” she growled.
“I was being good for you,” you said.
“You were being a dirty whore. A spectacle. If anyone had seen you they would have known what a desperate little slut you are. Is that what you want? Do you want all my students to know how needy you are for my cock?” Her fingernails only dug in harder.
“Want them to know I’m the only one you touch,” you whimpered.
Her smirk wasn’t kind, full of malice while you could only beg for her.
“You’ve been nothing but a distraction, pet. You were meant to be good for me while I taught but you’re nothing but a naughty pet that needs to be punished.” The way her voice lowered into something husky, a rasp of a voice, had your thighs clenching again, “come on.”
She stood, releasing your face and you felt like you’d been kicked in the stomach. You hurried after her, rushing down the steps until her arm caught you around the waist, dragging you closer. Her kiss was searing, far too short by half, and you whimpered when she drew away.
Following her back across campus, you didn’t even notice the way people jumped out of her way. What you did notice was a few of the students still milling about, their eyes finding Agatha without pause, turning to her like she was the sun. Your stomach churned again.
You were the only one to lay claim over her. She was yours, not theirs, no matter what they seemed to want. She’d made it clear you were hers in every sense of the word.
Her hand curled around your wrist as she entered the history building, tight enough for you to feel secure with her. You liked when it became hard to know where you ended and she began. Having her wrapped so tightly around you was one of those things you loved but never told her. She’d tell you to stop being so sentimental.
Pushing her door open, she flung you inside, slamming the door behind her. Ignoring your pleading eyes, she took a seat behind her desk. Her legs spread wide, chin resting in her hand, watching you as you stood there, waiting for some kind of instructions. You felt breathless under that gaze, wanting to climb into her lap, to ride her thigh, to do anything you were allowed to ease the need that had been coursing through your veins since she’d begun her lecture.
“What am I going to do with you?” she asked, her eyes sweeping over your body, “even under careful watch you just can’t help yourself.”
“You’re just too-“
“Oh no,” she interrupted, “you’re not blaming your behaviour on me.”
Her fingers began to tap on the arm of her chair, considering you with an intensity that made you tremble.
“Were you hoping to make a fool of me in front of my students? You thought you had that power over me? That your childish antics would get a response from me?” she asked, displeasure colouring her words.
“You did react,” you said, knowing it was the wrong thing to say.
Her fingers gently tugged at the buttons of her shirt, opening it, exposing inch after inch of skin. Your mouth grew dry, eyes trained on it. There was no chance this was going the way you wanted and yet you couldn’t see the downside as you watched her.
Lace peeked out, inviting you in, tempting you to fall to your knees in front of her. She paused, dragging one finger up her chest, neck arching back before dropping down to look at you again.
“Come here, pet,” she commanded.
You did, unable to stop yourself even if you’d wanted to. Slipping between her and the desk, you reached a hand out to her, wanting to feel her beneath your touch. She slapped your hand away.
“Good girls get to touch,” she said, “and I see no good girls here.”
Quicker than you could catch, she had stood, hand on your body turning you, pressing your hips into the edge of her desk. You gasped. Her breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, hands pinning yours to the surface of the desk.
“Bad girls get punished,” she whispered.
Her tongue ran up the length of your neck. You shivered, hips pressing back into her, feeling the bulge in her trousers, the thick length you knew was hidden in there. After all, you’d seen her put it on that morning. She shoved you forward again, the edge painful as it dug in. You whined but she did nothing, keeping you pinned against her desk, unable to touch, to taste, to sink into her.
“How shall I punish you?” she hummed, lips brushing the vulnerable skin of your neck.
“Agatha,” you whined.
“I could refuse to give in to you, not touch you for a good long while, not let you cum until I feel you’ve learnt your lesson,” she said, still whisper soft
“Please,” you whimpered.
“I could have you warm my cock until the end of the day, and for every single time you distract me as I try to get my work done, I get to think of new punishments for you,” she suggested.
“Please,” you tried again.
“Or maybe I should have you cum over and over again until you can’t take it any more. Give you everything you want since you’re so needy,” she whispered, “and then when you think you can’t take any more, I just keep going since you wanted it so badly. You’ll take as much as I say you will and you’ll thank me for it. Every. Single. Orgasm.”
You were breathless, caught against her desk, pinned without the chance to move. Her lips kept ghosting over your skin, breath brushing until you shivered. Her teeth tugged on your earlobe, and the warmth was spreading, throbbing between your legs until you weren’t sure you could stay upright if she wasn’t keeping you there.
“I could spank you. Your skin would look so pretty with my handprints all over it,” she mused.
“I need you,” you whined.
“Unfortunately, pet, this isn’t about what you need, or what you want, or how good you think you are. This is about me teaching you a lesson,” she said, “I am your professor, after all.”
The shot of pleasure that went through you at the reminder, that you were one of her students, that this was wrong and most would frown upon it. They just didn’t understand. No one could understand the connection you had with your Agatha.
“How about we start with this and see what happens?”
She grasped both of your hands in one of hers, the other slipping past the waistband of your jeans. She chuckled, low in her throat when she felt how wet you were. You let out a shaky breath both unsure what she wanted from you, but wanting to give it to her.
Her finger was slow as it circled over your clit. Your breath was loud to your own ears. Soft lips attached themselves to your skin, sucking at your pulse point, tongue pressing down to feel your blood thrum. Her hips ground against your ass, pushing you more firmly against her fingers.
“Did you enjoy your little display in class?” she asked, whispered into your skin, “did you enjoy trying to take control?”
You couldn’t move as her fingers were slow on your bundle of nerves. You made a small noise, a whimper or a moan or something that was pathetic with need. Her teeth nipped at your skin, not gentle but not as harsh as she’d been with you before. It was like butterflies exploding in your stomach all over again.
“Such a display for me,” she murmured, “I think you’d like my fingers to make a pretty necklace for you.”
“Yes,” you hissed.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you touched yourself. My name was a nice touch, pet. Because you are mine. My little pet to play with.”
You whimpered at her words.
“Do you like that? You like being mine? Mine to do with as I please?” Her lips brushed over her skin, “do you like being owned by me, pet?”
“Uh huh,” was all you managed to say as her fingers continued to play with your clit.
“You know what I enjoy most about owning you?” she asked, voice a soft murmur.
You let out a desperate noise in answer. You felt her smile against your skin.
“I have complete control over you,” she said.
Her fingers were rough, nothing but harsh strokes, drawing you closer to the precipice. You were trying to rock against them, to chase your high like the needy thing you knew you were. You were panting, pinned to the desk, not even feeling the pain of it anymore, so focused on the way she was making you feel.
Her fingers stilled. Your pained cry only seemed to amuse her, the chuckle a vibration through her chest.
“Agatha,” you pleaded.
“Complete.” Her thumb stroked over your clit again, “control.”
She held you there, fingers still resting against you, but not giving you the friction you needed. She ignored you, every noise you made, every wiggle of your hips, every pleading gasp of her name. It was torture, having her there and not being given what you wanted.
“I do own you, don’t I, kitten?” she asked, voice low, a note of something new in her voice.
“Yes,” you gasped, “I’m yours.”
She groaned, face buried in your neck. The way she kissed your skin, nipping, sucking, tongue tasting however much she could reach was surprisingly desperate. Even pinned to the desk, hands held in one strong grip, only able to sigh her name, you felt the way she pressed closer to you.
Her fingers sunk into you, so easily, your wetness making it so simple. You threw your head back, her name sweet honey on your tongue as she forced you back to the edge. So close, you could taste it. Fingers curling within you, stroking you, turning your head hazy. There was nothing you could do but clench your fingers and let her do as she wanted with your body.
You trembled, legs shaking, your moans so loud in the quiet office. You felt it in your lower stomach, the melting of fire through your veins, the beginning of muscles fluttering. Her hand stilled, slipping out of you.
“No,” you groaned.
“This is a punishment, pet,” she reminded you.
Her hand slipped out of your trousers, hand curling around your throat. Your slickness smeared over your skin and you couldn’t even care. You could happily become whatever mess she wanted you to be if she would only touch you again.
With her hold on you, she managed to get you to turn your head. Her lips descended on yours, soft despite the tight grip she had on you. When her tongue slipped between your lips, tasting you until you were melting, whimpering, pressing closer. She chuckled, teeth sinking into your lower lip, pulling on it. You were nothing but your base desires, needing her closer, needing her in every way. She possessed you in every single way it was possible to own another person.
“Have you learnt your lesson?” she mumbled against your lips.
“Yes,” you sighed.
“I’m not sure you have,” she said, drawing back.
“Agatha,” you whined.
“I do so love the way you say my name,” she said, eyes sweeping over you.
The fingers around your throat tightened. The noise you made was so pathetic, the auditory embodiment of need. Her eyes hard darkened, smouldering, molten as she looked at you.
“Do you want my cock, kitten?” she asked.
“Yes please,” you whimpered.
“So polite.” She let your hands go and gently stroked your hair, “keep your hands on the table and I might just let you have it.”
With one hand around your throat, the other dove back into your underwear, stroking through your dripping folds. Thumb grinding against your clit, the way you whined only seemed to drive her on. She was grinding against your ass and you were desperate for her. Your nails dug into the wood of the desk, doing everything in your power to keep them there as she did everything in her power to drive you mad with nothing but her fingers.
You were so sensitive under her touch, each stroke sending shockwaves through you. You trembled, every nerve ending on fire. Her hand only tightened around your throat until your airways cut off. Your fingers clenched, hips trying to rock against her, tears pricking at your eyes. You wanted her so much. You could taste your orgasm, could practically see it. It was right there, right within reaching distance. One more second and it would break over you.
Her hand pulled free again and the tear fell. She kissed it away from your cheek, tongue catching it. Releasing your throat, her body disappeared from behind you. You shivered in the chill, the frustration nothing but a familiar friend when it came to her. Her chair creaked.
“Turn around, pet,” she commanded.
You did, finding her leaning back in her chair, thighs spread, purple strap bobbing in the air. You swallowed, eyes trained on it.
“On your knees, pet.”
You fell immediately, the sharp pain not even registering. Crawling forward, you looked up at her, waiting for more orders. Her hands gently ran through your hair, blue eyes dazzling as she held your gaze.
“Go on,” she said, “suck my cock like the dirty whore I know you are.”
Your tongue ran up the length of it before you sucked the tip into your mouth. The throbbing between your legs was unbearable, but you knew how to follow instructions, and if you were good enough you’d be rewarded. Her fingers were tangled in your hair, guiding you further down.
You did your best to relax your throat, taking her as deeply as you could. Her hips pushed up, lips quirking up as you gagged around her cock. Slowly pulling up again, you suckled on the tip before sliding down again. Her fingers tightened in your hair, the sharp pull making you moan around the silicone.
“Look at you. So good as sucking cock,” she murmured, voice husky, “you belong on your knees, pet.”
Her praise had you pressing your thighs together again.
“So pretty and all mine,” she sighed.
You redoubled your efforts, wanting more of her praise. You wanted to be her good girl. You wanted her to know you would do anything for you. You wanted to give her everything she deserved.
“Could spend all day like this with you. I’ve imagining it, you know. Sitting at this desk, you under there on your knees, your mouth put to work. Just imagine, sitting here, your mouth on me, as I’m doing office hours with my students. What do you think they’d do if they knew? If they could see you being so good for me? If they knew your rightful place was on your knees for me?” Her fingers sharply pulled on your hair, “but then I don’t want to share this sight with anyone.”
You groaned around her cock. Something in her softened.
“No, this sight is all for me,” she said, and you whimpered at the reverence in her voice.
Your hands grasped her bare thighs, head bobbing, guided by her hands in your hair. The way she praised you was so delicious, emptying your head of anything but her. There was only this, and the way you felt on fire with her. The ache of your knees was so distant, focused as you were on her.
“Such a pretty pet,” she murmured, “c’mere.”
Her hands in your hair pulled you off her with an indecent noise. Climbing to your feet, you looked down at her, wanting to touch and to taste and to melt into her. Her hands were steady as they unbuttoned your jeans, pushing them down over your hips. You kicked them off. Her fingers ran along the waistband of your panties, your muscles jumping under her touch.
“I was going to keep you wanting as punishment,” she mused, “but you’ve been so good and I just can’t resist you.”
She lent forward, lips pressing to your lower stomach. Looking up your body, her eyes sparkled.
“You’re irresistible to me, kitten,” she whispered into your skin.
Her fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, dragging them slowly down your legs. You gasped when her tongue dove between your folds, tasting you, her soft hum going through you like electricity.
“You’re dripping for me,” she said.
Her tongue brushed over your clit, hips jumping towards her. She hummed again, a soft suckle against your bundle of nerves. Your hands landed on her shoulders, gripping tightly to keep your knees from collapsing beneath you.
“Please,” you begged, “Agatha.”
“Come here, pet.”
She positioned you on top of her, knees either side of her lap. When you sunk down onto her cock, you let out a low noise, relieved. Her hands grasped your hips tightly, keeping you there, holding you still. You tried to squirm, pushing your face into the crook of her neck, hiding your embarrassment from her.
“No, no, no, pet. I’m going to watch you unravel,” she said, lips brushing against your temple.
You stayed hidden, hips shifting, until she pinned you down. Held there, full up with her cock, you were a live wire, desperate and needy and losing your mind.
“If you want me to fuck you, you know what you have to do,” Agatha murmured, grip on you tightening.
Your shame wasn’t comparable to your need. You emerged from your hiding place, looking down at her, cheeks heating from the expression of raw desire on her face.
“That’s my good pet,” she said.
Her hands guided you up, just an inch, before pulling you down again. It wasn’t enough, but you couldn’t do anything but clutch at her shoulders. She was in complete control, you were nothing but hers to do with as she pleased. She watched you with greedy eyes, drinking in everything.
Your hips rocked against her, taking her strap as deep as it would go. You clenched around it, not able to help yourself. She’d brought you towards the edge too many times. All you could think about was giving in and doing anything you could to get your orgasm.
Bouncing on her cock, your fingers dug into her shoulder. The way she looked at you was pure liquid heat, eyes blown wide as you kept saying her name over and over again. Your head tipped back, exposing your throat to her. Her lips attached, as you knew they would, painting such pretty bruises on your skin.
Her fingers found your clit again, stroking you as you rode her as hard as she’d let you. You were a gasping mess atop her, chasing your orgasm with wild abandon. She wasn’t soft with you, taking everything she wanted, all you were willing to give, rough and demanding. She growled into your skin, teeth sinking in, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh. You were a wild animal, crying her name, clawing at her, wound so tight.
With one stroke, she broke the tension.
Your orgasm crashed into you. Your muscles stiffened, her name a strangled noise, holding on. Her fingers kept stroking you, drawing it out, making it last as long as she could as you milked her cock for all it was worth. The aftershocks kept you twitching as you fell forward, her arms catching you, gasping out your thanks to her.
She kissed your forehead, hair sticking to sweat coated skin. You pushed closer, wanting to feel her heart beat in time with yours. Her hands were running over your skin, along the line of your spine under your shirt, lips brushing over every inch of you she could reach.
You reached for her face, blindly pulling her into a kiss, soft and sated and relaxed. The way she kissed you back was nothing short of a claiming, kissing you deeper and deeper. With her still buried in you, all you could do was mewl, fingers pushing past the pins in her hair, clutching at her.
“Did you enjoy yourself, kitten?” she asked when she drew away.
“Yes,” you breathed, a whisper in the air shared between the two of you, faces still so close together.
“Have I told you how beautiful you are when you’re cumming on my cock?” she murmured, “how did I get so lucky to capture you?”
It was the most sentimental thing she’d ever said to you. You felt yourself melting. Your lips brushed hers, so gentle it made your heart ache.
“I should come to your classes more often,” you said.
Her chuckle sent your heart racing again.
“Clearly you haven’t learnt your lesson,” she said, “I knew I shouldn’t have indulged you.”
“Why did you?” you asked, nuzzling closer.
Her hands were still caressing your skin and you felt her breath ghost over your temple. Her kiss was soft, nose brushing over your skin, tongue darting out to taste you for a just a moment.
“Because I can’t say no to you, kitten. Not really,” she murmured and you wondered if you were actually meant to hear it.
She let you stay curled around her for longer than you’d expected, on her lap, arms curled around your body. Your eyelids fluttered shut. Every time she moved you felt her strap shift within you. The way the heat of pleasure settled under your skin was pleasant, not desperate yet, but comforting and soft and warm. Familiar. You felt safe and cared for, right there in her lap and in her arms.
“You should probably get dressed,” she said after some time had passed.
“Don’t wanna,” you replied, lips brushing her throat from your spot against her body.
“I’m all for you staying right here but I didn’t lock the door and if someone comes in they might have questions,” she said, “questions I’m happy to answer about bad girls needing discipline but you might not want everyone to know you can’t follow simple orders.”
“I can follow orders,” you protested.
“Then get dressed, pet” she said.
You whimpered when she slipped out of you, feeling empty without her cock inside you. She lent forward, snatching up your underwear before you could. She shoved them in the pocket of her trousers as she tugged them back into place, looking for all the world like she hadn’t just been inside you.
You dragged your jeans up your legs. She carefully buttoned them up for you, fingers brushing your skin. The look in her eye when she looked up at you was so full of something it took your breath away. You wished you could name it but all you knew was it made you feel like you’d been dunked in oil and set alight. It only got stronger as you buttoned up her shirt, hiding the lace from view again. Your fingers lingered in the dip between her her collarbones, such a vulnerable spot, so soft under your fingertips.
“Go on, pet. I know you have work to be getting on with,” she said, gently pushing your hand away.
“But I’m so tired,” you whined.
“Don’t be a brat,” she scolded but there was a twinkle in her eye, “I’m not sure you could handle any more punishment today.”
You held out just long enough to let her know you were thinking about it. You dropped onto the sofa, doing exactly what she’d told you. More work. Always more work on your thesis.
But you couldn’t wait for the next time she brought you to class with her.
You finally convince your girlfriend, Agatha, to attend the annual Westview fair with you and things end up leading to a roll in the hay(ride), non-magic AU
Word count: ~3000
Warnings: smut, semi-public sex, mommy kink
It’s a beautiful day in Westview when the annual fair takes place, an autumn breeze chilling the air and the smell of pumpkins and cinnamon hanging over. It’s your favorite event of the year: hayrides, pumpkin carvings, face painting stations, bobbing for apples, and even more. The fair is always two weeks before Halloween and everyone in the town turns up.
Which is exactly what you told your girlfriend, Agatha, to try to get her to go with you. She had never attended one, even though she had lived in Westview for almost ten years, and you were determined to get her to come this year. When you had first mentioned it, she slumped lower into the couch, lips tight. The older woman could be such a drama queen sometimes. She’d love to go, she insisted, but she would be forced to see all the people in the town she didn’t like and that was not a fun way to spend a weekend, when instead, she could spend it with you in bed. She had then pulled you onto her lap and fucked you so well you forgot about the matter entirely for a few days.
The next time you asked, she was cooking dinner for the two of you. She had rolled her eyes fondly and said she would think about it and then changed the subject, never bothering to stop cutting vegetables.
But finally, as they say, third time’s the charm. You realized where you went wrong the other times: you were just asking the question in the wrong way. You had her sprawled on her back on the couch, tongue drawing circles around her clit. Her hand was tangled in your hair, silently urging you on as whimpers fell from her mouth. “That’s it, baby girl,” she praised in a low voice. “Make mommy come.” But then you had pulled away and said you wouldn’t unless she promised to come to the fair with you. She grunted and then hastily agreed; she would’ve promised you anything if it would get your pretty mouth back on her.
And a promise is a promise. The day of the fair finally arrives, and you head downstairs after dressing in a plaid skirt and a striped sweater. Agatha is already down there, fiddling with her keys. Your breath catches; she looks so hot. She’s wearing a white turtleneck under a brown blazer and gray pants that make her ass look great. Her long hair is wavy and tumbles loosely down her back. You almost wish you hadn’t pushed so hard to go to the fair, seeing her dressed like that. It is already mid-afternoon though, so you’ll only be at the fair for a few hours. And then she can take you home and–
She raises an eyebrow at you, smirking as if she can hear your thoughts. “Shall we, sweetheart?”
“Yes!” You say enthusiastically, pushing your dirty thoughts out of your head.
The drive to the fairgrounds is quiet, Agatha tracing patterns on your leg with one hand while her other hand is on the wheel. “You really like this thing, don’t you?”
It takes you a moment before you realize that she’s talking about the fair and you nod. “I’ve gone every year since I’ve lived here. I think you’ll love it too, Aggs. I’m dying to take you to my favorite ice cream stand. And there’s face painting – you should get yours painted!” She tosses a glare your way and you giggle. “Bobbing for apples, hayrides, oh, and a kissing booth.” The last part comes out teasingly, just to see how she’ll react.
Her grip tightens on your thigh, squeezing an involuntary moan out of your mouth. “You better not even look in that direction.”
“How could I, when I have my very own kissing booth right here,” you say, voice sugary sweet, but she grimaces at how cheesy it is. You laugh and lean over to peck her cheek, delighting in the way the corners of her mouth perk up.
“Well,” she says, effortlessly parallel parking once you arrive. Hot. “Where to first, my dear?”
You chew on your lip thoughtfully and then an idea lights up in your head. “Petting zoo!” You all but drag her by the hand.
The petting zoo has some of the cutest animals you’ve ever seen: little lambs, chicks, and a tiny horse. You coo at the tiny horse and even see Agatha reach out to pet it. You’re smiling like a dope at her when she finally turns to look at you.
“What?” She asks.
“Nothing,” you say. “You’re just really cute with small animals.”
She scoffs and tosses her hair over her shoulder dramatically. “I’m always cute,” she corrects you and you snort.
You interlock your fingers with hers and pull her to the next station, a corn maze. You have a terrible sense of direction, something not lost on Agatha as she playfully asks you which way to go everytime you come to a fork. Each time, you hold up a finger and close your eyes, pretending to be listening to the wind. Agatha watches you with a smirk, nodding intently when you open your eyes and make up some story about what the spirits told you. You then pick a direction completely at random.
It’s over thirty minutes later when you both realize you are not getting any closer to the center and maybe Agatha should try picking which way to go. And of course, it’s five minutes and four confident turns later when you reach the statue in the middle.
“Well, I was the one who got us so close,” you say amidst her laughing. “And then you had the easy part.”
She stops chuckling and grabs your hips, pulling you against her. “That’s exactly what happened, baby. We couldn’t have done it without you.” Her lips brush against yours and you part your mouth so you can kiss her properly.
It’s a soft, tender kiss and your heart fills with so much love for the older woman. You pull back just a little and lean your forehead on hers. She’s a few inches taller than you so you have to stand on your tip-toes. “Are you having fun?” You’re a little insecure that Agatha still doesn’t want to be here and she’s only pretending for your sake. If she says no, you won’t hesitate before saying the two of you can leave.
But she cups your cheek and warmly looks into your eyes. “I am, sweetheart. Thank you for making me come.”
You smile wickedly, not being able to resist. “Oh it’s my pleasure. I love making you come.” The innuendo is not lost on her and she drags you into a much more heated kiss. She nips at your bottom lip and you whine, arms moving around her neck to try to get her closer. Her lips trail down and to your neck, softly sucking. “Agatha,” you gasp, tangling your hands in her hair.
And then the sound of children laughing forces you apart just in time for two little boys to come running through the clearing, barely sparing you two a glance.
“This is why I hate children,” Agatha sighs. “Let’s get out of here. Do you remember how we got here?”
You don’t even respond, just opting to give her a pointed look. You both know you don’t. She smirks and starts walking down the path on the east. You scramble to keep up, not wanting to get separated from her. You know she’d never let it go if you got lost and the fair had to send in a search and rescue team to find you. Agatha barely breaks her stride and about ten turns later, you’re standing out front of the maze.
You gape at her. “How did you–” She cuts you off by pointing to the sign next to the entrance, a sign with a map of the maze. Your jaw drops even more. “You knew where to go the entire time and you still let me bumble around and take every wrong turn?”
She shrugs innocently. “What can I say, darling? You’re just really cute when you’re giving me the wrong directions.” She bops your nose, which you scrunch up at her. “Where to next?”
You scan your surroundings. The line at your favorite ice cream stand is short so you make a beeline for it, Agatha following quickly behind. Dottie’s Famous Soft Serve Ice Cream.
“The lime is my favorite,” you whisper to Agatha once you’ve gotten in line. “But the vanilla and orange swirl is also pretty good.”
She considers the list of flavors thoughtfully. “I think I’ll go with the lime.” You smile, unable to help yourself.
The line goes quickly and the two of you are soon at the front. “Two limes in a waffle cone, please,” you say to Dottie, who immediately recognizes you. You frequent her store several times a month, always getting the same thing.
“Y/n! So nice of you to stop by,” she says, grabbing two cones.
“You know me, Dottie. Gotta have my lime ice cream. And I’m trying to corrupt this one.” You nod to Agatha and Dottie chuckles, turning back around with your ice cream.
“Here you go,” she says, handing them to you. “That’ll be six dollars.” Agatha pulls out a ten from her wallet and puts it on the counter. “Thank you!”
You hand your girlfriend one of the cones and lead her to sit on a bench away from all the people. You softly groan the minute the lime ice cream hits your tongue. Even after having it so many times, it never fails to disappoint. You glance at Agatha, who’s watching you with a certain look in her eyes. “Have you tried it yet?”
She nods. “It’s really good, sweetheart. I knew you wouldn’t lead me astray.”
“Unlike corn mazes, I do actually know my way around ice cream,” you retort and you both laugh. A comfortable silence settles over you as you lazily work at your ice cream while watching the people walk by.
You suddenly hear Agatha sharply inhale and you look over with concern. She’s watching you, half her cone already eaten. You can now make out the look in her eyes – desire. “Stop teasing, pet,” she growls, pupils blown wide.
A thrill runs through you. You hadn’t even been trying to, but you clearly had done something. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently, this time licking a deliberate stripe up the center of your ice cream, never breaking eye contact.
Her tongue pushes into the inside of her cheek. “Finish up quickly,” she says, her raspy voice doing things to your insides. You rarely get to see her this desperate for you and you wish she’d show this side of her more often. Almost every day, she turns you into a whimpering mess for her, while she’s usually much more composed, even when she lets you take control.
“Yeah?” You whisper. Her dark eyes dart down to your lips and then back up.
“Yeah, baby girl. Be a good girl for mommy.” The pet names ignite a fire in your belly. You wolf down the rest of your ice cream, as does she, and then she’s tugging you back to the parking lot.
“Wait, Agatha,” you say, coming to halt. She looks back at you. “We can’t leave without going on the hayride. It takes you around all the spooky parts of town.”
She swallows hard. “You really want to?” Part of you wants to just say fuck it and go home with her right now, but the hay ride is always your favorite part of the fair. And you want to share that with her.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” To her credit, she does a good job covering up her disappointment if she feels any.
She squeezes your hand. “Don’t be. I can wait a little longer before taking you home and ruining you.” You let out a small gasp, images of her words flitting through your mind.
“You know, the fair will be here next year,” you say, suddenly ready to call it a night. You can feel how flushed your cheeks have become.
“Oh, no, darling. You are taking me on this hayride,” Agatha insists, smirking. You grumble, secretly a little glad deep down, and walk her over to where the wagons are parked. There’s no one else in line. It’s starting to get dark and a little chilly, so you figure some people might be leaving early.
“Just the two of you?” a man says and you nod. He holds out a hand and helps you and Agatha step into the back of the wagon. “Here’s some blankets if you need them.” He tosses two fuzzy green blankets at you, hay sticking to them.
You smile gratefully and throw it over your cold legs. You should’ve worn pants. Agatha wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer as well so you can absorb some of her body heat. The man gets in the tractor attached to the wagon and starts loudly talking as he pulls out of the spot. He’s saying something about the history of Westview when you’re distracted by Agatha putting her hand that’s not around you on your thigh under the blanket.
You glance at her out of the corner of your eye and you see her already watching you, a wicked grin on her face. “Pay attention,” she whispers, nodding to the back of the man. Luckily, he can’t see you and no one else is in the wagon with the two of you.
At first, she doesn’t do much, just slowly strokes your thigh with her fingertips. But it’s enough to make the heat in your stomach fire back up. You really try to hone into the hayride tour, but the smell of Agatha and her hot breath on your neck makes it hard. Not to mention her fingers now starting to creep up under your skirt.
“Agatha,” you breathe.
“Yes, baby?” she says innocently, like she hasn’t just cupped you over your underwear. Her fingertips are light as they press down. Your hips jump and Agatha’s eyes flash. “Gotta be careful,” she murmurs in your ears. “Or I’ll stop. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
You furiously shake your head and bite down on your lip preemptively. She smiles and pushes your underwear to the side, sliding through your folds. Thankfully, the wagon is passing through an area of the town that is quiet and dark, so you really only have to worry about the driver catching you.
“Sweetheart, you’re already so wet,” Agatha says hotly into your ear. “Does the thought of someone seeing you like this turn you on?”
“No,” you protest, cheeks burning.
She pushes a finger into you and your walls clench down immediately. “Are you sure?” she drawls. You take a sharp breath when she moves ever so slightly. “I think you like it. The thrill. The danger. Knowing if anyone looked too closely they’d see what a good slut you are for me.”
You have to sink your teeth into your hand so you don’t let out a pornographic moan. Agatha chuckles.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” she whispers, thumb rubbing your clit just the right way.
“Mm, mommy, please,” you gasp into her ear. The angle at which her finger is thrusting inside you is awkward at best, but somehow she’s making it work for you. You’d be embarrassed at how close to cumming you are if it wasn’t Agatha, who could probably make you cum if she looked at you hard enough.
“Good girl, cum for mommy.” She twists the finger inside you and roughly strokes your clit and it sends you over the edge. She gives you a few moments to come down from your high before sliding her hand out from under your skirt. She sucks her wet finger into her mouth and her eyes flash. “That ice cream was good, honey, but it’s got nothing on you.”
You feel your cunt pulse again, and based on her face, she knows.
“It’s almost too easy,” she jokes with a grin.
“And here we are, back to where we started,” the man driving the tractor announces, pulling back into the lot where he had been parked. You let out a sigh of release at the perfect timing. He walks around and helps the two of you step out, you not missing the 20 dollar bill Agatha slips into his shirt pocket.
“That was the best hayride I’ve ever been on,” she gushes and winks at you. You blush and find sudden interest in your feet, not able to meet the man’s eyes.
“Glad to hear it!” he says happily, apparently missing everything. You give him a tight smile and quickly drag Agatha away. It’s much darker now and the majority of the people have cleared out of the fairgrounds.
“Was it everything you hoped it would be?” you ask.
“The fair, or fucking you in the back of a wagon?” You give her a look and she smirks. She pauses walking to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull you into a hug. “I had a lovely time, darling. I love you.”
You smile into her neck. “I love you, too.” You break the hug to give her a wicked look. “Now, you said something about me teasing you earlier? What are you going to do about that?”
The same wickedness glints in her eyes. “Let’s go find out. I can assure you it involves putting that tongue to better use than licking Dottie's famous lime ice cream.”
She all but shoves you into the car, heat igniting your insides, desire for the older woman racing through you.
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