description ۶ৎ: after you and michael breakup, you both move on. or so you thought. when michael finds out that you’re back into the dating scene, he can’t possibly imagine the thought of you with another man.
warnings ۶ৎ: smut, jealousy, cheating (i think), pussy eating, p in v, use of y/n 💔, use of names such as,(baby, mama, tinka), creampie, porn w plot
pairing ۶ৎ: thriller!michael x black!fem!reader
tinka’s note: this long as hell💔💔
when michael broke up with you, he told you it was because of his career. he was just so focused on his music, he just ‘couldn’t love you the way you both wanted him to’. or at least that’s what he said, because his interviews always contrasted the things he’d told you.
he’d tell the interviewers, how he wants a loving woman. and how he wants eighteen children and how he can’t wait to find the perfect girl, which led you to believe that he broke up with you because you aren’t who he wanted. led you to agree with breaking up, because why would you beg him to stay if you weren’t his perfect girl?
after a few, long grueling months of yearning and longing, you decide to get back on the scene. you started spoiling yourself to spoil yourself, spending the same way michael did, just to remind you that you didn’t need him as bad as you felt you did.
currently, you were in a small mini relationship with this guy you met at a club. it was supposed to be a fling, but he seemed really nice, and he wanted more with you, so you agreed. he was sweet, a gentleman, but he wasn’t as sweet as your michael, and it was starting to gnaw at you. you felt so weird, feeling that he must be over you, and that you were so stupid for being stuck like this.
turns out, you weren’t the only one. after someone put a picture in the papers, labeled, ‘trouble in paradise? jackson’s ex girlfriend spotted with another man, turns out they aren’t reconciling!’, he’d seen it, and he wasn’t happy. after he let it bother him for a while, he came to the conclusion that he’d find you again, that he’d find your heart, and merge it into his again. and that he did.
since you were an upcoming model, your agency would make you go to certain events for exposure. tonight, you were attending an award ceremony for some actors you forgot the name of. your manager did inform you that michael would be there, which made you not want to go even more, but you knew you needed it for your career.
you were currently in your closet, getting some help zipping up your dress, and a makeup artist touching up your face.. your silk press was curled, and looking perfect.. you felt beautiful, and like nothing could ruin your mood, until your mood was ruined by the wicked tongue of your manager.
“now, don’t forget that michael’s gonna be there. play nice, we don’t want anymore tabloids making you out to be something you aren’t.” she says, making you sighs and slouch a little.
“did you really have to remind me?” you complain, wishing a black hole would just open up in the floor and swallow you up.
“i just want to make sure you understand the reality of that. no mistakes tonight, promise?” she says.
“yes stacy, i do promise not to get pissed off, when i see my ex who acts like he’s the king of the world. i do promise.” you say, rolling your eyes before someone hands you your heels.
you slip them on, and check your cartier watch, realizing you don’t have much time to spare, so you quickly grab your clutch and get a move on.
the event had to be the most boring the ever. you’d only been their for an hour of your required stay, and felt like you were losing your mind. that was until lucifer himself decided to play a funny joke on you. you were talking to another model, when someone bumps into you. when you turn around, you see none other than michael fucking jackson, giving you that beautiful smile he knew you adored.
“oh! i’m sorry, baby.. didn’t see you there..” he apologizes, eyeing you up and down before dusting your dress off.. you catch his wrist.
“don’t, michael. please, spare me the embarrassment.” you says, gently pushing his hand away..
“let me help you, girl.. your strap’s loose..” he says, and you knew he was using it as excuse to touch you..
“i can fix it myself. you know what— excuse me please, ill be right back.” you say, cutting yourself off to excuse yourself from the guest you were chatting with. you push past michael and walk into the restroom, sighing.
you fix that fuck ass strap, and calm your nerves. your manager calls you, and she says something that brings your irritation right back to ten.
“we need you to do a short interview with michael, explain that they’re no hard feeling, and that you guys are still cordial.” she says, sounding out of breath.
‘god why me? what did i do?’ you think in your head, before stepping out the restroom.. you find michael infront of a camera, and he beckons you over. you walk over.
a little blond lady walks over, smiling.. “y/n, michael, how are you guys tonight?” she says, already smiling too hard for this interview.
“i’m good, just letting the time fly by..” you says , softly sighing.
“great, great! now we did this interview to get a little insight of you guy’s breakup, we seen some rough stuff in the tabloids about you and your new boyfriend, that you moved on too fast, which led many to think you were cheating the whole time.” she says, tilting her head.
before you could get a word out, michael speaks for you. “no maam, she’d never cheated on me while we were together, our break up was a mutual agreement, and i don’t think we should really get into it here.” he says, and you thank god for something useful finally coming out his mouth..
you nod and smile a little, then she asks the stupid ass question that everyone’s been asking. “are you guys gonna get back together?” she says, looking like the devil him damn self put that smile on her face..
you sigh, and once again, he answers. “i don’t think she’d like to, but i’m willing to try again.” he says, a small smirk forming on his lips at the way you’re looking at him.
“okayyy, well thank you guys for your time tonight, you guys look stunning.” she says before walking off.. you huff, and start to walk off too. that’s until michael grasps your wrist..
“let me talk to you, mama. just for a moment.” he softly says, raising his eyebrows.
“michael. seriously, i’m really not—“ you try, but you were already being dragged into an empty room.
“just let me speak, let me speak for a second.”
he says, turning the light on and sitting you down in a empty chair.. “i miss you, tink. you don’t miss me?” he says, already kinda intimidating you with the look on his face.
you slump a little, and roll your eyes at the dumbass question he knew the answer to, he just wanted to hear you say it. he must’ve been crazy if he thought you were going to give him the satisfaction and say it.
“no michael, no i don’t miss you.” you lie, looking at him with the most bored expression known to man.
“you don’t miss me? hm? so you don’t tell your little friends how you wish that new guy was me? you don’t tell them that while you’re on the phone?” he says, crouching down infront of you.
your eyes widen, not because he was making shit up, because that was in fact true. how the fuck did he know that though?
“michael, what the fuck? you stalkin me?” you says, sitting up.. you look up at him, and the filthy ass grin on his face.
“cmon mama, don’t say it like that. i just been keeping an eye on you, making sure my baby stays safe.” he says, gently rubbing your thighs.
“don’t call me that, and don’t touch me.” you say, but you don’t make a move to push him away, or shut him up.
“don’t be so hostile, tink. now let me ask again.. you miss me the way i miss you?” he says, licking his lips.
you finally give in, and nod. he smiles, and presses a soft kiss to your temple..
“he wasn’t loving you right, baby? was he?” he coos, gripping you chin and looking deep into your eyes..
“no..” you quietly admit, looking up at him with the same hunger that his eyes had. his hands slide up your thighs, gripping at the seams of your thong.
“y’gonna let me touch you, mama? y’know i won’t do it without your consent..” he softly says, tugging at the thin panty line.
you nod, and he slips it off before sliding your dress up to your waist. he kneels infront of you, looking into your eyes the whole time.
“you let him touch you? you let him touch my pussy?” he says, running a finger through your slick heat..
“n-no michael..” you whimper, eyes fluttering a little when his fingertip presses on your clit.
“mhm good girl. you knew better.” he muttered, then he dives in. he ate your pussy like he just got out of prison and you were his first meal. his tongue glides again your clit, and he slides two fingers in, curling him in the way he knew you liked.
“ohmygod.. michael..” you whine, back arching off the chair and toes curling in your heels. your hips start to subtly thrust up into his mouth, and you bite your lip..
he pulls his fingers out and slips his tongue inside, curling it to hit that spot..
“oh! oh my gosh, mikey you c-can’t just—shittt!” you whine, your eyes rolling back.. you arch deeper into his touch, gripping his sleeves..
“i can’t what, baby? what’s the matter?” he murmurs against your pussy, looking up at you. you shake your head, disregarding the message.
“j-just like that, fuck bambi, i’m close, m’so close!” you whimper, covering your mouth.. he hums against your clit, pushing you right over the edge..
“mikey move backk!” you whine, squirting all over his face.. he instead of moving, he pushes his face deeper into your cunt, wanting all that he can get from you..
once you’re twitching and panting, he stands up, grinning like an idiot.
“oh so you really missed me, huh?” he teases, making you roll your eyes..
“shut up..” you mutter, softly panting.. he pulls you up and bends you over a table, pushing your dress back up..
“michael we don’t have time for this, this isn’t even right, i have a b—“ you try, but get cut off by the feeling of his tip rubbing through your pussy. you softly moan, and lay your head against the table..
“i don’t care nothin about him. stop playing with me, girl. mentioning another man while im bout to get in this pussy, my pussy.” he murmurs, smacking your ass..
you whimper, and he pushes in.. “oh god.. mikey..” you whimper, having forgotten the feeling of him filling you up.
“shittt tink.. so tight..” he whimpered, his head tilting back.. he grips your hips, and he pulls out, then slowly thrusts back in..
“mmph baby.. oh my god.. s’deep..” you gasps. already feeling like he was in your lungs .. he smirks, and start to speed up.. the front of his thighs smack against the back of yours, and he grips your hair. he tugs, forming a deep arch in your back.
“michael! ouu!” you cry, and he smiles in response.. he smacks your ass again, and lifts one of his legs to the table, his foot propped up right by your elbow. he sinks deeper into you, and starts fucking you with strokes that hit your gspot everytime.
“fuckk baby.. i’m hittin it? i feel you gettin tighter.. talk to me, mama. tell me what i’m doin.” he whispered, biting his lip afterwards..
you claw at the table, your eyes rolling back at the deep strokes. “y-yesss! y’hittin it s’good! don’t stop!” you slur, your jaw going slack right afterwards .. drool runs down your chin, and he reaches around to grab your throat, tilting your head back for a nasty kiss.
he catches your lips, sucking on your tongue and clicking your top lip before he pulls away.. he pushes your shoulders down onto the table, fucking into you faster..
“bambiii! i’m closeee!” you whimper, heat pooling in your abdomen.
“cmon baby, let it go. let me feel you squirt on me, let me have it..” he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles..
“ohmygosh yesss!” you gasps, vision becoming blurry with white spots as you start squirting all over his dick, which pushes him right off the edge..
“shit! ohmygod!” he whimpered, slamming in deep and releasing hot spurts of cum all inside you..
his body shudders with each wave of his release, and so does yours. he gently kisses your shoulder, licking the shell of your ear a few times when whispering sweet nothings ..
“get back together with me? please tink, i wasn’t thinking right when we broke up.. i can love you however you want me to, i’ll give you what you need, mama..” he whispered , rubbing your sides ..
you nod, basically too cockdrunk to respond to him with actual words. he smirks, crowning himself as victorious because he did exactly was he was supposed to do. he found you again.
because at a very fundamental level, you understand each other completely. the end result may be different, but you're both so fully dedicated to your work, perfectionism hardwired into the fibers of your being.
you both understand that the strain, the hard work, is every bit mental as it is physical. you'll work yourself to the bone, running the same variation until your feet bleed and your muscles ache. but the worst part isn't the aches and pains you feel throughout your body, it's the voice in your head that says even all that hard work isn't enough.
and you're always there to remind each other to take a break, to sit down and eat and rest even for a few minutes. and you're both almost comically awful at taking that advice yourself. that's part of the fun, though, the fact that you both get to take care of each other in the same way, you both have your chance to be the one both giving and receiving that attention.
often feeling like you're simply a cog in a machine, that no one would notice if some other girl filled in for you, replaced you. but michael can pick you out of the group immediately. he could be three feet from the stage or three hundred, he'd spot you in an instant.
and he always makes an effort to come to your performances. it doesn't matter what else he has going on, if he has to fly in for a few hours just to see you. you always tell him that it's not a big deal, that you'll be on stage more times than you can count, it's alright if he misses a few here and there but he won't hear it. he always makes it to at least one performance of whatever show you're putting on, because he wants to be there to support you and truly, he just loves watching you dance.
he loves the almost behind the scenes look that he gets into your work, your rehearsals. on stage, you're elegant and graceful and polished, but michael has seen the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into every performance, every single move. he knows how much power and control and effort goes into everything you do, and he loves being able to see you as the less-polished version of yourself, where you're cursing through a turn section or when you slump to the floor after finishing your variation, in your sweats with no makeup and your hair pulled back in a crude approximation of the bun you normally wear because you simply can't be bothered.
it's so special to him, to be able to be the one person who gets to see you like this. it's like magic to him, to be able to see the final product and to know just how hard you worked to get there.
you're both wholly distracting to each other. if michael makes his way into the studio to work on something but you're already there, his plans go out the window because how could he be expected to work on his own things when you're right there, looking so perfect???? and he genuinely just thinks, or knows, that you're one of the most talented people he's ever met. and he loves when he distracts you too, he can never contain his smile when he catches you staring.
you both joke and tease about how this can't keep going on, one of you has to leave and find somewhere else to rehearse, but neither of you ever do. because at the end of the day, you just love spending time together. even if you desperately needed to be working on a variation or a set of turns or even just some simple barre exercises, it can wait an hour or two for you to sit and admire michael as he works.
he just loves watching you work, it's so captivating. you give yourself fully over to the music, like you're tuning in to a part of you that you don't get to access very often in regular, every day life. and it doesn't matter if you're just warming up or running a variation in your sweats or dancing on stage in an expensively exquisite costume, michael can't take his eyes off of you.
and he feels seen in return. you understand him, understand the way that he has to keep going over a single move or a single section until it's perfect, until it feels perfect to him. because you're the same way. it's the perfect balance of knowing you're understood, you're seen, while also knowing that there's always someone to take care of you, someone who won't put up with your bullshit excuses because they can see right through it.
Summary: Michael Jackson arrives in Moscow and, before his concert, visits a local hospital. While everyone rushes to greet him, he notices one young woman who stays beside her patient, seemingly paying no attention to his arrival. Unexpectedly, she ends up helping him translate.
Tags: love at first sight (but realistic), hospital setting, language barrier, fluff, mutual attraction, Michael being an absolute sweetheart, sunshine reader, reader accidentally steals Michael's heart, she doesn't fangirl and that's exactly why he notices her, softest meet cute ever, Michael gets treated like a normal person, no smut.
Michael's arrival in Moscow seemed to go off schedule from the very beginning.
As if on cue, heavy rain started pouring, and the weather stayed gray and gloomy. The only thing that lifted his spirits was knowing he was in a new city, ready to share his music with new people.
Even in the rain, Moscow was beautiful.
He walked around Red Square and signed autographs for several fans. Russia, it turned out, had just as many of them as any other country.
The concert wasn't until the evening, leaving Michael enough time to visit one of the city's hospitals. Supporting places like this had always been important to him, and somehow it always made him feel happier.
Very few people spoke English well, but Michael didn't really need words.
When he entered one of the hospital rooms, he asked his security guards to wait outside. Some patients and visitors had already gathered around him, amazed to see Michael Jackson standing there in person.
Michael walked over to the children and asked what illnesses they had.
They barely understood what he was saying, but they smiled shyly and reached out to play with his long hair.
Michael gently cuddled one little girl as she wrapped her arms around him, then tried talking to her.
"Hi! Do you understand me?" Michael asked, looking into her bright blue eyes.
The blonde girl smiled shyly before hiding her face behind her hands.
Michael chuckled.
You were sitting in the same room beside your patient.
Your grandmother had heart disease, and you were helping her recover after her condition had recently worsened.
You noticed someone entering the room but stayed where you were, continuing to feed your grandmother.
Then you realized Michael was trying to speak English with the child.
Trying not to laugh, you hurried over to help them. "Он говорит тебе привет!"("He says hi to you!"), you told the little girl.
The girl immediately smiled and uncovered her face after hearing you.
"Скажи ему 'Hello,'"("Say hello to him") you encouraged her.
"Hello!" the girl repeated in English.
At exactly the same moment, both you and Michael laughed.
He liked the way you interacted with the child, even though he understood almost nothing that had just been said.
"Thank you," Michael said. For what felt like the first time, he really looked at you.
His gaze drifted toward the chair beside your grandmother's bed, and somehow he understood everything without a single explanation.
His eyes softened when he saw you taking care of her.
A mysterious smile appeared on your lips. You suddenly came up with an idea. You absolutely had to impress him with your language skills.
"I just thought the two of you should be able to understand each other at a moment like this," you said in English with a gentle accent.
He stared at you as if you had suddenly started speaking Ancient Egyptian.
Embarrassed, you looked away and stared down at your hands and your red skirt.
Suddenly, you felt your cheeks heat up. You had to distract yourself with something. Your grandmother finished eating, and you set her plate aside.
"What does she have?" Michael suddenly asked, pointing at the little girl in his arms once again. By now, she had climbed into his lap. She definitely liked him.
You looked back at Michael.
The color slowly returned to your cheeks. You stood up and decided to walk over to him, feeling awkward just sitting there.
His eyes followed you the entire way, and suddenly you became painfully aware of his gaze tracing your figure.
You instantly regretted standing up.
"A neurological disorder," you said. Your expression darkened. "There are a lot of children like that here..."
"I will donate them money," Michael said.
The little girl had already started playing with his hat, and he simply let her.
Watching them together made you laugh. Small pink patches spread across your face.
"So..." he asked, lifting the little girl into his arms. "You don't know who I am?"
His eyes, however, had long since returned to you.
You couldn't understand why.
You were just an ordinary girl wearing an ordinary sweater, an ordinary skirt, and your hair tied back in a simple ponytail.
People sometimes told you there was something comforting about your energy. Some even called you "sunshine." But you doubted a man like Michael would notice something like that.
To him, you had to be just another ordinary girl.
"Pfft. Of course I do," you answered, your tone making it clear that was probably the silliest question he could have asked. "Michael Jackson."
You pulled out your phone and smiled to yourself, unable to stop grinning as you looked down.
"Do you see this very often?" Michael asked playfully, amused by your attitude—or maybe by your behavior in general.
Of course Michael was joking. You already knew he wasn't the type to take his celebrity status too seriously.
"Very rarely!" you admitted honestly. "But I really do know who you are. And I know your music," you added, deciding to tell him the truth.
It mattered to you that he knew he meant something to you.
"I just..." You glanced back toward your grandmother.
"I understand," Michael interrupted gently, raising a hand. "You're doing the right thing. I'm just another person, like everyone else. You didn't make an exception for me. And we still got to talk."
You nodded, a faint smile appearing on your face.
You knew exactly what he meant.
The other fans who had spotted him had followed him through the hospital and gathered outside.
You, on the other hand, had simply stayed beside your grandmother.
It just so happened that Michael had walked into your room.
"If anyone else needs something translated," you said, "feel free to ask."
You smiled awkwardly, wiped your hands against the rough fabric of your skirt and were already turning to head back to your grandmother.
Unexpectedly, Michael reached out and took your hand.
You stopped and looked back at him.
His hand held yours firmly.
Even though his coat was still damp from the rain, his touch felt warm.
"I do," Michael said.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, leaving you no opportunity to look away.
You only nodded a couple of times before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"Then let me finish helping my grandmother," you said with a smile. "And afterward I'll help you get through all this."
Once you had finished with your grandmother—and after Michael had spoken with several doctors with your help—you left the room together.
Michael walked beside you, and somehow you felt like his companion. Even if only in a professional or friendly sense, it still made you feel strangely flattered.
And he, it seemed, genuinely enjoyed having your company.
Your quiet, gentle energy drew him in, making him feel like your gentleman.
Even if only for a few minutes.
You had no idea then that, just before saying goodbye, Michael would tell you he wanted to write a song about your city.
For the music video, he said, he would need ordinary people as extras.
You smiled at the thought that you would get to see him again—that this wouldn't be the end of your story.
Michael asked for your phone number, and when he said goodbye, he did it so gently and warmly that you were certain of one thing:
He definitely wanted to be your friend.
Author's note. This story is loosely based on Michael's trip to Moscow in 1993. However, the city itself isn't that important—you can imagine your own hometown instead if you'd like (I choose Moscow because of the song). What mattered to me most was writing a story about what meeting Michael might have looked like for an ordinary girl, maybe even from another country.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature!michael jackson x black pregnant!wife!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a sudden late-night craving pulls you out of bed in the quiet hours of a rainy evening, you don't expect your husband to catch you red-handed in the kitchen. what starts as a sleepy midnight snack quickly turns into a tender, romantic interlude as he finds a far sweeter way to satisfy your appetite.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, slight suggestive themes, established relationship, domestic bliss, tease!michael, michael being a sweetheart to his wife (iktr).
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this came out of my head the other night and i couldn't go to bed until it was written out. for my mature!michael girlies, i hope this is what you need. as always, i've put myself on a schedule to post at least every other day. i am working on requests which is why i'm pretty busy at the moment, but part three of midnight at studio 54 will be coming out soon too! :)
The rain had a way of turning the estate into an island. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, the downpour hit the manicured grounds of Neverland in a low, continuous roar, drumming against the heavy glass and sealing the world off beyond the gates. Inside, the house was draped in soft, heavy shadows, smelling faintly of sweet vanilla candles, expensive cologne, and the crisp, clean scent of damp earth creeping in through the terrace vents.
It was 2:15 in the morning.
On the left side of the massive silk-draped bed, Michael stirred. His sleep was usually light and restless when the weather was like this, but his body had developed a new, hyper-sensitive radar over the last few months. His hand—long-fingered, warm, and instinctively reaching out through the dark—swept across the fitted sheet searching for the familiar heat of your body.
When his palm met only cool, empty silk, his eyes fluttered open.
“Hmm…”
He blinked against the gloom, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was wearing a button-down pajama top, completely unbuttoned at the chest and draped loosely over his frame, paired with comfortable, relaxed dark lounge pants that rested low on his hips. He sat up fully, tossing the heavy duvet aside. His jet-black hair—naturally soft, shoulder length with a few soft, relaxed tendrils tumbling messily into his face shook slightly as he looked toward your side of the bed.
The pillows were still warm, but you were gone.
A tiny line of concern etched itself between his brows. You were firmly into your second trimester now—eighteen weeks, to be exact. The morning sickness that had plagued your first three months had finally passed, replaced by a radiant, glowing energy, a sudden roundness to your hips and belly, and an appetite that seemed to wake up at the most unpredictable hours of the night.
Michael swung his bare feet out of bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second as he ran a hand over his face. He let out a low, sleepy exhale, a small smile already tugging at the corner of his lips as the realization hit him.
The kitchen.
He didn’t bother grabbing his slippers. He stepped quietly across the plush carpet, pushing open the heavy master bedroom door, and stepped out into the quiet, cavernous hallway.
The house at night was peaceful in a way Michael cherished. The antique clocks ticked softly in the distance, and the soft nightlights along the baseboards guided his path. He padded silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet making no sound against the polished hardwood. As he rounded the corner past the dining hall, a faint, warm glow spilled out onto the floor from the archway of the main kitchen.
Michael slowed his pace, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the view before you even knew he was there.
You were standing near the island, illuminated by the warm, under-cabinet accent lights. You were wearing a loose, blush-pink silk chemise that draped over the lovely, pronounced curve of your bump, topped with a rich plush robe that hung lazily off one your shoulders. Your dark hair was gathered in a loose, cozy wrap, a few stray curls framing your neck. Your lips pulled into a frown as you stared down at a cutting board with intense, laser-focused concentration, a butter knife in one hand and a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread in the other.
Michael stood there for a long moment, just watching. His heart felt absurdly full, a quiet aching sort of affection swelling in his chest. You looked so soft, so domestic, so utterly his.
He leaned deeper into the woodwork, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice coming out as a low, raspy velvet murmur, heavy with sleep.
“You know… sneaking out of bed without a hall pass is a serious offense around here.”
You gasped, jumping slightly and turning around with the butter knife still mid-air.
Michael couldn’t help the low, breathy chuckle that escaped him—that signature, gentle laugh that bubbled up from deep in his throat. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly glided into the kitchen, his dark, soulful eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
“Michael! You scared me,” you breathed, putting a hand over your chest, though a guilty smile was already breaking across your face. “I was trying to be quiet.”
“Quiet?” He came to a stop right in front of you, his hands resting lightly on his hips over his low-slung pajama pants. He shook his head, a soft, teasing pout on his lips. “Applehead… you practically stripped the duvet off me when you left. I woke up, and my favorite part of the bed was completely freezing.”
He reached out, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your neck. His touch was light, his thumb lingering against the smooth skin. His dark hair frame brushed against his shoulders as he leaned in slightly.
“What are we doing down here at two in the morning, huh?” he asked softly, his eyes dropping down to look at the cutting board, then sliding lower to the gentle, rounded swell of your stomach beneath the silk. “Is the baby bossing you around again?”
“It’s not my fault,” you defended warmly, holding up the jar of hazelnut spread like exhibit A. “Your child demanded chocolate. And strawberries. And… maybe a slice of that vanilla pound cake that your mother brought sitting in the breadbox. I tried to ignore it, Mike, I really did. But they were very persistent.”
Michael’s eyes lit up, a brilliant, wide smile breaking across his features. He let out another soft hee-hee under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you until the heat of his chest was wrapping around yours.
“Oh, so now it’s my child when they want late-night snacks?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, playful register. “I see how it is. Blame it on the baby.”
“Well, who else gave them this insane sweet tooth?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t use to raid the pantry at midnight before I met you.”
“Hey…” he put his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim kitchen lights. “Don’t bring my reputation into this. I am a victim of circumstance. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life… like sugar. And you.”
Before you could reply, he stepped fully into your personal space. He didn’t hesitate; his long, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, long inhale of your scent—a delicious blend of warm cocoa butter, lavender, and the natural heat of your skin.
“Mmm…” he hummed against your collarbone, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You smell so good. s’warm.”
His hands slid down from your waist, smoothing over the plush fabric of your robe until his warm palms rested directly over the curve of your stomach. He held you there, cradling your bump with an absolute, reverent gentleness.
For a second, the playful banter faded into a quiet, profound stillness. The only sound in the vast kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pour of the rain outside.
Michael shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, beneath your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin.
“How are you feeling tonight, sweet face?” he whispered, his tone shifting into that deeply gentle, protective cadence he only ever used with you. “No nausea? No cramping? The baby’s quiet?”
"No nausea," you answered softly, leaning back into his solid chest, resting your head against his shoulder. "Just hungry. And tired, but my mind was racing. They’ve been fluttering around all evening."
As if on cue, a tiny, faint sensation—like a little air bubble popping or a butterfly brushing its wings—fluttered against the right side of your lower stomach.
Michael went completely still.
"Did you feel that?" you asked gently.
Michael didn't answer with words right away. He slowly stepped around you, dropping down onto his knees right there on the hard, dark wood floor. He didn't care about the chill of the floorboards or his dark silk lounge pants dragging. He leaned forward, his hair spilling over his forehead as he pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his hands holding you securely at the hips.
"Hey there, little one," Michael murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a quiet, raw emotion. He pressed a warm, soft kiss straight through the silk of your chemise onto your bare skin. "What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping, helping your mommy rest."
He paused, waiting motionless. A second later, another soft kick struck right against his cheek.
Michael gasped softly, a high, breathless sound of pure joy. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his dark eyes wide, shining, and utterly luminous under the low light.
“They kicked me,” he whispered, a wondrous, boyish grin taking over his entire face. “Applehead, did you feel that? That was a strong one! Oh, my goodness…”
He leaned back in, pressing a rapid succession of sweet, lingering kisses all over your stomach—left, right, top center—making you bubble over with soft, melodic laughter.
“Michael, stop, that tickles!” you giggled, running your fingers through his thick, soft locks, feeling the familiar texture between your fingertips.
“I can’t help it,” he grumbled playfully against your skin, blowing a soft breath against your belly before standing up. “Our baby is talking to me. I have to answer.”
He rose back up to his full height, looking down at you with an expression so intense, so dripping with adoration, that it made your breath catch in your throat. He looked at you the way he always did—like you were the only person in the universe—but lately, with your body changing and carrying his child, that gaze had acquired a deep, possessive warmth that set your blood on fire.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, returning to that smooth, silky tone. “Let’s take care of this midnight craving properly. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet on these cold floors anyway.”
“Michael, I’m perfectly fine standing—”
“Shh,” he cut you off gently, putting a finger to his own lips. “No arguing with the boss.”
Before you could protest, Michael reached out and placed his large hands firmly on either side of your waist. He didn’t give you a second to brace yourself; with effortless ease, he lifted you up off the ground and set you right down on the edge of the smooth, polished granite countertop.
You let out a small gasp, reflexively wrapping your legs around his hips to stabilize yourself. The action pulled you flush against his unbuttoned shirt, your chest resting against his, your eyes now completely level with his smoldering gaze.
His hands didn't leave your waist. He stepped directly into the space between your parted knees, closing every inch of distance between you.
"There," he murmured, his hands smoothing up your thighs, over the silk of your robe, resting warmly on the upper part of your legs. "Much better. Now you’re at my height."
The shift in the room was instant. The cozy domesticity of the kitchen raid suddenly melted into something far more magnetic, laced with a slow, simmering heat.
"Michael..." you whispered, your voice suddenly sounding small in the quiet space.
"Hmm?" He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous little smidgen of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He reached over with one hand, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed strawberries you had laid out, along with the jar of chocolate spread. He picked up a large, ripe berry, dipping it generously into the rich chocolate.
He held it up to your lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your mouth.
"Open up, sweet face," he instructed softly. "Let me feed you."
You complied, opening your mouth and taking a bite of the strawberry. The combination of sweet fruit and rich chocolate was incredible, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Michael was staring at you like you were the dessert.
A tiny drop of chocolate caught at the very corner of your lower lip.
Michael’s eyes tracked it instantly. His breath hitched softly.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice raspy, trailing off. "Making a mess..."
He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Michael leaned in slowly. His hand reached up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair wrap, gently tilting your head back. He brought his thumb up, slowly smoothing away the drop of chocolate from your lip.
Then, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.
Your heart did a violent, fluttering backflip against your ribs.
"Michael..." you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth black silk of his open pajama top under your fingers.
"You have no idea," Michael whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin as he leaned in closer, his nose grazing along the shell of your ear, "how beautiful you are right now. How breathtaking you look carrying my baby."
He slid his hands under the edges of your plush robe, slowly, deliberately pushing the thick material off your shoulders. The robe fell away, pooling around your elbows and down onto the cold granite counter, leaving you exposed in just the delicate blush-pink silk chemise.
The cool air of the kitchen hit your shoulders, but you barely noticed it because Michael’s hands were immediately there to replace the cold with intense, radiating heat. His large, calloused palms mapped the line of your collarbones, sliding down to gently cup the sides of your breasts—fuller now, sensitive and warm—before tracing the curve of your waist and settling back over your bump.
"Mike..." a soft, helpless sigh escaped your lips.
"I mean it," he murmured against your throat. He pressed his lips to the spot right beneath your jawline, holding the kiss there, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse against his mouth. "You glow. Every single day, you just get more gorgeous. I can't keep my hands off you. It’s driving me crazy."
He shifted his mouth, trailing a line of slow, wet, velvet kisses down the column of your neck. His hands on your hips squeezed gently, pulling your lower body even closer to his chest.
Your fingers tightened in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. "You're supposed to be feeding me..." you teased weakly, though your breath was hitching with every touch of his lips.
Michael hummed against your collarbone, a low vibration of satisfaction. "I am feeding you," he whispered playfully, his lips moving up to graze your jawline again. "I'm feeding your soul, baby."
You let out a soft laugh, but it was cut short when Michael finally brought his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't rushed; it was deep, unhurried, and intoxicatingly sweet. He tasted like vanilla and dark chocolate, his lips soft and full, pressing against yours with an effortless, practiced passion that made your head spin. His tongue swiped gently against your lower lip, asking for permission, and when you opened to him, he took his time exploring, turning the simple midnight encounter into a slow, electric fire.
His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers spreading wide across your back, pulling you flush against his chest so that there was no air left between you. You could feel the steady, heavy thump of his heart beating against your own ribs—wild, fast, and completely out of rhythm.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, heavy hitches in the dim light.
"Mmm..." He breathed out, a soft, dazed smile touching his lips. He ran his thumb gently across your bottom lip, which was now plump and flush from the kiss. "God, you're sweet."
You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his breathing. "Michael... we came down here for a snack."
"I know," he chuckled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that irresistible, mischievous warmth. "And I got one."
He nudged your nose with his, giving you a quick, playful peck on the tip of your nose before turning his attention back to the counter. He picked up a slice of the vanilla pound cake, breaking off a small, soft piece with his fingers.
"Here," he said gently, his voice returning to that tender, loving cadence. "Eat some cake. I don't want my two favorite people getting hungry."
You smiled, taking a bite from his fingers. He watched you chew with a look of unadulterated devotion, resting one hand over your bump while the other absentmindedly stroked your thigh. You spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that counter, sharing bites of cake and fruit in the dim light, talking in hushed, soft whispers about the nursery, about names you were secretly considering, and about how much life was going to change in just a few short months.
Every few minutes, Michael would lean in just to steal another soft kiss, or to whisper some low, sweet nonsense into your ear that made you blush like a teenager.
Finally, when the plate was cleared and your appetite was thoroughly satisfied, you let out a long, heavy yawn, your eyelids growing heavy.
"Alright," he said softly, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Time to get you back to bed."
"I can walk, Mike," you murmured, though you were already leaning your head against his shoulder.
"I didn't ask if you could walk," he teased gently.
He pulled your robe back up over your shoulders, wrapping it securely around you to keep the night air off your skin. Then, with smooth, practiced care, he slid one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you cleanly off the granite counter and pulling you into his arms.
You let out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warmth of his chest.
"Michael, I'm heavy now," you murmured quietly as he began walking out of the kitchen.
Michael paused in the middle of the hallway, looking down at you with a mock look of sternness.
"Don't ever say that," he scolded softly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "You are carrying my world in there. You're light as a feather to me, sweet face. Always."
He carried you down the quiet corridor, his bare feet padding softly against the floors, up the grand staircase, and back into the dark sanctuary of the master bedroom. The rain outside was still steady, creating a cozy cocoon of sound against the glass.
He laid you down on the silk sheets with absolute precision, making sure the pillows were stacked comfortably behind your back and side to support your bump. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was preserving a priceless treasure.
Then, he climbed into bed beside you.
He didn't stay on his side. He slid immediately over, pulling you back against his chest so that you were spooned flush against him. He wrapped his long arm over your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly, possessively over your lower stomach, holding both you and the baby close.
He buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin.
"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Michael whispered into the dark, his voice a low, raspy velvet murmur that washed over you like a warm blanket. "Goodnight, baby..."
You rested your hand over his, lacing your fingers with his long ones over your stomach. As you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back, you felt another soft flutter from the baby right beneath Michael’s palm.
Michael felt it too. He squeezed your hand gently in the dark, letting out a soft, contented sigh, and held you tight until the rain lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.
pairing ━━ ༯ spidey! michael x fem! reader
author's note ━━ ༯ this is a little hurt/comfort au that i wrote up over the last few days as life has been stressful and imagining michael as one of my fav comic characters has been comforting to me. also inspired by the lovely @amnesia-sc's spidey michael artworks.
w.c; 5.3k
The rain was a silver shimmering curtain call over Manhattan, a hissing, cold veil that turned neon signs into bleeding watercolors and slicked the fire escapes into glistening iron latticework.
It was late in the evening and you were awake because the city never truly slept, and neither did your thoughts. A book lay open on your lap, unread, your attention instead on the rhythmic drumming against your windowpane.
That's when you heard it; a big thud, and then a scraping metal sound, a pained gasp, and the unmistakable, wet slap of something heavy collapsing onto the grated platform outside.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You knew that sound. Well, you didn’t know for sure, per se, but you'd come to recognize the graceless arrival of your… occasional esteemed visitor.
You scrambled off the bed, the book tumbling to the floor, and yanked the curtain aside.
There he was, crumpled in a heap of red and blue, one arm draped over the railing, the other clutching his middle. The rain had plastered the suit to his form, turning it into a second, darker skin. And against that dark blue, spreading from beneath his gloved fingers with a terrifying speed, was a slick, violent crimson.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, fumbling with the window latch. It stuck, as always, and you shoved it upward with a grunt, the chill, wet air rushing in. "Spider-Man?"
He lifted his head. Even through the mask, you could see the effort it cost him. "Hey, neighbor," he said, his voice a strained parody of its usual melodic, teasing lilt. It was hoarse, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
"Mind if I… crash the party? Literally." He tumbled over, now fully laying on the ground.
You didn't answer, just reached out, your hands slipping on his wet shoulders. "What happened? You need to get inside before someone sees you… now."
"Got into a disagreement… with a new guy in town. And by guy, I mean ‘alien’ with crazy looking metal wings." He tried to help himself, pushing with his legs, but a full-body shudder wracked him, and he slumped.
"He made his point. Forcefully," his voice was strained but laced with humour.
"Let's just say the giant Pepsi billboard on 42nd street now has a… man shaped hole through the middle of it, from where he dropped me."
You just stared at him in sheer disbelief, not even beginning to be able to picture what the hell that messy scene looked like. And why the hell did this have to keep happening in your city?
With a strength born of pure adrenaline, you hauled him through the window by his arms. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle and sodden fabric, and you both tumbled onto your floor in a wet, tangled heap. He smelled like a damp…dog.
"Okay, okay, just lay still for now until I figure out what the hell I am going to do with you," you said, your voice trembling only a little. You were now running your hands through your hair on edge. What if a neighbor had seen you bring him in?
You pushed yourself up, and started mapping the emergency in front of you. The suit was torn across his abdomen, a vicious, ragged split. Beneath it, the wound was a nightmare; a deep, angry gash that wept blood steadily. It looked like some of the fabric of the suit was in the wound as well.
Your stomach turned, he was really badly hurt.
You'd prepared for this though, in a hazy, half-believing way… that maybe your spidey friend wouldn't just come along to your fire escape to watch sunsets and talk about how hot Iron Man was and instead, would need your help.
You'd gone into work after his 5th visit and brought some medical supplies home. The perks of being a trainee doctor.
As you ran to fetch the basket of supplies from your tiny bathroom, he spoke, his head lolling to watch you.
"You should see… the other guy. He's probably really banged up from where I – got him… But I guess we'd never truly know with all their crazy regeneration alien stuff. Probably not a scratch on him." He tried for a laugh; it came out as a wet cough. "I swear I got him good, I swea–"
"Shut up and save your breath," you ordered, kneeling beside him with the kit. You began cutting away the suit around the wound with blunt scissors, your fingers working with a clinical precision that belied the panic screaming in your mind.
The skin revealed was warm and golden brown, now marred by that brutal tear. You cleaned it with antiseptic, your touch as gentle as you could make it. He hissed sharply, his whole body tensing as you poured some saline over the gash.
"Sorry, sorry," you murmured.
"S'okay. Your hands are… really soft despite all the stingy chemical stuff." His voice was closer to a whisper now, his breathing shallow. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"
You froze, a cotton pad soaked in peroxide hovering over the wound.
Your eyes flicked up. He was looking right at you, the white lenses of his mask somehow managing to convey an intense, unwavering delight despite his pain.
You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was two in the morning. You were in ratty sweatpants and an old faded Madonna tshirt, your hair was a mess, and you had no makeup on.
"I look like I was dragged through a hedge backward," you muttered, focusing back on the gash. "Had a backshift at the hospital."
You began to apply antibiotic ointment, your fingers carefully smoothing it along the edges. "And now you're bleeding out on my floor. Not the time for flattery."
"It's always the time," he breathed. "And you're wrong. You look… gorgeous. Best view in the city. It's why I always come to your fire escape."
You ignored him, or tried to, as you started to place sterile gauze pads over the wound. The bleeding was slowing, thank god. But as you worked, you noticed other things. The way his left arm was held slightly stiff.
The faint, purpling bruise already blooming along his collarbone and sternum; with his beautiful black body hair swirling into the nebula-looking bruise on his skin. You gulped letting your mind wander slightly.
But you were distracted fairly quickly when he'd tried to sit up a little to help you wrap the bandage around his torso, he'd winced, his hand flying to his ribs to stop you.
"You took a bad hit to the head too, didn't you?" you asked, your voice firm. "You've never babbled on about how I look before."
You were concerned at the thought of him getting into these crazy fights; and challenging evil…aliens or whatever they were. A little concussion was the least of his concerns in reality, but not to you.
He didn’t reply straight away, still writhing dramatically in pain… it was hard to watch, but you pushed again to get an answer.
"I need you to think for me. When you went through the billboard. Did you fall head first?"
"Might've… dinged the noggin a little. It's fine. Hard head n'all."
"Mhm, okay can you stand so I can move you onto the bed?" you asked, the sternness still in your voice. “I’ll be able to bandage you up easier if I can stand over you.”
"Be honest Y/N, you're just trying to bed this ol' spidey boy, aren't you?" One of his weirdly emotive white lenses winked.
"Ugh no, you are so annoying. now stand!" He stood up, wobbling slightly but leaning on your shoulder allowed him to be able to hobble over to your cosy bed.
He lay up wincing, agonised sounds choking and spluttering out of him; the pain he was feeling was even making your eyes water.
"You'll need to stay here for a bit, rest. You're clearly in a bad way."
"Uh-huh, it will probably take me around 45 minutes to regenerate that skin on my torso, give or take."
Once his head was on the pillow, you started to think about the long lasting effects of a concussion and then the word vomit was outing your thought;
"Take off the mask."
The air in the room changed. The playful, pained flirtation vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness. Even his breathing seemed to stop. "What?"
"The mask. Take it off. I need to check your pupils, make sure you don't have a concussion. And I want to see the rest of the damage." You sat back on your heels, crossing your arms.
"Don't you get the whole point of why I am masked, Y/N?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You're in my apartment, bleeding on my expensive sheets. You don't get to have secrets right now," you said firmly. "Plus, aren't we friends now?"
For a long moment, he didn't move, he just looked at you through the hollowed out expression of his mask. The only sound was the rain and the distant sigh of traffic far below. Then, a slow, resigned sigh escaped him.
"You play dirty, girl. You know I can't resist you telling me what to do."
"I am not even going to begin to dissect what the hell that means. Off."
"Well I like when you are a bossy boots and tell me to water your plants whilst I am out on the fire escape or to swing over and bring you bagels from your favourite shop in the Bronx, or do whatever you ask, really–"
"Enough, okay, I get it, I tell you what to do a lot. But you come back, right? You may as well show me your face if we are going to be real friends. Your secret is safe with me."
He made a gargled sound of annoyance, but you knew it didn’t run deep. His gloved hands came up, trembling slightly—from pain or nerves, you couldn't tell. They gripped the edge of the mask at the back of his neck.
There was a soft, sticky sound as it peeled away from his sweat-damp skin. He pulled it forward,
over his head, and let it drop to the floor with a damp plop.
The first thing you saw was the hair. A cascade of dark, glossy curls sprang free, tumbling around his face and shoulders, shimmering under your lamplight.
Then, his face.
Sheened with a fine layer of rain water that made his olive skin glow in your orange salt lamp's light.
A small, angry gash marred the high arch of his cheekbone. His lips, which you'd never truly imagined, were full and lush, now busted and bruised at the corner, swelling prettily. That was the witty mouth that had been spouting major attitude at you when you chastised him for making so much noise right outside your window.
But it was his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. Huge, liquid brown doe eyes, wide with pain and vulnerability and a breathtaking shyness you'd never associated with the wisecracking wall-crawler. They held a universe of feeling, framed by long, sooty lashes. He looked heartbreakingly young, and impossibly beautiful.
"Oh," you said, the word leaving you in a soft exhale. You didn’t even realise he’d started to take off his gloves as well.
He averted his gaze, suddenly unable to meet yours.
The confident, flirty Spider-Man was gone, replaced by a young man who seemed to want to fold into himself. "Told you it was just a ding," he mumbled, his voice unmuffled now, a warm, smooth tenor, even roughened by pain.
You reached out, your fingers gently tilting his chin back, making him look at you. Your thumb brushed the unharmed side of his jaw. It was partially stubbly.
"What's your name?" you whispered, well and truly bewildered by the sight of this delicate man lying on your bed.
He swallowed. "Michael."
His eyes were now trained onto yours, brown and dark, and devoted. They were bloodshot from the rain, as he swung through the night.
"Michael," you repeated, and the name felt both strange and perfectly right on your tongue. “Huh. what a normal name,”
After breaking your mesmerised look, you pushed away your feelings of awe and got back to work. He seemed thankful for the change in pace.
You shifted to check his pupils with the small flashlight from your kit. They reacted normally.
"Okay, Michael. Tell me what actually happened. The real version. You seem fairly human to me and I am not satisfied with only knowing parts of your story. I need to figure out if we need to take you to a hospital."
His eyes went wider than they already were; “absolutely NOT. no hospitals - how are we going to explain I was flung through a billboard?”
“You are impossible, you know that?” You asked, mirth in your voice. “I should have told you to shoo the first time you commandeered my fire escape.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned at you. “But ya didn’t! Because you likeeee me.”
And then, he told you what happened. Haltingly at first, then with more flow as he saw you weren't recoiling, weren't fixing to call the news or trying to snap a photo on your film camera.
He told you about the sleek, chrome-skinned alien that had descended in a beam of green light, and how it had backhanded him through the Pepsi billboard like he was a ragdoll.
He had been trying to save the burning apartment block that the alien had set alight with some form of blaster gun. He'd been standing on the sidewalk, giving tiny little toddlers that he had rescued from the building some cuddles before he'd been scooped up by the threat, and beaten within an inch of his life.
This clearly didn't happen regularly—he had never looked this injured before, not in all the times he had come to visit you. He described the freefall, the desperate, dizzying swing across three blocks as he narrowly escaped, knowing his injuries would fail him in his fight. The only thought in his pain-fogged mind was the route back to your fire escape, your window, the one safe harbor he could think of.
"I knew you'd help," he finished, his eyes searching your face. "You always do. Even when I just show up to be a pest."
You finished taping the butterfly stitch on his cheekbone, securely, your hands lingering on the warmth of his forehead.
There was a bit of a tension; you weren’t sure if it was sexual… or if it was just innocent attraction. It had been a faint agony in the background of this whole mess and now had roared to life, crazily poignant in the small space between your bodies on the bed. The air was thick with the scent of him, rain, sweat, blood and then of course the chemicals you'd used on his wounds. Your eyes kept drifting to his bruised lips.
"You're not a pest," you said, your voice low. "You're a mess. A brave, stupid mess. Charming, somehow, despite it all."
He gave a lopsided smile. "You forgot handsome."
"You've got nerve fishing for compliments, Michael."
He seemed startled at the use of his name; almost like he forgot he even told you or that he had removed his mask. Every single interaction you’d had before was with it on; and despite that you’d still been attracted to his personality… his voice. Now that you knew what he looked like; those feelings were going to be hard to push down.
Your dating life was already a mess; you didn’t want to start courting a literal superhero. I think after this you’ve dealt with enough aliens to last a lifetime.
He began to lift himself up a bit on the pillows, so that he was eye level with you.
"Suppose so. I guess it's just because you're looking at me all weird and I want to know whether or not you find me attractive."
You were staring, admittedly. You couldn't stop.
"Does it matter if I do or not? I am helping you, aren't I?" you smirked, starting to pack up your medical kit.
"Well, yeah. I care what people think of me." His eyes had gone vulnerable again, sparkly and light.
"Didn't you tell me no one knew of your identity?" you asked, side eying him.
He started shifting in the bed again, uncomfortable, and hissed again.
"Shit—Michael, are you ok?"
"M'fine, it's just the regeneration can be a bit painful when the wound is this bad." You didn't even question 'regeneration' because, what the fuck? He looked human, but was clearly not.
"People know me in my normal life—I go to college and work in a recording studio when I'm not… taking care of Spidey business."
Once he settled against the pillows again, the shyness was melting from his expression, replaced by a warm, vulnerable affection that made your mouth go all dry.
The rain, the darkness, the intimacy of the wound-tending, it had stripped away every barrier of friendship you'd once had with this masked vigilante.
He was just a boy, a startlingly young man, sitting half-naked and injured on your queen size bed, and you were just you, and the world outside had ceased to exist.
Without overthinking it, without letting the fear or the absurdity of the situation stop you, you leaned forward. You closed the gap, and you pressed your lips to his.
It was soft, chaste, a mere brush of skin against swollen skin. But it sent a jolt through you both.
He went perfectly still for a second, then a small, sound escaped him; a mixture of pain and pleasure.
His hand came up, his fingers; bare now, you realised, slid into your hair, cupping the back of your head.
He kissed you back, carefully, tenderly, mindful of his busted lip. It was sweet and hesitant and flooded with a warmth that spread from your lips down to your toes. He tasted of something sweet, like nerds gummy clusters or something silly like that.
When you pulled back, his doe eyes were wide, dazed. A faint blush darkened his cheeks.
"Whoa," he breathed.
You sat back, your own face flaming. The reality came crashing in. The mask on the floor. The bandages. His age. He looked… he couldn't be older than twenty, he couldn’t be ages with you. You’d just turned 24. He had to be younger.
"Oh, my god," you said, the words tumbling out. "How old are you?"
The blush deepened. "Nineteen."
"Nineteen?" You stared at him, flabbergasted. All this time.
The fearless protector of New York, the quipping hero who'd faced aliens and other vigilante’s, was a teenager.
A teenager with incredible hair and soulful eyes who blushed when kissed. The absurdity of it swelled in your chest, wonder tangled up right alongside it. Underneath both sat a protective ache that was almost overwhelming.
He looked down, suddenly self-conscious. "I know, I'm…ugh, I should get home. I've imposed enough, and—"
"Don't you dare," you cut him off, your voice firming. The shock was receding, replaced by a fierce, surging certainty. You stood up, offering him your hand.
"You can barely stand. You're not swinging anywhere. If you need to stay the night to rest, you can. The couch pulls out. It's not much, but it's dry and it's safe."
He looked from your hand to your face, that vulnerability shining in his eyes again.
Slowly, he reached up and took it. His grip was strong, even now. You helped him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice small.
You led him the few steps to your couch, guiding him to sit. "I'm sure." You fetched a blanket and a pillow from your bed.
"Now, lie down. Try to sleep. I'll be right over there if you need anything."
He obeyed, settling back with a weary sigh that seemed to come from his bones. As you tucked the blanket around him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
His touch was warm and his hand… so big that it engulfed your wrist entirely.
"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered. "For… everything. My aunt would have murdered me herself if she saw the state I got into. She doesn't understand that I can heal from this sort of thing."
Really you didn't much believe it either or understand the science behind it. You just smiled, shaking your arm away from his grip.
You turned off the main light, leaving only the soft, golden glow of your bedside lamp.
You climbed into your own bed, facing the couch. In the semi-darkness, you watched him. His eyes were already closed, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks, his bruised lips slightly parted as his breathing evened out into sleep.
★⋆.
The first thing you became aware of was warmth. A deep, cocooning warmth that seeped into your bones, delicious in the way it cradled you in a state of perfect, sleepy contentment.
You were floating in the hazy, golden space between dreams and waking, and in that space, there was only him. Michael.
His face painted itself on the inside of your eyelids in exquisite, lingering detail. The memory of last night was a vivid recollection; a sensation, a tapestry of feeling woven from the lamplight.
The shocking softness of his curls between your fingers when you'd checked his head for lumps. The way his big, brown eyes had held yours, wide with a vulnerability that had cracked something open inside your chest.
The feel of his jaw under your thumb, the prickle of stubble against your skin.
And his hands. God, his hands. You dreamed of them. Long, elegant fingers, surprisingly graceful for all their strength. You saw them peeling off the damp mask, trembling slightly.
You felt them again, cupping the back of your head while you kissed, his touch so tender it made your heart soar. In your dream-state, those hands were everywhere; brushing hair from your face, tracing the line of your jaw, and going further and further down your body.
Their warmth seeped into you, claiming you in the gentlest, most possessive way.
A soft, sighing breath escaped you, a smile touching your lips as you nuzzled deeper into your pillow.
Then, a tickle. A faint, warm puff of air against your forehead. Your dreaming mind incorporated it—his breath, as he leaned in close. But the rhythm was off. It was too steady, too… present.
Your eyes fluttered open, blurry with sleep. And found themselves staring directly into another pair of eyes, mere inches from your own.
They were brown, liquid, and crinkled at the corners with unmasked, utterly delighted amusement. Michael was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, his head resting on his hand.
He had clearly been watching you sleep for who-knows-how-long, a soft, goofy grin plastered across his beautiful, bruised face. His curls were a wild, glorious mess on his head, from having slept on them.
A jolt of pure, undiluted shock electrified your spine.
A strangled, gasping scream ripped from your throat; less out of fear, more out of the sheer, overwhelming proximity of him.
Your body spasmed backward, forgetting the edge of the bed existed. With a yelp and a clumsy thud, you landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket tangling around your legs. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"Oh, shit! Sorry! I was trying to be funny!" His voice, laced with genuine alarm and a leftover trace of sleep-roughness, came from above. He was peering over the bed at you.
Before you could even untangle your limbs or process the embarrassment, strong hands were hooking under your arms. He hauled you up from the floor as if you weighed nothing, the motion so swift and effortless it stole your breath anew.
He meant to set you on your feet, but his strength, even injured, was miscalibrated.
You were pulled into him, your body colliding flush against his bare chest in the ripped spiderman suit. One of his arms banded around your back to steady you, the other still gripping your arm.
You were pressed together from chest to thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shirt and his suit doing nothing to mask the solid, warm reality of him. The air left your lungs in a soft rush.
He looked down, his eyes wide with apology that quickly melted into something else. Something hotter, more intense.
The playful grin was gone, replaced by a look of dazed wonder. His face was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. His bruised lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper.
He was leaning down, his head tilting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. The intention was as clear as daylight: he was going to kiss you. Again.
The morning-after kiss, without the blood and the panic, just the two of you, breath mingling, hearts pounding in a synchronous rhythm. The tension was insane, pulsing in the air between you.
Your own lips parted instinctively, drawn to him like a magnet. The memory of last night's sweet, hesitant kiss bloomed fresh and urgent.
Then, your nerves, frayed by the fall and the overwhelming onslaught of him, short-circuited your brain-to-mouth filter.
Just as his lips were a whisper from yours, you blurted it out, voice squeaky with adrenaline.
"You smell like a wet dog."
He froze. His gorgeous, soulful eyes blinked once, slowly, the romantic haze evaporating into pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "I… what?"
"A wet dog," you repeated, the words gaining momentum as you committed to the bizarre sabotage. "You should… you should probably shower."
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, a slow, bewildered smile spread across his face, transforming his confusion into delighted amusement.
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled your small bedroom. It was a beautiful laugh, unrestrained and genuine.
“You think I am smelly and don't want to give me a kiss? I wish I could say I am surprised but most girls don't want to kiss me." He loosened his hold, letting you find your footing, and gave you a weird little half-wink-half-blink. That was something you certainly did not believe. That girls didn’t kiss him? He was a literal superhero.
You remained silent and motioned to the bathroom. He just tutted and padded to the bathroom. a few seconds later the spray started hitting the bottom of the tub.
You had mere minutes to change a bit and make sure you looked more presentable. You pulled on some clean jeans and a tattered sweater and then quickly fixed your crazy hair in the mirror.
The shower shut off just in time for you to be done with the pruning.
The door opened, and steam billowed out. Michael stepped out. Your breath caught.
The only thing covering him was one of your towels, slung low around his narrow hips. The towel was tied loosely, dipping below the sharp cut of his hip bones and the beginnings of a faint tan line.
The water clung to his deep, rich bronze skin, gleaming under the morning light. Droplets traced paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the faint, dark dusting of hair that formed a tantalizing trail from his navel downward.
That happy trail disappeared beneath the towel, pointing like an arrow to the pronounced V-cut of his obliques that framed his lean, taut stomach. He was oh so lean.
Your eyes fixed on his abdomen. The place where the vicious, bleeding gash had been last night. Only to find smooth, unbroken skin.
There was no pucker where he’d been sliced, not even a pink line. Nothing.
His curls, wet and free, were a riot of dark, springy coils framing his face. Water dripped from the ends onto his shoulders. He saw you staring and a slow, shy smile touched his lips.
"Better?" he asked, his voice breathy. “Or am I still smelly by your standards?”
You stepped closer, poking a finger directly at the center of his flawless stomach.
"Explain this."
He looked down, then back up, feigning innocence. "Explain what?"
"The hole that was here. It's gone."
"Oh. That." He had the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah. That tends to happen."
"You were milking it," you said, a smile threatening to break through. "All that 'ahh, the pain' drama last night. You were totally milking it."
A grin spread across his face, bright and unrepentant. "Okay, maybe a little! But in my defense, it did hurt! And you were so… nice about it." He shuffled his feet.
"It's usually the other way around. I'm the one looking out for everyone. I liked you looking after me. I didn't want your attention to wander. Sue me."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're ridiculous."
Still chuckling, you turned and scooped his suit off the floor. You walked back and shoved the bundle into his arms. "Here. Get dressed. I've got class to go to."
He clutched the suit, the towel dipping even lower. "Yeah! Me too. Biochem. Wouldn't miss it." His eyes danced; he was a terrible liar.
"Right. Well, go get ready."
He grinned and ducked into your bathroom, closing the door most of the way. You busied yourself gathering your books. The door pushed open a moment later. "Uh, a little help?"
You turned. He was struggling into the top half of the suit. The tear you'd cut last night ran diagonally from his hip almost to the opposite side of his waist. Because he was leaning to pull it on, the torn fabric gaped open.
The torn material revealed a long, lean strip of his lower abdomen and hip, and the very low line of dark, curling hair that led downward. You saw a fleeting, breathtaking glimpse that made your mouth go dry. Huge. genuinely massive. Shit. He had to go or you were going to try sleep with him and you really did not need a casual relationship with a fucking SUPERHERO right now.
You gulped audibly.
"Okay! You're good! Suit's on!” You clapped your hands with finality, and turned around to grab your back.
“ I need to go, so please finish getting dressed and get out. And be safe. And don't scare me like that ever again."
He finally got the suit top settled, the material sealing most of the way.
He stepped out, now fully suited except for the mask. He took two quick steps toward you, leaned in, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered for a second. He pulled back, eyes sparkling.
"See you soon, neighbor." His eyes were quite literally twinkling. “We can continue this,” he gestured between you, clearly marking the tension and the vibes exchanged. “At a later date.”
He pulled the mask on, gave you a little salute, and slipped out your window onto the fire escape.
You rushed to the window to make sure he was going to get away alright, and partially to make sure none of your neighbors were out for a cigarette or something.
He stood on the grated platform in the morning sun. He looked back at you, gave a final wave, and then simply stepped off the edge.
Your heart lurched. He fell, a plummeting streak of color, for one terrifying second. Then, a web shot out.
The line went taut, and his fall became a breathtaking arc, swinging him out and up into the open orange sky. He swung away, growing smaller against the city.
You let out a shaky laugh, your cheek still tingling from where he kissed you goodbye.
content: pope and reader are in highschool | pope has a fat crush on reader | baz being his usual wacky self | bullying | angst with comfort | poor pope just wanted to impress you | happy ending
🟡 author’s note: this was inspired by that one unreleased ethel cain song that’s trending… i was going to make it completely angsty, but i had to give andrew a happy ending
—
“…what the fuck is that for?” baz barked out, amused by the half-finished poster that sat in the middle of pope’s bedroom.
pope instinctively moved to hide it from his pestering step-brother, but it was too late as baz stepped in, swiftly grabbing the poster board from his grasp.
“will you go to…” baz began to read out aloud, “oh, pope, don’t tell me you’re planning on asking that girl to the dance…” he cooed condescendingly.
pope stiffened, his jaw clenched tightly as baz teased him. “put it down,” he mumbled, biting down the sense of humiliation that always followed after baz’s words.
“alright, alright… no need to get yourself worked up,” he scoffed, carelessly setting it down.
pope let out a relieved huff the second baz left the room, moving to lock his bedroom door before carefully smoothing out the creases that his brother left. he looked down at the poster, his eyes glazing over the colorful letters.
he had been planning to ask you to the homecoming dance for the past few weeks. he even strung julia into it, asking for her guidance and girlish opinion when it came to preparing his homecoming proposal.
sure, he felt incredibly out of place; even borderline foolish for attempting to craft something like this.
but he wanted to do it for you.
he wanted to be someone charming, someone who could impress you, similar to the male leads of the romcoms you adored watching. that reason alone was why pope spent the rest of his night locked away in his room as he finished up the poster, obsessively making sure that every detail was executed just as he planned.
you two had met in science class. your teacher had assigned you as lab partners for the semester at the beginning of the school year. initially, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at not being paired with one of your friends, but pope had turned into a pleasant surprise. despite your peers warning you of pope’s unsettling demeanor, the two of you collaborated well, and eventually it gave way into an easy friendship. it was something that pope held protectively, especially when everyone seemed to prefer baz over him. besides you, there were only two other people in the school who would tolerate his company.
once the day to ask you to the dance finally arrived, he spent the whole class watching you with butterflies flooding his stomach. each time you’d flash him an easy smile or make eye contact with him, he’d feel the mix of nerves and anticipation worsen as the time ticked past.
the bell rung for the final time, dismissing students for the day. pope hurriedly rushed downstairs, his feet carrying him to his locker. “do you… would you want to go to the dance with me?” he muttered to himself, practicing the grand question as he opened his locker.
he reached for the poster and bouquet of crochet flowers he carefully prepared, before heading towards the lobby where he requested you to wait.
as he rounded the corner, he didn't see baz and his football friends waiting, grinning as they prepared to spring their trap. before pope could even take a step towards your direction, the group ambushed him, catching him completely off guard.
he felt his shirt become wet, drenched and slimy with a sharp, pungent smell.
“holy shit, i can’t believe you were actually planning to ask her,” baz scoffed, cracking up at the sight of pope holding the items.
the other guys followed suit, thinking his efforts were some kind of joke.
pope shifted slightly, his heart pounding out of his chest as he felt the halls close in on him.
he felt ridiculous and humiliated, the buzzing in his ears blocking out their continued remarks until something else hit the side of his face.
he looked down, realizing it was a discarded frog leg from the dissection earlier that day.
shit, how was he supposed to face you when he had animal guts splattered over him?
when the poster he had prepared now reeked of formalin?
would you laugh at him as well?
what if he accidentally embarrassed you by asking?
what if this entire time, you had been tolerating him out of sheer politeness?
“it’s bad enough she’s stuck with a nutjob like you. i heard mr. smith had to assign her as your partner because no one else wanted to volunteer,” one of them snickered.
pope couldn’t bear it anymore, quickly turning to rush away from the obnoxious bunch. his vision was too tunneled to realize that he had ran past you in the hall, your brows furrowed at the sight of his distress. he faintly heard you calling his name as he left the building, not realizing that you had picked up the discarded poster and flowers.
pope was thankful that the following day was saturday, at least then he’d be able to hide away from everyone, especially from baz.
he wanted to wring his brother’s neck for orchestrating something like that, but his embarrassment kept him cooped up in his room, not moving an inch even after craig and deran’s attempts to invite him to the skate park.
he only slipped out of the cody compound when he knew nobody would notice, his feet dragged as he walked to the cathedral, the only safe place that he had left. as he reached the entrance, his eyes spotted you seated on the steps.
he almost turned around and fled until he heard your voice, “andrew, wait!”
you were sweating slightly from waiting on the steps for hours, your hands holding onto the poster board and flowers.
“i knew you’d show up,” you sighed happily, flashing him a small smile.
he stiffened as you stopped right in front of him, awkwardly glancing around before his eyes uncomfortably settled on your face. he swallowed nervously, his mouth feeling incredibly dry as he watched you hold up the crochet bouquet.
“you… made these for me? to ask me to homecoming?” you asked.
he gave you a brief nod, his fingers drumming against the side of his thigh. “…it’s a gift. my sister told me that you’d like it,” he mumbled.
that earned him a wider smile from you, your eyes lighting up.
he cleared his throat, before replying, willing himself to speak a little louder. “i’m not going anymore,” he clarified, the sound of their teasing laughter still ringing in his ears. “you… you should go with someone else.”
“…well we don’t have to go to the school dance. we can just do our own thing,” you suggested. “i didn’t really wanna go anyways. it’s just gonna be a bunch of sweaty teenagers packed into the gym,” you shrugged.
pope’s brows furrowed, the thought of you choosing to spend time with him rather than attending a special event seemed out of reach.
“oh! how about the science museum? it’ll be open late if we go on a friday night…” you continued, rambling on and on about other potential options, other things that included you spending time with him.
pope quietly stared at you, his mind struggling to catch up with the sudden shift in reality. he had been ready to crawl into a hole and never come out, but now, you were standing right in front of him, casually pitching a night at the museum as if it were the most obvious choice in the world.
“the science museum?” he repeated, the tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders.
“yeah! unless, you think looking at fossilized bones and learning about our solar system is too lame for a friday night?” you teased.
a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of pope’s lips. “i heard they’re also opening a new wing for exotic bugs and insects,” he informed.
“so… is that a yes?” you asked softly, leaning in slightly, your eyes searching his. “andrew, i never cared about the dance. i just wanted to go with you,” you added, sensing his hesitation.
the lingering sting of embarrassment finally vanished, replaced by something warmer, something steady fluttering in his chest. his drumming fingers went still against his leg. he looked down at the handmade gift in your hands, then back up at your face, realizing you meant every word.
“yeah,” he said, a shy, but genuine smile breaking across his face. “…i’d really like that.”
without thinking, you reached out and gently squeezed his wrist. “it’s a date, then.”
pope felt his cheeks heat up, but for the first time all week, he didn’t mind at all. “it’s a date,” he agreed.
꒰ mean!wife!mother!black!fem reader ✗ bad era!father!michael꒱
꒰ HEADCANONS ꒱
⋆˙⟡ word count⋆˙⟡ — ꒰ 𝟮,𝟱𝟮𝟭𝓚 ꒱
⋆˙⟡ INSPIRED BY⋆˙⟡ — the song Independent by Webbie ft. Boosie Badazz & Lil Phat
⋆˙⟡ contains⋆˙⟡ — two year age gap m(30) you(32). angst. domestic fluff. reader is an entrepreneur. mentions of tabloids. mentions of his vitiligo. sexual themes (so minors dni, you’ll be blockity blocked !)
LOCATION : NEVERLAND RANCH ୨୧
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — Michael gets mad once you yell at your children for pissing you off lately.
You gifted Michael two kids just like he asked. Two twin boys! Solan & Sean, both five years old. But they got on your last nerves when you thought you finally had some alone time—damn, you were wrong.
There was a walk-in closet in your shared bedroom with Michael that was HUGE. You would hurry and go pour yourself a glass of wine. You hid it in one of your heel shoe boxes, and put it back where it was before anyone saw you.
“sigh—Jesus.” You moved your hair out the way, tucking your fresh sew-in behind your ear as you sat down on the carpet.
You left the closet door a bit cracked so you would still hear if anyone was in danger but you should’ve closed it and locked it once you had the chance.
The glass was being brought to your lips so you had a sip, a feeling of finally being away from the noise and the word “Mommy!” every two seconds.
Footsteps were coming toward the closet door, but you were busy sipping on your wine while your head was resting on the wall behind you. "Mhmm," a hum came from you, expressing the satisfaction of the wine touching your taste buds.
"Mommy!" a voice called out, and you immediately opened your eyes and looked toward the door to see both of your boys staring at you. "What y'all want now?" You smacked your lips as you set down your glass between your legs in an attempt to hide it.
"Ouu, what's that? I want taste!" Sean yelled as he came to you; his brother followed behind him.
"Boy, no. I love you, but you can't have this. Only adults can." You raised your eyebrows at them as you fixed their clothes from them playing earlier.
"But—whyyy?" they whined while jumping up and down. You shut your eyes and massaged your temples before you looked back at them. "Gon find ya daddy with all this," you shoed them away.
They didn't move a muscle; they just stared at you with pouts. Sean's arms were crossed, and Solan's hands were just by his side as his eyes started to water.
"No, no, we not doing this. MICHAEL!" you yelled at your husband, who was doing who knows what.
It was silent for about a minute until you heard your husband's voice in the distance."Yesss..?" he said, coming around the corner and came into the closet.
“Come get these damn kids, please.” You said then tucked your lips.
“Heyy, why so upset?” He said while walking closer to you and grabbing onto the boy’s hands.
“I just need some me time, that’s all.” you said in a calm voice.
“' Me time’ for what, from whom?” he questioned. Bringing his head forward in confusion.
“Michael—I’m looking at em,” You said, putting your head in their direction.
“The kids..” you added on.
It was silent before he spoke again.
“You don’t gotta shout at them though,” he said with a grimace.
“I barely shouted, you’re so dramatic.” You shook your head and looked forward to your clothes that were hung up.
“Well, I can take them to go watch a movie?” Michael suggested.
“Yes, yes that would be great!” You said—a bit..too excited?
Michael could tell you were being sarcastic but he put up with it any other day, so it wasn’t new.
“Have fun with your ‘me time’,” he said, bringing the boys with him and let out a quick chuckle before he shut the door behind him.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — You cleaned around the house one time without mentioning it to anyone so now Michael thinks you’re mad that no one is helping you (where you were).
Michael was walking around the house humming tunes from his own songs and then immediately stopped in his tracks once he saw you cleaning.
“Honey?” He asked, now walking towards you.
You completely ignored him, continuing to sweep while also humming a song. And what made it even worse was that you were wearing that favorite gown of Michael’s that he liked seeing you wear around the house.
He thought you were mad, so he didn’t even think about touching you.
The song in your head completely came to an end as you slowly looked up from the floor to Michael.
He looked fine too, but you couldn’t admit that right now.
“What.” You said, while leaning against the broom.
“Do you need help? What’s wrong?” Here he go with all these questions, you thought.
“No, I don’t need help. You can go back and sip on that OJ of yours.” You snapped.
Michael was speechless for a bit. He was never the one who would never helped someone—especially his beloved wife.
“Well, uhh, you look good while doing it—but lemme help, please.” He confessed, completely lost in your dress.
You stared blankly at him and licked your lips, not remembering you had your cocoa butter lip gloss on.
"Michael-" you got cut off.
"Listen, I don't know if you're mad at me for something I did. But—I can pay for your nails and your toes if you allow me..." He yapped along and gave a nervous smile after he made eye contact with you.
You sucked on your cheek to hide a smile that was forming on your face, but you always get excited once you hear anything about getting your nails and feet done—especially if he's paying.
"Oh, really?" you asked as you squinted, scanning his face even though you knew he was being serious.
"Yes?" he said in a 'duh' tone.
"Here you go; call me when you get done," you said with a toothy smile on your face as you handed him a cloth and the broom. Then went to instantly grab your drink and run to the bedroom.
Michael scoffed as he watched you scurry away, hearing your contagious laugh fade in the distance.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — Michael once brought up an event he went to years ago and slipped up and said Big Bertha’s (Diana Ross) name in his story he was telling while you were cooking dinner, completely not even thinking of it.
The house was smelling like the delicious recipe of your favorite meal that your mom made for you, and now the whole house loves it.
You were walking around wearing the custom-made apron the nanny gifted you two months ago to celebrate a big milestone in your business.
The smell of the food had everyone in a good mood, the kids were bathed and playing with each other, and you had just came back from shopping for the kids and from the grocery store.
And then there was your husband, who was babbling about his stories, and we all know he loves to gossip.
Both of you were giggling about what was being said about other people, until he said something that struck a nerve.
"Anddd I was talking to Bill about my awards and I see Miss Diana staring, and then I just look back at him and continue talking and we got interrupted by a m-” he looked back up at you to see you frozen in place.
“Which Diana?” You felt your jaw clenching and your grip tightening on the wooden spoon that was in your hand.
“Huh..?” Michael asked you as he started scratching the back of his neck.
“If you can ‘huh’, you can hear.” You put down your spoon and leaned over the kitchen counter to look him dead in his eye.
“It’s um..it was—Diana Ross..” he said in a nervous tone, because he knew you get heated once her name is mentioned—even though he didn’t try to get you upset.
“Ugghh don’t mention that bitches name around me no more.” You pointed with a finger and went back to taste-testing your food.
“Sorry..” he let out a laugh that seemed like he was tryna hide his nervousness from ticking you off so easily.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — You, being the protective wife that you are, always take up for him once interviews start getting more invasive and rude than genuinely curious. The audacity??
Michael was getting slightly irritated by answering some of these questions and you could tell. He was holding onto your hand for support because he knew you were going to snap sooner or later.
He was good with his words and how he responded to questions—but you on the other hand, weren’t holding back a damn thing.
“What do you think about the Tabloids?” The man asked.
Michael looked over to you, just to see you not even turning in his direction as you tucked your lips to keep yourself from saying something immediately.
“Um-” he thought.
“About them saying you bleached your skin? Did you bleach your skin?” The man added, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
You both went silent as you noticed Michael squeezing your hand harder than before.
“Excuse me?” You asked as you shifted in your seat to get closer. The shades you were shading immediately came off and you moved your hair out of the way as your bangles clacked.
“Is it true?” The man was clearly trying to get a reaction out of both of you. You could tell he grew hungrier for an answer than growing respect for the sake of you—HIS WIFE and him.
“The fact that you even say such a thing while I’m here—actually you shouldn’t be saying that at all!” You protested as you lifted a finger in expression.
Michael was gnawing on his bottom lip as he stayed quiet as you clapped back at him.
“Did you come to interview him and me, or did you come here to put him down over some fucking Tabloids?” You cursed—you never regretted what you said to people who were mean to him, on television, or not. People were blatantly rude to him and took his shyness for weakness and you didn’t like that whatsoever.
“Ma’am—” a voice said behind the camera. Michael instantly looked over to see someone trying to calm you down so they could move on to the next question.
“No, no, we’re not doing this. Either interview us correctly without being rude or we can leave.” You said while putting back on your shades and grabbing onto Michael’s hand.
Michael grinned a bit because he loved when you stood up for him, even when the both of you weren’t very PR trained.
“Thank you,” he mumbled under his breath.
You quickly looked at him and flashed him a smile before you looked back at the camera.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — Makes your husband eat, no matter the fuss he puts up about it.
“Listen Michael, I understand you’re busy on tour but you gotta eat baby..” You caressed his shoulder
He played around with his food, the fork clacking against the plate as he stared at it.
Your patience was running thin and you wanted your man to be healthy and properly fed before doing his big tours like this.
“Give it here,” You snatched the fork out of his hand and immediately picked some of the food you made him on the fork.
“Open ya mouth.” You demanded holding the fork up to his lips.
He stared up at you throwing his eyelashes, looking like a deer in headlights because you were forcing him to eat.
“C’mon.” You demanded once again and watched his mouth open slowly at your command.
Knowing deep down inside he loved when you cared and loved on him even when he would be a bit stubborn at times.
He flashed a smile at you before he started chewing.
“Chew and swallow—I ain’t make this food for nothing.” You patted him on his back as you sat back in your chair and watched him eat.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — Got tipsy together, andddd ended up having sex. Then you began to slip out some things you thought about Michael and the Tabloids.
One night you and Michael drank two shots of alcohol and your kids were away at your Mother’s house and when I tell youuuu, y'all had a time!
He was giving it his all in missionary while he kissed over all your neck, collarbone, and then your lips.
Michael was hitting the right spots and kept hitting your G-spot over and over again. And then there it was—the build in passion but anger that you were holding in for some time.
“Mmm, how could they say such things..ngghh..about you Mikey,” you moaned with a bit of anger behind your voice against his neck as he whimpered at your confession.
“You’re just so—beautiful.” You cooed while absentmindedly playing with his soft curls.
He was so lost in pure bliss as he watched where you two connected—being a huge whimpering mess above you.
“Y’know that?” You asked him, completely dazed.
“Yes, baby, I know.” He moaned as he appreciated every one of your curves—including your waist, breast, and your beautiful eyes.
You brought him in for a deeply passionate kiss to show him how much you actually appreciated his beauty despite what people had said about him.
⋆˙⟡ 🐆⋆˙⟡ — Whenever you came to rehearsal with him before his tour you would always point out something along with Michael, but of course he always pointed them out before you did.
Michael’s hair was messy from dancing and collected sweat from his forehead as he danced.
Then there was you, sitting on top of a tall metal box watching over what was going on—of course in your shades. Nodding your head at the beats as you saw your husband dancing across the stage like he always did, turning around to see your approval.
He put a thumbs up to let you know everything was going well while he was talking to his stage crew.
A beat dropped at the wrong time, not “letting it simmer”, he would call it.
“Rememberrrr, you gotta let it simmer. Let’s do that again.” He yelled.
He was a huge perfectionist, and you were too. The more you came to his rehearsals you would see how much you started to turn into him by pointing out a change in pitch.
“Yup, let’s go.” You said as you nodded and waited for the beat to drop again.
Michael laughed once he heard you agree too and instantly locked in for his next move.
He began dancing as usual, walking across the stage, and stopped at a point to do his regular leg move.
“Aht, Aht! Where’s the drums on that part?” You yelled over the music, and it stopped.
Michael looked back at you and then at the drummer, waiting for their response.
“Oh I’m sorry,” the drummer said, fixing the position of his drum stickers were in.
“It’s fine, just make sure you’re on que.” You said as you lowered your shades and then moved them back up over your eyes.
“What she said.” Michael agreed as he pointed back at you, and got back in position.
synopsis. Michael know how much his wife is lovely enough to be desired and loved by her fans and even some of his own, but in the end of the day, he can't help but feel jealous.
tags. fuffly, jealous!michael, michael x oc (Jackie) but it could be read as michael x black reader.
notes. I plan to post anthology drabbles about my own fanfic, this is one of them. You don't need to have read the story to read it, but if you want to, you can access the main story here.
The package arrived at Neverland just after lunch.
Jackie was in the living room with the baby asleep in a bassinet nearby when security brought it in: a large, carefully wrapped box covered in stickers and hearts, along with a thick envelope. She opened it with the same warm curiosity she always had for fans. Inside was a soft, hand-knitted baby blanket in deep green and gold, a small silver bracelet engraved with “For the Queen of Neverland,” and a long handwritten letter that started with “Dear Jackie, I know you’re his wife, but I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you looked at the awards…”
She read parts of it out loud, smiling, completely unbothered.
“Aww, look at this. They made a whole playlist of songs that remind them of me and Michael. And they want me to know I’m ‘the softest, most glowing mother they’ve ever seen.’ That’s sweet.”
Michael stood in the doorway, soft black hoodie on, soft curls falling into his eyes. He had been quiet for the last ten minutes, long fingers wrapped around a glass of water he wasn’t drinking. His soft high voice came out carefully even.
“That’s… a lot of gifts for one fan.”
Jackie looked up, still smiling, completely missing the tight set of his shoulders.
“It’s not just one. There’s another letter here from a group of them. They sent a painting this time of me holding the baby. And a poem. Listen to this part: ‘Your curves after the baby only made you more divine. I dream of the way you smile at him…’”
Michael’s soft high voice dropped lower.
“They dream of you.”
Jackie finally glanced at him properly. The warm glow under her deep golden-brown skin deepened just a little when she saw the look on his face, soft, quiet, and unmistakably jealous.
“Baby… they’re just fans. They love both of us.”
Michael walked over slowly, set the glass down, and took the letter from her hands with careful fingers. He scanned a few lines, soft dark eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly at the more intimate compliments about her new post-pregnancy body, the way she moved, the “softness that only a mother who belongs to him could have.”
His soft high voice was quiet and a little tight.
“They talk about your body like they’ve been studying it. Like they have any right to.”
Jackie reached up and cupped his face, thumbs stroking his soft cheeks.
“Michael. Look at me. I’m yours. Completely. These letters are sweet, but they don’t mean anything. You’re the only one who gets to touch me, look at me like that, love me like that.”
Michael leaned into her touch, soft high voice still edged with that quiet possessiveness he tried so hard to hide.
“I know. I just… I don’t like other people noticing how soft you are now. How beautiful. How the baby made you even more… you. That’s mine to notice. Not theirs.”
He set the letter aside and pulled her carefully into his lap, one long hand settling protectively over the soft curve of her still-rounded stomach, the other sliding around her fuller hip. He pressed a slow kiss to her temple, soft high voice dropping into that private, almost possessive murmur.
“I want them to keep the gifts if they make you smile. But the letters that talk about your body like that… maybe we don’t read those out loud next time. Okay?”
Jackie laughed softly, warm and fond, and kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, jealous boy. I’ll filter the really thirsty ones for you.”
Michael made a soft, embarrassed sound but didn’t let her go. He kept her in his lap for a long time after that, soft eyes still flicking toward the pile of fan gifts on the table, long fingers stroking slow circles over every new curve the pregnancy had left behind, quiet, possessive, and completely unable to stop wanting every soft, beautiful part of her all to himself.
pairings: pippa fitz-amobi x g!p reader
tags: smut, both their first times, a bit awkward, p in v, cunnilingus, little bit of dry humping
request: omgg puppy love was so cute! would you be open to doing a first time for pip x g!p reader as well
MASTERLIST. | WC: 6.5k
(all characters are 18+) | a/n: thank you for 1k. i forgot this was in my drafts so two posts in a day in celebration wooo
Pippa tapped her pen against her notebook, half-listening to her friends and half-watching the clock drag itself towards the end of your lesson. Her mind wandered, as it often did lately, to you—across the hall in Mr. Cartwright’s English Lit class.
The thought of you was a small comfort: your half-smile when you caught her staring, the warmth of your hand brushing hers under the table, the quiet kind of love that had bloomed, slow and sweet, over the past seven months.
But right now, Pippa was stuck at her usual table in the lunch hall, cornered by the very loud, very nosy trio of Cara, Lauren, and Connor.
Cara leaned in first, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So. How’s you-know-who?”
Pippa raised a brow. “You mean my actual partner? They’re fine.”
Lauren smirked. “No, no, we mean—how are you two doing. Like… relationship-wise.”
Connor chimed in with a low whistle. “Come on, Pippa. Seven months? That’s like… forever in teenage years.”
Pippa rolled her eyes, flipping a page in her notes. “Yeah? And what’s your longest relationship again, Connor? Three business days?”
Cara grinned, unbothered. “Okay, but seriously. Have you two done it yet?”
The question landed like a grenade.
Pippa’s pen paused mid-scribble. She glanced up, only to find all three of them staring at her with varying degrees of interest and horror. “What?”
“You heard me,” Cara said, leaning back in her chair. “Have you guys had sex?”
Pippa opened her mouth—maybe to lie, maybe to deflect, she wasn’t sure—but her brain betrayed her. A beat too long passed.
Lauren’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. You haven’t, have you?”
Pippa flushed. “It’s none of your business,” she muttered, which, of course, only made things worse.
“Oh my god,” Connor said again, eyes wide in genuine disbelief. “You’re telling me you—Pippa Fitz-Amobi—haven’t gone all the way?”
Cara’s eyes widened now. “Wait… Are you still a virgin?”
Pippa’s stomach dropped.
She should’ve said no. Or at least laughed it off. But instead, she hesitated just a second too long again.
And that’s all it took.
Lauren threw her hands up. “Shut up! No way! Pippa is the last virgin in our group?! That’s… wild.”
Connor looked equal parts stunned and impressed. “I mean, nothing wrong with it, but—wow. Honestly didn’t expect that from you.”
“It’s not like I planned it,” Pippa snapped, sharper than she intended.
Her cheeks burned. She hated this. The pressure. The sudden vulnerability. She wasn’t ashamed of it—not really. But having it dragged into the daylight, turned into some sort of headline among her friends? That was a different story.
Especially because you had no idea any of this was happening. You were still in class, probably hunched over a book, taking notes in that neat way you always did. Blissfully unaware that your girlfriend had just accidentally outed herself as the last virgin standing in her friend group.
And now, apparently, it was a thing.
Pippa barely had time to recover from the verbal ambush before she saw you crossing the lunch hall.
You spotted her instantly—your face lighting up like it always did when you saw her, that easy kind of smile that made Pippa feel like she could breathe again. You slid into the seat beside her, nudging your knee against hers without a second thought.
“Hey,” you said softly, like she was your favourite part of the day. And she was.
“Hey,” Pippa echoed, forcing a smile, trying not to look like she was mid-existential crisis.
But then—
“You know,” Connor said, dragging out the words like a threat, “we were just talking about you.”
“Oh god,” you laughed. “Should I be worried?”
“Always,” Lauren deadpanned.
Pippa shot her a look that said don’t.
Too late.
“So,” Cara jumped in, all sugary sweetness and barely hidden nosiness. “Are you a virgin too?”
The table froze. Pippa’s stomach dropped again. Her eyes snapped to yours, wide in a please don’t answer sort of way.
But you?
You blinked, paused for half a second… then shrugged. “Yeah.”
The word landed with an easy confidence, like you’d just said you preferred apple juice over orange. You didn’t flinch, didn’t stumble. You just said it and took a bite of your breakfast bar like they’d asked what time your class ended.
Pippa stared at you.
Connor nearly dropped his drink. “Wait, what?”
Lauren leaned forward. “You are?”
You raised a brow. “Is that… surprising?”
“I just thought—” Cara trailed off, eyes flicking between you and Pippa like she was trying to solve a mystery.
Pippa expected you to get defensive. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe annoyed.
But you just kept chewing.
“I mean,” you said with a shrug, “I’m not in a rush. And I’m not exactly gonna do it just to say I have. Why? Are you all holding weekly orgies or something?”
Connor choked on his smoothie. Lauren snorted. Cara looked like she was both horrified and intrigued.
Pippa bit her lip, trying so hard not to laugh.
You turned to her then, finally catching the odd look in her eyes. “You okay?”
She hesitated. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Because somehow, you’d just walked straight into the lion’s den, dropped a bombshell, and left the mess behind like it didn’t even faze you. And maybe it didn’t.
And Pippa couldn’t decide if she felt incredibly relieved… or incredibly exposed.
But the warmth in your gaze, the quiet steadiness in your voice—it reminded her why she liked you in the first place.
You didn’t care what anyone else thought. About her. About sex. About any of it.
And maybe, if she let herself admit it, that was exactly what she needed right now.
//
Pippa had solved two murders, cracked countless conspiracies, and outwitted grown adults twice her age. She was smart.
Which made her current situation—sweating nervously in the ‘intimate health’ aisle at Boots—almost funny.
Almost.
She glanced left, then right, then left again. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, but she ignored it. Her notes app was open, a bulleted list that had somehow ballooned from ‘do some research’ to full-blown operation planning.
SEX MISSION: PREP
• condoms (regular… maybe try latex-free?)
• lube (water-based vs. silicone-based — TBD)
• shave???
• breath mints (not technically required but still)
• make a playlist?? idk
She stared down at the selection in front of her. Rows and rows of condoms, some labeled ‘ultra thin,’ others ‘ribbed for pleasure.’
Why is this so complicated? she thought.
She picked the least threatening box—plain, unbranded, regular—and shoved it into the basket. Then she grabbed a small bottle of lube, paused, and threw a second brand in too. Just in case.
Back home, she dumped the bag on her bed and immediately locked her bedroom door.
The box of condoms stared at her.
She stared back.
Then, in true Pippa fashion, she opened her laptop and began researching.
Not porn—God no—but articles. Scientific ones. Advice columns. Blogs with names like ‘Your First Time: What No One Tells You’ and ‘How To Not Freak Out Even If You Feel Like You’re Going To Die (Emotionally).’
She read every word. Twice. She watched a YouTube video by a sex educator explaining the difference between different lubes and why communication was more important than performance. She took notes.
Actual notes.
She even bookmarked one article titled ‘Sex Is Not A Race’ because, honestly, she needed to hear that.
But the deeper she dove into her self-assigned research, the more one unsettling thought kept sneaking into her brain:
What if you didn’t even care about any of this yet? What if she was the only one obsessing?
She chewed on her thumbnail, glancing over at her drawer where she’d hidden the Boots bag like contraband. You hadn’t brought it up again—not once since that lunch table interrogation. And you definitely hadn’t acted like you were in any kind of rush.
If anything, you seemed… fine.
Happy.
Still holding her hand like she was everything you wanted.
Pippa fell back onto her bed, letting her notes flutter to the floor.
She’d cracked unsolvable crimes.
So why did this feel harder?
//
You were sprawled across your bed, legs tangled in the blanket, iPad balanced against your knees, and a singular goal in mind: Survive the haunted asylum level in Roblox.
The game had lured you in with cute graphics and laughably basic jump scares. But now?
Now, some demon-possessed nurse had just sprinted full-speed at your character from a shadowy corridor, and you—entirely unprepared—screamed:
“FUCK!”
A beat of silence followed.
Then:
“Language!” your mother shouted from downstairs.
You winced. “Sorry!”
Another jumpscare popped out, and this time you just threw the iPad on the bed with a muffled, “Nope.”
As your heart rate tried to settle, your phone buzzed.
Pip 🖤: hey do you wanna sleep over tonight?
You blinked.
It wasn’t unusual—Pippa liked having you over. Her room was always tidier than yours, smelled faintly of expensive shampoo, and her bed had the softest sheets known to mankind. But something about the way she texted this time felt… different.
Short. Clipped.
Not a meme. No emoji spam. No ‘pls bring snacks or I’ll die.’
You stared at the screen for a second longer, then tapped back:
You: sure. everything okay?
It only took a second for her reply to come in.
Pip 🖤: yeah! just want you here x
You chewed your lip a bit, suspicious, but your brain was already shifting to logistics. You could bring your charger, toothbrush, maybe that hoodie she liked you in. And if she wanted cuddles—or was just feeling clingy—you were happy to show up and deliver.
Your iPad dinged again—your Roblox character had apparently died without you. Tragic.
You tossed it aside and flopped dramatically back onto the pillows.
Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else going on. Pippa didn’t usually ask for you this abruptly. She was more of a planner. A ‘what are you doing Friday after 6:30pm precisely’ kind of girlfriend.
But she’d said she just wanted you there.
And if there was one thing you were always down to do… it was show up for her.
You slid off the bed with a grunt, snatched your charger from where it dangled near the outlet, and stuffed it into your hoodie pocket. No need for a bag—you weren’t fancy. Toothbrush could live at Pippa’s now. Your toothbrush knew Pippa’s sink.
Grabbing your coat from the back of your desk chair, you slid it on one arm at a time and slipped your feet into your Crocs—beat-up, and in sport mode. The ultimate statement shoe for a romantic rendezvous.
You padded into the kitchen, where your mum was halfway through pouring boiling water into a mug.
“I’m staying over at Pip’s,” you said casually, grabbing a banana off the counter like it was a boarding pass.
She didn’t look up. “You did your laundry?”
“Mostly,” you lied.
“Don’t be weird at her house. And tell her mum I said hi this time, not just a grunt from behind your phone.”
“Love you,” you called, already backing out the door.
She sighed loudly. “Text me when you get there, you little gremlin.”
You gave a thumbs up through the doorway and shut it behind you.
The air was cool—summer winding down, the sky bruised with early evening clouds. You shoved your hands into your coat pockets, humming some stupid song stuck in your head from TikTok, and started the short walk to Pippa’s.
As always, your pace picked up the closer you got to her street.
Something about her always pulled at you—like your body knew exactly where to go. You’d memorised the cracks in her pavement and the exact creak of her garden gate.
By the time her house came into view, the nerves started to kick in a little. Just a little. Because as much as you’d tried to brush it off… you had felt something weird in her texts.
Still, you knocked twice and waited.
When she opened the door, she was barefoot, wearing that oversized hoodie she stole from you three months ago and never returned, even though she pretended she ‘forgot it was yours.’
Her hair was messy in a way that suggested she’d been lying on her bed overthinking everything. Which, in Pippa language, was saying a lot.
You gave her a crooked smile. “Hey, trouble.”
She stepped back to let you in. “Hey.”
You could feel it. Something in her energy.
Not bad. Just… tight. Like she was bracing for something.
“Everything okay?” you asked, slipping your shoes off by the door.
Pippa hesitated, then nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’m glad you’re here.”
And as you followed her upstairs, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands and your brain blissfully unaware of the condoms hidden in her drawer, you thought:
Huh. She’s being weird.
:/
Ratatouille was halfway through, and you were in it. Full focus. Zero distractions.
You were lying on your side, head propped on one hand, eyes glued to the laptop screen resting on the bed between you and Pippa. Your free hand reached occasionally into the bowl of popcorn she’d set on the nightstand, a mechanical rhythm. You didn’t even look when you grabbed a piece—you trusted the popcorn. And you trusted Pippa.
What you didn’t realize was that Pippa had barely watched the last twenty minutes of the film.
She was lying on her back, slightly angled toward you, eyes drifting between the screen and the curve of your jaw. Her arm brushed yours—casual at first. Then stayed there. Then pressed more deliberately.
You didn’t move. Maybe you didn’t even notice.
Your face lit up at the scene where Remy seasons the soup. “Okay but this scene is cinema.”
Pippa didn’t respond. Her hand, now resting near your thigh, twitched.
Her heart was in her throat.
It wasn’t like she planned anything. But something about having you in her bed, warm and close, so trusting—so comfortable—it lit a match inside her. All her anxiety, all her prep, all her overthinking had culminated in this moment where you were lying right there, unbothered, like the idea of sex hadn’t even crossed your mind.
Which, honestly, maybe it hadn’t.
She shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the side of your leg. You still didn’t react. Her eyes scanned your face—soft, focused, lit by the laptop glow—and for a second she wondered if this was the right time at all.
But then… your pinkie curled around hers. Absentminded. Automatic.
And somehow, that broke her.
She turned her face toward you. “Hey.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, still watching the screen.
“Can I ask you something?”
You hit pause without hesitation and turned to face her. “Of course.”
Pippa hesitated. Her voice was a little quieter now. “Do you… ever think about us doing more? Like… stuff.”
You tilted your head, processing. “Sex stuff?”
Her ears turned red. “Yeah. That.”
You gave a soft smile, one of those quiet ones that always made her chest ache a little. “Sometimes,” you said honestly. “But I figured we were just taking it slow.”
Pippa blinked. “That doesn’t bother you?”
You shrugged. “Not really. I like slow. You never made me feel rushed or pressured, so I figured I wouldn’t do that to you either.”
There was a pause. Then you added, more gently, “Have you been thinking about it?”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Kind of obsessively.”
You grinned. “You mean like, made a whole list about it obsessively?”
Her silence was loud.
“…Wait,” you laughed, sitting up slightly, “you made a list?”
Pippa groaned and covered her face with both hands. “I did research. I needed to feel like I wasn’t going to completely ruin it.”
You gently pried one hand from her face, eyes still amused but soft. “Pip. You wouldn’t ruin anything. You’re the most prepared person I know. I’d be surprised if you didn’t create a sex spreadsheet.”
“I didn’t,” she said, defensively. “…It’s a bullet list.”
You snorted, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“I like being close to you,” you murmured. “Even if it’s just this. But if you’re ready… I’m here.”
Pippa stared at you, wide-eyed and stunned by how calm you were. How easy you made everything feel.
Her fingers intertwined with yours again—tighter this time.
“…Would it be weird if I kissed you right now?” she asked, suddenly breathless.
You smirked. “We’re literally in your bed watching a movie about a rat chef. Nothing you do right now can make this weirder.”
She laughed—and leaned in.
And this time, the kiss wasn’t just sweet.
It was new.
It was her deciding.
//
Looking at Pippa, you saw the determination in her gaze—dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. You felt a flicker of nerves, but mostly, you felt a profound sense of love and acceptance.
"Hey," you murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "are you sure about this? Because if this isn't what you want, we don't have to-"
But Pippa cut you off before you could finish, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. Her voice was steady, almost fierce. "I'm sure. I want this. I want you, you idiot."
It made your heart clench. You swallowed hard. "Okay," you whispered. "I want you too."
Pippa's lips curled into a smile against your cheek. You felt her fingers curl into the hem of your hoodie, tugging lightly. Then, she leaned back and rolled onto her knees, reaching into her bedside drawer.
Your brows shot up as she pulled out a carrier bag, setting it on the bed between you both. Peeking out was a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube.
She looked up at you, suddenly shy. "I, um. I got some stuff. I mean, I didn't know if you had any, so I just, um..." She trailed off, biting her lip.
You blinked, taking it in. Then a slow smile spread across your face. "You've thought this through."
Pippa made a face. "Shut up. I just wanted to be prepared." She paused, then added softly, "For us."
You glanced between the hopeful, anxious look on Pippa's face and the bag of sex supplies on the bed, then down at your own jean-clad crotch. You smirked, shaking your head. "I mean, I'm no genius, but I'm pretty sure the key part of this equation is that I need to be hard for it to work."
Pippa blinked, then followed your gaze downwards before her eyes widened in understanding. A deep blush crept into her cheeks, but she held your gaze steadily. "Oh. Right. Of course."
She bit her lip, then reached out to place a tentative hand on your thigh, her fingers brushing against the inseam of your jeans. "So, um... how do we...?" She trailed off, suddenly unsure.
You shrugged, playing it casual even as your heart raced. "I mean, I think it's supposed to just... happen? When you're aroused?"
Pippa nodded slowly, her hand still resting on your thigh. "Right. Aroused." She cleared her throat. "So, um... do you want me to...?"
She let the question hang in the air, her eyes searching yours, a hint of nervousness flickering behind the determination in her gaze. Her fingers curled into the fabric of your jeans, not quite squeezing, but not quite letting go either.
You started to say, "It's okay, you don't have to-" but Pippa cut you off, her eyes flashing with a sudden intensity.
"No, I want to," she insisted, her voice low and steady. "I want to make this good for you. I want to learn what you like."
She slid her hand slowly up your thigh, her fingers brushing against the growing bulge in your jeans. She bit her lip, looking up at you with a mix of nerves and determination.
"Show me," she breathed. "Tell me what feels good. I'll learn, I promise."
Her touch was tentative but eager, her gaze locked onto yours, waiting for your guidance. A soft blush still colored her cheeks, but her chin was lifted, her jaw set. She was ready. Ready to learn. Ready to make this perfect for you.
You smiled softly at Pippa, your voice gentle as you explained, "It usually takes a little while for me to get fully hard. Like, a minute or two. And I usually just rub or stroke it to help it along."
Pippa listened intently, her hand still resting on the growing bulge in your jeans. She nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Then, hesitantly, she started to move her hand, rubbing you through the denim of your jeans.
"Is this okay?" she asked softly, her eyes searching yours for approval. Her touch was gentle, almost tentative, but her gaze was focused and eager to learn.
You let out a soft exhale, your head falling back slightly as you felt her hand move over you. "Yeah, just like that," you murmurs. "Nice and slow."
Pippa took a deep breath and kept going, her hand sliding along the length of you, feeling you start to harden under her touch. She bit her lip, watching your face intently for any sign of whether she was doing this right.
You smiled shyly at Pippa, rubbing your half-hard bulge through your jeans. "There's, um, a thing I've seen in porn videos..." you started, a blush rising to your cheeks. "It's called dry humping. I don't know if it'll work, but maybe it could help us both get more in the mood?"
Pippa blinked, then nodded slowly, understanding. "Oh. Okay." She licked her lips, her eyes flickering down to your crotch before meeting your gaze again. "How does it work?"
You shrugged. "I think you just, uh, press against each other through your clothes until you're both... you know. Really turned on."
Pippa swallowed, then swung a leg over to straddle your hips, facing you. She kept some space between your crotches, but her thighs bracketed yours, her hands coming to rest on your chest.
"Okay," she breathed, looking down at you with a mix of nerves and determination. "Like this?" She rubbed herself slowly against the bulge of your jeans, watching your face for a reaction.
You let out a shaky breath as Pippa began to slowly grind against you, the denim of your jeans creating a delicious friction. "Yeah, just like that," you murmured, your hands coming to rest on her hips, guiding her movements.
She kept a steady rhythm, her breath growing a little quicker as she felt you start to throb beneath her. Her eyes flicked between your face and where your bodies were pressed together, a newfound hunger in her gaze.
"That feels really good," you breathed, your fingers digging lightly into the soft flesh of her hips.
Pippa licked her lips, her voice soft and a little unsteady. "You're getting harder," she observed, feeling your length swell under her ministrations. "Tell me if this is okay."
You nodded, your breath hitching as Pippa kept grinding against you. Suddenly, she shifted her hips slightly, angling them in a way that pressed her clothed clit directly against your hardening length.
A soft gasp escaped her lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure, her back arching slightly. "Oh!" she breathed, her eyes widening. "That feels... wow." She bit her lip, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks as she kept rubbing against you, chasing that new sensation.
You groaned softly, your fingers tightening on her hips as you felt her heat even through the layers of fabric. "God, Pip," you breathed, your length twitching and hardening rapidly now. "This feels amazing."
She just nodded, panting softly as she kept moving against you, her eyes hazy with building arousal. "I can feel how hard you're getting," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. "It's making me... it's making me really wet."
Your heart raced as you felt the heat of your arousal growing, your length now fully hard and straining against your jeans. At Pippa's words, you gulped, a surge of lust and anticipation shooting through you.
"I think I'm ready," you breathed, your voice tight with need.
Pippa nodded, a fierce determination in her eyes. She rolled off you and onto her back, patting the bed beside her in invitation. Your jeans were uncomfortably tight now, your length aching for more contact.
You scrambled to unbutton your jeans, shoving them down your legs along with your underwear. Your cock sprang free, hard and flushed and leaking at the tip. You kicked the rest of your clothes off and turned to Pippa.
She was watching you with hooded eyes, her chest heaving slightly, a damp patch visible on the crotch of her pajama bottoms. She lifted the hem of her hoodie to reveal her bare breasts, rosy nipples hard and pebbled.
You couldn't help but stare at Pippa's bare breasts, a surge of awe and desire washing over you. "Wow, your breasts are really nice," you murmured, a crooked grin spreading across your face.
Pippa laughed, a soft flush spreading across her cheeks. "Thanks," she whispered, biting her lip. "I'm glad you think so."
You blinked out of your daze and reached for the bag, grabbing the box of condoms. With shaking fingers, you tore open the box and took out a single condom, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar texture.
"I've never actually put one on before," you admitted, looking to Pippa for guidance.
She sat up, taking the condom from your hand. "It's okay, I practiced with a banana," she said, a hint of shyness in her voice. She unrolled the condom over two fingers, demonstrating the technique she'd learned. "Here, I can help."
With deft movements, she pinched the tip of the condom to leave space for semen, then smoothed it down the length of your hard cock. It was an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. Her fingers lingered on your shaft, stroking gently.
"There," she whispered, looking up at you with a mix of pride and nervous anticipation. "How's that?"
"Smarty pants," you teased softly, shaking your head in wonder at just how prepared and thoughtful she was. You grabbed the lube, squeezing out a generous amount onto your fingers to slick up the condom.
Pippa watched, biting her lip as she wiggled out of her pajama pants and underwear. She tossed them aside, leaving her bare and exposed, and unbelievably arousing. Your eyes roamed over her naked form, taking in every curve and dip, committing it all to memory.
"Do you want to...?" she started, gesturing to the bed and biting her lip, a hint of nervousness in her voice.
Pippa nodded, her eyes widening slightly as you moved to hover over her. The heat radiating off your bare skin was intense, making her acutely aware of how cooled her own was in comparison. She swallowed back the nerves threatening to overwhelm her, determined to be brave for both of you.
You shifted your hips, aligning your now slick-covered length with her entrance. The tip nudged against her, the sensation foreign but not unwelcome. Pippa's breath caught in her throat at the contact, her body tensing slightly.
"Tell me when," you murmured softly, one hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "I don't want to hurt you."
Pippa's gaze locked with yours, a fierce resolve burning in the hazel-green depths. She licked her lips, tasting the salt on your thumb and nodding. "Okay," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm ready. Slowly."
With those words as your guide, you began to press forward, your length slowly sinking into new, tight heat. Pippa's breath hitched, her fingers digging into your shoulders as she felt you stretch her open. You paused when you met resistance, giving her a moment to adjust.
As you slowly pushed forward, a sudden wave of pleasure washed over you, causing you to let out a low moan. The sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, your hips jerking slightly at the intense sensation of Pippa's tight heat enveloping your sensitive length.
Your movements froze immediately, a deep blush spreading across your cheeks. "Shit," you muttered, embarrassed at your automatic reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
But Pippa just smiled softly, stroking your cheek with her thumb, her eyes shining with understanding. "It's okay," she murmurs, her voice gentle. "That felt good for both of us."
She took a deep breath, then nodded slowly. "Keep going," she breathed. "Nice and slow."
With each inch you pushed forward, Pippa's body resisted, then yielded to the insistent pressure of your hardness. A soft gasp escaped her lips as you broke through the initial barrier, the sensation of being filled for the first time unlike anything she had ever experienced.
"Oh!" Pippa gasped, her nails digging into your shoulders as a sharp spike of pain and pleasure shot through her. She blinked up at you, her hazel eyes wide and glistening.
You froze, concern etched on your face. "Are you okay?" you asked softly, searching her expression for any sign of distress.
Pippa nodded jerkily, her breath coming in short pants as she adjusted to the new sensation of being stretched and filled. "Y-yeah," she breathed. "It just... it hurts a little. But it feels good too."
You pressed your forehead against hers, your breath mingling with her own as you paused, letting her get accustomed to the feeling of your length buried deep inside her. "We can stop if you need to," you murmured. "Whenever you're ready to keep going, just say so."
You stayed still, allowing Pippa a few moments to adjust to the new sensation of being filled. Her body gradually relaxed around you, the initial resistance giving way to a soft, pulsing heat.
"Okay," Pippa whispered finally, her voice steadier now. "You can... you can keep going. Slowly."
With her permission, you began to move again, withdrawing until just the tip remained inside her before pressing back in with a gentle thrust. You set a slow, steady rhythm, mindful of her and wanting this first time to be good for her.
Soft gasps and breathy sighs spilled from Pippa's lips with each push and pull of your hips. Her nails raked down your back as you continued to slowly make love to her, leaving faint red lines in their wake.
"Yes," she breathed, tilting her head back as you found a particularly sweet spot. "There... oh god, there..."
Your hips rocked steadily against Pippa's, the slick glide of the condom allowing you to pick up the pace. The tight clutch of her walls around your length grew slicker as she grew aroused, the combination of sensations overwhelming your senses.
Suddenly, you felt it building, the pressure coiling tight at the base of your spine. Your thrusts grew more erratic, more insistent, chasing that peak of pleasure.
"I'm going to... I'm going to come," you gasped out, your voice strangled with impending release.
Pippa's eyes flew open, wide and shocked. "Really?" she breathed, a mix of surprise and awe in her voice. Her nails dug into your shoulders as she felt your length throb inside her.
With a moan, you let go, your hips jerking as you spilled yourself into the condom. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, your body shuddering and twitching with the force of your climax.
"Oh god," you groaned, collapsing against Pippa as the aftershocks slowly subsided. "That was... fuck, that was intense."
You paused, blinking away the lingering haze of your orgasm. As the fog cleared from your mind, you remembered Pippa was still waiting. You didn't want her to feel left out or unsatisfied.
Pulling out of her slowly, you felt a mix of relief and renewed determination. You settled between her thighs, nuzzling against the sensitive skin. The scent of her arousal filled your nostrils, making your spent length twitch in interest.
"Wait," you murmured, glancing up at her awkwardly. "Crap, I don't know what I'm doing. I've never really... I mean, I want to make you feel good too, but..."
You trailed off, suddenly unsure. Your inexperience in this area was glaring. But your desire to bring her pleasure was fierce. You looked up at her helplessly, hoping for guidance.
Pippa looked down at you, her hazel eyes soft and warm. She could see the awkwardness in your expression, but also the genuine desire to please her. It made her heart skip a beat.
"It's okay," she murmured softly, reaching out to cup your cheek. "I don't know exactly what I need either. But... we can figure it out together."
She shifted her thighs, parting them further to give you better access. "I think... I think it might feel good if you touch me here," she said shyly, guiding your hand to the apex of her thighs, just above where your fingers met her slick folds.
You felt her heat, her desire plain and insistent against your fingertips. "And maybe... maybe you could kiss me too?" she added, a hopeful note in her voice. "I think that might make everything feel even better."
Her other hand came up to tangle in your hair, gently urging you closer to her center. She looked down at you with trusting, almost vulnerable eyes, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.
"Just... just do what feels right," she whispered. "And don't worry about being perfect. I just want to feel good with you."
You took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing your mouth against Pippa's most intimate area. You had seen this done in porn videos, but doing it in reality proved more challenging. Your technique was a bit clumsy and unpracticed.
You started to lick broad, flat strokes over her folds, tasting her arousal on your tongue. The flavour was new and intense, making your spent length twitch with renewed interest. You focused your attentions on her clit, circling and flicking over the sensitive nub.
"Mmm, yes, like that," Pippa encouraged breathlessly, her hips starting to rock against your mouth. Her fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place.
Emboldened by her reaction, you redoubled your efforts, suckling gently on her clit as you slid one finger inside her tight channel. Her walls clenched around the intrusion, drawing you in deeper.
You pumped your finger slowly, curling it to stroke a hidden spot deep inside her that made her cry out. Feeling bolder, you slipped in a second finger, scissoring them gently to stretch her further.
"That's it," Pippa gasped, her head thrown back, her chest heaving. "Don't stop, please don't stop..."
You felt Pippa's thighs start to tremble and quake around your head as you continued your inexperienced but enthusiastic ministrations. Emboldened by her responses, you let out a low hum against her slick flesh, the vibrations adding a new sensation.
Your fingers pumped faster, plunging in and out of her tight heat as your tongue laved over her clit. You could feel her growing more aroused by the second, her juices coating your fingers and chin.
"That's it, don't stop," Pippa keened, her voice rising in pitch. Her hips bucked erratically against your face as she chased her impending release. "I'm... I'm almost... oh god, I'm going to..."
Her words cut off into a sharp cry as her orgasm overtook her. Her walls clamped down viciously around your fingers, pulsing and fluttering as waves of pleasure crashed through her.
You could feel the heat of her release flooding your mouth and soaking your hand as Pippa shuddered and twitched through the aftershocks. The sight and taste of her climax was the most erotic thing you'd ever experienced.
Finally, panting harshly, Pippa slumped back against the bed, going boneless and sated. You lifted your head, wiping your chin with the back of your hand as you gazed up at her.
"That was... wow," she murmured, her voice hoarse and distant. "That was amazing. Thank you."
You gazed up at Pippa, a mix of hope and nervousness in your expression. You gently withdrew your hand from between her thighs, your fingers glistening with her essence.
"Did I... did I do good?" you asked softly, searching her face for any sign of satisfaction or disappointment. "Was that okay for your first time?"
You felt a swell of pride at having brought her to such a intense peak, but also a flicker of insecurity at your own inexperience. You wanted to make sure she was happy, that you hadn't somehow fallen short in your eager attempts to please her.
Pippa's eyes fluttered open, a lazy smile spreading across her face as she looked down at you. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, her hair mussed from the passion of the moment. She reached out to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip.
"More than okay," she murmured, her voice low and warm. "You were amazing. I couldn't have asked for a better first time."
She tugged you up the bed, until you were curled beside her. She wrapped her arms around you, holding you close as she pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For making this so special. I love you."
You smiled softly as Pippa held you close, murmuring "I love you" against her skin.
After a few moments of basking in the intimacy of the moment, you carefully peeled yourself away from Pippa's embrace. You felt the weight of the used condom, a tangible reminder of what you’d just shared.
"Hey, Pip?" you asked, holding up the condom and feeling a bit awkward about the next step. "Where... where am I supposed to put this thing? I don't want to just toss it somewhere, ya know?"
You glanced around the room, spotting a small wastebasket nearby. But something about throwing it away in plain sight felt a bit crude.
Pippa blinked, following your gaze to the condom. A blush crept into her cheeks as the reality of the situation sank in.
"Oh. Um..." She hesitated for a moment, then reached over to grab a tissue from a nearby box. "Here, you can wrap it in this and put it in the bin under the sink in the bathroom. I don't think either of us wants it sitting out in the open."
She smiled sheepishly, a hint of shyness in her eyes. "I guess that's one of those things they don't really teach you in school, huh?"
You nodded, taking the tissue from her and carefully wrapping the used condom inside.
"Yeah, definitely not something they covered in sex ed," you agreed with a wry grin.
You and natasha are sent in as a couple to work a weapons broker at an upscale gala. the cover is airtight. you're both professionals. you've done this before. The problem is you haven't done it with her. and natasha romanoff touching you like you're hers and whispering mission updates against your ear is a lot harder to be professional about than anyone briefed you on.
Written May 16, 2026 —May 18, 2026
----------------------------
You take longer in the bathroom than you mean to.
It's not nerves. You don't get nervous, or you do, and you've spent enough years training the evidence out of your body that the difference stopped mattering a long time ago. It's something else. Something quieter and more inconvenient than nerves, which is the fact that on the other side of this door is Natasha Romanoff, and tonight you have to stand next to her in a room full of people and pretend you're in love with her.
The pretending isn't the problem.
The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.
You open the door.
Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.
You watch her look at you.
It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.
She finishes putting in the earring.
Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.
"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.
"I'm ready," you confirm.
You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.
You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.
You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.
That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.
"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.
She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.
"I know," she says.
There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.
She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.
"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.
"I know the parameters."
"Humor me."
You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.
The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.
Natasha takes off her coat.
She crosses her legs and looks out the window.
You look out yours.
You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.
The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.
"You nervous?" she asks.
"No."
"You're doing the thing with your hands."
You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.
"I'm focused," you say.
"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."
"I'm relaxed."
"Y/n."
"Natasha."
She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."
"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."
A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.
She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.
"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.
You look back at yours.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.
Natasha takes your arm at the door.
Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.
It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.
"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."
"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.
You walk in.
The first twenty minutes are choreography.
You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.
She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.
Almost.
She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman
You redirect your thoughts aggressively.
"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.
"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."
"I wasn't going to look."
"You were calculating an angle."
"That's not the same as—"
"He's not going anywhere. Relax."
You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.
A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.
You stare at the glass.
She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.
You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.
Forty minutes in, she dances with you.
You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.
You followed.
If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.
She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.
But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.
"Voss's contact is late," she says.
Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.
"How late?" you manage.
"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."
"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.
She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.
"You're doing well," she says.
"We established I'm good at this."
"I'm acknowledging it."
"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"
Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.
"Focus," she says.
"I am focused."
"On the op."
"Obviously."
She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.
You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.
She sees him before she means to.
He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.
Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.
She keeps dancing.
Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.
She looks at him.
The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.
Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.
She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.
But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.
She's mine.
Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.
He looks away.
Good.
She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.
She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.
Instead she moves.
Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.
She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.
She does it anyway.
Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.
She doesn't speak.
She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.
She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.
What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.
And she lets him see it.
She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.
Then she straightens.
The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.
She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.
She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.
When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.
Except.
You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.
You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.
Her hand at your waist does not move.
The man at the bar does not look back.
The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.
It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.
You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.
"Just selling it," she says.
"Right," you say.
She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.
"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."
Her hand stills.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah you do."
She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.
Then she looks back at the bar.
"Voss is moving," she says.
He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Always," you say.
She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.
The system, holding.
For now.
It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.
"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."
"Copy," you say.
She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.
Then you separate
You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.
What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.
Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.
"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."
A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.
"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."
You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.
Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.
You think about it for the next twenty minutes.
Across the room, Natasha finds you.
The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.
She looks back at Voss.
Files it. Moves on.
Tells herself it was a tactical check.
The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.
The bartender puts a glass in front of her.
She picks it up without looking at it.
The third time she's not even trying to justify it.
She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.
You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.
She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.
And you look up.
Right at her.
Like you felt it. Like you knew.
She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.
Neither do you.
Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.
Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.
She lowers her glass.
Goes back to work.
Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just
Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.
The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.
She just knows.
Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.
Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.
Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.
"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"
"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."
The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."
"I know," you say.
She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.
The silence holds.
Then Voss moves.
Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.
"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."
"No," you say. "It isn't."
Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.
She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.
She is no longer telling herself that.
You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.
Her hand tightens on your arm.
"Ready?" she murmurs.
You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.
"Always," you say.
And you go in.
The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.
You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.
Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.
Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "
This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"
You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.
"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"
"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"
"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"
And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"
"Cole, stand DOWN—"
You look at Natasha.
Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.
It spreads fast.
Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough.
And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.
Voss hears it before he sees it.
Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.
Then his eyes move to the corridor.
"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."
"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"
"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"
"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."
She doesn't wait for the response.
She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.
"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.
She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.
It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.
You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.
The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.
She doesn't look at you.
In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.
You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.
She doesn't look at you once.
Not for twelve minutes.
You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.
You file it.
For now.
The hotel room door closes behind you.
You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.
You take out the second earring.
"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.
"Yes," she says. Still at the window.
"First field op?"
"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."
"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."
"I know."
"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."
She turns from the window.
"You were out of position," she says.
You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."
"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"
"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"
"That wasn't your call to make—"
"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"
"We had protocols, Y/n—"
"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"
"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases.
"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"
She stops.
You go still.
I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.
"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.
"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"
"Natasha."
"—oh-seven-hundred—"
"Natasha."
"Drop it."
"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.
A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.
"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."
Nothing.
"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"
"I said drop it—"
"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"
She turns.
And crosses the room.
And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.
Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.
You melt into it.
That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better.
It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.
Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.
The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.
You give it back.
Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.
Her other hand finds your waist.
Pulls.
Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.
You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is.
Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.
Her chest rises and falls. Once.
Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.
movement and come back to yours and stay there.
The silence holds for exactly one more second.
Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.
"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."
"Then take it off," you say.
She kisses you.
Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.
"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."
Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."
"I'm saying it now."
Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.
"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."
She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.
"No?" she says.
"No."
Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.
"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.
You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.
"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."
Her fingers pause.
"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."
She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.
"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.
"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."
The silence lasts exactly one second.
Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."
Your breath catches.
"Natasha—"
"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."
Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is
Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.
She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.
"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.
You go.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact.
The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.
She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.
You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.
With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail.
She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.
Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach.
A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.
"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.
You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs.
Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.
"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."
"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."
"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.
"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.
"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."
"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.
"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her.
Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.
Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl.
Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
"Natasha, oh god."
"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system.
She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.
You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly.
Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core.
"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—"
She doesn't slow down.
Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck.
She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.
Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.
"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.
"Yes," you whimper desperately.
Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access.
She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation.
You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.
Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...
"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace.
You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.
"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.
She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.
"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you.
"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?
"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip.
She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.
"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.
"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"
"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster."
Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.
With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce.
She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.
"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."
Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly.
"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.
She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.
"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again.
Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.
Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep.
The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.
With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth.
"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.
You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips.
"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.
Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly.
A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her.
She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.
Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length.
Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.
Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length.
Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan.
Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.
Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight.
She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room.
With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip.
She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower.
She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.
"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation.
She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly.
You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.
"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her.
Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.
Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you.
"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning.
Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder.
"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly.
The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you.
"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!"
Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.
Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her.
A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you.
"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.
"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.
Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.
Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin.
It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.
"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly."
Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck.
"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."
"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."
Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you.
For the first time in a long time, she feels at peace. At home.
warnings: 18+ nsfw MDNI!! , heavy SMUUUT, predator/prey play, g!p toph, mean sadist!toph, masochist!reader, hide and seek, brat taming, hair pulling, spit play, cum play, gagging, face slapping, spanking (not much tho), degradation, humiliation, name calling, feral sex, p in v sex, edging, panties are used as a gag, ANYTHING on your mind you name it, toph is VERY rough sorry i’m a whore :((
summary: your wife’s been neglecting you, so you decide to get her attention one way or another. and of course, she reminds you who the fuck you’re married to.
!!! disclaimer: i’m ovulating, so tread with CAUTION!! this is my longest work and it doesn’t even have a plot. yeah i’ll go end my life
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toph was supposed to be away on a work trip.
it had been eight days since she left, pressing an apologetic kiss to your pouty lips as she excused herself and explained the urgency of the matter.
you knew you couldn’t hold your wife back just because of your selfish whims, so you reluctantly sent her off, but you did not go a day without pestering her with constant phone calls or letters.
she’d often snap at you for calling her at work, scolding you for how unprofessional you made her seem, but then you’d apologize so sweetly and whine about how much you missed her so needily that she’d spare you the long lecture.
it was always so short, though. she was so swamped with work she was barely giving you any attention, and as the days went by, she only got more irritated, her replies shorter and meaner.
that pissed you off! you were just being a good spouse, checking in on your hard working wife, but now the only reply you’d get as soon as the line connected was “hang up. talk to you later.” and of course, that “later” would rarely come.
if she wasn’t going to give you proper attention, you were more than petty enough to make her regret that.
she thought your well-intended calls were “unprofessional”? oh, you were going to show her what unprofessional meant alright.
your fingers swiftly dialed her office’s number, holding the phone snug against your face, readying yourself.
beep.
“hello, chief beifong’s office here.” you smiled at her assistant’s voice.
“please,” you let out a soft breathy moan, “i need toph.. immediately. mhh, put her on the line.. it’s an emergency, please. hurry.”
you heard the poor assistant’s flustered gasp, her voice lowering to a whisper, “e-excuse me? who is this? chief beifong is busy. this is not funny—”
“ah, please,” you whimpered louder, “this is her wife. please, put her through, right now. i can’t.. hold on much longer.. mmph..”
you had to bite back a laugh as you heard her scandalized tapping away on the phone pad, murmuring a quiet “i don’t get paid enough for this” under her breath before a sharp click interrupts all sound.
a short pause followed suit, then erupted the voice you’d been longing to hear all this time. “beifong here. in a meeting, so make it quick.”
bingo. that meant she likely had her coworkers nearby.
“tophhh..” you drawled out, hearing her breath hitch. you pressed the phone tight against your lips, gasping out a small whine, “mmh, toph, i need you so badly.. need your hands all over me.. i miss your—”
the line abrupty cuts. well, that was quick.
you chuckle, setting your phone down, as you lean back against your couch.
she was probably a mortified mess right now, you made sure to be loud enough for at least someone near her to pick up on your sounds.
you wondered how she’d try and fix this. would she say she had no idea who you were? that this was a completely random prank call by some unknown? or maybe she’d just deny it all, reframing the entire context into something more innocent?
she deserved it. if she found you embarrassing for simply calling her, you’d go ahead and show her true embarrassment.
you get up, your smile only widening the more you imagined her flustered face as she’d try and justify the mess you got her into, then you decide to get started on laundry.
you’re about halfway through the second batch of clothes when you suddenly hear steady, rhythmic knocking on your door. you hum, a little confused on who would be there. did a friend drop by without warning you? or maybe some old delivery just came?
you lift yourself up from the floor, dragging your feet until you reach the door, hand on the knob. “yes? who is it?”
no answer.
you scoff, “haha, very funny. if this is one of you kids again, i’m coming to kick your sorry butts next time!”
just as you turn on your heel, the knocking comes back, stronger this time. oh, those little twerps.
you groan, slamming the door wide open, “ugh! i told you i would kick your— .. ah..”
the air is knocked out of your lungs, your brain trying to make sense of the sight before you.
a very, very displeased toph was standing in front of you, one hand on the door frame, a finger tapping on it insistently. you noticed a prominent crack forming under where her finger laid.
you swallowed, your gaze travelling back to her face.
lips tightly pursed, brows sternly straight, silently glaring you down — and you knew quiet toph was always the most dangerous toph.
but what was she doing here?
she was supposed to be miles away from you! this didn’t make sense at all, your mind raced to come up with any plausible explanation for this utterly unpredicted appearance.
you were only confident about your brattiness because you thought you were safe enough with her so far from you.
her low, gravelly voice cuts through your frenzied thoughts. “i’ll count to ten.”
you stopped breathing.
you blinked, panic brutally setting in, “huh? no no no, toph please, wait, i—”
“ten.” her voice remained level as a crunchy crack of wood reached your ears, her hand clutching the door frame tighter, scrunching it like it was styrofoam, “nine.”
you didn’t even have the time to negotiate.
you trip over yourself and quickly stand back up to run up the stairs, your breathing erratic while your eyes sweep around your surroundings for a good spot to hide.
“five.” her voice resounds from the entrance, reaching you even a floor away.
the bathtub? the closet? the kitchen pantry? the problem was that you’d exhausted all those options before.
“four.”
you rush to your room, not closing the door so its shutting “click” wouldn’t reach her ears, as you crawl under the bed. it wasn’t an extraordinary spot, but it was the furthest one in the house.
you thought of it as reverse psychology too — your other spots were often always in the first floor, all witty and well-chosen — so maybe she’d suspect this one last.
the hiding place didn’t even have to be some perfect place that fully concealed you — it just had to be good enough to stall her for three minutes.
only three.
if the timer ended before she found you, all would be forgiven. the only rule was to get through those three minutes.
but if she found you..?
you shuddered at the thought.
and additionally, she was blind, so this was a huge added advantage to you.
yes, it’d take her around two minutes to go through your usual spots on the first floor, and maybe a minute to actually go up the stairs, so by the time she’d find you, time would be up.
“one.” you heard the frame give out under her death grip, loudly crashing down on the ground.
you gulped.
“i’m coming, ready or not!”
you exhaled, trying to even out your breathing as you listened to her slow steps on the floor beneath you. yes, nothing to panic about. she wouldn’t get here in under three minutes.
drawers were being pulled. cabinets opened. fabric rustled.
“where’s my sweet baby?” she cooed, voice deceptively sweet, followed suit by a terrifying door slam that had the entire house shaking. “where’s my sweet, needy baby who wants my attention so badly? hmm?”
you swallowed, curling in on yourself, your cheek pressed against the cold tiles of your room.
“where is she? the sweet, sweet girl who thought embarrassing me was a great idea? hmm? i wonder.”
you counted down two minutes in your head, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. just one more minute to go — or less, even — and she was still on the bottom floor. you still had a chance.
“ah,” a humorless chuckle rumbled through her throat, her steps coming to a halt, “sounds like somebody’s hyperventilating upstairs. in our room, actually.”
you froze.
your heart sank down to your gut.
you heard her pace pick up, quickly going up the stairs, and you almost threw up.
you crawled further under the bed, curling into the deepest corner of it against the wall, your hands over your mouth to muffle your frantic breathing, peeking at the entry way from the gap beneath your bed.
please, please, just twenty seconds left.
“now,” you have to bite back a scream when her shoes come into view, walking into the room, “where’s my bunny? you’re muffling your breathing, hm? smart girl.”
she roughly opens the closet, feeling up the clothes.
ten seconds left. please, please, time, go faster.
“aw, shucks,” she dramatically sighs, heading back towards the door, “i guess my darling’s not here. i must have heard things.”
five seconds left.
no way, you were going to win?
you squeeze your eyes shut in hope, prayers jumbling up in your poor panicked head.
three. two.
relief started slowly setting in your bones.
“there she is,” a firm hand suddenly shot out, finding your ankle. a startled scream rips through your throat as you’re dragged out from under the bed.
“aw,” she laughs, and it’s not kind. “couldn’t muffle your heartbeat though, could you?”
your head spinned from the sheer fear, her teal eyes set on you with such terrifying accuracy you wouldn’t think her blind.
you trembled, her fingers tightening around your ankle, cutting blood flow to your foot, “t-toph, please, just listen t—”
“be quiet.” her voice brooked no disobedience. she leant down, ditching your ankle to grab a huge fistful of your hair, dragging you on the ground.
you cried out in pain, hands flying up to your scalp.
“you lost,” she threw your head against the bed, and you scrambled up to get on it properly, “and you know the rules.”
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you squirm, wrists pinned above your head so tightly you thought they’d crack, as she crawls on top of you, “mmph— toph—”
“shut up,” her free hand roughly grips your jaw, squeezing your cheeks to pry your mouth open. her thumb prods at your teeth, tugging your lip up further, before you watch her gather up a glob of spit in her mouth.
you open your mouth wider, complying as best as you can to hopefully soothe her nerves, but she decides to spit right on your eyes instead.
“whoops,” she huffs, clearly lying. “bad aim.”
you can’t even rub it off, unable to use your hands, the gross texture forcing you to keep your eyes shut.
a mean prod of her thumb at your cheek makes you wince.
“open them,” she whispers softly, smearing the saliva over your shut eyelids. you want to cry.
when she doesn’t feel your eyelids move, her nails dig into your wrists in warning, sending chills down your spine.
she hums, the threat obvious in her tone, “are you disobeying me?”
“n-no!” you quickly reply, shaking beneath her touch, “i’m.. not..” you try, slowly cracking them open, biting back a sob at the burning sting as the saliva seeps in.
she scoffs, impatient. you don’t feel her hand leave your jaw until your head whips to the side, a firm slap landing on your cheek.
you gasp, eyes blowing wide open in shock, and she grins, rubbing over them, “there. well open. much better.”
you stare at her, baffled and deeply upset. you knew she’d punish you, but you didn’t deserve a treatment this.. degrading. after all, this was her fault in the first place! she was the one who kept ignoring you, kept pushing you away when the only thing you wanted was reassurance.
“toph.” you use up all the strength you have to spit her name firmly, and that does catch her attention. bad or good, you couldn’t tell yet.
she silently gazes down at you, and you clear your throat, “l-listen, i know i.. shouldn’t have.. um, done what i did.. b-but this isn’t entirely my fault! i—i just needed you! you’ve been gone for over a week, and you didn’t even—”
“ah,” she cuts you off, thumb swiping over your bottom lip, a small smile tugging at her lips. “so you just wanted my attention, hm? just wanted me to touch you, sweet baby?”
she was actually listening to you?
you blink, a little surprised, then eagerly nod, “yes! yes, it’s all i wanted, tophie. i never meant to—”
“alright,” she interrupts you again, her voice uncharacteristically airy as her hands find your thighs, “i’ll touch you, then. if my touch is what made my poor, innocent wife pull that very bratty stunt, i’ll take responsibility.”
she slots herself between your legs, then fumbles with the belt of her uniform, and you note the hazy look in her eyes, “i’ll give it to you, baby. oh, i’ll give it to you so good. so good you’ll never want it again.”
what?
you don’t get to process her words before her belt finds your wrists, looping around them and pulling you up with it. you yelp at the stretch of your arms getting pulled, making you sit up. she ties the leather to the headboard, pinning you against it, then settles back down between your thighs.
she smiles, and it makes you break into a cold sweat. “are you ready?”
are you?
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“a—ah! toph!!” you desperately cry out, tears streaming down your face as you grind down on her palm. she stripped you down to only your panties — the one item you wanted her to take off the most — and stubbornly cupped your soaked cunt, kneading it through the damp fabric.
it was nowhere near enough stimulation, and it was driving you insane. her thumb would teasingly join in to rub over your clit, sending a hot jolt of pleasure straight to your gut, but the touch would leave just as quickly, and you’d only cry harder.
“you wanted my touch,” she sighs, condescendingly patting your aching pussy, “there you go. i’m touching you.”
it was so, so unfair. you forgot how much you missed sex with her, the pent-up frustration from this toph-less week crashing down on you, rendering you so needy for her touch, and she refused to give you more.
your hands tingled with numbness from how much you thrashed against the tight belt. these were the worst ten minutes of your life.
“please..” you pleaded, rutting up against the base of her palm for some friction, “i-i can’t do this. please, i need you to— mmph.. p-properly touch.. mm.. me..”
“no you don’t,” she argues simply, and her hand digs into your clit, earning a startled gasp of pleasure from you, “this is all you’ll get, and you will cum from it.”
you whimper, writhing, shamelessly riding her palm, “p—please! j-just your fingers— ahh..— in me, please—”
“no.” her voice is firm and unmoving, just like her hand. this time, she stops her measly kneading too, letting you do all the work.
it was so agonizing, feeling her fingers faintly graze over your clothed folds, you wanted nothing more than to just tear off your fucking panties and sink down on them, but whenever she felt you angle yourself over her fingers, she’d move her hand, only allowing you to use her stupid, useless palm.
“toph, please..” even your crying got weaker now, your voice hoarse, begging for reprieve, “i— i can’t cum like this, and you know it..”
she tuts, “that a challenge, sweet girl?”
all your words die on your tongue when her palm deliciously digs into your swollen bud again, and you arch up despite your exhaustion, mewling as you shamelessly grind down on it like an animal.
she pulls a startled yelp out of you when her fingers fiddle with your sensitive folds through the cotton of your underwear, slightly thrusting the fabric in you with each prod.
“t—toph??” you mewl, confused and aroused. was she half-fingering you with your panties still on?? what the hell was she doing?
“you will cum like this,” she states it like the weather report, her thumb skillfully toying with your puffy clit while her fingers continue doing whatever the hell they were doing.
she crawls over you, her thumb pressing more insistently as her eyes met yours.
her lips hovered over your quivering ones, an invitation you had to resist. then she smirked, her voice a low authoritative murmur, “you will cum like this.”
you’ll later come to cringe with second-hand embarrassment whenever you remember this exact moment, because you had no idea what happened.
whether it was the feral look in her eyes, or that smug smile, or the effortless authority in her voice — you don’t know which one of them had you gushing all over her hand immediately.
you don’t even process it until she laughs, disgusted and mocking, “well, you certainly didn’t keep me waiting. look at the mess you made, you slut.”
you blink dazedly, eyes drifting down to the big, wet patch you left on the sheets, your slick dripping off her hand in embarrassing quantities. she pulls away, shaking the wetness off her fingers in a bored manner, “you even ruined your pretty, pretty panties. isn’t that a shame?”
she plays with the hem of them, then sighs, “aren’t these the ones i got you as a gift last month? what a bad girl. how could you ruin my lovely, handpicked gift for you? you’re so ungrateful.”
not only did none of her words make sense to you, they barely registered into your brain, completely out of it from that hell of an orgasm. you didn’t even understand how or when you came, you just felt that blinding hot climax crash down on you, wracking your whole body, and this was the result.
“not even answering me now?” you gasp in pain, one of your peaked nipples caught between her fingers. she tuts, giving it a hard tug, “i’m so, so disappointed in you.”
you want to reply, you really do, but never in your life had you felt this mushy, only your earlier orgasm looping over and over again in your addled brain.
she suddenly stops, her eyes widening, and you can almost see the little cartoonish lamp flickering over her head at whatever idea she just got.
“righttt..” her hands find your panties again, and she pats your hips, “lift them up.”
you take a minute to understand her words, but quickly obey at the warning pinch it gets you, then she slides the sopping wet underwear off.
she chuckles, and that brings you out of your stupor. you stare at her, puzzled, when she starts toying with the ruined fabric. you flush a deep shade of red when she coats her finger with some of your slick, giving it a taste.
“good enough,” she comments before crawling back towards you. your confusion only grows the closer she gets, then she sits up, undoing the belt around your wrists.
god, the relief was incredible.
you shake your hands, curling your numb fingers to get the blood flowing again, a pleased sigh leaving your lips.
it doesn’t last long, because the second they parted open, damp, soft fabric was harshly stuffed into your mouth, the taste tangy and oddly familiar.
toph grins, and that’s when it clicks. she just gagged you with your own used panties!
“mmh—” you try to spit them out, flustered, but she scoffs, giving you a light slap on the cheek as she shoves them back in, “they’re my gift for you, slut. first, you ruin them, and now you won’t even take them back? since when did you get so bad?”
you were blushing furiously now, baffled and completely taken off-guard. she taps your temple, smiling down at you, “taste what the base of my palm alone did to you, my little whore. not even a bitch in heat would come that fast.”
and with that, she wastes no time in waiting for your reaction before grabbing your waist and flipping you over on your stomach.
her hands hook under your hips, lifting them up, and you protest uselessly against the fabric.
you were too sensitive from how much you cummed just a minute ago, so you tug the panties off your mouth to tell her that. but the instant a proper syllable slips out of your lips, an angry smack lands right on your bare backside, earning a startled yelp from you.
“who the fuck allowed you to speak?” she spat, one of her hands slipping to lower her pants enough to free her hard, flushed dick, “put them back in. i don’t want to hear anything but moans from you, you stupid slut. you hardly deserve me fucking you, so i suggest you don’t test my patience any further.”
you shamefully stuff them back into your mouth, the taste of yourself still so strong on your tongue.
she was so mean, so cruel, so inconsiderate.. and yet you couldn’t help but clench around nothing at her demeaning words.
a garbled moan is coaxed out of your lips when the fat tip of her cock glides over your drooling slit.
“does everything get you wet?” she grunts, her cock already well lubed with only your wetness, sliding deep into you with humiliating ease.
she huffs out a small laugh, “zero resistance, too.”
you writhe, mewling around the gag, desperately pushing your ass up against her. your eyes roll to the back of your head when she picks up the pace.
she leans down to nip at your ear, her hot breath hitting your sweaty nape, “you’re so fucking easy.”
the bed creaks violently under you, the sound of skin slapping and the nasty squelching of your pussy filling the room, your moans increasing in pitch by the second — you two sounded straight out of a porno.
your vision blurred with pleasure, drooling over the gag as your saliva dribbled down your chin.
you felt so disgusting, the smell of sweat and sex along with the taste of your arousal overwhelming your senses, but pure ecstasy overtook all of that, clouding your judgment and allowing yourself to enjoy the animal pounding you were getting.
you were so blissed out you didn’t even hear her pick up your phone, using the speech feature to make the device start a call for her.
you only realized it when she nudged your warm cheek with the cold frame, jolting you into attention.
you lifted your hand to take it, confused as to why she would want you to check your phone right now of all moments, but when you take a look at the screen and see the “boss” text on it, along with the call being ten seconds in already, your heart flipped over itself in panic.
you shakily bring the phone to your ear, removing the panties from your mouth, “y-yes? boss?”
her furious thrusts didn’t stop, and your boss’ awkward reply only made you want to shoot yourself immediately.
“i.. see this isn’t a good time? so what’s with this unprofessional behavior, miss?”
please, a gun to your head right now.
“b-boss,” you briefly cover the mic to let out a high pitched moan when her cock finds your g-spot, then bring it back to your lips again, “i-i’m very sorry, please forgive me, i.. i don’t know how the call went through. i suppose i didn’t pay attention. ah, d-don’t mind the sounds, please. i-i’m just.. renovating my room?”
out of all excuses, seriously?
“that’s.. great,” the reply is very unconvinced, but he really didn’t want to engage in this conversation any longer. he sighs, rubbing the crease between his brows, “may i ask you to come to my office early tomorrow morning? to discuss this.. unprompted call further? you can go back to.. renovating your room now.”
yes, this sealed it. tonight, you were going to off yourself.
“y-yes boss.. i’ll— mmph.. talk to you tomorrow..”
you hang up immediately, tossing the phone away as you bury your face in the sheets. this was the one boss who actually liked you and consistently promoted you, admiring your seriousness and dedication— and now, there you were. having to explain to him why your ass was getting busted while you renovated your room.
“that was so funny, right?” she chuckles, pulling out to brutally slam back into you, making you cry out. “just wanted you to know what it felt like. wasn’t that just hilaaaarious, baby?”
“i-i get it..” you grumble against the sheets, flushed with humiliation, mulling over what the fuck you were going to say tomorrow.
“you can worry about that later,” she angles your hips up better, striking your spongy spot with toe-curling precision, “for now, focus on cumming all over my cock.”
seriously? did she just expect you to forget about—
“augh!” you scream, eyes blowing wide open, her hand slipping between your legs to rub fast circles on your swollen clit, causing your walls to clench around her twitching cock.
she moans at the sensation, somehow fucking into you even harder, “fuck! fuck, you’re so good— so fucking gooood.”
and with that, thick, hot bursts of cum paint your insides white, making you in turn sob as you come all over her, your sensitive walls milking her dry.
“shit,” she presses a harsh kiss to your neck before sitting up straight, her hand feeling the wet mess of your cunt, dripping with your slick and her own cum. she scoops some up with her fingers, taking them to your trembling mouth, and your lips weakly close on them, too exhausted to even suck properly.
“mhh,” she pulls them away after you’ve licked them clean, slowly pulling out. she caresses your ass, her touch gentle for the first time since this whole ordeal started, “good girl.”
she lets go of your hips, and you plop down like a rag against the sheets, completely knocked out.
she smiles and lays down next to you, propped up on her side, running her fingers through your sweaty hair, “good job, baby. you were so good for me. don’t sleep now, though, you still need a shower. you made a big mess, remember?”
you mumble sleepily, eyes fluttering shut as the intensity of your two orgasms catches up to you.
she chuckles, pressing a sweet kiss to your squished cheek, like she didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of you. “i suppose i’ll carry you then. since you made me come home early anyway, time for a nice, warm bath with toph.”
that is the last thing you hear before sleep overtakes you, snoring against her arms as she pulls you closer.
she sighs, burying your head against her chest, “you’re so stinky.”
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* i’m TERRIBLY attracted to mean toph and i will never stop writing her i fear.. anddd yes consent is implied thank you
G!P Natasha Romanoff, unprotected sex, p in v, subtle fingering, dirty talking, spitting. Tension, kind of angst, pining. Age gap (N is 37, r is 20)
Word count: 9K words
Part 2
Being the presidents daughter isn't as glamorous and fantastic as people make it to be. In fact, it was beyond horrible. You were expected to be a lady who was poised, perfect, untouchable and well, the president's daughter. You have to hold the reputation that your mother unfortunately placed onto you. And let me tell you, it was more than exhausting.
For years it's been like this. You don't even remember having a childhood at all. No friends, no sleepovers, no parties, no drunken mistakes, no kisses and all of that. Well, maybe all of that was a stretch. You'd done all of that in secret without your mother knowing. Which is probably the reason why you have Romanoff following you around now and watching you like a hawk.
In retrospect, you were still young and naive. You were seventeen at the time so it was pretty much inevitable for something like that to happen. For you to get into trouble. You didn't think you kissing some pastors daughter would land up all over newspapers, gossip columns, magazines and pretty much all of social media. And you sure as hell didn't think a picture of you dancing on a table with a dress that was short and quite revealing would land up on the media too.
Okay, maybe you did expect it and maybe you did it because you wanted to rebel against this unwanted persona you were given. But clearly that didn't work well because two weeks after the unforgettable incident, you had some weird emails and letters from potential stalkers coming in. You thought it was funny but your mother didn't think that, in fact she was far from amused. And at that time she was still running for president, so pretty much everything and anything could have jeopardize her career, which unsurprisingly didn't happen.
But the letters, the emails and the stalker behavior became consistent and disgusting, graphic even and your mother worried about your safety. She worried that one day, you'd end up in some trouble and she wouldn't be able to get you back. So one evening, she spent all night trying to find the best bodyguard for you. Someone firm, strict and who stuck to protocol. Someone who could relate to you and would protect you. Someone trustworthy and someone who would manage to put you in place when you stepped out of line. Someone who wasn't a potential danger to you but would literally kill to keep you safe.
And in comes Natasha Romanoff. Or Agent killjoy as you called her. You remember the first day you met her. Black suit, Valentino sunglasses, red hair tied up in a bun and the straightest posture you'd ever seen in your life. She stood next to your mother, conversating about something important until her head turned upwards to look at you. Your mother's attention followed suite.
"Oh, perfect. Y/n, I want you to meet your new bodyguard. Natasha Romanoff."
"Bodyguard?" It came out harsher than you'd intended but honest to god, what was your mother thinking.
"Yes. She will be with you all day, every day."
"I don't think that's necessary, really I-"
"If you want to speak to me, you'll come closer to me." She commands leaving no room for disagreements and you mumble something incoherent while walking down the rest of the stairs.
"Now, what were you saying?"
"I was trying to tell you that I don't need a babysitter mother."
"I'm not a babysitter y/n. I've been hired for your safety." Natasha explains, and her voice is so enticing. You want to hear it again.
"Same thing." You cut her off and the woman simply arches a brow before taking her sunglasses off.
Your stomach does a summersalt when you get a proper look at her. She was beyond good looking.
"Y/n, there are people out there who see you as bait, stalkers who want to harm you. In fact, they see you as something that not even I want to address."
"A whore?" You tilt your head and you see the corner of Natasha’s lips twitch.
"Please, excuse my daughter's language. She gets very vulgar sometimes, but we're still working on it." The glare you get afterwards has you rolling your eyes.
"No need for apologies ma'am." Natasha explains with a simple hand gesture.
"So what I'm gathering from this is, I now have a new bodyguard who will follow me around and basically my entire social life is over? Great. Thanks mom, you win the best mother of the year award once again." You turn on your heels before walking up the stairs of this ridiculously large house.
Downstairs, Natasha’s eyebrows are still arched. She found you to be quite amusing actually, almost like a feisty kitten.
"Well, that was an introduction." Your mother huffs out before stepping into the house.
"Do follow me so I can give you a tour." That's the last thing Natasha hears before following your mother.
___
Now you wouldn't say you hated Natasha or anything like that. In fact, you liked her. A bit too much. Sure, she was annoying as hell in the beginning. Like whenever she was everywhere you went, or when she would meddle in your business or when she pulled you away from people who so happened to bat an eye at you because she was worried about your safety. Her presence made you feel caged, watched even. So you basically hated her for doing her job.
But then you grew up. Two and a half years later and you finally got over your supposed hatred for the woman. Instead, that hatred boiled over into a crush. Yes, you harbored feelings for the woman who was your so called "protector". But really it was inevitable. Having Natasha around you at all times was like leaving food around a hungry kitten. You're gonna want to eat it at some point.
Maybe that analogy was a bad one but god the woman was so good looking. Everything about her drew you in. Her attitude, that stoic yet dominant attitude of hers that always managed to put you in your place. How she would whisper "behave" in public whenever you were about to act out, her voice coaxing you into something you didn't want to name at that time.
Her appearance. Well, there was no need to even say anything about that because her appearance spoke for itself. You were certain the woman was sculpted by Greek gods themselves. And you, nineteen, and still very much rebellious just so happened to be crushing on the redhead.
___
The ballroom glittered the way it always did on nights your mother wanted the country to believe everything was perfect. Crystal chandeliers bled gold over polished floors, senators laughed way too loudly, and the string quartet in the corner never missed a beat. You had spent the last hour practicing your best presidential-daughter smile which was polite, warm, and exactly the right amount of approachable.
Somewhere on the edge of the crowd stood Natasha. You could feel her before you saw her, a steady orbit just outside your own. She never wore the same dress uniform twice, never drank the champagne waiters kept offering, never let her hand stray far from the comm in her ear. You used to hate that constant shadow. But now, at nineteen, you told yourself you’d gotten used to it.
But the truth was you noticed everything about her. Everything.
How she scanned the room in slow, economical sweeps. How the light caught the faint red in her hair. How she never seemed to breathe wrong, even in heels and a tailored suit.
And when her gaze swept across you from the other side of the ballroom, you looked away quickly, pretending to admire the floral arrangements on the table. Even though the thump of your heart was louder than the awful classical music playing in the background. You continued to play the role of the dutiful presidents daughter, nodding politely at people you didn't care about, until one sharp sound rang across the ballroom, a metallic pop, sharp and wrong. Your ears caught it just as the second sound cracked, louder and closer. Gasps swept through the room. Before you could react, a hand pressed firmly against your back, guiding you off the floor.
"Move." Natasha ordered, her voice low and commanding. Your stomach dropped as you realized that she wasn’t joking at all. You stumbled forward, heels clacking against the polished marble, one hand trying to lift your dress higher so you could walk faster while her body just ahead, angled to shield you from view. The hall erupted into chaos behind you. Shouts, alarms, screams. Cameras flashed, and waiters scattered like frightened birds.
Her pace was clipped and controlled. You had to jog to keep up, every step you took sending adrenaline through your veins. She didn’t look back, didn't even need to slow down, her presence was a shield, her movement a promise that she would get you out of here alive.
The main exit was blocked. Natasha’s eyes scanned the room, taking in every pillar, every table, every cluster of frightened guests. She yanked you toward a narrow service corridor that you hadn’t noticed before.
"This way!" she snapped, and you almost tripped over your own feet as she propelled you through the door.
Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and narrow. Shadows stretched along the walls, distorted and menacing. Natasha’s hand stayed on your back, firm but not harsh, guiding you past janitorial carts and maintenance doors. The alarm’s blaring was muffled here, but every footstep and every muffled shout from the ballroom, kept your senses taut. Your ragged breaths didn't seem to make the situation any better. Fuck, you really needed to work out more.
"What, what’s happening?" you asked breathlessly.
"Unknown threat." she replied, voice rid of any emotion.
"Unbeknownst threat? What the hell is an unbeknownst threat, I deserve to know what's happening if it involves me dying and-" Natasha covered your mouth with her palm.
"I said, unbeknownst threat. That means I don't know but you'll listen to me and do as I say. Stay close." Furiously and a little (really) turned on, you bit her palm with your teeth and she retracted it with a glare.
"Did you just bite me?"
"Where's my mother?! She could still be in the ballroom and-"
"Listen y/n, your mother is safe wherever she is. But my job is you. I am here for you. Not her but you. And the last thing I'll let happen is for you to be carried out of here, in a body bag. So I'll say this one last time, you do what I say, when I say it if you want to make it out alive. Now stay close. "
Natasha’s tone left no room for any argument. You kept your shoulder pressed against hers, feeling her body move in precise and controlled steps. Your pulse thundered in your chest. The air smelled faintly of polished floors and something metallic, fear or maybe even adrenaline.
A sudden shout echoed down the hall. Natasha pivoted, pressing you against the wall in one fluid motion, gun raised. You pressed your back to the cool plaster, heart hammering. Her hand lingered near your shoulder, steadying you, and you realized how close you were, her body almost brushing yours, the warmth of her side grounding you against your fear.
Seconds stretched like hours. Every shadow seemed to come alive. You could hear her breathing now, slow, controlled, and practiced, yet kind of steady. It was almost comforting you in this moment of panic. But the faint tremor in your own hands reminded you that you were far less composed.
The footsteps passed. Natasha didn’t move until she was sure the threat had moved on. Then she exhaled softly, lowering the weapon, though her gaze never wavered from the hallway.
"Stay here for a moment. "she said, voice low, almost gentle.
"Y-you can't be serious. You can't leave me here." Natasha gave you a pointed look that shut you up. She left you alone but came back minutes later. You could barely think, your chest still racing.
"Why do you always look so calm?" you asked, voice trembling.
She glanced at you, her eyes briefly softened in the dim light.
"Experience." she said.
"And focus. Very vital in this line of work." The silence after that was heavy, thick with unspoken words. You realized, with a shock, how much you were beginning to notice her. The tension in her shoulders, the glint of her eyes in the shadows, the way her breath barely shifted as she moved. You had never seen her like this, in danger, and the thought made something coil tight in your chest.
"Ready?" she asked finally, taking a careful step back. You nodded although the hesitation could be seen on your face.
"Yeah, ready." She led the way back to another service exit, moving with the same lethal precision. The closer you got to the safe zone, the more chaos bled through the suffocating walls. Alarms, shouts, the sharp edge of panic in everyone’s voice. Yet with Natasha, you felt… something like calm. Controlled calm. Like she would never let anything happen to you. And indeed, she wouldn't.
When you finally stepped into the stairwell leading outside, her hand dropped from your back, but the electricity of proximity lingered. Your chest still raced, but your thoughts weren’t just about fear anymore. They were about her. How easily she had moved, how certain she was, how impossible it was to stop noticing her. Her eyes, her hand on your back, her voice.
By the time you were ushered into the armored vehicle waiting in the rain-slick driveway, you couldn’t deny it. You had felt it in the press of her hand, the closeness, the calm in the storm. Something inside you had shifted. The walls you’d built against her had crumbled, almost imperceptibly, leaving behind… curiosity. Infatuation. Something that scared you as much as the gala had.
She took her seat next to the driver, eyes forward, expression unreadable. But you caught the way she glanced at you once, sharp, assessing, like she knew you’d felt it too. And for the first time, you weren’t sure whether that was comforting or borderline dangerous.
___
That same night you didn’t sleep. In fact, you couldn't really sleep. You lay there for an hour, replaying the nights events in your head. The alarm, the sound of her voice cutting through the chaos, the solid weight of her hand between your shoulder blades when the world spun sideways. The AC in your room hummed softly, and beyond the balcony doors, Washington dripped furiously with midnight rain. You turned on your side, buried your face in the pillow, and told yourself you were imagining the way her voice still echoed under your skin. That maybe you were being delusional.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock. It was quiet, polite, but a firm three taps, the way only Natasha would knock on your door. You sat up fast, your heartbeat already kicking.
"Yeah?"
"I'm just checking in." she said through the door.
"Protocol after a breach." You hesitated but grabbed to put your silk robe back on, then crossed the room to open it.
Natasha stood there, still in her black tactical suit, rain-damp at the shoulders with hair pulled back in a rough twist like she'd done in just to keep her hair out of her face. She looked like she hadn’t left the perimeter once. Her eyes swept over you automatically, not in the way older men at the galas did, not appraising, just scanning. Making sure you were real. Safe. And still breathing.
"You okay?" She asked and you nodded.
"I’m fine." It wasn't a lie but neither was it the exact truth.
"You sure? Your hands are still shaking." You looked down and she was right. Your fingers trembled slightly, the adrenaline refusing to fade.
"Guess I’m not used to all the excitement." you said, trying to joke although the chuckle you let out was dry. For a second she almost smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"It wasn’t supposed to get that close." There was something in her tone, frustration, maybe even guilt and that tugged at you. You leaned against the doorframe before crossing your arms.
"You can’t control everything, Romanoff."
"Doesn’t mean I don’t try." You didn’t know what made you say it. Could've been the exhaustion, the leftover fear, the way her voice dropped when she was serious, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
You saved me tonight Nat." Her eyes flicked up to yours. The corridor lights behind her were dim, washing everything around you two in amber.
“That’s my job, to keep you safe.”
“I know. But still.” For the first time since you’d met her which was almost three years ago, she looked unsure what to do with that kind of gratitude. She shifted her weight, one hand flexing at her side like she didn’t trust herself to keep it still.
“Try to get some sleep,” she finally mumbled, but it was softer now. You could’ve ended it there, probably should have just thanked her, closed the door and taken your ass back to bed. But something about the way she lingered, the faint shadow under her eyes, made you stop.
“You haven’t slept either, have you?” She didn’t answer and quite frankly you didn't need one because it was already obvious. You stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
“Five minutes.” you said.
“You can at least sit down right?”
She looked like she wanted to refuse on instinct, but after a beat, she finally stepped inside. Her presence filled the space immediately which was quiet, composed, but comfortable. She didn’t remove the holster or the earpiece, just crossed the room to stand near the window.
“It's still raining,” she murmured, glancing outside.
“Yeah well, Washington’s dramatic like that.” You murmured while shrugging and it earned a small chuckle, low and genuine, the kind you’d never heard from her before. It caught you off guard, and you smiled before you could hide it.
For a moment, everything stilled. The hum of the city below, the faint rumble of thunder far off, the muted light against her silhouette, it all folded into the kind of silence that feels alive. And it made you feel alive too.
She turned back toward you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
“You handled yourself well tonight."Natasha murmured. She turned back toward you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them before.
“I handled myself because you told me what to do.”
“That’s still handling yourself.”
"Yeah well I guess I work better when I'm told what to do." The words tumble out of your mouth before you could think about them. Your mouth parts in attempt to take your words back but what would you even say. Why the fuck did I even say that?
"Sorry, that came out wrong." Natasha hums but her expression is unreadable. You held her gaze. It should’ve been easy to look away, but you didn’t. The air between you felt different now, less like command and obedience, instead more like recognition.
“Thank you though.” you said quietly. She gave a small nod, but something flickered behind her calm expression, something like hesitation, or maybe the same awareness that you felt. The comm in her ear buzzed, a faint reminder of duty. She reached up, turned the volume down.
“I should-”
“Go?”
“Yeah.” But she didn’t move. Not right away. Instead, she looked at you, really looked, and for one dizzy second you thought she might say something more. Instead, she sucked in a slow breath, steadied herself, and stood up.
“Goodnight, kid.”
That word, kid, hit differently now. You smiled faintly.
“I told you not to call me that Nat.”
“I remember.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?” She met your eyes again, her expression still unreadable.
“Maybe it reminds me that I’m supposed to keep my distance.”
The honesty in it made your chest ache. You wanted to say something, anything, to keep her there a little longer. But she turned before you could even build up the courage to respond. She walked back to the door, pausing just long enough to glance over her shoulder.
“You need to get some sleep. Rest your body. ” she said again, softer this time and then she was gone. Out of your sight but still in your mind.
The room felt heavier without her.
You stood by the window, watching the faint reflection of the city lights shimmer through the rain, and realized there was no use pretending anymore. Whatever you’d thought was resentment, irritation, rebellion, it had all shifted into something else entirely.
Something that made your pulse quicken every time she looked at you.
Something that felt dangerous in all the right and wrong ways. You pressed your palm to the cool glass and whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.
“Yeah… this is going to be a fucking problem.”
__
A knock came just as the sky outside your window slipped from orange hues to a pitch black sky. You almost didn’t hear it at first, too lost in the quiet of your room. The world had calmed after the chaos of the gala, but your mind hadn’t. You still saw flashes of light, heard the echo of the alarm, felt the steady pressure of Natasha’s hand guiding you through it all. And her words... Maybe it reminds me that I need to keep my distance.
“Come in.” you called, pretending as if you weren’t just a little bit startled. The door opened, and there stood Natasha. Her hair was tied back tonight, a loose braid that brushed against her shoulder. The fitted black shirt she wore rolled neatly to her elbows, revealing the strong line of her forearms, and you were able to catch a glimpse of her tattoo that you only got to see once in a blue moon. Her movements were effortless, quiet, controlled, like someone who never needed to announce her presence to be noticed.
She didn’t speak right away. Just stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
“You busy?” she asked.
“No, not really. ” you said, sitting up a little straighter.
“What’s up?” Her gaze flicked over the room once before landing on you. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled something small and rectangular from an inside pocket. A dark case, smooth and compact, with no label. She set it on your desk with a soft click.
“I wanted to give you something.” she said and you blinked.
“You… got me a gift?” Her lips curved just slightly, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Something like that.” You crossed the room, curiosity tugging at you, and opened the case. Nestled inside the foam was a folding knife, black and sleek, simple but precise. It was the kind of object that demanded respect. You finally looked up at her.
“You’re giving me a weapon?”
“It’s not a weapon if you use it right.” she replied.
“It’s protection.” You laughed under your breath, unsure what else to do. “You really think I’m the kind of girl who needs to carry a knife around?” Her gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I need to know that you'll have something to protect yourself with whenever I'm not near."
"But you're always there."
"Yes, but not always near. So I need to know that you'll be able to defend yourself."
Something in her tone made your chest tighten. There was no trace of mockery there, no patronizing calm. Just quiet sincerity. You turned the knife over in your hand, studying the weight of it.
“It’s heavier than I thought.”
“Good.” she said.
“It should feel like something that matters.” You watched her as she spoke, the faint scar near her temple catching the lamplight, the sharpness of her expression softened only by the way she seemed to hold herself back. Always composed. Always in control.
“Show me?” you asked after a moment. Her brow lifted.
“Show you what?”
“How to use it.” Natasha hesitated, and for a second, you could see the debate flicker across her face. Then she nodded and stepped closer.
“All right. Give me your hand.” So you did. Her palm brushed yours as she adjusted your grip around the handle.
Her skin was warm, her touch firm but careful, like she was always aware of exactly how much pressure to use.
“Keep your thumb here.” she murmured, sliding her hand over yours to guide your movements.
“You want control, not power. Because the goal is to get away, not to fight.” Your breath hitched slightly as she continued to guide you. You swallowed hard, trying to focus on her words, but the closeness made it impossible to think. Her breath touched your shoulder as she leaned in, her voice low and even which made you shiver.
“Don’t let anyone take it from you. Always keep your center steady.”
She reached around you to correct your stance, her hand resting lightly against your side. The warmth of it bled through your shirt. For a second, your breath caught.
“Like this?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. She nodded slowly. “Better. Now, if you have to strike-”
Her words faltered, just barely. You both noticed it. The air between you changed, heavier now, charged with something that didn’t belong to lessons about safety. You turned your head slightly, enough to meet her eyes. Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice softened.
“You’re trembling.” You laughed weakly.
“Maybe because you’re standing right behind me like you’re about to teach me how to kill someone.” That earned a small smile.
“That’s not what I’m teaching you.”
“Then what are you teaching me?” Her silence said everything that she couldn’t.
When she finally stepped back, the loss of her warmth felt too sharp, too sudden. She folded the knife closed and placed it gently in your hand. “Keep it close.” she said. You looked down at the small object resting in your palm, the metal cool against your skin.
“You didn’t have to do this.” You whispered softly.
“I know.” You lifted your eyes to her.
“So why did you?” Her gaze flicked away, just for a moment.
“Because I don’t like the idea of anyone getting close enough to hurt you.”
The words hit deeper than they should have. You didn’t know how to respond, so you didn’t. You just stood there, heart in your throat, while she adjusted her jacket and turned toward the door.
“Try not to lose it.” she said quietly. You smiled faintly.
“You’re really giving me a knife and expecting me not to.” For the first time all night, her composure cracked into something almost human.
“Then I’ll have to come find you.” she said. And with that, she left, leaving only silence and the faint scent of her cologne lingering in the air accompanied with the sound of your heart beating rapidly.
You stared down at the knife again, your reflection rippling across the dark surface. It was supposed to be a tool. A precaution. But all you could think about was the way her hand had guided yours, the way her voice had sounded when she said she didn’t like the thought of someone hurting you. Maybe it wasn’t just protection anymore. Maybe it was infatuation.
___
"It's just some party dude. You can't let that nanny of yours stop you from having fun." Your friend, Layla, had spent almost ten minutes on the phone with you trying to convince you to come to her college party.
"I can't Lay."
"For fucks sake, you're nineteen and you're taking online classes for college, the least you can do is have some fun by sneaking out." You huffed and your friend only wiggled her brow.
"I know that look, you're considering it. And it's gonna be great." You're still uncertain about going but she gives you a pleading look.
"Okay okay okay fine. I'll see what I can do."
"Yay! Okay, wear something hot. And I'll handle the rest."
"The rest?"
"Booze, weed, duh."
"Right." You continue to talk with her for a while until she eventually has to end the call. Then you're left to cultivate a good plan.
It's not like sneaking out was difficult. Your mother barely batted an eyelash at your whereabouts especially after Natasha came into your life because at the end of the day, wherever you went, Natasha was there. That's the problem though, Natasha was everywhere. Hell she may have even been listening to your conversation and you wouldn't even know. But that was a risk you'd just have to take. Because for once in your life, you just wanted to have fun. Especially before your mother's rallies began. Then you'd be touring almost the entire country with her, just to hear her talk and talk and talk. Going out just once with drunk kids who weren't aware of their surroundings wouldn't hurt anyone.
So that's how you found yourself late at night at some frat house dressed in a white corset accompanied with a white miniskirt, thigh high socks, heels and of course the angel wings. Your collarbone practically sparkled from glitter, your makeup was left minimal and you topped the look off with your favorite scent. As per usual, you looked good.
Getting out was relatively easy. Especially when Natasha had taught you how to decode and hack systems at seventeen so that was pretty much child's play. The only problem was when she'd catch on to it because the woman was smart and alert. You figured you'd at least have two hours of unsupervised fun before she dragged you back home.
Your friend tugged onto your wrists, pulling you further in the house before you reached the makeshift bar area.
"Okay, what are we drinking?"
"I don't wanna drink." She scoffed and poured you whatever concoction was made in the bowl.
"Drink. Now." You took a slow sip then another before putting g the cup down.
"I'd rather we do something else." She gave you a look of excitement before pulling you outside, where you spotted a crowd gathered on couches. There were different things laying in front of them on the table, some which you didn't even want to name but what caught your attention was the already rolled up joints.
"Here." Layla hands you one before pulling out her pink lighter. And let's just say after a few drags, everything becomes so much better.
On the other side, Natasha knew within ten minutes that you were gone. She’d been at the residence, reading a report, when one of the other agents mentioned casually that you hadn’t checked in since dinner. That you weren’t in your room.
Her pen stilled.The moment she finally realized that the house had been oddly quiet, her jaw tightens. A quick glance at the monitors confirms it, your room was in fact empty. Your phone hasn’t pinged in a while and you had obviously managed to hack into the tracking system to not be traced.
"Chertov ad." She mumbles, already pulling out her device to find you.
"Run the trackers." She barks almost immediately. Agents follow her command without another word.
And although Natasha is livid that you snuck out, she is kind of impressed that you mastered it. But as they say, you can never outdo the master. It takes her ten minutes tops to track you. And the moment she does find your location she grabs her jacket and keys before leaving the house.
She doesn't say anything on the drive to the frat house. Instead her knuckles turn white from how hard she's gripping the steering wheel while her mind runs wild with many curse words she'd rather keep in. When she arrives, sits in the car for a few minutes to calm herself down, then she grabs her shades, slips them on and walks into the packed house.
By now the party is in full blast. Bodies swing and grind into one another and it's quite a hassle to get through but Natasha manages to push a few people aside. She scoffs as a few girls willingly throw themselves at her. One even tries to grab her arm, ready to throw some flirtatious comment her way but she pulls her hand away before walking. The smell of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume invades her nostrils and it annoys her even further but her main focus is on finding you before you get killed, so that she can definitely kill you herself. Natasha finally spots you and though your back is turned she knows it's you.
You're dancing with a girl, one hand carrying a red cup while the other waves carelessly in the air. Natasha watches the scene, her insides boiling with anger and something she doesn't want to name just yet. She moves forward, ready to drag you out of this party.
You're still oblivious though. Your mind is quiet for once and for the first time in a while, you're relaxed. No pressure, no press, no pictures, just fun. So when you turn around after taking a drag from your friends vape, the last thing you expect to see is Natasha. You cough once, which sends the strawberry vapor her way. She doesn't do anything neither does she say anything and that's when you've registered the fact that you're fucked.
Finally she takes off her jacket and wraps it around you before pulling your arm.
"Outside. Now."
"But-" She gives you one of her looks and you drop your shoulders before walking out of the party. No one really cares about what's happening, instead they're focused on their own spontaneous activities. Assholes.
When you step outside, the cold hits you full force, and it's literally like taking a breath of fresh air. Nothing has been said yet, and you don't want to say anything because Natasha is still mumbling incoherent curse words in Russian. She opens the door for you, you get in and then she's on her side starting the ignition but she isn't driving yet. Five minutes go by until you finally talk.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"Really?" She laughs.
"It was just a party Nat."
"One that you didn't tell me about."
"I don't have to tell you about my whereabouts all the time."
"I'm your bodyguard, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Jesus y/n how could you be so stupid?!
"I'm not drunk."
"But you're high."
"Still not drunk." She shakes her head in frustration before grabbing the almost empty red cup in your hand and throwing it out the car window.
"Chertovski glupo."
The next ten minutes are spent in silence, her jaw is clenched and you could see the vein under her eye bulging. Yeah she was definitely keeping a lot of words in. When you finally get home, she switches off the ignition and then exhales. Neither of you speaks yet, it's just the sound of rain tapping against the car and your breathing.
"I'm sorry." You mumble softly, pulling the jacket, her jacket, around you. The scent wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
"I just wanted to have fun."
"Fun can get you killed y/n. Do you know how badly things could've went?"
"I know, and I'm sorry I almost cost you your job and-"
"My job!? This isn't about my job y/n it's about your safety. Do you understand what could have happened to you? Fuck y/n you could've gotten kidnapped, killed, drugged, assaulted?! Then what?" Her words finally sink in and the guilt gnaws at you.
"You tell me when you want to go somewhere. You tell me not for the sake of my job but because I care about you. You don't just disappear without telling me."
"I know." She let's out a sigh. You finally turn to look at her, chest still glistening, but heaving slightly, and Natasha looks away because she cannot trust herself to look where she shouldn't be looking in the first place.
"I just wanted space. Besides it's not like I was falling over."
"Yes but the president's daughter drinking underage is a good caption no?"
"Twenty, twenty-one, it's the same thing to me." She shakes her head but there's a small smile tugging her lips.
"I'm sorry though, and if it makes things better I did have my pocket knife." She sighs.
"I probably will sneak out again.
"I know." You smile before opening the car door.
"And y/n..." You turn around to look to her.
"Yeah?"
"Maybe leave the hacking to professionals." She teases and you flip her off before walking away with a subtle sway of your hips that she definitely does notice.
And that the moment where the redhead realizes that she was ready to risk it all.
___
Los Angeles had its own kind of heat, the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how high the AC hummed. Your mother was halfway across the city, shaking hands, giving speeches, being everything the cameras needed her to be. You were just the background, the president’s daughter tucked into a hotel suite with gold fixtures and no real privacy. The suite next door belonged to Natasha...
"For security reasons" your mother said, although you suspected it was more about control than safety.
"See to it that my daughter is dressed appropriately and shows up on time please. I'll be visiting a few other facilities today, so I'll just meet the both of you at the gala."
"No problem ma'am." Natasha gave a curt nod before your mother left her suite to attend some meeting.
A knock came just as you were scrolling through your phone, half-draped across the couch in your silk pajama set, pink, soft and expensive. You didn’t bother to fix the loose strap when you opened the door.
Natasha stood there, posture perfect, one hand holding a tablet while the other was tucked behind her, and as usual, she was dressed in all black. The hallway light caught the sharp line of her jaw and the faint glint in her green eyes. She didn’t say anything for a beat. Her gaze flickered once, down, then back up. Controlled. Professional. Barely. Because you could see the way her eyes shone with something else.
"Your mother asked me to remind you to dress appropriately for tonight’s gala." she said finally, voice even, clipped, a faint trace of her accent threading through.
“You’re expected downstairs at six. Don’t be late.” You leaned against the doorframe, studying her.
"That all?" Her eyes didn’t move.
"Yes, that’s all."
But she hesitated, just half a second too long. And in that silence, you felt something shift, subtle but real. The kind of tension that wasn’t supposed to exist between a bodyguard and the girl she was hired to protect. Natasha cleared her throat then left you alone. This game between the two of you was getting heated and it seemed like you weren't the only one enjoying it.
___
The gala was well a gala. Sleek, expensive, polished in gold and silver accents. Rich white men boasting about anything and everything while some even tried to get your attention by touching your shoulder. You played your role well though. You pose for the cameras, nod at small talk about universities and policies you don’t care about. Smile and laugh if need be.
Natasha is never far, she's like a shadow at the edge of the crowd, black suit, hair tied back, eyes scanning every single movement. You catch her gaze once, across the room, and for a heartbeat, it anchors you. But then someone laughs too loudly, another hand tugs you into another conversation, and she disappears behind a line of photographers.
You last thirty minutes before slipping outside to get some air. Your moment alone doesn't last long though because soon someone else walks out. You don't look at them but they move closer.
"Not your scene huh?" You finally look up to see a girl your age, maybe a little older than you.
"Nope."
"Me neither." She takes a sip from the flute before setting it aside.
"Never really liked feeling so caged." She murmurs softly.
"I feel that."
"It must be worse for you, being the president's daughter and all." You hum softly.
"It does. Especially when the whole world is watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake." She tilts her head, studying you further.
"I like you."
"Bold thing to say to someone you've just met." You mumble with a small grin and she chuckles before moving closer to you. You spend almost thirty minutes talking to her about anything. Music, movies, books even about university degrees. Somewhere along the line she gets even closer, so close you can see the freckles on her skin or feel the way her shoulder brushes along your own.
It sends a shiver down your spine. Not because you like her or anything but because you have a feeling that you were being watched. And you were. You turn your head to find Natasha standing not so far from the two of you. And when you look closely, you see the way her jaw clenches while her fingers twitch slightly. It makes you grin in triumph.
"Problem Nat?"
"No. I've been requested to come look for you. Take you back to the suite."
"There's no need to, I don't mind staying here with my new friend." The girl looks between the two of you before clearing her throat.
"Call me." She says before slipping away from the two of you. You're still leaning against the balcony, the straps of your dress falling from your shoulder. You don't rush to fix them.
Natasha’s face is void of any emotion. She cocks her head to the side and you laugh slightly before walking towards the door with a sway of your hips.
___
The water clings to your skin as you emerge from the shower. You wrap yourself in a towel while tending to your face. Natasha is still inside your suite. She could have retreated to her own but something tells you that she wasn't in the rush to.
You've now replaced the towel with a silk robe, and you glance at yourself in the mirror one last time. Good. Once you leave the room you find Natasha staring out at the window.
"You're still here." She doesn't say anything after that so you place yourself on the couch, just a few feet away from her.
"Tell me Nat, what game are we playing here?" You're direct and it takes her by surprise.
"What game?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She finally turns around.
"Really? But we've been at this for a while now. To me, it seems like you want me." Natasha scoffs but it's far from convincing.
"Stay in your lane y/n."
"Or what Natty? Tell me, does your job include watching me shower?" You push further. She clenches both of her fists.
"It's my job to protect you."
"Protect me from what exactly? The suds of soap dripping down my body? Or slipping in that big shower?" The smirk on your face is cruel and she wants nothing more than to wipe it off of you.
This cannot be happening. She tries to tell herself that. That she cannot be thinking about you the way she was. That she shouldn't be entertaining the idea of you. At all. Not only because she was your bodyguard and older than you but because your mother, the president, would kill her. Even though that was impossible given her status but that's a risk she didn't want to take.
"I'm warning you. Stay in your lane." You stand up before reaching for your robe. She watches you intently but her hands stop you from tugging it off, the warmth of her palm on your skin makes you dizzy.
"I don't feel that way about you." She retorts and you laugh.
"Oh? So if I called that girl from earlier on and told her to fuck me, you'd let me?" Her jaw clenches.
"I don't care what you do in your own time."
"Really? Huh." Deciding to push Natasha further, you grab your phone before punching in her number.
Natasha freezes, and for a moment, you see it. The green flash in her eyes, the flush that tugs at her neck, the rigid line of her shoulders. She grabs your phone before you can move, holding it tight in one hand.
"Ne smey." She says sharply, simple words that are clipped, dangerous. Don’t.
She steps closer, every movement taut with unspoken warning. Her body is tight, coiled, like she wants to say more but won’t.
"Don’t push me." she says, voice low, clipped, the edges of it shaking slightly. Not her usual calm. Not this time. The jealousy is there. Barely contained but it's there and you can feel it. You fucking love it.
"If you don't want me then why are you still holding my phone?"
The silence between the two of you is deafening. And just when you think she'll give up and hand you the phone, she takes another step closer. Her unoccupied hand moves to your chin.
"You don't know how much restraint is keeping me away from you. Holding me back." The phone is carelessly thrown onto the couch, your hand bringing her own back to your robe.
"Then stop fighting it." You can see the gears running in her head, like she's still contemplating whether she should bolt or stay. You want her to stay.
"Take me. I promise, I won't tell a soul Natty." You whisper, your hand still guiding hers to pull the robe off. You feel her lips brush against your own before she finally, finally kisses you. Your heart practically soars as her lips move with yours, her hands untying the robe. Natasha sucks in a breath once you guide her hand to place it on a soft mound.
The sigh that you let out afterwards makes her squeeze the mound, to feel it against her palm. You slip your robe off almost immediately and now you're bare in front of Natasha. She swallows, cock already hardening underneath her slacks. She wasn't expecting that at all.
"O bozhe." The uncertainty finally leaves her mind and Natasha has to restrain herself from pouncing on you.
Rough calloused hands pick you up, and you squeal in surprise. She guides you to the bed, just a few feet from where the couch was. She throws you onto the bed, a soft squeal escaping your lips. Her hands move down your calves to spread your legs apart. You're completely bare, at her mercy too, and it sends a thrill down her spine. You may have been her boss out there but now in here, she would be taking all the control.
Natasha’s hands move back up to your face, and thighs quiver from her absence.
"You want this?" She asks and you nod.
"Tell me."
"I want you." You confirm with another nod of your head. Natasha’s lips are on yours once again, her knee pressing against your core which makes you gasp.
"A-again, do that again." You plead and she smirks before pulling away.
Natasha throws her jacket onto the side table. Your gaze falls down, watching her fingers unbutton the white button up. Once it falls down, you're left to ogle at her covered chest. The tattoo you'd once seen in passing now on full display, toned abs that you can't help but touch and-
Natasha’s finger presses against your clit which makes you let out an unexpected moan.
"So distracted." Her thumb rolls around the sensitive nub, testing to see what you like. You drag her hand closer to your core, moaning when her finger slides around your slit.
"Jesus detka, so fucking wet." Her finger slips into your hole and you let out a choked gasp.
"Fuck, another."
"Another? Fucking greedy." But she adds another finger inside of you, your walls hugging both fingers.
Your lips part, a breathless wine escaping your lips while she fingers your pussy. Her thump swipes over your clit again and you moan even louder.
"Look at me." She commands and you're met with blown green eyes looking down at you. So fucking beautiful. Natasha thinks to herself while she watches your eyes flutter or when her eyes trail down to where you're connected.
Natasha becomes obsessed with the way your pussy sucks her in. How your wetness oozes out of your pussy, or how her fingers shine with your arousal as she pulls them in and out. Your hips slowly begin to move on their own accord but she presses down onto your hips.
Natasha pulls her fingers out just as you're about to peak and you whine.
"Why?"
"If you're gonna cum, you're gonna do it on my cock." She rasps, hands fumbling with the belt of her slacks. You wait impatiently, pussy clenching around nothing, nipples hardening at the thought of being filled up by her.
She slips out of her pants and underwear, cock slapping against her stomach, red, flushed, dripping with pre-cum. She was big. Length and girth. Your hand strokes her shaft and she hisses, head thrown back in ecstasy. You want to wrap your lips around your tip, but you can't because she pushes you down then lines herself up with your entrance.
"You sure no condom?"
"N-no, I want you in me, raw." She groans, cock throbbing. You're wet and needy so it's easy for her to slide right in.
Your breath stutters, legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. She thrusts inside of you a couple of times, her cock rubbing against your velvety walls. Her strokes start of fast and shallow before they slow down. Deep, hard strokes that make you lose breath, that make you choke.
"C'mon baby, breath for me huh, you're not breathing." She teases, pulling out before slamming back inside of you. That makes you moan out loud.
Your hands fist the sheets, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Natashas brows furrow, her hand placing your own on your pussy.
"Play with yourself." The command makes you clench around her. Your fingers rub your clit eagerly while she fucks you, you lift your head slightly, to watch the way her cock glides in and out of you. You throw your head back again, eyes closing in pure bliss, especially after a particularly hard thrust.
"Fuck!" You cry out, lips forming into a small pout.
"Open your eyes and look at me." Your eyes open, staring directly at the redhead, mouth hung open. Face to face. It's too intimate for Natasha's liking so she trails her eyes down to where you two are connected.
"So fucking wet, so warm and tight." You'd stopped rubbing your clit a while ago, once she'd lifted your leg and placed it above her shoulder.
With the new angle, you felt her digging your pussy, everywhere.
"Y-you're so big." You mumbled incoherently, it made her smirk.
"Yeah, can you feel me?" You nod your head vigorously.
"Say it."
"I c-can feel you." She spits directly onto your pussy, thumb rubbing your clit in fast circles. Your orgasm comes unexpectedly, crashing over you.
You have to bite your palm to keep yourself quiet. Your pussy gushes, a wetness coming out of you that you'd never felt before. Your eyes widen in shock, the redhead pulls out, more wetness just gushing out of your pussy. She'd just make you squirt for the first time.
"Fucking hell." She murmurs, sliding right back into you.
"Didn't think you had that in you. Is my dick that good baby?" Had she not have been fucking you into oblivion, you'd probably retort something back. Something sarcastic, something snarky .
All you do is nod, god you just nod. Her pace fastens, she's chasing her own orgasm, and you're chasing your second one. After one final thrust the both of you cum together, her seed filling your pussy up. Minutes later, she pulls out of you. Her cum mixed with yours just oozing out of you. She fucks it back in and you whimper.
Your leg is placed back down onto the bed. Your thighs ache in the best way possible. Your body hums from the pleasure, pussy still aching around nothing. You're content.
However the redhead isn't. Post nut clarity hits her.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What the fuck was she thinking? Why the fuck wasn't she thinking?
"Iisus Khristos." She mumbles quietly, to herself. She gets off of you, and gets dressed almsot immediately. Why the fuck did she just fuck you? Is what runs through her head while she makes herself presentable. You sit up with shaky hands.
"Nat what are you-"
"This was a mistake." She murmurs, fixing the collar of her shirt.
She turns around, and avoids your gaze like she wasn't inside of you minutes ago. Like her cum isn't still dripping onto your thigh.
"Jesus, no one finds out about this." There's no room left to argue. She leaves immediately, but you don't hear the door to her own suite shut.
You lay back down, staring at the ceiling with tears already forming in your eyes.
"Fuck."
After months of convincing from my friend and reading so many books, I finally had the courage to post my first fic. So with that said, hi!? I got inspired by the amazing writers on here and I said fuck it, why not post my own. I hope this fic meets the standard of Tumblr lmao. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this. Can't wait to write more. Feedback is appreciated 🫶
Synopsis: You hired Sevika to rebuild your entire house, it was completely empty. A project. Though your contractor? She's lonely, and you give her all the attention she craves... Once the project is finished will Sevika be leaving? Or will she stay?
Wc: 0.9
Warnings: g!p Sevika, unprotected sex, blue collar sevika, she's kind of a perv, praise kink, slight body worship, creampie, implied breeding kink, mentions of baby trapping?
Sevika needn't worry about anything other than perfecting this job. Making her lunch for herself in the mornings? You'd take care of it at lunchtime, especially if Sevika claimed she 'forgot it again' like she usually does just to see you fuss over her. She takes water but she prefers the coffee you pick up for her on a morning because she 'works hard' and 'deserves it'. Your words, not hers.
What was once only empty rooms connected with plasterboard was now transforming into a fully fledged, beautifully renovated home. All Sevika's doing. At first you had your concerns... a single contractor taking on a big project like this? Surely it would be too much work, though Sevika insisted she loved working alone and more personally with her customers.
The minute she met up with you to talk timeliness and payment she knew she would take the job. Offered you prices that were far too low. There was hardly any profit for her though she couldn't care less. As long as she got to be around you, that was payment enough.
"Darlin'? Can you come here a sec?!" Sevika's voice carried through to the living room easily where you sat working from home on the couch. Most of the renovations were done bar the kitchen- which she was working on and the upstairs bathroom.
"Yeah, what's up vika?" Taking in the kitchen you lean against the stripped down door frame. Sevika has built the base of the island in the center and the base of the counters but not put the countertops on them yet.
"Come stand here a sec, darlin'. Just needa check something." Without question you step closer to where she was gesturing to, right by the counter.
"Oh yeah, that's a perfect height for you, ain't it darlin'?" For a moment you stand there completely baffled. Confused as to what she's talking about, even as she easily lifts the white marble slate up onto the countertop. Not one of her muscles were hidden, not when she wore a flimsy, barely there wife pleaser which was almost see-through with sweat...
No. Stop thinking about that she's you're contractor.
"Perfect height for me? For what? Chopping vegetables?"
"No no darlin'... to bend over it."
⊹˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•₊˚⊹
In reality, Sevika never thought she'd actually succeed in bending you over and taking you from behind. It was purely a fantasy... until now.
"Jesus christ doll- look at you hm? Takin' it so good darlin', so good..." with every thrust of her hips, Sevika couldn't help grunting and moaning as she buried herself home, deep into your warmth which she knew would feel so fucking good wrapped around her.
"It's so big... oh my god Sevika what the f-fuuuck..." your knuckles were white where you gripped the counter, which was shaking beneath you as you took every brutal intrusion of Sevika's cock. If she didn't have both hands on your hips you're balance would be completely destroyed with one leg hiked up on the countertop to spread you open wide.
"You're takin' it doll. Fuck yeah, you're taking it all atta girl fuck-" either Sevika hadn't had a good fuck in a while or she genuinely has never had pussy like this because she is feral. No matter what you do there's no stopping her, she's going to take you the way she wants too, for however long she wants too.
And not one part of you feels the desire to stop her.
Her hands explore the body she's been eyeing for months, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your hips, hips perfect for birthing children... hopefully hers. The cute rolls on your back which she's almost positive is her favourite thing except being buried deep in your cunt. This was pure heaven.
"Keepin' you doll. Gotta keep you all f' myself. Ain't letting no one else have this pretty pussy- not a fuckin' chance." No words were forming in your brain. Not one. Sevika was so possessive and claiming... you didn't need words to tell her how you felt about it, your unfaithful, unloyal pussy gushed even more telling her exactly how you felt.
A feral, primal noise escapes Sevika, almost hiding the wet squelch of her cock driving into you over and over. With each brutal drive of her hips the tip of her fat cock nudged that spot inside you which had your eyes rolling back, mouth hung open with pleasure.
Disciplined. That's how Sevika described herself- hell she'd waited months to have you like this, bent over and taking her cock like a good girl... though holding back from letting herself finish inside you? No self control. None.
Unable to hold back anymore she forces herself to keep going even as her fat, meaty shaft twitches inside you as she stuffs you impossibly full of her seed, willing you to fall over the edge with her.
And you do.
The warmth that fills your tummy from the inside out has you moaning and wiggling beneath her as your core tightens around her, pulsing and milking every single drop from her. Like your body knows it needs it.
Sure you weren't on birth control, and you definitely weren't thinking about it right this second... but being connected to Sevika forever wouldn't be a bad thing.
pairings: wednesday x g!p!reader
tags: smut, reader has a dick, tried to make it rough, overstimulation, possessiveness
request: hi there! love your work! if you can, may i request a wednesday x top werewolf!reader where werewolves have to take pills prior to a full moon because they go in heat and they can get quite wild/animalistic iykyk ;) at some point wednesday suggests taking it out on her instead of taking the pills. reader doesn’t want to risk it because she could get hurt but obviously wednesday into it—
MASTERLIST. | WC: 4.4k
(all characters are 18+)
The end of the school year at Nevermore had always been a strange, bittersweet event. You’d survived it, barely.
But the weirdest part wasn’t that you’d gotten through the year without shifting during finals or that Enid had hugged you and tried to sneak you into a group selfie. No. The weirdest part was Wednesday Addams.
She cornered you in the greenhouse while you were avoiding packing, arms folded over her chest, eyes unreadable as always.
“You’ll be coming with me for the next two weeks.”
It wasn’t a question. You weren’t sure Wednesday knew how to ask questions, just make mandates.
“I have to—” you began, instinctively reaching for some excuse. The truth was worse than anything you could say aloud.
You needed to hit the infirmary. Before you left. Before the full moon hit. Before she realised the way your hands trembled or why you’d been skipping meals and walking with your fists clenched, shoulders hunched like you were carrying something heavy inside your skin.
“I already cleared it with Principal Weems,” Wednesday added, arching a brow. “And your dorm’s already been packed.”
You blinked. “You… went through my stuff?”
Wednesday’s mouth curled — not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one. “Enid helped. She has a disturbing fondness for folding.”
Your pulse stuttered.
It was too late now to get to the infirmary unnoticed.
Too late to stock up on the pills that dulled the heat, the growl, the ache you got when the moon reached for you.
You swallowed thickly. “Right. Okay. Addams Manor.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“No, I am,” you said too quickly. “Thrilled. So much thrill. Just… haven’t been to a cursed estate in a while.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press. She never did. That was the problem.
—
The Addams family estate was worse than you’d imagined — tall, brooding towers, thick mist curling through the iron gates, and a butler with a face carved from graveyard stone.
Lurch simply grunts, as if to say ‘Welcome back, Miss Addams.’
She gave him a curt nod and glanced at you. “He doesn’t eat guests. Anymore.”
“Comforting,” you murmured, stepping over the threshold.
The place smelled like candle wax and old velvet. Your senses twitched uncomfortably. You were already too aware of how loud your heartbeat was, how tight your muscles felt. The moon was getting closer, its pull more insistent.
Wednesday led you to your room — not a dungeon, surprisingly, though there was a skeleton in the closet. Literally.
“You’ll be next door to me,” she said. “Mother suggested separate rooms. I disagreed.”
You tried not to visibly react. “And your mother?”
“Didn’t disagree back.”
Of course not.
You placed your duffel on the antique bed. Inside, buried under layers of clothes, was the last of your pills. Four doses. Not enough.
Definitely not enough.
You heard Wednesday pause in the doorway.
She turned, her expression unreadable again. “You’ve been restless lately.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
Her dark eyes studied you, unnervingly sharp. “You’re sweating. And you flinched when Lurch touched your shoulder.”
“It’s hot outside.”
“It’s fifty-four degrees fahrenheit.”
You met her gaze and forced a crooked smile. “Must be my inner furnace.”
She didn’t look away. “You’re hiding something.”
The silence between you stretched, thick and taut like wire.
“I’ll figure it out,” she added, voice soft but edged in something dangerous. “Eventually.”
She shut the door behind her.
You sat down on the bed and exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.
You had two weeks. Four pills. And one very clever, very suspicious girlfriend.
This was going to be hell.
—
The last time you’d seen Morticia and Gomez Addams, you were in your school uniform, still sweating from fencing class. You’d barely gotten out your last name before Morticia was gliding toward you, her voice like chilled honey, commenting on the ‘primal strength in your aura.’
You weren’t sure if that had been a compliment or a thinly veiled warning. Maybe both.
Now, standing at the long, polished dining table at the Addams Manor, you felt that same chill crawl up your spine. The table was set like a feast for Victorian vampires: black candlesticks, glistening silverware that looked recently sharpened, and dishes you didn’t quite recognize but suspected still twitched.
“Mi alma!” Gomez boomed, throwing his arms wide when he saw Wednesday. He wrapped her in a hug so fierce you heard the creak of her ribs. “And my favorite wolf in law!”
Your brain hiccuped. Wolf in law?
He seized your hand in both of his, pumping it like he was trying to dislodge something. You did your best not to wince.
“Good to see you again, sir,” you managed, eyes flicking to Morticia as she descended the grand staircase like she owned the concept of gravity.
“You look… restrained,” she said, giving you a once-over, her red lips curving. “How refreshing. So many young lycanthropes are so… pungent this time of year.”
You flushed. Your skin was already running too hot — she could probably smell it on you.
You were late on your dose.
“I, uh. I use herbal supplements.”
Wednesday, already seated, gave you a look that could’ve flayed flesh.
Dinner began. It was a slow, ceremonial affair. There was a dish full of black liquid that might have been soup or poison, and a salad that was definitely moving. Gomez and Morticia talked in tandem, like a haunting duet, about summer court politics, Uncle Fester’s ‘latest experiment in luminous flesh,’ and Thing’s brief career as a blackjack dealer in Vegas.
You mostly nodded, chewed carefully, and prayed no one noticed the tremble in your fingers or the way your knee kept bouncing under the table.
“Darling,” Morticia said at one point, “do tell us what’s been troubling your beast lately.”
You froze.
Wednesday blinked once. “Nothing specific. Just… an increase in evasive behavior. Physical agitation. A noticeable change in scent.”
“Have you tried scratching behind the ears?” Gomez offered brightly.
You laughed — a sound that came out too high, too hollow.
“I’m just adjusting,” you said quickly. “To summer break. And, you know, the… manor’s unique ambiance.”
Morticia tilted her head, her inky hair swaying like shadow. “Your aura is tense, my dear. Like it’s waiting for something.”
You smiled tightly. “I get that a lot.”
Your pulse roared in your ears. You could feel it — the edges of the shift brushing your spine. The full moon wasn’t for another four days, but every hour closer made it harder to keep the instincts down. Normally, the pills softened the edge. Dosed regularly, they kept you human enough to think straight, to resist. But you’d taken your last one this morning.
And that wasn’t going to be enough.
Wednesday reached across the table and touched your wrist. Her fingers were cool, deliberate.
“You’re not fine,” she said softly, eyes boring into yours. “You’re lying to me.”
You stared back, throat tightening.
“I just need to sleep,” you said after a beat. “I’m— tired. That’s all.”
Morticia smiled, slowly. “Ah. Fatigue. The gateway to transformation.”
Wednesday didn’t blink. “I’ll be confirming that tomorrow.”
You weren’t sure if that was a threat or a promise.
—
That night, you lay in your room staring at the ceiling, sweat drying on your collarbones.
Three pills left. Maybe two if the pressure kept building.
Wednesday knew something was off. She could feel it. You didn’t have much time before she found out.
And worse — you weren’t sure what would happen when she did.
You didn’t sleep.
Instead, you laid there in the antique bed with your jaw clenched and your back to the moonlight leaking through the arched window, fingers curled so tight your claws had threatened to break the skin. You were trying to breathe evenly, trying to think past the haze. Every sound was too sharp, every movement a provocation. You could feel your instincts rising — no fangs or fur yet, but the pressure was there.
And you were almost out of time.
You had just started to reach beneath the mattress for the worn bottle — your second-to-last pill — when a chill prickled up your spine.
You weren’t alone.
You didn’t hear her enter.
You didn’t smell her.
She was just… there.
Wednesday stood at the edge of your bed, arms crossed over her chest, staring at you like you were a corpse she was seconds away from dissecting. The candlelight behind her turned her into a silhouette, but her voice cut through the darkness.
“You’ve been suppressing your true self.”
You flinched — just barely — but she saw it.
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheet with you even though modesty wasn’t the reason. You were sweating again. Your throat was dry. “Wednesday…”
“I can smell it on you,” she interrupted. “Even now.”
Your heart stuttered. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I disagree.”
She took a step closer. The floor didn’t creak. She moved like smoke — quiet, impossible, inevitable.
“You’ve been lying,” she continued, calm as always. “To me. To yourself. Dulling the animal inside you. Drugging yourself to avoid temptation.”
“I didn’t— it’s not like that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
Another step.
“I know what suppression smells like,” she said. “It’s sterile. Sharp. Like fear wrapped in science.”
You swallowed hard, the pill bottle now hidden under the covers, burning your palm with its presence.
“Why are you taking them?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Is it because of me?”
Your throat closed. “I didn’t want you to see that part of me.”
She studied you in silence. Then — softly, cruelly — she asked:
“The part of you that wants to pin me down and devour me?”
You choked on your own breath.
She was in front of you now, inches from the bed, her silhouette perfect, her mouth unreadable, her eyes glittering.
“I know how you look at me when you think I’m not watching,” she said. “You’re always trying to control it. Pretend you’re normal. But you’re not. You’re a creature made of instinct.”
You stayed silent. You couldn’t trust your voice.
Wednesday reached down — slow, deliberate — and lifted the edge of the blanket. Not to climb under it, but just enough to see the pill bottle clutched in your hand.
Her lips curled faintly.
“Is this what makes you safe?” she asked. “Or does it just make you weak?”
You couldn’t look at her.
“Stop taking them,” she said flatly.
You looked up. “Wednesday, if I stop—”
“You’ll want me.”
Your breath caught. She said it without hesitation. Without fear.
“That’s not the problem,” you rasped.
“No,” she said. “The problem is that you already do. And you’re still pretending not to.”
She reached out and touched your cheek. Her fingers were cool, her nails short but sharp.
“You’re not dangerous to me,” she said, almost gently. “You’re only dangerous when you try to be someone you’re not.”
You closed your eyes, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She smelled like nightshade and ink. It made your pulse race.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, voice cracking.
She leaned in, close enough for her lips to brush your ear.
“Then don’t hold back.”
You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the pill bottle before dropping it onto the mattress with a muted thud. Wednesday’s fingers were still resting against your cheek, cool and deliberate, and when you opened your eyes, you were met with the unblinking focus of hers—dark pools of ink that saw everything you were trying so hard to hide.
The restraint you’d spent months meticulously maintaining was unraveling.
You could feel it—the shift beneath your skin. Not the full change, not yet, but the slow, undeniable slide of your instincts taking hold. Every ragged breath you took was deep enough to taste her. The scent of her made your mouth water.
“You’ve been fighting it,” she murmured, tracing a slow path from your cheekbone to your jaw. “For how long?”
Too long.
You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your ribs, against your throat. When you spoke, your voice was lower, rougher than before.
“Since the first time I saw you.”
A slow, dangerous curve of her lips. “And yet, you let yourself think you could resist.”
Your breath hitched.
She leaned in, lips ghosting over yours—barely there, just enough for your body to arch instinctively toward her—then pulled back, watching the way your breath stuttered, the way you ached.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, dragging a single sharp fingernail down the center of your bare chest, stopping just above the waistband of your sweat-dampened pants.
You growled, low and feral—unable to stop yourself—and seized her wrist, pinning it against the mattress as you rolled her beneath you in one fluid motion.
Wednesday didn’t fight it.
She let you press her down, let your weight settle between her thighs, let your claws dig just enough to prick the delicate skin of her wrist—but she never looked away.
She liked it.
“There you are,” she murmured.
Then you kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was hunger.
Your teeth grazed her bottom lip hard enough to draw a sharp inhale from her, your tongue
Your tongue slid against hers with possessive insistence, swallowing the rare, breathless sound she made as you pinned her wrists overhead with one hand. The other roamed—fingers tracing the sharp angles of her collarbone, the rapid flutter of her pulse, the dip of her waist where her usual layers of black fabric had ridden up just enough for your claws to scrape teasingly against bare skin.
Wednesday arched beneath you, not in surrender but challenge, her knee brushing deliberately against the aching hardness between your thighs.
"You're still holding back," she whispered against your mouth, voice laced with that razor-edged amusement you both loved and resented.
Your restraint frayed further. With a growl, your hands slipped beneath the hem of her nightgown, tracing the outsides of her thighs in slow, deliberate strokes.
When your fingers dipped inward, tracing higher, she exhaled sharply, though her gaze remained defiant. Testing, you scraped a claw lightly over the delicate lace of her underwear—watching as her breath hitched, as her hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward your touch.
Yet still, she didn’t break.
So neither would you.
Leaning down, you nipped at the tendon of her neck, relishing the way her fingers twisted into the sheets for the barest second before she caught herself.
"Pathetic," she murmured, though the slight breathlessness in her tone betrayed her.
You smirked against her skin, lips brushing the shell of her ear as your hand finally—finally—slipped beneath lace, fingers gliding through slick heat.
"Say that again."
Wednesday’s breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—before she recovered, her midnight-dark eyes narrowing.
“Pathetic,” she repeated, voice low and taunting, though her hips tilted reflexively into your touch.
You rewarded her sharp tongue with the slow, deliberate stroke of your fingers between her legs, groaning softly against her throat as you found her already soaked
Fuck.
Your thumb circled her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her fingers tighten in your hair—whether to pull you closer or shove you away, you weren’t entirely sure. Maybe both.
“You’re lying,” you murmured, lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear as you pressed a second finger inside her, loving the way her body clenched around you.
Her jaw tightened, but she refused to give you the satisfaction of a moan.
So you took your time.
Your fingers moved in slow, rhythmic strokes—deep enough to make her back arch, then retreating just before she could chase the sensation. Again and again, until her breath came in uneven bursts, until her thighs trembled against yours, until her nails bit into your shoulders hard enough to hurt.
“You’re the one who told me not to hold back,” you reminded her, voice rough with desire.
Her response was a hiss of frustration—or maybe surrender—as you finally curled your fingers just right, dragging a sharp, choked gasp from her lips.
There.
You grinned, predatory and pleased, watching as her composure cracked—just for a second—before she forced it back into place.
“Wednesday,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her jaw.
She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in your hair.
“Don’t gloat.”
You laughed—dark, pleased—and obeyed.
By not stopping.
Your patience shattered.
With a growl, you wrenched her off the bed in one smooth motion, ignoring the crash of the overturned nightstand—the sound of glass breaking, something heavy thudding against the floor. None of it mattered.
Wednesday barely had time to react before your hands were on her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the dresser, her back pressing into the mirror with a muted thud. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, heels digging into the small of your back as you finally—finally—shoved your own pants down just enough to free yourself.
She hissed at the first brush of your cock against her thigh—hot, dripping, aching for her.
"You're—" she started, but whatever taunt she had prepared died in her throat as you lined yourself up and pushed inside, sinking into her in one smooth, devastating thrust.
She gasped, nails raking down your shoulders, her back arching as she took every inch of you.
"Fuck—" you groaned, forehead dropping to hers.
Tighter. Hotter. Better than you'd imagined in all those restless nights staring at her from across the room, pretending you didn't fantasise about this exact moment.
"You feel insane," you panted, voice croaky with need, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other tangled in her braids as you pulled her even closer.
Wednesday's breath was ragged, her usually composed expression fractured—a rare, beautiful unraveling just for you.
"Move," she demanded, the word trembling just slightly at the edges.
You obeyed.
With a sharp snap of your hips, you did—driving into her with a roughness that rattled the mirror behind her, that sent her head tipping back with a breathless sound you’d never heard from her before. You caught her throat in your teeth—not biting, not yet—just enough to feel her swallow against your lips, to hear the way her breath fractured into something desperate.
"Mine," you growled against her skin, hands tightening on her hips as you fucked her in deep, relentless strokes, each one aimed to drag a new, broken noise from her.
Wednesday, untouchable Wednesday, was shaking beneath you—her thighs gripping you like she’d kill you if you stopped, her nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. Her usual composure was coming apart in your hands, and you reveled in it.
"Say it," you demanded, lifting her chin with your fingers to force her to meet your gaze.
Her lips parted, her eyes black with lust and something dangerously close to fury that you’d made her like this.
"No."
You snarled, gripping the back of her neck and slamming into her hard enough to make the dresser creak in protest.
"Say. It."
A sharp gasp—her nails dug deeper.
"Yours," she finally hissed, voice ragged, hating how much she meant it.
You kissed her then, swallowing her frustrated moan as you fucked her through it, your own release barreling towards you.
She came first—her body clamping around you in silent, shuddering waves, her teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle the sound. The pain of it sent you over the edge, hips stuttering as your own climax
You didn’t stop.
Even as your release ripped through you, even as Wednesday’s body clenched around you in aftershocks, you didn’t stop.
Her breath hitched—the first flicker of real surprise in her eyes as you kept moving, your grip on her hips unforgiving as you pushed her through the oversensitivity.
"Wait—" she started, but the word dissolved into a ragged gasp as you dragged your cock out and then back in, slow and deliberate, watching her pupils blow wider.
You smirked, licking the sweat from her collarbone. "You don’t get to tell me to stop now."
Her thighs trembled—whether from exhaustion or renewed need, you weren’t sure—but her glare was as sharp as ever. "I’ll stab you."
You nipped at her jaw, breath hot against her skin. "You’d miss."
Then you pulled her off the dresser entirely, carrying her the few steps to the nearest wall and pinning her against it, her back pressed to the cold surface as you thrust into her again. Harder.
She choked—a broken, glorious sound—her nails scraping down your spine as you fucked her through the second wave, her body so tight around you it was maddening.
"You wanted this," you reminded her, voice rough with satisfaction. "You wanted me. So take it."
She answered by dragging your mouth to hers in a biting, messy kiss—all teeth and tongues and unspoken surrender.
The moment your lips crashed into hers, you knew she wasn’t surrendering.
She was claiming.
Wednesday’s teeth caught your lower lip hard enough to draw blood—the metallic tang exploding across your tongue as she pulled back, chest heaving, eyes black with something feral.
“Mine,” she snarled, hips tilting to take you even deeper, her body arching to meet every brutal thrust.
You saw red.
Gripping her thighs, you lifted her higher, slamming her against the wall with enough force to shake the frame of some long-dead Addams ancestor’s portrait loose. The impact tore a ragged moan from her throat—one she instantly smothered by biting down on your shoulder again, her legs locking like a vice around your waist.
You didn’t care.
You were too far gone—too consumed by the way her cunt fluttered around you, hot and wet and perfect, squeezing every inch of your cock as if she could force another orgasm out of you already.
“Fuck—Wednesday—” Your voice was raw, unrecognizable, your hips pistoning into her with a rhythm that was more animal than human now.
She didn’t answer—just dug her nails into the back of your neck, dragging you down to crush her mouth against yours in another searing, bloody kiss.
You didn’t just fuck her.
You ruined her.
Pinning her against the wall, you drove into her with a force that had her gasping, her usually razor-sharp composure fracturing with every brutal thrust. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the ancient wood behind her, the way her breath hitched as you angled your hips just right—God, she was perfection unraveling in your hands.
And she hated it.
Or at least, she pretended to.
Her nails raked down your back hard enough to leave red, stinging trails in their wake. “Is that all you’ve got?” she sneered, though her voice trembled just slightly on the last word.
A challenge.
You grinned—feral, unrestrained—and slammed into her harder.
She yelped, her thighs tightening around you instinctively as you hit that spot inside her that made her toes curl.
“You were saying?” you rumbled against her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point.
She opened her mouth—probably to hiss some venomous remark—but all that came out was a broken moan as you rolled your hips just so, grinding against her clit with every thrust.
Her body clenched around you, her back arching as she came—her orgasm crashing over her with silent, shuddering intensity.
You followed right after, burying yourself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a guttural groan, your forehead pressing against hers as you rode out the aftershocks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the slow drip of sweat between your bodies, the faint creak of the settling house.
Then Wednesday spoke.
“Disappointing.”
Your laugh was rough, breathless, your arms still locked around her.
You didn’t hesitate.
At her taunt, your hands tightened on her hips—ignoring her startled noise of protest—and you yanked her off the wall, tossing her onto the bed with a force that made the mattress groan.
She barely had time to scramble up onto her elbows before you were on her, pinning her thighs apart with your shoulders and lathing your tongue over her swollen clit with a single, brutal stroke.
"Fuck—!"
Her back arched off the bed, her hands flying to your hair—not to push you away, but to wrench you closer, fingers twisting in the roots hard enough to make your scalp burn.
You didn’t stop.
If she wanted to play cruel, you’d be ruthless.
You dragged your tongue through her slickness, savoring the way she tasted—bitter and sweet and hers—before sealing your lips around her clit and sucking hard.
Wednesday jolted, a broken sound tearing from her throat as her hips bucked against your mouth.
"Too much—" she gasped, her voice fraying at the edges.
You growled against her, sliding two fingers back inside her without warning, curling them just right as you flicked your tongue in relentless circles.
She shook, her thighs clamping around your head as another orgasm ripped through her—this one faster, sharper, her nails clawing at your shoulders as she came with a choked-off cry.
You didn’t let up.
When she tried to shove you away, you grabbed her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, your other thumb circling her oversensitive clit in slow, cruel presses.
"You don’t get to tap out," you snarled, your voice raw with lust. "Not after that fucking lie."
She bared her teeth, her chest heaving—but the way her body pulsed around your fingers betrayed her.
You smirked.
And bent your head again.
She’d regret calling you disappointing by the time you were done with her.
if i think too hard about nikki’s experience in Obsession i feel physically ill. imagine one second you’re just walking up to your house after a night out, and then the next, you’re looking out of your own body, but you’re not longer in control. you’re a prisoner to a terrible, unnatural version of yourself that only exists because of a choice someone else made. when you scream, nobody listens. when you claw your way out for long enough to explain that this isn’t you, nobody listens. when you beg the man who trapped you in this situation to put and end to it, to set your free, he just. doesn’t. listen. and then when you do finally regain control, all your friends are dead, and you are covered in their blood. because of a choice someone else made
Obsession (2026) really made it clear how the loss of your autonomy as a woman is absolutely terrifying, more often leading to losing your sense of identity along the way.
How some people miss the point of this movie is beyond me.
Your werewolf!boyfriend is insatiable. It doesn’t matter where you are or what time it is- is he gets hard its your responsibility to take care of it.
It could be in the back of a movie theater, your hand massaging his knot as you focus on the movie screen.
Or it could be in a groceries story family bathroom, you on your knees, saliva and cum dribbling down your chin as he fucks your face.
But it could also be in the quiet corner of a gym, your yoga pants pulled down to your ankles as he ruts into you, his snout buried in the crook of you neck to muffle his needy whimpers.
Today it just so happens to be in a dingy club bathroom. Theoretically this is probably the best place for surprise sex. Loud music, everyone’s drunk and so consumed in their own moments that they wont even notice the muffled moans coming from behind s bathroom door. If anyone can hear it over the music.
Your chest is pressed up against the cold graffitied wall, your leg hiked up as your boyfriend fucks into you again and again. You can feel the way his knot grows, each thrust threatening to be the last. “S-so perfect-“ he growls into your ear, nails digging into the soft skin of your hips.
All you can do is whimper, beading against your neck as his hot breath fans across your skin. “N-not inside-“ you plead, helpless as he picks up his pace. “Not inside! No! No no-“ you croak, body trembling as he forces himself inside one last time.
The stretch forces the air from your lungs. The way his knot throbs against your walls doesn’t help, cock flooding your pussy with hot sticky cum. “M’sorry,” he pants, wet tongue lapping against the nape of your neck, salty beats of sweat exploding on his tastebuds, “Guess you’re gonna have to keep on dancin’ with my cum inside you.” He almost sounds happy about it…
✨Pan-tastic✨ @bubblybarbs225 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
