𝐒ummery: After a day of high-tension and suburban unrest, Natalie Scatorccio arrives at the reader's house alone, driven by a restless "anger" that she needs to release. What follows is a raw, high-intensity sexual encounter fueled by Natalie’s characteristic roughness and competitive streak. She dominates the scene with an aggressive focus on the reader’s pleasure, using deep fingering, heavy nipple play, and torturous edging to push the reader to a shattering, drenching climax. The encounter concludes with a rare moment of soft aftercare, where Natalie dismisses the reader’s guilt over Jackie’s absence, choosing to prioritize her singular, possessive connection with the reader.
𝐏airing: angery!nat x fem!reader
Aggressive/Rough Sexual Content (Anger-driven, high-intensity)
Deep Penetration (Three and four fingers)
Detailed Oral & Manual Stimulation
Nipple Play (Pinching and pulling)
Squirting & Multiple Orgasms
Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Cum, Fuck)
Emotional Rivalry Themes (Jealousy and territorial behavior)
The air in your bedroom is heavy with the kind of suburban quiet that feels like the calm before a storm. You’re sprawled across the mattress, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds and casting long, golden slats across your sheets, but your mind is anywhere but peaceful. It’s hard to find a moment of stillness when you’re the literal center of gravity for two of the most volatile forces in your life.
Jackie Taylor and Natalie Scatorccio.
On paper, they shouldn't even be in the same room. Jackie is the quintessential crown princess of the suburbs, all polished perfection, high-waisted skirts, and a "Queen Bee" authority that she wears like a second skin. Natalie is the jagged edge to Jackie’s smooth surface—dark hair, heavy eyeliner, and a defiant, restless energy that seems designed to burn down everything Jackie stands for. They’ve spent most of their lives circling each other like stray cats in an alleyway, trading sharp barbs and icy glares that could freeze the blood in your veins.
The only thing they have in common is you.
It started as a competition, a frantic race to see who could claim your attention first. But somewhere along the line, that rivalry morphed into something much more complicated and much more physical. They don't like each other—in fact, on most days, they can barely stand the sound of the other one breathing—but the shared obsession with you has forced them into a fragile, high-tension truce.
Every time the three of you are together, the atmosphere is electric with a dangerous kind of friction. They don’t touch each other with affection; they touch each other to mark territory. If Jackie leans in to kiss you, Natalie is right there to pull you away, her eyes flashing with a "watch this" intensity as she claims your mouth even harder. If Natalie’s hands find their way under your shirt, Jackie is quick to intervene, not to stop the fun, but to make sure she’s the one providing the better sensation, the deeper pleasure.
They are constantly trying to outdo one another, using your body as the ultimate scoreboard. It’s a game of psychological warfare where the prize is your undone, gasping surrender. Jackie wants to prove she’s the one who knows you best, the one who can make you lose your mind with a single, calculated touch. Natalie wants to prove she’s the one you crave most, the one who can make you scream in a way that Jackie never could.
And right now, as you lay there in the silence of your room, you can practically feel the countdown. You know the peace won't last. Any minute now, the door is going to open, and the two of them are going to walk in, bringing that suffocating, competitive heat with them. They aren't coming over to hang out; they're coming over to fight for you, using their mouths and their hands as weapons in a war where the only thing that matters is who makes you come first—and who makes you come the hardest.
You reach for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a harsh glow that cuts through the dim afternoon light. A notification from Natalie is sitting right at the top.
Nat: can i come over? i’m losing my mind and i need to get some of this anger out.
You know exactly what that means. When Natalie is wound tight, she doesn't want soft words or a shoulder to cry on; she wants to lose herself in you. She’s the friction to Jackie’s polish—all teeth, bruised skin, and desperate, heavy breaths. She plays rough, pushing you right to the edge of what you can handle, but the silent trade-off has always been the aftermath. The second the storm passes, she becomes someone else—quiet, gentle, and almost heartbreakingly attentive, as if she's trying to apologize for the marks she left without having to say the words.
You tap out a quick reply, your heart already picking up speed.
You toss the phone back onto the pillows and let out a long breath. You know the routine. Natalie will be here in minutes, probably smelling like smoke and leather, her eyes dark with a restless, hungry energy. She’ll want to claim you before Jackie even thinks about showing up, marking you with an intensity that says you belong to her and her alone.
You lay back, staring up at the ceiling, listening for the sound of her heavy boots on the stairs. You know she’s going to be relentless today, and despite the "anger" she needs to release, you find yourself bracing for the heat of it. It’s only a matter of time before the front door clicks shut and the quiet of your room is replaced by the jagged, beautiful chaos that only Natalie Scatorccio can bring.
The house is eerily quiet, the kind of empty that makes every floorboard creak like a warning. You’re standing by the window when the door finally swings open, and there she is. Natalie looks like she’s been vibrating out of her skin—her hair is a tangled mess, her eyeliner is smudged, and she’s wearing that oversized leather jacket that makes her look twice as sharp as she already is.
She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. The air in the room shifts the second she locks eyes with you, turning heavy and charged with that familiar, restless static. You stand up from the bed, your legs feeling a little heavy, and meet her in the middle of the room.
Natalie closes the distance in two strides. She grabs the front of your shirt, her knuckles grazing your chest, and yanks you into her. The kiss isn't a greeting; it’s a collision. She tastes like a frantic need to forget everything outside these four walls. Her mouth is hard and demanding against yours, her tongue forcing its way in with a jagged, hungry rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs. It’s messy and desperate, the kind of kiss that leaves your lips stinging and your head spinning.
She groans into your mouth, a low, frustrated sound, and shoves you backward. Your calves hit the edge of the mattress, and before you can catch your balance, Natalie’s hands are on your shoulders, pinning you down. You fall back against the pillows with a soft thud, and she’s over you in an instant, her weight a solid, grounding pressure that shuts out the rest of the world.
She doesn't break the kiss as she settles between your thighs, her leather jacket cold against your skin, but her body is a furnace. She grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, while her other hand finds the hem of your shirt, her fingers digging into your waist with a grip that promises she isn't planning on being gentle.
Natalie doesn't bother with a warm-up. She’s past the point of teasing, her eyes dark and clouded with a restless, jagged hunger that demands an immediate outlet. She tears your shorts down your legs with a violent tug, her breathing coming in short, sharp hitches against the crook of your neck. You’re already slick, your body reacting to her frantic energy, but she doesn't care about finesse right now.
She catches your gaze for a split second—a look of pure, unadulterated desperation—before she bunches three fingerstogether and plunges them deep inside you in one heavy, decisive motion.
The sudden, thick stretch makes your eyes roll back, a shattered cry escaping your throat as your hips jerk upward off the mattress. It’s a massive, blunt intrusion that fills you completely, hitting your G-spot with a force that sends a shockwave of white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. Natalie doesn't give you a second to adjust; she starts a brutal, driving pace immediately, her knuckles thumping against you with every relentless thrust.
"Fuck," she gasps against your skin, her teeth grazing your collarbone, marking you. "I needed this. I needed you so bad."
She’s moving with a frantic, uncoordinated power, her thumb finding your clit and grinding into it with a broad, heavy friction that matches the rhythm of her fingers. Every time she drives her hand back into you, you feel the walls of your pussy stretching and gripping around her, trying to keep up with the pace she’s set. The wet, suctioning sound of her movements fills the quiet room, a messy, rhythmic beat that makes your face flush with heat.
You’re clawing at her leather jacket, your nails digging into the tough material as she ravages you. She’s pushing you further than you’ve ever gone, the friction of three fingers creating a searing, liquid heat that has you on the verge of a total meltdown. Natalie is relentless, her brow furrowed in concentration as she watches you unravel, using your body to burn off every ounce of the anger that brought her here.
"Don't you dare stop me," she growls, her pace getting even faster, her fingers hooking upward to catch that deep, sensitive curve over and over again. You’re shaking, your legs trembling so violently they’re kicking at the sheets, but Natalie just leans her full weight into you, pinning you down and driving you toward a climax that feels like it’s going to shatter you into pieces.
Natalie is a whirlwind of frantic, heavy motion, her breath hot and jagged against your ear as she continues to drive those three fingers into you. She’s not satisfied with just one way to make you lose your mind, though. With a frustrated growl, she momentarily releases her grip on your wrists, her hands flying to the hem of your shirt. She yanks it upward, the fabric catching on your chin for a split second before she tears it over your head and tosses it somewhere into the shadows of the room.
The cool air hits your damp skin, but it's immediately replaced by the searing heat of her palms. She cups your breasts with a possessive, rough weight, her fingers digging in as if she’s trying to merge your skin with hers. She stares down at you, her eyes wide and dark, watching your chest heave in the dim light.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this," she rasps, her voice a wrecked, broken sound.
She doesn't wait for a response. Her hand moves with a sharp precision, her thumb and forefinger catching your nipple—already swollen and hard from the adrenaline—and pinching it with a firm, authoritative pressure. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots straight down to where her fingers are still working you, and you let out a high, thin whine, your back arching off the sheets.
She begins to play with you with a restless, agonizing intensity. She rolls the sensitive peak between her calloused fingers, tugging and twisting it just enough to keep you on that jagged edge between pleasure and pain. Every time she pinches you, she drives her fingers deeper inside your pussy, timing the internal stretch with the external sting.
The dual sensation is too much; your brain is short-circuiting, your vision blurring as Natalie ruthlessly coordinates the assault on your senses. She’s using you as her anchor, her hands mapping out every inch of your reactions, her teeth catching her lower lip as she watches you come apart under her touch. She’s marking you with every pinch and every thrust, making sure that when the anger finally leaves her, you're the only thing left in its place.
Natalie’s breathing is a series of ragged, desperate hitches now, her forehead leaning against yours as she feels your body reaching that volatile, vibrating breaking point. She can feel the way your internal muscles are starting to twitch and seize around her hand, telegraphing the climax that’s about to hit.
But she isn’t ready to let the fire burn out yet.
"Wait, wait," she pants, her voice cracking with a mix of hunger and command.
She pulls her hand out just enough to reposition, and then, with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your eyes bulge, she forces a fourth finger inside you. The stretch is absolute. You let out a muffled, strangled sound against the pillows, your entire lower half feeling full to the point of bursting. You’re stretched so wide it’s an ache, a deep, heavy fullness that makes every nerve ending in your pussy scream.
She starts to move again, but she’s changed the rhythm. Instead of the frantic, angry pace from before, she slows down to a torturous, tectonic crawl. She drives all four fingers in to the hilt, holding them there until you’re whimpering and begging for the friction, then draws them out until they’re just barely hovering at the entrance.
"You want it so bad, don't you?" she whispers, her thumb hovering just a hair's breadth away from your swollen clit, refusing to touch it.
Every time you try to buck your hips to force the contact, she pushes you back down with the weight of her body, pinning you into the mattress. She’s edging you with a cruel, calculated precision. She’ll give you three hard, fast thrusts—making you think the release is finally coming—and then she’ll abruptly stop, leaving you suspended in that white-hot, agonizing space right before the cliff.
She reaches up, her fingers finding your nipple again and giving it a sharp, grounding pinch to distract you from the build-up below. Your breath is coming in short, high whines, your vision swimming with static. You’re so close that the air moving against your skin feels like a touch, but Natalie stays relentless, keeping you hovering in a state of pure, overstimulated tension, making sure you feel every single second of the desperation she’s forcing into you.
Natalie sees the way your eyes are rolling back, your fingers digging into the mattress so hard the fabric is bunching under your nails. You’re a mess of shaking limbs and broken gasps, completely at her mercy. The anger that brought her here has melted into something else—a raw, focused adoration that she only shows when you’re completely undone like this.
She leans down, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear, her voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper that vibrates through your entire skull.
"That's it," she rasps, her breath hot and shaky. "Break for me. Right now. You can cum, babe. Give it all to me."
The second she gives you permission, she drops all pretense of restraint. She plunges all four fingers back into you with a hard, relentless rhythm, her thumb finally crashing down onto your clit with a heavy, grinding friction that sparks behind your eyelids.
It’s like a dam breaking. You let out a long, shattered scream that’s muffled only by the pillows as you cum. It’s a violent, full-body earthquake that starts in your core and radiates outward until your toes are curling and your back is arched in a rigid, beautiful bow. Your pussy seizes around her hand in a series of tight, desperate pulses, milking her fingers as you squirt, a hot, drenching rush of cum soaking Natalie’s hand and the sheets beneath you.
The world goes white. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; there is only the rhythmic, soul-shaking throb of your climax and the solid, grounding weight of Natalie pinning you down.
As the peak finally begins to fade into a tingling, exhausted haze, Natalie doesn't pull away. She slows her fingers to a gentle, pulsing vibrato inside you, her forehead coming down to rest against your shoulder. Her breathing is just as wrecked as yours, her heart hammering against your ribs. The jagged edge she walked in with is gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy stillness as she holds you through the aftershocks.
The room is thick with the scent of sex and the fading adrenaline of Natalie’s release. The frantic, angry energy she walked in with has completely dissolved, leaving behind a heavy, quiet tenderness. She slides her hand out of you with a slow, careful drag and immediately pulls you into her side. Her leather jacket is discarded on the floor now, and she draws you flush against her chest, her arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just rests her chin on top of your head, her fingers tracing idle, ghost-like patterns over the skin of your arm. It’s that rare, soft version of Natalie that she only ever lets you see—the one that doesn't need to fight the world for five minutes.
You lie there for a moment, listening to the steady, slowing thrum of her heart against your ear, but a nagging thought finally pushes its way to the surface.
"Nat?" you murmur, your voice still a little wrecked and airy from the climax.
"Yeah?" she rasps, her thumb smoothing over your shoulder.
"I kind of... I feel a little guilty," you admit, shifting slightly to look up at her. "Doing this without Jackie. We’re supposed to be a throuple, you know? It feels like we’re leaving her out."
Natalie doesn't tense up, but she let’s out a short, dry huff of a laugh that vibrates through her chest. She doesn't look at the door or check her phone; she just keeps her eyes on yours, her expression completely unbothered. She knows exactly how much Jackie loves to be the center of attention, and she knows exactly how much this would irritate her if she walked in right now—which, for Natalie, is half the fun.
"Whatever," Natalie mutters, her voice dropping back into that familiar, dismissive shrug of a tone. She pulls you even tighter against her, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if to seal the conversation. "She’ll get over it. Or she’ll just make us make it up to her later. Honestly? I don't care. Right now, I just wanted you."
She presses a final, lingering kiss to your temple, her eyes closing as she settles into the pillows, leaving the guilt for another time and another person.
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