A/n: this makes no sense and is hella rushed, but fuck it
Summary: All you wanna do for the summer is work as much as possible to avoid your new stepmother, no matter the cost on your body and mind. Your rich stepmother seems appalled by the idea, forcing you on a weekend getaway with her to... bond.
Wordcount: 4k
Warnings: Step-parent, the most unoriginal plot in existence, mommy kink, dom/sub, mock sympathy, pet names, praise kink, age gap (R=mid 20s, W=early 40s), smut, somnophilia, grinding, mild dub-con, humping, fingering, perv Wanda, rich people
The cracked handle of the broom is clutched loosely in your hand as you take in the massacre before you.
Countless cereal boxes are scattered along the floor, some slowly seeping out more work for you as pebbles and crumbs ooze from the broken plastic seals. Drifting in an ocean of Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Cheerios, you get closer to the source of your interrupted break.
It seems that during your fifteen-minute lunch break, the cereal aisle exploded.
Clusters of cereal lie strewn along the floor with strange voids in the middle, like a shitty murder mystery, just that instead of a body being outlined by white tape, it was more like a blob monster drawn with Cheerios.
It wasn’t the first time either- this is the third time just this week that you’ve had to clean it up.
Safe to say, your workplace has a cereal killer on the loose.
The squeak of obnoxiously loud sneakers screeches to a halt on the opposite side of the murder scene. A shadow falls across the dire situation as murder suspect #1 completely disregards the mess in front of you. Instead, the boom of hands colliding with each other has you raising your brows in annoyance.
“Why are you just standing there? Come on, we need you at the registers, chop chop!” Kyle, your asshole of a manager, doesn’t waste a second to hear your response, already halfway across the room before you can open your mouth. His condescending clapping still echoing down the hall with his retreat.
If it weren’t for the fact that he always gave you the shifts you wanted, you would’ve made him the murder outline by now. However, as it stands, he’s the only reason you get out of the house as much as you do, so with a huff, you get to work.
To say your time back from Uni has been dull would be an understatement. The thought drifts somewhat loosely in your head as you clock out at the end of your shift. It’s late, the time trickling into midnight as you make your way across the parking lot.
Mindlessly kicking a rock around, it jumps over bumps and crashes against divots in the pavement. The gentle clatter of stone striking is suddenly overpowered by the honk of a car.
The air shifts, her presence layers itself like something tangible until it slathers against the inside of your throat. You can’t escape the jump of your pulse or the squeeze of your lungs as headlights illuminate you in the darkness.
You attempt an on-foot escape from the familiar Porsche closing in on you. Your shoe digs into your heel, the bent material has become a near-constant ache as it aggravates the blister that brewed long ago. A slick dribble of blood smears itself against your white sock, spreading until a ring of red peeks over the edge of your shoe.
The voice of your stepmother follows your hasty retreat, but your ignorance is short-lived as Wanda points an accusatory finger through her rolled-down window.
“Nuh uh, no avoiding me today, baby Bambi.” The pet name runs through you like a splash of cold water, sending chills down your spine as you freeze in your path.
Wanda points to the passenger seat, undeterred by your initial resistance. It has become a dance between you and your stepmother since you came home for the summer. She would insist that you both do something together, to bond or whatever, while you would take on extra hours and avoid her religiously.
She has tried to pick you up from work multiple times now, but you would pretend you didn’t see her, simply walking past or hitching a ride with a coworker.
You know it’s rude, but you’d rather be rude than admit that you have a crush on your own stepmother.
There is no telling how it festered, but since the moment you laid your eyes on her, she’s consumed you. The idea of spending more time with her than strictly necessary sinks like a weight into the pit of your stomach.
You’d rather she hate you than be disgusted by your perverted crush.
Besides, you are well over the age where you need to bond with your father’s partner. It’s not like it will last anyway, anyone with a pair of eyes can tell they married for business’s sake. Your father owns a rather lucrative business in the corporate world, a business that just so happens to have been your stepmother’s business rival until the two CEOs supposedly found love.
Yeah, love is what you would call the new car in your dad’s driveway and him stepping down to let Wanda handle both businesses.
There was no telling why she hadn’t left him yet.
Today would be another one of your elusive instances if it weren’t for the look she is giving you. It’s stricter than usual, with a tightness around her mouth and firmness in her eyes.
With a sigh, you climb into the passenger seat. A waft of rich perfume engulfs your tired frame. It creeps over your skin like a second layer, spreading the warm scent of cinnamon and cherry over your sweat-stained uniform. Wanda regards you with a strange fondness in her eyes as your slumped frame not so subtly leans toward her in pursuit of the smell's source.
Wanda is dressed more homely today, her blond hair slung into a side part and her face void of makeup. Even her clothing choice is far beyond the usual. You’ve gotten used to the blazers and form-fitting dress pants over the past few weeks, but today she’s in a simple white shirt coupled with some washed jeans.
The sluggishness of your exhaustion must be doing a number on you, as you don’t even realize you’re staring until a touch against your leg startles you.
A hand settles, palm up, on your thigh as she drives out of the parking lot. The shitty fabric of your work pants does little to diffuse the heat that radiates from her. A strange lump forms in your stomach at the thought of heat spreading elsewhere, as her patience seems to run thin. “Come on, hand it over.”
You blink in confusion, looking over to where her eyes stay glued to the road, in question.
She glances at you, a hint of amusement and something you’ve never seen on her, flashing across her features, “Your phone. You know the rules, honey.”
Ah right…
It was one of the weird things she had started implementing into your life.
The rules.
Most of them were fairly easy: keep your room clean, wash the dishes when it’s your turn, and help make dinner when you aren’t working. Then there were the stranger ones. Suddenly, you had a curfew at 10 pm outside of work hours, you weren’t allowed on your phone in Wanda’s vicinity, and only approved guests could stay over.
Knowing there is no point in making a fuss about it, you fish your phone out before dropping it gently into Wanda’s waiting palm. She opens the middle console and puts it in before leaning over slightly to pat your thigh in reward.
“Well done, darling. Thank you.”
The pet names are another odd addition to Wanda’s involvement in your life. Though they are always sweet, they make you squirm. People in your life never really use nicknames, or pet names, or anything other than your name when they are referring to you.
Wanda is an anomaly in your preferably predictable life.
The crunch of gravel beneath the tires lulls you out of your thoughts. The car drums gently atop the small rocks, some of them knocking against the rim in a soothing hiss that rings through the quiet car.
However, it does confuse you. The road back to your dad’s place doesn’t have any gravel roads. Now that you’re thinking about it, you're pretty sure Wanda is driving the wrong direction altogether.
“Where are we going?”
The slim silence while Wanda seems to ponder her wording makes a drop of sweat drip down your back, “My apartment. Your father is gone for the weekend, and I thought we girls should bond a little.”
Your sluggish mind takes a moment to catch up, merely staring at her, until it hits you like a slap in the face. Spending more time with her addicting presence is the last thing you should be doing. If Wanda had any sense in her, she would see why you avoid her and run for the hills.
“Wan-”
Her hand, not currently occupying the steering wheel, is in your face. Squishing your cheeks together harsher than necessary, Wanda tsks, “No. I don’t want to hear it. Is it really that horrible to spend time with me?”
Fingertips release you from her hold, instead, they glide softly along your cheek. It hypnotizes you, your need to comfort her is stronger than your will to stay away: “No, of course not.”
A happy hum is all you get before her warmth is gone, both hands on the wheel and eyes staying strictly forward as Wanda keeps driving. “Good. Then it’s decided.”
You sigh your agreement.
────୨ৎ────
A lone chair sits in Wanda's luxurious hallway. It’s the first thing you notice, its rich brown color absorbs some of the warm light filtering from above. It’s a stark contrast from the rest of the white hall.
Paintings are scattered across both sides of the hallway, the illustrations vary, some abstract pieces hanging above the coatrack while a far too explicit painting of a woman engaging in… some interesting acts… sits atop the door that you assume leads to the living room.
You squirm where you stand, twisting your fingers as blush crawls up your neck. Wanda’s soft chuckle directly behind you does little to diffuse the sudden tension tightening your stance.
“Come here.”
There is no time to react before Wanda pushes you onto that neat little chair.
The groan of wood falls on deaf ears as all your senses hone in on Wanda’s hands. Fingers slide against your knees, the pressure of her fingertips pushing against the stiff material of your pants before grasping your ankle. Words choke themselves, stuck as your stepmother inspects your bloodied sock.
Blond tresses sway against your exposed skin as she lifts your pants for a better look. A dried slab of blood clings to your skin, a smudge of red festering on the back of your shoe where the broken back resides.
A suspiciously handy med-kit resides under the chair, Wanda getting to work with a quiet, “Poor baby.”
You stay silent as she goes through the motions of cleaning your bloody blister before adding a silly-themed band-aid over it. Leaning back on her knees with one last pat to your heel, Wanda eyes your destroyed shoes before looking back at you.
“I fear those will have to go.”
You know she’s right: if not for your bleeding heel, then the fact that the soles are practically nonexistent by now. Still, you can’t help the tears that build in your eyes at the news. You know you’re just tired and being stupid, but you really like these shoes.
The thought of fighting against her words must flash across your face because Wanda clicks her tongue before you have the chance to open your mouth.
“Now now, I know you’re tired, but there is no reason to throw a tantrum, baby Bambi.”
A stunned stillness settles over you at her words, it’s infuriating how she belittles you, yet some small part of you blooms under the condescending tone that drips so sweetly from her tongue.
The pitter-patter of Wanda’s socked feet hitting the wooden flooring as she starts walking away from you almost has you on your knees begging for forgiveness before she stops.
Illuminated by the bathing light of the living room, Wanda stands directly under her unique art. The warm orange bounces against her loose curls, leaving a strange dreamlike effect as her words float around the far too empty space between the two of you.
“Now, come, it’s late and mo- and I don’t want more attitude in the morning.” The soft murmur of her voice fades away from you as she turns, leaving you to force your depleting strength into your muscles and dart after her at what you hope is an appropriate speed.
Wanda leads you into a guest room, leaving with a curt goodnight.
It all seems awfully rushed to you. You know it’s probably for the best, the mere sliver of affection she granted you today already having left an addiction buzz inside your head.
But you’re greedy.
You want more.
It’s the last thought you have before you succumb to the strangeness of tonight, drifting in an ocean of cinnamon and cherry as your head hits red silk.
────୨ৎ────
The cusp of darkness lies like a shroud above you as you wake up. Something is pushing toward you, heat engulfing your tired frame. Seconds tick by in a meaningless fashion before your mind catches up to the tickle of blonde tresses against your back.
It seems that sometime in the night, Wanda has come back for you. She cocoons around you, pushing in at strange intervals.
You almost ask her if something is wrong before a sound submerges your train of thought.
Wanda’s scattered breath weighs heavily in the air. Sounds you have never heard from her before now moaned directly into your ear.
It stuns you into silence as you focus on her movements.
Hips buck against your back, seeking pleasure in your unassuming form. Wanda grinds gently, like waves cruising along the coastline, back and forth in smooth motions. Her sleeping shorts ruffle on your lower back, bunching with the movement of her hips and pressing into you.
You can hear her breath grow heavier by the second, puffing against the shell of your ear. The last remnants of slumber burn away from you as your own breath hitches in your throat. You wonder what she’s dreaming about.
At least you think she’s dreaming…
The lips resting against your neck expose Wanda's pleasure as she moans silently, “Fuck, I can’t stop… Baby Bambi, fuck.”
The sound of her sends a shiver through you. She isn’t dreaming. Your stepmother is humping your sleeping form because she wants you.
Needs you.
You have to suppress the need to grind back into her desperately. It’s like a sickness, her desperation bleeding into your own as your breath grows quicker.
A hand sneaks beneath your t-shirt. The warmth of her palm travels up- up- up until she’s cupping one of your tits gently. Fingers circle the sensitive flesh of your nipple, not hard enough to rouse any real reaction, but constant enough for the wetness between your thighs to grow.
“You feel so good, baby Bambi.”
The ache in your chest explodes at her words, leaving you to pant against the sheets as you try to keep quiet. You fear what would happen if she knew you were awake, the thought of her stopping almost lets a whine slip past your slack lips.
Her other hand palms against your side now, gripping your hips lightly before braving the path down. She skims over your lower stomach, pushing you deeper against Wanda’s moving hips before she’s rubbing a teasing pressure against your underwear.
Two fingers rub in circular motions, only interrupted by her wild jerking. Wanda’s fingers drag a path across the sticky wetness of your pussy. She tests the stretch of your underwear, pushing against your opening before retreating and returning to your clit.
The bucking turns rougher, with sporadic jumps followed by a drawn-out “Baby, fuck-”
You squeeze your eyes shut, begging for the mercy of her mounting pleasure before you come in your panties, untouched, and reveal yourself. Instead, there is a murmur against your neck, something that sounds suspiciously like “fuck it,” before soft lips trail kisses against the back of your neck.
The movement of her hips stops, then her haughty voice breaks the newfound stillness: “I know you’re awake.”
For a moment, the world freezes as a thousand thoughts drift through your head.
Has she known the entire time?
Were you not supposed to wake up?
Is she mad at you?
But your inner panic is cut short as a thigh pushes itself between your legs. The warmth of her is a stark contrast to the wet patch sticking to the inside of your thigh.
Her hands shift to hold your hips firmly as she starts rocking you with her movement, surrendering you to her mercy as she drags you against the meat of her thigh. Your swollen clit strains against the soaked fabric of your underwear, the flimsy material the only hindrance between your flesh and hers.
“Let mommy take care of you, hm, what do you say, baby?”
A desperate keen is the only response she gets as she flips you.
The weight of a body pins you flat against the bed, coarse fabric pushing along your back as her chest settles atop you. Rougher hands lift until your hips wag in the air.
“You really thought mommy wouldn’t notice, baby?”
There is not a moment of wasted breath before your underwear is quickly pushed to the side and her fingers plunge into you. The naughty noise of wet squealing and your surprised moans bounce against the bedroom walls.
“Fuck, well done, baby Bambi, you take me so well.” The hair on the back of your neck drifts with her words as they blow over your skin. Wanda’s pushing against her hand, humping you as she fucks you roughly.
She grunts deeply, “Can mommy tell you a secret?”
The pads of Wanda’s fingertips rail against your sweet spot repeatedly, her words barely hanging on to meaning. She laughs at your pathetic cries, pushing your head further into the sheets. A pool of saliva turns the white fabric sheer.
Her moans grow in volume with your own, the both of you speeding toward pure bliss.
“Shit, I've been thinking about this for so long.”
Your skin surrenders to her teeth as they lodge into your shoulder.
“Ever since I first saw you, mommy knew you needed her.”
She forces your head to the side before she’s kissing you deeply, a tongue forcing its way down your throat. Wanda licks into you as if she's starving, drinking your spit like it’s one of her expensive wines. Her pace speeds up, hurling you toward pleasure faster than you can keep up.
The pressure in your stomach grows and grows, your crying spreading spit across both of your faces.
Wanda hushes you, “Oh, I know, baby, I know.”
“You’ve been working so hard trying to hide from mommy, haven’t you, baby Bambi?”
Her voice grows louder, hinting at how deeply she is affected by her own words.
“It’s why you’re going to quit your job and spend your time with me.”
The fingers inside of you are the only thing you can focus on as you moan your answer.
Wanda releases you from her hold, sitting up on her knees until she towers over your frame. The sweet bliss of your orgasm fades away as she takes her fingers with her. You whine, tears springing to your eyes as the taste of your denied relief sits strong on your tongue.
“Will you do what mommy tells you?
Your ass pushes against her crotch, a small cry of frustration the only sound you manage to make as she palms your ass. You twist your neck all the way to see her, her question going unheard as the sight of her licking your arousal off her fingers consumes you.
The pink of her tongue curls around her digits, dragging across the wet pads of her fingertips seductively slowly. Wanda holds eye contact all the while you watch helplessly, wanting nothing more than for the fingers to drive back into you. A moan rumbles from deep in Wanda’s throat, your answering whine going ignored as she refuses to touch you.
Wanda clicks her tongue, the mental timer ticking down to its end tally.
A slap rings through the bedroom like a gunshot, almost louder than the keening moan that tears through you.
It startles you enough to have words spilling out of you faster than you can comprehend them,
“Yes! Yes, whatever you want! Please, mommy, anything!”
You barely know what you’re saying. Your words are nothing more than nonsensical babble, but it must have made her happy because her fingers come back, railing you harder than ever before. Wanda is back to humping you too, pushing her fingers deeper as she grinds into you.
“There you go, good girl!”
You can’t hear her anymore, the pressure in your stomach is now balancing on a needle’s point. It’s overwhelming: the thickness of your desire choking you, and you begin to fight against her grip. You don’t know what you’re doing, your mind far away as your body fights the inevitable.
Her weight settles back over you as she shushes you gently, her words soft even as her fingers continue their drilling into your wet hole.
“Hush, baby, you’re okay. You’re okay, give in. You can give in now.”
You whine, a panicked noise your only response as the feeling inside of you reaches its limit. It feels like you’re going to explode, the feeling stronger than you have ever felt it before. It blisters inside you, festering onto every nerve, expanding the numbing pleasure from the tips of your fingertips and down to your toes.
Wanda pushes your face into the pillows, the suffocating lack of air, strangely enough, sending you flying over the edge. The loud moaning and jerking against your back tell you that Wanda came right with you.
It’s the last thought you have before the void plunges you in headfirst.
A hazy flicker of static hums inside you as you float far above your own mind. Dim lights simmer beneath your eyelids, a pattern of no sense or reason drawing across your mind like a gentle embrace. Warmth envelopes you, a soothing voice cooing at you while wetness and sweat are wiped away with soft hands.
You’ve just returned to your body when Wanda slides back next to you in bed—all resemblance of space a laughable notion now. Her voice drifts along your residual softness, “Well done, my beautiful girl. You’ll call your manager in the morning, and then we’ll talk. Let's sleep.”
Her palm brushes your cheek before she leans down to plant a sweet kiss atop the red flush. You hum your agreement, the previous conversation long gone from memory. But if it’s what mommy wants, then it’s what she’ll get.
Wanda wraps around you, her body curling into your own as her hand cups you carefully.
it’s so interesting when fics are like portraying overstim as a thing that only feels good like sooo many people leave out how you tense up and feel sore or how your muscles start aching where you keep tensing up when you feel close, how it’s harder to stay still bc it feels kind of painful and yes it is pleasurable but it’s exactly how it sounds. VERY overstimulating LMAO idk just thought i’d say that
since you guys adored my past drabble (you guys are gay as hell), here’s wanda being mommy while daddy nat uses the strap LMAO
alsoooo happy pride!
tw: spiting, mommy/daddy kink, slightly dark!nat
you grip the sheets between your fingers, fabric slippery against your sweaty palms. you cry as your head continues to fall forward against their instructions, causing a smack to land on your left cheek from behind and a giggle to come from the woman infront of you. you whine as wanda moves to grip your chin and hold your head up, your eyes screwing shut to avoid her piercing gaze. she clicks her tongue “open those eyes pretty girl, look at mommy…come on.” she encourages while harshly squeezing your cheeks together, the condescending tone with the grip on your jaw makes a rush of heat spark down between your legs. you release a small moan as your eyes open and meet her own, the green in her irises almost gone at the size of her pupils.
a smile escapes her at the vision before her, cheeks blushy, your lips glossy and kiss swollen, skin on your forehead glimmering with a layer of dampness, small pants and whimpers escaping you at every push your body gave forward.
her eyes travel up your spine and hips, held in natasha’s strong grip. her knuckles white as the harness moves rhythmically with her body as she pounds the silicone into you. her heavy breasts clad in a balconette bra, each thrust making the soft mounds ripple in their confines—already close to spilling out. “pussy likes being stretched f’me huh?” the redhead asks, prompting a quick nod after the lesson she’d taught you about answering her when questioned. wanda smirks at your submission, looking back at your body in front of her. in natasha’s grip, the top of one of your cheeks holding more color than the other, a chuckle escaping wanda at the knowledge that the heated skin was a result of the multiple hits the redhead gave you to ensure your obedience after a long day of you testing both women’s boundaries.
natasha’s hand moves up your spine and create a makeshift ponytail with your hair, holding your head up straight. “yeah? no back talk now huh?” she says with a pant as she moves your hips and angles them to hit a deeper spot, making you cry. “bet you felt so smug earlier hm?” she asks as you attempt to pull away from her but her free hand pulls you back. “you’re ours…we control you, we mold you, we let you get away with things only because we decide to, but that can change,” she pants griping your hair tighter and leans forward to talk directly into your ear with a smirk. “just because you haven’t fully seen our bad side doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” she says making you whimper. “don’t test us again little girl.”
wanda watches as natasha comes back up behind you and her hand moves to land a hard smack on your unmarked cheek to solidify the warning she gave. a strangled groan slips out of you making natasha’s smirk grow wider as she looks up and sees her wife infront of your trembling body holding your chin up.
wanda smiles at her wife before she looks back down at your smooshed cheeks and coos. “naughty girl…see what all those decisions cost you? back talking your mommy all day, making daddy upset when you stormed off at dinner…” your lips purse as if to pout making her tut before her grip tightens on your jaw squeezing your cheeks together to open your mouth for her. “nuhuh baby open up,” she says, making your lips part with her grip and letting you free once your jaw hags open for her, eyes heavy as pants and whines left you, body rocking forward repeatedly.
you watch with hazy eyes as she tilts your chin up and spits, saliva trailing from her lips to your own. “swallow” your own body obeys before you have a chance to think making her smile. “so well trained,” she praises, “see, i knew you could be a good girl.” she coos tracing the line of your cheekbone, finally allowing you to close your eyes and get lost in the feeling of the silicone pumping in and out of you.
natasha’s grip is tight on your hips not allowing you to change the pace of her thrusts. “just needed us to remind you hm? needed to be reigned in?” wanda says watching your head fall forward slightly, tone sweet with condescension as the redhead behind you smirks watching her wife make a mess of you and tugs your hair again at your silence making you yelp, “answer.” she demands her thrusts picking up speed and force, her strong thighs continuing to slap against your shaking limbs. “yes! yes, f-mm y-yes!” you cry.
“tell us baby, tell us you learned your lesson.” wanda says moving stray pieces of hair behind your ear. “i-i’ll be good! promise!” you yelp as natasha grips your hips closer to her. she huffs, “you can do better.” you feel tears on your eyes at the concentration you couldn’t muster.
“go on,” wanda prompts as your eyes screw shut to hold in tears, feeling your orgasm near as your mind struggles to form coherent thoughts. “answer and we’ll let you cum.” natasha encourages letting go of your hair and griping your hip as her other hand moves to find your clit. you wreck your brain for words—any words to please them.
“ah! i’ll-i’ll be good, i won’t be rude, i-i promise mommy please! please i’m g’nna cum!” you cry holding back on the precepus of your peak. “good girl,” natasha praises rubbing your numb urging you closer. “are you gonna cum sweet girl?” wanda asks. “y-yes!” your thighs shake as your core pulsates around the moving member inside it.
“go on baby, come for us.” the redhead moves her hips without pause, your peak coming as soon as the words leave her mouth. you arrive with shaking thighs and tense limbs, your face portraying your pleasure for the woman infront of you making her smile, “such a pretty sight.” she says.
you come down slowly and continue to feel the burn of pleasure between your legs, the sensation felt deeper, more intense as you fully settle from your peak. a cry escaped you, feeling the redhead continue her moves on your now sensitive body, “s’too much!” you yelp, voice horse, the edges of the pleasure you felt now boarder on pain. “oh poor baby…we are far from finished.” she says pouting behind you as her skilled fingers move quickly on your twitchy nub. you moan weakly as your body feels on fire, now knowing this was only the very beginning of their lesson.
synopsis → 5.4k intro chapter to the series…your mission to take down the nameless assassin doesn't go according to plan.
warnings → violence/graphic violence, trauma, dark themes, guilt (emotional/psychological distress), death and murder, betrayal, red room mentions, lmk if i missed anything!
notes → hi this is my first series…i hope you guys enjoy!! (Blyat’ = fuck)
The smell of stale cigarette smoke and carpet cleaner circled the room like a tidal wave. Even with the windows cracked, the smell lingered—the kind of stench that’d cling to your clothes if you were in the room for more than five minutes. You were now seriously regretting not fighting Fury on his choice of hotel. Of course, he’d picked the more modest choice rather than the more luxurious hotel where the banquet you were currently monitoring was being held.
You rubbed the side of your nose and looked around the dimly lit room. Maria was a few feet away from you at the desk, one of the few amenities provided by the management, setting up surveillance of the banquet on one of the three computer monitors. Fury stood in the corner of the room, stoically looking out at the streets of Budapest in front of the lone window.
“God, that smell is singing off my nose hairs,” Clint said as he stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a clean, freshly pressed suit. His previous attire—black long sleeve and a pair of jeans—was rolled into a ball under his arm.
Maria huffed as she finally managed to crack into the surveillance of the ballroom. “Well, the proximity made it much easier for the hotel’s Wi-Fi to reach here,” she said, standing up after being hunched over a chair for a few minutes. Everyone was exhausted. The plane ride over had been anything but relaxing, sitting in the same section with a crying baby between the rows you’d been in for 10 hours, meant you were all running off fumes of coffee and maybe 2 hours of sleep.
You shook your head with a smile at Clint’s words, sitting on the edge of the squeaky bed, reading over the file you’d already memorized. Your own research, printed neatly in dark black lines of pretty Times New Roman font.
Your search for more information about the Widow program had taken months—days of looking through data files, footage, and interviews—that led you here. You’d been looking through assassinations that followed specific patterns that these “Widows” used. Seduce, entrance, kill. Their MO was what you tracked for months before you caught a more specific pattern in the kills. That’s what led you to her. There were many women in the program, but this one was… different.
She stood out, whether it was the effectiveness and brutality of her kills—it called out to you. The way she skillfully ended someone’s life and purposely made them suffer made you realize that, more than a handful of the cases had to have come from the same trained hand.
After graduating with your degree in Criminal Justice from University and following your father’s footsteps, joining S.H.I.E.L.D., doing years of training, skill practice, and missions upon hours of service brought you to where you were now—a ranked seven teammate who had the ability to go through years of evidence and that now, had enough research and concrete data to bring this case up to your superiors, who sent you in to take this assassin out on her next kill.
The assassin’s kills had been on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar for years, but only after extensive profiling and investigating, you were the one who connected the dots, found her, and had a backed-up theory about who her next victim would be.
She went under many aliases: Katya, Vesna, Nicholya, Lida, Nataliya, but you found her.
Her kills were more than just skilled; they were calculated. She offered herself off to these men in power, and, of course, they followed her like dogs wherever she took them. Her method was key to finding her. Many men wanted a submissive woman, and she played the part perfectly, that’s what got them hooked.
You’d become obsessed with finding her—your nameless, faceless assassin.
“The smell isn’t that bad once you get used to it,” Fury said from his spot at the window. “Smells kinda earthy to me.”
His words knocked you out of your spiral, making you huff and set the manila file down. “That would be the mold,” you corrected. You knew to keep the war inside your head just that—inside your head. You'd never let that affect the way you worked or the efficiency of your skills, you’d gone through so much just to fuck up now.
“Or mildew,” Clint added as he moved to stand in front of a mirror to straighten out his suit and put on his bow tie. You smiled and stood to wipe your hands on your pantsuit as you moved past the glowing computer monitors and walked to where he was standing to help him adjust the tie.
“Mildew or mold,” he sighs and looks toward the horizon of the setting sun before adding, “The internet is strong, and vision is clear. Plus, we have access to cameras within a 10-mile radius,” Fury said as he turned and moved toward the monitor setup. “If she runs, we’ll know where to.” He added as Maria moved to grab Clint’s comms device.
“I won’t let her get the chance to,” Clint said nonchalantly as you moved to stand in front of him—the man who’d really, truly helped you and took you under his wing as a newbie, helping you climb the ladder to get to where you were now—his equal in rank.
He smiled, seeing you stand before him, take the tie from his hands, and start to assemble it yourself, just like you had observed people do all through your youth.
“You’re going to need to learn how to tie these yourself one day,” you said as you wrung the fabric through the loops with practiced ease.
“Not when I have you to help,” he said, making you smile and roll your eyes playfully before you finished and adjusted it to his liking.
“That feel fine?” you asked, meeting his eyes and seeing him nod.
He took your hand before you could remove it from the fabric. “He’d be proud of you. Your dad. He’d be proud of you for accomplishing this,” he said, making you pause momentarily.
The assassination of your father wasn't something hard for you to talk about. It hurt, but you'd always dreamed of finding the people responsible and getting justice for your father—that’s the real reason you’d gone after the Widows, the women’s kill method was too similar to his own passing.
The heat of his chest seeping through his shirt and into your hand, brought you out of your trance. Clint knew. He knew what this case meant to you, how hard you’d worked, how much you’d sacrificed to finally get to this point. He got it—more than anyone ever would.
You nodded with a soft smile. “Yeah… yeah, I know he would be,” you said before Maria came up behind you with the comms device in her hands.
“Clint, this is yours—one in the left ear. Make sure it’s snug. The point is that no one sees them,” Maria said as she handed him the small earpiece. He adjusted it, showing her the positioning, and she gave a curt nod in approval.
“That’s your good ear, right?” she asked, making him huff while nodding. You turned to her with a raised brow.
“What? I had to ask and make sure,” she responded, already walking away, making you chuckle before she slipped back behind the monitor and spoke into a mic.
“Hawkeye, you copy?” Her words crisply came through the device into Clint’s ear, making him nod. She smiled before pulling up the ballroom footage.
“Remember, if we want to get her, we do not engage under any circumstances. We want her out of there and away from the public eye,” you turned to her with a confused face.
The whole point of catching her was to stop the killing, and here you were, apparently willing to let her kill another man for the benefit of who-knows-who. Clint’s eyes met your own with a questioning look. “We’re going to let her kill him?” you asked, breaking eye contact and looking at Fury.
“We can’t engage,” he repeated, making your brows furrow further. Were you really going to do this? Was finding the person responsible for your father’s demise worth killing another man? You turned back to Clint, his jaw tensing and his face hardening slightly as he took in Fury’s words while looking at the man.
“This is a highly sought-out, invitation-only party. These people are influential. S.H.I.E.L.D. cannot risk exposing itself like that.” You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief.
“That’s the deal,” he said, saying your name. “Collateral, in order to make sure it’s her.” Your stomach churned. “Barton goes in alone. Standard surveillance. Identify the target, confirm the pattern, and track movements. No engagement until we’re certain. Or we pack it up now.” You swallowed down an argument and looked down to avoid eye contact with them both, nodding—you were not screwing this up now. Fuck morals.
Clint cleared his throat, making you look up and watch as he followed your movements and nodded with the plan. He looked up, met your gaze, and flicked his head up, silently asking if you were okay. You pursed your lips and smiled before he moved toward the door, picked up the suitcase with his tactical weapons, and turned the handle of the door slowly before stepping into the hallway and out of sight.
“Okay, now around this corner should be the entrance,” you said as the three of you watched Clint through the cameras and tracked him through the hotel—a red dot traveling through the building.
“Uh, yeah, duh. I looked at the map,” Clint responded as he turned the corner and showed up on the screen projecting the camera footage. He smiled at the security guards as he told them his alias and walked into the party.
“Now, where’s the bathroom?” he asked as he looked around, and we saw a switch to the camera inside the party, showing him standing by the entrance and looking around.
“Thought you’d looked at the map?” Maria responded, making you smile.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” you said, meeting her eyes and smiling at her before she closed her eyes and smiled back in acknowledgment.
Fury huffed before getting closer to the microphone. “No time for the little boys' room, Barton. Look for the target,” he said, reminding you of the mission's purpose. We saw Clint nod in acknowledgment as he walked toward the bar and asked for some sort of drink.
“She should look inconspicuous, Clint, like she’s supposed to be there, but younger, pretty,” you said, looking through the crowd pictured on the screen.
“I see a blonde, brunette, and a redhead,” Clint said, raising the glass to his lips and looking over the rim. Your eyes scanned the room for said women and clicked to find the camera angles that showed each of them more clearly.
“Got them,” Maria said, looking at your monitor and seeing the women clearly. “Watch and see who approaches the man of the hour,” Fury instructed.
The group watched as the women moved around the party, grabbing drinks and going from arm to arm, but none of the three approached the man who the event was organized for—Emil Morozov, market investor and owner of one of the best medical research centers in Europe, who had, had a breakthrough in his “cancer research.” In reality, the real people who took charge and were responsible for the innovations were unnamed in his book.
Maria calls out your name, “Why are they after him exactly?” She says while looking at the screen and finding him with his wife on his arm, a drink in his hand, standing and speaking to some other rich and important-looking men.
“Uhh, we’re not entirely sure, really. He seemed to fit the profile for her usual victims, though, so I thought he would be our best bet. I’m guessing he stepped over a line he wasn’t supposed to with this breakthrough,” you say as you open the file and read out some notes you had taken, scribbling a few more down regarding him and his appearance.
Maria nods in understanding as she turns to look at Fury, who has pulled out his own file and was studying the gathered profile you’d created for the unnamed assassin.
“Blonde is on the move,” everyone collectively sits up, Fury setting the file down as the group watches the tanned woman move toward Emil, who was now looking directly at her. He takes her in before she turns at the last second to the table beside them, gripping a man’s shoulder, making him turn. His eyes light up in recognition as she smiles up at him. He kisses her cheek in return, making you groan from the other side of the monitor.
“It’s not the blonde. She had a clear entrance and didn’t take it,” Clint says, making you lean back in the chair and let your head fall back in frustration.
Patience, you thought. Just be patient.
“Redhead is putting her drink down,” Clint’s voice breaks through the silence of the room.
“Is she moving?” you ask as you close your eyes and bring an arm up to cover your forehead.
You were never going to find her.
“Subject, looks like she’s heading for our man of the hour.” Your head picks up, your arm now on the table as you sit up.
“What?” you say, looking at the screen as her face comes into view, approaching the group of men in suits, tapping Morozov on the shoulder, and giving him a shimmering smile.
Time freezes for a second as you struggle to take this moment in. The face of the widow you’d been tracking for months was finally in front of you. Her gaze is intimidating as she grips Morozov’s arm and smiles at whatever he’s saying, making him wrap his free arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him unknowingly. The way her full lips tip to the side makes you gulp. At this moment, you now understood just how these women’s tactics worked so well.
“This is her,” you clear your throat and realize just how close you’d gotten to the monitor. You back up and straighten your back, turning and looking at Fury in silent question of what Clint’s next move should be.
“Barton, do not engage,” he says, leaning down to get a better look at the woman on screen. “Let her do what she must.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding at his words as your eyes trail back to the screen and take in her appearance.
Her red hair striking over the green dress she wore. The dip in the neckline gives just enough view to be appropriate yet still seductive. You wondered how she went unnoticed when, to you, she was anything but. She was… pretty, aggravatingly so.
“I’ll follow her once they start moving,” he says, looking up and staring at the camera closest to him as if to signal to the group that he was ready.
You breathe in shakily as you find it almost impossible to tear your eyes away from the screen where the widow was pictured.
“Good, Barton, just stick to the plan,” Fury responds after giving a curt nod at the monitor.
“Follow orders.”
You follow as you watch the woman entrance the man into following her out of the ballroom and into the hallway where Clint follows discreetly. Her arm tucked into his and his eyes staring down her dress as she throws her head back, feigning intoxication.
“Oh, she's good,” María states from behind you as you both observe how she grips the man’s arm as they enter the elevator.
“Killing people is her job. Of course, she’s good at it,” you scoff and watch as the doors close on them, and Clint steps into frame, heading for the stairs. After you give him the floor number where they got off, he races to reach them as they exit.
“Clint, they’re about to get off,” you say, scooting closer to the monitor as you watch the door to the stairs open before the elevator does, as well, in another frame.
“They’re heading to room 16F,” you say as he pulls out his key and unlocks the door. She follows in behind him before the door closes behind them. Clint shows up on frame as if on cue as the pair go into the room.
“It’s the waiting game now,” Clint says as he exhales and catches his breath after rushing up 7 floors. “God, I am out of shape,” he says, making you smirk.
“Dad bod hitting you, Bart?” you ask teasingly as you watch him throw up a middle finger at the camera in the corner of the hallway in which you were watching him.
“She’s heading out.” Clint’s voice reverberates through the speakers, making the three of you spring into action and move closer to the glow of the screen.
An hour had passed, the room now alit by the bedside lamps and the bathroom light. The sun had set earlier, and the start of daylight savings was sabotaging the mission that you'd planned. It would be harder to track her in the dark, and much darker to find Clint if something were to happen to him.
“Clint, be careful. She might not be as predictable as we think,” you say, sitting up straighter. These killers had taken your dad—what would you do if they took your friend, one of your closest friends?
“I got it… she’s moving into the elevator dressed in black and has red hair. She’s not hard to miss.”
You move close and take control of the mouse before María can, and find the right camera to spot her coming out of the elevator. Clint pops out of the stairs, discreetly following behind her. You all track her and him as they go through back roads and alleyways of the city to end up in an apartment complex that looked older than both of them combined. Cameras around the area were sparse, but enough to watch as Clint watches her go on the elevator. He sits in the lobby inconspicuously.
“Clint, she’s on the 9th floor,” María says as you switch to the hallway camera’s view of the floor and see her unlock and step into the last apartment on the edge of the building.
“Last apartment on the right,” you add and watch from another screen as Clint gets up and walks to the building beside the one he was just in. He manages to find the roof exit and is now set up, watching through the open window of the apartment on the ninth floor, on the far right.
“Target spotted,” he says as he settles into a crouch and directs the arrow from his bow to the target’s head.
“She’s in the kitchen, a few feet away from the window,” he adds.
“Is she aware that you're watching her?” Fury asks as he bends over the backs of María and your chairs.
“Not sure, but I have a clear shot,” he says, and you hear him scoot over the gravel of the roof and angle himself better.
“Take it.” You hype and lean forward, watching his form from a camera’s view from one of the first floors of a building on the same street.
“Clint, take it,” Fury says after giving you a glare.
You watch as Clint pulls the arrow back, and hear him take an inhale and exhale sharply as he releases the bow and watches it travel through the window, disappearing from sight.
“Fuck,” Clint curses and stands up quickly, grabbing another arrow and creating a zip line from his building to hers.
“Barton, what happened?” María asks, grabbing the mouse before you could and watching as he slides down into the apartment.
“She ducked,” he says, as the sound of his feet hitting the ground hard is heard. “She dodged the fucking arrows.” The crunching of glass is heard as you turn to the other monitor and watch his tracker flow through the building.
There is a beat of silence, just the sound of Clint’s breath before a shout and then muffled grunts and groans come through the speaker. He was being attacked. He was being attacked by a widow.
You feel the air buzz with adrenaline as you all spring into action.
“Hill,” Fury says, making her turn to him before he gives her a curt nod. “It’s time,” he adds. She nods in return and moves to grab a suitcase from beneath the bed.
This case wasn’t one you knew they had brought. It was a weapons case, and by the looks of it, it had enough for all of you and then some. Hill starts pulling out guns and begins handing one to you before arming herself and handing another to Fury.
“What’s happening?” you ask as you open the gun and see a full magazine in it. You look up to make eye contact with both of them.
“If she gets him, we’re next,” Fury responds. “We have to leave now and get to Clint as soon as we can.” Your blood runs cold as you take in his words.
It wasn’t a question. This woman—this widow—will kill Clint, and will come after you once she’s done.
The noises of the struggle suddenly end with a shout and a grunt.
“I got her,” Clint says, breathing heavily, the sound of a woman screaming heard in the background.
“Clint?” you ask, grabbing the mic.
“I’m fine. She’s on the ground with her hands tied behind her back,” he says as you hear her continue to struggle. “She got me good, though.”
“We’re on our way,” Fury states before we hear a noise of acknowledgment from Clint before a small intake of breath is heard, and then a short moment of silence.
“Fuck,” Clint says, making us all turn to the speaker. “Fuck, I—” he says.
“Barton?” Fury asks. “Is everything okay?”
“I can’t do this… Fuck,” he says, the girl’s shouts fading into heavy breathing. “She’s—” he takes a moment before taking in some air. “She’s just a kid. I can’t do this,” he says before a click is heard, and the line goes dead.
Static-filled silence is all that can be heard for a few beats before you speak, “What?” You say, picking up the mic. “Clint?” You ask. “Barton?” You grip the mic and call out to him, waiting for a response but hear nothing in return. You feel your blood run cold as you hold the mic with trembling fingers—adrenaline still beating inside you.
Maria immediately moves to the monitor and checks on his tracker. The blinking red dot you once saw was now long gone from the screen.
“He disabled his tracker,” she says, “He's gone.”
The porridge on the stove bubbled gently as she stirred, her thoughts far from the food her body desperately needed.
Another kill. Another target. Another mission. Another body. More red on her ledger.
Her stomach twisted as her appetite suddenly dissipates. She moves to grab a glass of water, the cool breeze of air making the side pieces of red hair she’d left out of her braid tickle the sides of her face.
She turns and leans on the counter, her back to the cabinets behind her and closes her eyes. She’d leave tomorrow, back to her home—the closest thing she had to one.
Dreykov had personally given her the task to take out this man, apparently finding the cure to cancer didn’t benefit the head of the Red Room academy.
Wasn't her problem, though. She had a mission. It's all that mattered, she'd done what she needed—what she had to do.
No place in this world.
She takes a long gulp of water as she opens her eyes and looks up at the plain wall in front of her, suddenly feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand.
She was being watched, she knew this feeling. Felt it every day at night when cameras surveyed them while they slept, felt it when she would train and eyes of her superiors watched her take out her opponents. It was a trusted sixth sense she had.
She felt the air on the cheeks of her face and stays still before hearing the swoosh of something in the air and ducks, narrowly avoiding the double arrows that were aimed at her chest.
“Blyat’,” she grunts as she falls on her knees, the arrow breaking the windows and leaving shattered glass scattered on the floor. She grunts as she crawls across the floor of the kitchen and to the living room, her knees dragging across the pieces of glass.
She manages to stand with a wince and run to the corner, shutting off the lights of the apartment, hiding in the crevice of a bookshelf and a corner. Her green eyes trained to see in minimal light, making it easy to spot when her assailant glides into the room and speaks out loud into a microphone. He has more people with him, she notes, crawling behind a chair and waiting for him to get closer.
Once his bottom half comes into view, she sweeps her leg aming at his knees, his legs fold under him, and he falls to the ground with a groan. She stands and grabs his arm, twisting it behind him before he grabs her hair with his free hand and pulls her off of him, making her scream in pain.
He stands and holds her in a chokehold before she turns her body in his grip and knees him between the legs, then runs toward a wall to kick herself from it and manages to whip her legs around his shoulders, ending up on top of him, knocking him over before she can hold him between her thighs.
He scrambles away and takes gulps of air, moving to stand as she moves toward him again and pulls his foot, bringing him to his knees, and she wraps her arm around his neck, flexing her arm and tightening her hold. She feels him running out of air and smiles to herself before he suddenly stands and throws her over his shoulder, making her land on her back and knock the air out of her.
Her autopilot goes off as she flips over and gasps for air, trying to move away but is pulled back by her foot. She turns to kick the man in the face but misses, and he grabs her other leg and flips her onto her stomach.
Alarms blare in her head. How does she escape? How can she make this man follow the directions, not those of the people he works for? Who does he work for? A million questions fly through her head as she feels him grab both of her arms and tie them behind her back, sitting on her, his body weight on her lower half.
She thinks back to all of her training sessions and recalls none of the methods to escaping this form of restriction and moves below him, trying to free herself, and screams.
“I’m fine, she’s on the ground and with her hands tied behind her back,” the man says from above her, his breathing heavy on her neck as she wiggles around. The only thing she can think of to make him fall off of her, she tries kicking, but he moves to tie her ankles, and she groans and continues to scream. If he doesn't move, maybe the people that live on her floor can intervene once they hear her… maybe?
She turns to see that he is standing above her with each foot beside her. Her breaths come in short quips as she tries to calm herself, to think the situation though. quite plainly she already knew. she was fucked.
She feels him lean down and sees his fingers come into view. She prepares herself to strain her neck and get a good look at his face, but before she can, she feels his fingertips gently move her red hair from her face.
Green crashes with blue as their eyes meet, and his widen slightly as his face morphs into one of concern.
“Fuck,” he removes his hand from her and wipes it across his face. “I can’t do this… Fuck,” he says, making her brows furrow. He wasn’t going to kill her? Why?
“She’s—” she watches as he gathers his words before turning down to look at her and make eye contact. “She’s just a kid, I can’t—I can't do this.”
He says as he reaches into his ear and pulls the microphone out and crushes it beneath his foot, and takes a chip from his tactical suit and crushes that too.
She watches him with curious eyes as he looks back at her. What did he want from her?
He moves to turn her over and drags her to a chair, leaning her on it so she’s facing him but is still tied. He sits on the floor in front of her.
“What’s your name?” She doesn't respond and furrows her brows. He scoffs. “Of course, you’re not going to tell me that—fuck.” He looks at the ground and then meets her eyes again.
“How old are you?” he asks, as she clears her throat.
“Twenty-three,” she says, and she wiggles to move her hands and see if she can untie herself.
“How long have you been working for the Red Room?” he asks, and she stops and stares before he clarifies, “My people know alla bout it...I want to help you, if you let me,” he says before taking a breath. “Do you want a way out?” he asks, and she pauses and stares.
“You won’t get in trouble. This isn’t some sort of test. I was sent to kill you, and I didn’t follow specific orders, so I’m pretty fucked in every possible way in this situation.” He shakes his head and looks up.
“My whole life,” she finds the words leaving her mouth, her Russian accent heavy on the English words. “I’ve been a part of the Red Room my whole life,” she says, and she sits up straighter and manages to untie the rope but leaves her hands behind her back. She didn’t feel threatened—this man, whoever he was, was not a threat, and he's stupid to think she wasn’t even when tied up.
“Your whole life?” he asks with furrowed brows.
She nods. “It’s my home,” she states, the words sour on her tongue. It wasn't true—it was what was ingrained into her since the start her interrogation training.
Give them enough to not think of you as a threat, but hold the truth back.
“Do you want to go back?” he asks, her eyes trained on him as he moves to untie the rope binding her legs together and sits back again.
“The fact that you haven’t killed me yet tells me you don’t want to,” he continues and looks at her, tilting his head. His eyes go to her hands behind her back. “You’ve been untied for a while now, haven’t you?” he asks, making her sigh and move her hands to her lap.
“Like I said, this isn’t a test,” he says. “I work for an organization that can help—they can—we can help you.” He looks at her with pleading eyes before looking down and closing his eyes in defeat as he still gets no response. The only noise coming from the breeze coming through the window.
Was this real? what would happen if Dreykov found her? What would they do? She didnt know what would come of this but if it was a way out she wasnt going to pass on it—she couldn't keep living like this. Fuck it.
“Natalia.” Her raspy voice fills the silence, making him look up.
“Natalia, is my name.” She says as she moves to stand, he follows her, a bit rushed.
“Natalia,” he holds out his hand once he stands to his full height, about half a foot taller than her.
“I’m Clint Barton.” He holds out his hand.
She takes his hand in a firm grip as they shake and make eye contact.
More than a few things run through her mind at the moment. Was this a trap? Was she going to be killed? Would his organization even help her? Was it too late for her to be helped? Did she have enough humanity left in her to be helped?
As she shook his hand and a small relieved smile graced the man’s—Clint Barton’s face, she could only focus on one thought.
Was it all over? Or was it just the beginning?
a. note → well there you guys have ittt, i ofc hand to change age and if i have any mistakes ignore them this is purely for entertainment, for preface reader and nat are the same age :) hope you guys liked it hehehehe...give your thoughts bellow pls pls pls ill love u forevs <33.
dividers by → @cafekitsune @enchanthings
tag list → @natashasmuse @womenarehotsstuff @im-lesbianics @snowdrop1026 @pawiie @redjoes
lmk if you want to be added to the tag list in the replies!
fics always picture nat being the one fucking you while wanda comforts… i’m picturing natasha comforting you as wanda uses a toy that’s a little…too big on you
“you’re doing so, so well honey,” wanda says pushing the head of the thick dildo into your hole, you whine at the stretch you felt. the lube and prep they did before, not enough to help accommodate to the new toy they decided to surprise you with, it was big, much bigger than what you’d been used to them using on you.
“come on baby be good for mommy yeah?” natasha whispers against the shell of your ear as she sits behind you, her full breasts pressed against the hot skin of your back, her head on your shoulder as her fingers slide down your abdomen towards your clit and her other hand stays higher up, teasing your already painfully erect nipple with her fingers. you rested on the edge of the bed, wanda standing between your legs holding your thighs apart, her curves illuminated by the yellow light coming from a lamp in the corner of the room. the harness sitting comfortably on her hips, the base of the toy pushing on her center as she etched the length into you.
a whiny “m’trying,” falls from your lips after a few pants. “too big!” you’d say arching your back, hearing wanda snicker and pull the head out and add more lube to it before attempting to slide it back in your hole. the wet noise following the movements, loud in the semi-quiet room.
“it’s okay baby…we can make it fit hmm?” the woman behind you says as she kisses your sweat slick shoulder making you shiver. “aw our cute little girl’s cunt is too tight for her mommy’s cock.” wanda would mock in faux sympathy looking at natasha to which you feel the redhead respond with a smirk into the skin on the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
you nod as she coos before fully pushing the silicone into your entrance slowly, making you whine again and try to pull away before she grips your hips and pulls you back towards the bulbous head as nat shushes you, “poor baby,” she says before rubbing more firmly on your sore clit “mama’s gonna make it fit for you baby, gonna make you feel so good yeah?” she says watching as the length slides into your aching hole slowly, your own body trying to accommodate by tightly squeezing the thick length splitting into you.
you nod with clenched eyes as they look at each other again, unbeknownst to you and smile at your struggle.
warnings → angst, hurt reader, happy/hurt/guilty nat, idk they're both hurting, marrige, cursing, self-criticism, lots of feelings. (i’m sorry)
synopsis → you go on your usual coffee run and bump into your ex, who if it wasn’t for the mutual break up, would have been the one.
a/n → i love angst lol. blame my over active imagination and taylor swift. thank you all for continuing to support and read my works <3
dividers by → @omi-resources @fae-and-wolf
to put y’all in the mood i recommend listening to ↴
The line seemed endless. Bodies upon, bodies of caffeine addicts waiting to be serviced.
The energy of a busy New York coffee shop at 8am was truly a sight to see for any newbie to the city—thank god, you were accustomed to the rude grogginess of the baristas and the lines to wait for your wanted—no, needed, yet still overpriced coffee.
You hear the door open again as a small bell atop of the frame is triggered by the entering customer. The chill breeze of the city winter rips through the space, making you shiver and wrap your coat around yourself a bit tighter. Cool air creeping through the fibers of the winter coat you were sporting made you need that coffee a bit more urgently.
“Next in line!” the line moved as you pulled out your phone and took a step forward. You scroll through your notifications, looking for anything you had missed in your previous peak, before feeling a tap on your shoulder. Your first reaction is to look up with a rather hostile look in your eyes at whoever intruded your non-social, pre-caffeine headspace.
“Natasha?” your eyebrows crinkle at the sight of the woman in front of you. Her smile genuine as she looks down at you.
“Hi, stranger” she says, the raspy voice bringing back memories of a not-so-forgotten time in your past. She moves her arm around you to pull you into a side hug, you accept it—a bit stiffly and pull away, taking in her appearance.
She looked professional yet still casual and comfortable, a combination that always suited her quite well—at least the version you had gotten to know in your past. Her red locks in a neat braid that swept across her head and onto her shoulder, a few framing strands left out on the sides. Her eyes were more worn on the sides—the start of crows feet present besides her lashes.
Her eyes were the same, still the same shade of captivating green.
“How are you? How have you been?” she asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice coming out a bit rougher than how you remembered. Maybe it was caused by the cold air or, maybe it was just the other way the few years had affected her.
You look down and pocket your phone, “I’ve been okay, just y’know…holding up,” you watch as the person ahead of you steps forward, prompting the both of you to move up and fill the gap. You shift to the side, and make room for the redhead to stand beside you. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, stirring up memories of the past.
“How about you? What have you been up to, besides finding ways to cut-in-line at random coffee shops?” she lets out a huff of air as she turns to look at you “I was leaving when saw you…so I decided I should come and say hi," she looks at you with an amused expression.
you smile and hum in acceptance, letting her continue. She takes a breath before starting, "I've been okay—for the most part. Just trying to keep up with what life throws at me." She smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. You wonder if they were just as rough as how you remembered, or if they’d grown more calloused with time.
"Are you cold?" you ask, still looking at her now-concealed hands. She turns to look at you, you meet her eyes, and she lifts a brow "I've told you before how we Russians don't get cold," she says before continuing "that’s something you should've remembered." her voice carries as the last words enter your ears and without thinking you respond.
"I remember lots of things."
You feel the energy around you both change as the words leave your lips and you cringe as you watch her body visibly stiffen. Your brutally honest word choice must’ve reminded her of the reason why it had been so long since the two of you spoke.
Sometime in the past 2 years
“Natasha… I just can’t do this anymore.” The words choke in your throat as you pace in front of her in the living room of your shared apartment. Every step you take feels like it’s pulling you further from everything you once wanted, but you can't stop yourself. You can barely breathe, the emotion inside you holding your lungs down. Your eyes move to look at Natasha, and everything inside you screams to hold on.
“I’ve always been here for you,” you continue, voice cracking. “Always. I kept waiting, hoping you’d open up to me, just like I did for you, bare an-and vulnerable.” Your voice cracks making you take a steadying breath before continuing, pointing a shaking finger toward her. “I put my heart on the line, expecting the same... but I never got it. And when you finally did open up... I was there. I loved you through the dark days, the lonely nights. I stayed, Natasha. I stayed through everything, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” Your words spill out like a dam breaking, but the anger, the frustration, the heartbreak—none of it makes the pain go away.
You want to somehow make it work, to find the missing piece that would make her open up fully. You wanted this to work more than anything. But the hard truth is, you don’t know just how much more you can keep giving without receiving the same in return. You’ve poured so much of yourself into this relationship—your love, your patience, your vulnerability—but now it feels like you’re just…empty. Every night you lie awake, hoping that tomorrow will be the day she finally opens up to you the way you’ve been opening up to her, and every day feels like another unanswered question, an in-life purgatory you can’t escape.
Your fingernails find their way into the flesh of your palms, the sharpness grounding you, but it doesn’t help.
Her heart tears in two as she watches you like this, feeling like a failure. She feels it deep inside—your hurt, your exhaustion, the years of unspoken emotions—and she knows, with crushing certainty, that no matter how much she loves you, she can’t undo the damage. You’re the one person who has always been there, who’s loved her unconditionally, who’s been so patient, so willing to fight for the relationship. She’s failed you. It wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough. She loved you—God, she loved you so much—but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to give you the one thing you needed most: her whole heart. Every single time you reached out, she recoiled, afraid that if she gave you more of herself, she’d lose herself in the process. She knew loving you would mean taking the risk of loosing herself within the beauty that was to love just as hard as you did.
She doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.
She lifts her head, eyes red, blurry with unshed tears, and glances at your hands, fingers still digging into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself together, as the nails cut through the layers of flesh on your palms. The pieces of yourself feeling like they're falling through your fingers like water. She hurts seeing you like this, she knew you did it to feel control in moments where you felt that control slip away—she’d had been trying to help you stop it, to show you that hurting yourself wouldn't heal anything, but now, she feels just as lost. She feels herself drowning in guilt.
She’s the one who’s made you feel like this, hasn’t she?
A warm, trembling hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out of the darkness of your thoughts along with herself–trying to claw her way out of her guilt. Her touch is gentle, almost too gentle, as if she’s afraid you’ll break if she holds on too tight. She guides your fingers away from your skin, but the ache in your chest only deepens. She’s trying to fix you–to help you, not acknowledging that she needed it as well. And neither of you knew how to do it.
What’s the hell is wrong with me?
The question cuts deeper than anything she’s ever felt.
Why can’t I just give her what she needs?
I love her.
I love her so much.
Why isn’t that enough?
“I feel horrible,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. When you meet her eyes, they’re filled with more pain than you’ve ever seen in them. It tears through you. You wanted to help her, to make her feel loved and safe, but all you've done is hurt her. You've made her feel like she's failing, like she’s not enough, and the guilt is suffocating. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, wants to apologize, to make it better, but she knows deep down that no amount of apologies can fix the damage done.
You swallow, but your throat is tight, your chest heavier than it’s ever been. "You’re right. You always did the right things. You said the right words. You showed me you loved me, but… I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel it the way I needed to, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I couldn't be enough for you, Natasha." Your voice breaks at the end, a sound that rips through you, as if you're breaking apart inside. Not enough for her to give you her all. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.” Making her feel like she hadn’t been giving you enough because she couldn’t give you want you wanted—craved. The sudden realization makes you heave as you reel about you both hurting each other unwillingly—how could something so good turn into something so hurtful?
The weight of your own apology hangs in the air, suffocating, because you don't know how to fix this anymore. You don’t know how to make her stop feeling like she’s a failure when all she’s ever done is try.
Her heart shatters as you speak. She sees the pure hurt in your eyes, feels the way you’re pulling away from her. it crushes her to know she's the one that hurt you, the one that made you feel as if you weren't enough. Every word you say is a reminder that she’s failed. She’s tried so hard to be the person you need, to show you how much she loves you, but every time she’s gotten close to letting herself go the crippling fear of falling too deep holding her back.
“I wish I could change,” she says, voice barely audible, but you hear the depth of her regret in every word. She places her hand over her heart, almost as if trying to stop the pulsating ache there. “I don’t want you to suffer with my shit anymore. I don’t want to drag you through this anymore… but I don’t know how to fix me.” She looks at you, her tears falling freely now. “I hate that I can't give you everything you need. I hate that I couldn't be the person you deserved."
You feel every ounce of her guilt like a physical blow, and it’s suffocating. You wish there was something you could say to make her feel better, but the truth is, you're not sure if you even deserve to make her feel better right now. You've failed her too, in so many ways.
Maybe I’m not enough for her. Maybe I never was.
The thought stings, like a shock against your skin. You can’t help but feel that maybe you’ve failed, that you’re the real reason things fell apart, not Natasha. But as you look at the redhead, her guilt hanging heavy in the air, you realize there’s not just one person to blame, there’s not only one person responsible for this. You’ve both been afraid. Afraid of fully trusting, of letting the walls down completely, of letting each other in.
And now? Now, it feels like it’s too late.
“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says, her voice cracking. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who can love you with everything they have, without holding back... and I’m not her. I can't be that person." Her eyes search yours, desperate for some sign, some glimmer of hope, but all she finds is a reflection of her own pain.
Staring at her tear-streaked face, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: it’s not going to happen. It’s not because you haven’t tried, and it’s not because she doesn’t love you—she does, so much, and you can see it in her eyes. But love isn’t enough.
I can’t keep waiting for something that’s never going to come.
I can’t keep hurting like this.
You’re shaking now, but it’s not from anger. It’s from the unbearable truth that lingers in the space between you. The love you had, the connection you both tried so hard to hold onto, is slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
“I think…” you can barely get the words out, but they’re there, hanging in the air like the inevitable. "I think you’re right." Your voice cracks, your heart shattering with the weight of those words. You’ve known for so long, deep down, that this was coming. The back and forth, the exhaustion, the constant battle to make her open up, to make her let you in—it was destroying both of you, and it would never change. The months of fighting—wanting her to open up, to show you the real her, nothing was working as it should be. You had been fighting against something inevitable.
You run your thumb over her knuckles, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but it feels hollow now. “We’ve tried, Natalia,” you whisper, your heart breaking with every syllable. “We’ve tried to make this work, but I can’t keep pretending it’s going to be okay. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want you to hurt for me anymore.”
Her tears fall harder now, as if the weight of your decision has broken something inside of her. You both sit there, silently, broken and exhausted from a love that was never enough. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s been destroyed. As she looks at you, so broken, so utterly lost, she feels like she’s watching her own heart crack in two.
You both sit in silence as the sounds of the city bleed into the apartment and circle the two of you.
“Next!” the barista’s tired voice carries through the space of the café, and makes you both turn to reach the counter. Your cheeks warm and tinged a shade of red at your earlier admission.
“Uh, can I get an iced blond vanilla late, with an extra pump of vanilla, and sweet foam with Carmel drizzle on top?” you order and look over at the redhead who was diligently staring at the side of your face.
She wondered how you hadn’t changed. Time seemed to have left you untouched. While she felt it’s weight etched into her face and mind—you were still the same. With the same coffee order, at the same coffee shop, the same you.
“W-would you like anything?” you ask, stuttering at the gaze she held.
“I’m okay,” she turns to the barista, “That’ll be all.” she completes your order out of habit as you pull out your card to pay.
the barista asks for your name and you both utter a thanks to the young woman, who doesn’t return the pleasantry as you both walk off to the side. The silence, between you both not unwanted, but definitely heightening your anxiety at the unexpected meeting.
You were not dressed to be seeing your ex at a coffee shop.
“Would you like to sit?” you clear your throat and ask, finding a table with two chairs. She smiles and looks at her watch. “Yeah—yeah, I got enough time” she says, sitting down beside you and looking out at the busy streets of the city that never sleeps.
She loved it here, her time in other continents and cities made her realize just how at home the city lights and sirens made her feel, just how at home the people in her life made her feel.
The light of the rising sun reflects off of the glass windows of tall buildings and illuminate her face. Her nose had stayed the same, the feature being something you loved about her even if she said she hated it from time to time. She turns and catches you staring. You to look away and clear your throat as she smiles warmly. She always liked that about you, so attentive to everyone around you.
Stop staring. You mentally kicked yourself for being caught.
“Y’know…you still order your coffee as if you hate the taste of it.” she teases, her hands motioning to the receipt that outlined the specific order you gave. A smile grows as you turn to look at her and laugh softly at her face of accusation. “I swear, you get the sugariest thing on the menu.” she continues, making you laugh a little louder.
Your laugh was the same–she noticed, your smile the same, but your eyes now held a few winkles at the sides as the joy spread over your face. She smiles at you then and leans back in the uncushioned, tall stool.
You roll your eyes and remove your gloves, “hey, before you tease just know you traumatized me with your coffee order,” she looks at you questioningly, making you lean in “Nat, you order a black coffee with like two sugars and call that a coffee order.” she laughs, her cheeks tinting a wonderful shade of red as she answers “It’s a legitimate coffee order y/n, that’s why they make me pay and why I made you try it.” her voice raspy as ever as it leaves her lips. “Oh yeah, trust me I know. I can still feel it on my taste buds and recoil every time I think about it.” she looks at your now very serious expression with a raised brow, and you both break into a shared cackle.
As the laughter settles, you both look at each other. Familiarity and warmth returning to your veins, you missed her. Sure, it had been more than enough time for you to get over her, but you never truly did. Everyone told you it was time to move on, but you never did, hoping, praying, manifesting that maybe one day you could fix things and reunite with the love of your life.
You went out with people, met other singles, dated—but no one made you feel what she did.
"So, how’s work?" you ask, your fingers nervously fiddling with the paper wrapping of a straw that was left on the table by some other customer. She glances down at your hands, noticing how your nails are no longer bitten or ragged, your palms free of the crescent-shaped marks that used to linger there. She smiles softly, noticing how you'd managed to break those anxious habits.
"It’s been good," she replies, her voice warm. "We got some new teammates in—I'm sure you saw it on the news." She looks into your eyes, smiling as she sees the familiar focus in your gaze. That hadn't changed either.
You nod and smile back, leaning in as she continues. "One of them is named Wanda. She's brilliant—you'd love her. Amazing sense of humor, and the best style. I know you’ve always been into fashion."
You chuckle softly, the memory of how you used to carefully pick out your outfits coming back. "That’s nice. So, you and her are close?" you ask, your voice lighter than you feel. It's easy to fall back into the rhythm with her. Conversations with her never felt draining, never like you were just filling silence. At least, it didn’t, not before everything went wrong.
"Yeah," she says, smiling shyly, but her eyes drop to her hands. And that's when you see it. The ring.
The world seems to blur for a moment as your eyes lock onto the silver band adorning her finger. Simple, yet undeniably there. Your mind races, struggling to catch up, focusing on the details—an engraving, some flowers, maybe lilies? You remember how she always loved those.
The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts. "Y/N?"
You snap back to reality, but it feels like your heart is still racing. You blink, meeting her gaze. The concern in her eyes is unmistakable, but it's not for you. She's moved on.
“Order for y/n!” the barista yells, and you turn, smiling tightly at Nat before getting up to retrieve your coffee.
God, how had you not seen it before? Was it always there? How long ago did she become so open? So willing to let someone in, that she’d actually gotten married?
The questions hit you like a wave, crashing over your mind with unbeatable force.
You make yourself look away, desperate to regain control of your thoughts. You tuck some hair behind your ear, trying to ground yourself, and take a long sip of your cold drink, the ice crunching between your teeth. It does nothing to ease the nausea building in your stomach.
“I—uh, I was looking at your wedding band,” you mutter, feeling the words slip out awkwardly. Your gaze drifts back to her fingers, the ring glinting in the sunlight. She follows your stare, quietly adjusting her hand, almost as if she’s waiting for this moment to land.
“Oh, um… yeah," she clears her throat, her voice sounding a little tighter than before. "Me and Wanda... we, uh... I proposed a few months ago,” she adds, looking down at the ring, tracing the engravings with her fingers. Finally, she meets your eyes, and for a brief second, it feels like everything you thought you knew about her is slipping away. This wasn’t the Natasha who used to laugh at your bad jokes, or the one who whispered your name in the quiet of your shared apartment, the one who whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you laid naked in bed after you’d had sex. No, this was a version of her you did not know.
“Oh.” The word barely leaves your mouth as you nod slowly, but it’s enough to echo in the silence between you two. It’s all you can manage, the word feeling too small, insignificant.
What else could you say?
You want to bury your face in your hands.
God, Y/N, think of something better. Say something better.
The words feel hollow, useless, as they form in your mind. The words don’t feel like your own. They feel forced, clumsy, like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers. You hate how it feels. You hate how she feels like a stranger to you now, someone you don’t know anymore, someone who has moved on without you.
"Congratulations," you finally say, the words coming out flat, lifeless. Your smile feels too tight, too forced. You can feel it pulling at the corners of your lips as your body instinctively turns inward, the discomfort sharp and heavy.
Congratulations? Are you fucking serious?
She notices, of course—how could she not? Her eyes flicker with concern, watching as your posture shifts, your guard rising. But it’s too late. You’re already pulling away.
What the hell did I just say?
The self-criticism is almost suffocating.
Congratulations?
You want to slap your forehead, but you settle for simply glancing up at her. Her gaze is locked onto you now, intense and unwavering. It’s like she’s trying to reach you through the growing distance between you two, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve lost her... that you never really had her.
The sound of the coffee shop fade as your own internal dialogue takes over, mocking you.
You’re pathetic, it whispers.
You haven’t moved on.
You never really let go.
You glance around the coffee shop. There’s a woman in the corner smiling at her boyfriend—no husband, the wedding ring sparkling as she holds his cheek, a group of tourists chatting loudly about going to watch some play on Broadway, someone in the backline swiping through their phone, you can see the TikTok home screen from your place in the corner of the café.
But you can’t hear them. All you hear is the hollow beat of your own heart, pounding painfully in your chest, as if it knows that this moment is the end of something—something you still thought was possible.
It feels like you’re drowning, surrounded by noise, by life moving forward, while you’re stuck here in this tiny moment, unable to breathe.
Her eyes flicker with concern, noticing how your posture shifts, how you stiffen at the words that should have felt normal, casual. But they don’t. They can’t.
There’s nothing casual about this.
Nothing normal.
Not when your heart is bleeding under the weight of a past you can’t shake, a future you never thought you’d face.
You try to steady yourself, but you can feel the walls you’ve built around your emotions crumbling.
She’s married, Y/N. She’s married. Get over it.
But you can’t.
You feel a pang of guilt. Natasha’s gaze is warm, but there’s an ache in her eyes too—something that makes your heart hurt in a different way. She’s trying. She’s not the woman you left behind. But then again, neither are you. Neither is she.
Her hand rests, trembling, on the table now. She wants to reach out to you, but she’s scared of pushing too hard. You can see it in her eyes—she’s uncertain. She’s terrified of what you might say. Terrified of making it worse. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the table, hesitant, before pulling away. She’s probably wondering if she’s done the right thing. Wondering if she was wrong to move on, to make this decision without you, without this—whatever you two were. She watches you, her gaze softening as if she wants to comfort you, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t even know where to begin. She could try to reach for you, but she knows it might make things worse.
"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, her voice trembling slightly. She’s staring at you now, as if trying to understand what’s happening inside your head, but you don’t have an answer for her. You don’t even have an answer for yourself.
The silence stretches between you two, heavy with unspoken words, as the noise of the coffee shop crashes around you both, a stark reminder that the world keeps moving. And in it, Natasha is moving forward, and you... you’re left behind.
She regrets it. She regrets this—this distance. This moment. She wants to take it all back. To fix this. To fix you. But she can’t.
The weight of the regret hits her, and she breathes out a slow, steadying breath, her hand trembling on the table. She can feel it too, the unbearable tension between you both, the space that feels like a chasm even though you’re only inches apart.
But you—you’re the one who’s drowning, trying to keep your head above the weight of the memory and the feeling that you were never enough.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quietly to hear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like this.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away for a second, almost as if she can’t stand seeing you like this, can’t bear the thought of how much she’s hurt you.
But the truth is, she’s already lost you.
And she’s the one who will never be able to move on.
Her words cut deeper than she knows, because you can’t help but wonder—does she really not know? Has she been so caught up in her own life that she hasn’t seen how much this is tearing you apart? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and this is all just… a part of the past to her?
The thought makes your chest tighten. Your breath feels shallow, and you find yourself squeezing your cold drink harder, trying to steady the storm inside. You swallow, but it feels like there’s a lump lodged in your throat, blocking any response. You want to scream, to tell her everything, to make her understand how much it hurts to see her here, happy, with someone else. But the words are gone—lost in the space between your need to cry and the reality of the life she’s chosen without you.
“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and desperate and hurt. You didn’t mean to ask it—didn’t want to ask it—but you can’t help it. You need to know.
Natasha’s heart aches at the sound of your voice, the fragility in it. For a moment, she feels as though the floor beneath her might give way. She had hoped—hoped—that you would be okay. That this wouldn’t hurt so much. But the pain is evident, like a raw wound, and it’s impossible to ignore.
Her face crumbles for a moment, and she looks away, as if she’s searching for the right words, for something that might make this hurt less. But there are no words that can make this better. No words that can undo the last few years.
she feels a lump in her throat, the wounds she'd covered, gashes shed mended, all coming undone in this moment.
“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers. “I really don’t know. I thought I could give you what you needed, but… I couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be.”
Her voice cracks as she says it, and she feels herself breaking inside. She knows you’re hurting, but she’s not sure what she can do to make this right. She had tried—tried so hard—to be what you needed, but she failed. And it kills her that she couldn’t give you the love and stability you deserved. The love she thought she could offer, the love that now feels so distant and ungraspable.
Your heart aches. It’s a contradiction, isn’t it? The way she sounds so guilty, and yet you know deep down that she’s not really sorry for her life—she’s sorry for the fact that she hurt you in the process of living it.
Her words feel hollow to her, and as they leave her lips, she wonders if she’s just prolonging the pain for both of you. She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her ring again. It’s such a small, insignificant gesture, but in this moment, it feels like the biggest thing in the world. It feels like a symbol of everything she’s lost. A symbol of a promise she made to someone else, a promise she can’t go back on.
She wants to reach for you again, but she knows better now. She knows that you’ve already made up your mind—that you’ve already closed the door on what could have been. The door that used to swing open so easily for her, but now only feels heavy and locked.
You look at her, your gaze raw, and for a second, you think you might say something else. You might beg her to take it all back. To come back. But you know you can’t. You know you have to let this go. You feel a deep ache in your chest as you realize that this is the end. The finality of it settles in, and you can’t hold on any longer.
Instead, you take a shaky breath and pull back from the table, your hands folding into your lap as you gather yourself. It’s almost like you’re physically trying to close yourself off, to shield the part of you that still hopes and longs for something that no longer exists.
“Maybe... maybe you were never what I needed either,” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than to her. The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you wish you could take them back as soon as they leave. But it’s true. Somewhere along the way, you lost her. And maybe, just maybe, you lost yourself in the process.
The words hit Natasha like a slap, but it’s the truth. She’s never been able to give you what you needed, and that realization settles like stone in her stomach. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something—something to fix it, to undo the damage—but the words die in her throat. They would only make things worse, only deepen the wound between you both.
She doesn’t speak. She can’t. She just watches you, helpless, as you turn away from her, the finality of your departure cutting into her chest like a knife.
You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. The tears you’ve been holding back for so long feel close now, threatening to spill over. You can’t let them. You won’t. Not here, not in front of her, not when everything feels like it’s already slipping through your fingers.
“I should go,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. It’s not a demand, it’s not even a decision—it’s just the only thing you can bring yourself to say. You push your chair back, standing up slowly, feeling like your legs might give out beneath you. You feel empty, but in a way, that emptiness is almost worse than the pain.
Her eyes follow you, and Natasha doesn’t try to stop you. She doesn’t ask you to stay. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she’s left with the sense that, somehow, she’s failed you, failed the both of you. She doesn’t think she could stand to watch you walk away again. The understanding in her eyes is quiet, gentle. She knows this is the end.
As you turn to walk away, you hear her raspy voice one last time. “Y/N… I still care about you.”
You stop for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You want to say something back—anything—but you know it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t fix anything.
You don’t respond. Instead, you walk. One foot in front of the other as you push open the door of the coffee shop, the cold New York air hitting your face like a slap. It’s sharp, biting, but somehow, it’s exactly what you need. You step into the busy street, the noise and the rush of people washing over you, but all you can hear is the silence of her absence. Is this it? You think. It has to be.
You keep walking, trying to put one foot in front of the other, but every step feels heavier than the last. You don’t know how you’re supposed to move forward—to move past her. You don’t know if you ever will.
After all, it’s never over.
a/n → YAYY!! i was so excited to start writing this fic, it’s my drafts since October so i’m happy it’s finally out. i hope you all liked it! it was my first time writing angst and i’m very proud of it, if you guys have any constructive criticism pls give it politely:)
ps → i’m excited to see everyone’s reactions to it, please do share how you feel afterwards <3
Wanda and Natasha caught you breaking a rule, not a huge one but a pretty significant one to them. You had woken up not feeling today, still you dragged yourself to your first class. The first hour went by slow as ever, your notes just a bunch of doodles. By the time your second class of the day came, you left in the middle of it choosing to go to Wandas bookstore instead. You knew you'd be in trouble, but that's how you liked it.
So now your bent over Wandas lap, ass three shades of purple. Wanda showed no signs of stopping, you've already counted 28 spanks so far. Tears were streaming down your face, sobs racking your body. You loved it, this is what you had been hoping for all day, and you got it. No matter how many tears or sobs, you couldn't deny the fluttering feeling settling in the pit of your stomach, nor the wetness dripping down your thighs.
another smack, harder than the last.
"29 t-thank you mommy"
Wanda hums under you, her hand coming to rub your sensitive skin, her fingers tracing the outlines of the welts that formed In the shape of her hands. Natasha was sitting in the corner chair watching, she loves watching. Her shirt was off, showing off her black sports bra and her toned abdomen. Her black boxers adorned her lower half, along with the big strap. Reminding you of what's to come after Wanda is done with you, making another wave of hear roll down your body.
Wandas hand comes down on your ass, harder than all of them combined. A strangled sob escapes your lips, your eyes squeezing shut as your body jumps away from her soothing hand. You feel a small pinch on your thigh, reminding you that you hadn't yet thanked her.
"30 thank you mommy"
Natasha stands up at that, coming over to stand in front of you. She leans over and kisses Wanda, her hand coming to rub your purple cheeks. Her hand dips lower, her fingers collecting your slick before she slides one finger in your dripping entrance. Your back arches, hips rolling back into her hand, a low moan ripping out of your mouth. You didn't realize how much you needed to be filled, until one finger was inside of you.
"God detka, I was going to prepare you for the strap," her finger leaves you, a small whine leaving your lips at the loss, "but you're dripping already."
Your body is lifted off Wanda's lap, placed on your hands and knees in the middle of the bed. Wanda comes and sits in front of you, her legs spread, dripping folds on display. You feel Natasha come behind you, her hand resting on your hip, as she rubs the tip of the strap through your folds collecting your slick.
"You took your spankings well bunny," Natasha puts the tip of the strap at your entrance, pushing the head in slightly. "Now you're going to make mommy cum, and you don't cum until she does."
maybe like mommy!wanda and uhh nerd!reader and mommy!wanda rewards nerd!reader for getting highest in her class? wanda could be like 35 and reader could be 22?
Academic Validation
Pairing: Mommy!Wanda x Nerd!Reader
Content Warning: Praise kink, fingering (R receiving), oral sex (R receiving)
Word count: 2k
A/N: thank you for the request :-) i felt like i might have been writing out a deep-seated fantasy of mine at some point. it wasn't meant to be this long but i got a little carried away... enjoy!
Your shoulders ache with the weight of late nights spent studying hunched over your laptop, but you’d say it was worth it after finding out your final grade today. As you slide your key into the front door and twist the handle, the sound of low singing pulls you out of your thoughts.
Wanda is somewhere in the kitchen, humming away, and your lips twitch into a smile while you silently slip off your shoes and place your backpack on the floor. You’re trying to be as quiet as possible, but you should’ve remembered Wanda has some sort of sixth sense, because her hearing prickles immediately.
“Is that my baby back from school?” she calls out in a sing-song voice, and you bite down your grin.
“Uh huh,” you call back. You hear the fast pattering of slippers, and then Wanda appears, wrapped in a long silk dressing gown, eyes twinkling.
Before she says anything, she moves close, arms wrapping around you in a tight, lasting embrace. Her lips brush against your forehead, then she kisses down your face, the tip of your nose, before her mouth hovers against yours. “Welcome home, baby.” A soft press of her mouth to yours, and you can feel yourself almost melt at her touch. “Go, honey, get undressed. You must be aching to relax, isn’t that right?”
You briefly mourn her touch when she pulls away, but you know she’s right. By the time you return from your shared bedroom and head back downstairs, Wanda’s on the couch, one leg delicately draped over the other, and you feel yourself staring at the long, smooth expanse of exposed skin.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Wanda says softly, amusement curling in her voice. She beckons you over to the couch, and you find yourself obeying instantly. The rug is plush under your feet, Wanda’s choice, of course. She picked almost everything that went in your home, from the kitchen counters to the beautiful ‘50s style fridge to the lovely deep velvet couch she was draped over now.
You move to sit beside her, only for Wanda to click her tongue. “Come here properly,” she tuts, then she pulls you close, practically into her lap. You can’t help the blush that rises in your cheeks as she wraps her arms around your waist. “How was school, baby?”
You hum, your tongue feeling a little heavy in your mouth. “It was okay,” you try to say evenly, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. You wonder how she’d react when you tell her the news.
“Just okay?” Wanda asks, kissing your neck softly. “You know I know when you’re hiding something, right?” A spidery hand ghosts your side – you try not to huff out a giggle. Wanda’s lips curve up. “Tell Mommy what’s going on in that little head of yours.” Mommy. The word makes you shiver.
You squirm, feeling the all-too familiar warmth creep into your throat like cotton. “I got my results back,” you force yourself to say, even when you can feel your words slipping away, the desire to submit beginning to rear its head.
“Is that so?” You hear the smile in her voice, like she already knows you’re something to be proud of. “What did my baby get?”
You lick your lips to wet them. You can’t even believe it yourself, honestly. You’d double, triple-checked with the professor, but no, it wasn’t a mistake. “I got the highest in the class.”
Wanda goes quiet. Her hand stills against your side, fingers curling slightly like she’s trying to grasp what you’re saying. Then, slowly, “The highest?”
You nod wordlessly, though now you feel a bit of panic rise in your chest. “I-I just studied a lot, it’s not–”
Wanda slides you off her lap gently so you’re facing her completely. Her eyes are wide, and her tongue runs along her lower lip, something you noticed she did when she was deep in thought. God. Is she disappointed somehow? The thought makes you bite your lip nervously, but Wanda’s hand moves to hold yours, stilling your nervous twitches.
“You got the highest grade in the class and you thought that wasn’t worth mentioning to Mommy?”
You visibly melt, nervousness and worry leaving your body like they’d never been there at all. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest.
Wanda shifts closer to you, and you inch backwards until you’re almost completely laying on the couch. “My smart little girl,” she purrs, a hand reaching up to brush through your hair before cupping your face. She kisses your jaw, and when she pulls away, the corners of her mouth are quirked up into a knowing smile. “Smarter than anyone else, aren’t you, baby?”
The praise heats your cheeks. You squirm under her, thighs clamped together. Your thoughts feel slow, like you’re wading through molasses, and you nod a little dumbly up at her. Wanda bites her lip and smiles. “Oh? You like it when Mommy praises you like that, sweetheart? Does it make your clever little brain all fuzzy?”
Words are cotton in your mouth. You nod again.
Wanda’s hands move slowly across your thighs, her smile never faltering. Your legs spread instinctually. “Mommy’s so proud of you, baby.” A hand strokes your inner thigh, causing you to shiver. Her nails run along the thin fabric of your pyjama pants, a long, slow trail that stops just above your abdomen. “Can Mommy show you how proud she is of her clever little girl?”
Your voice cracks when you respond. “Yes,” comes out as a broken whisper.
“Yes, what?”
Your face is on fire. “Yes, Mommy.” Heat simmers between your legs. Wanda coos.
“My smart little girl,” she purrs, and your head spins. You feel your mind slip into that space that you know Wanda loves, the one she tries to coax out of you whenever she talks like this. Thoughts gradually eke out of your brain until your only thought is Wanda, Mommy, and how beautiful she looks on top of you.
Deft fingers slowly pull apart the bow of your drawstring pyjama pants, like she’s unwrapping a particularly pretty Christmas present, and you squirm in anticipation. She shimmies them off, with you lifting your hips up to help her, and then there’s almost nothing between her touch and where you want it most.
“Oh,” Wanda murmurs, looking down. “It looks like your body already knows what it wants. Clever thing.”
You bite back a whimper, head spinning with the praise, and Wanda looks pleased. Your underwear, a simple cotton affair, is soaked, sticking to you uncomfortably. She makes a little sympathetic sound, hooking a finger and pulling it to the side, and, fuck, you shiver as your cunt is exposed to the air.
“Mommy,” you whine, the word hanging in the air, and the smile Wanda gives you is nothing short of delighted.
“Use your words, baby,” she says, though it feels like she wants you to do the opposite with the way her fingers press against your warmth. “Use your clever little mouth.”
You squirm again. “I-I want you to touch me.” Your legs spread wider when you feel Wanda’s hands push them apart, and she bites back a truly delighted smile.
She doesn’t respond verbally, but the slow drag of your underwear down your thighs is enough for you. When the offending piece of fabric is hooked around your ankle, Wanda’s smile turns into something of a smirk. She inches backwards until she’s laid on her stomach, still with her eyes on you. The eye contact burns, but you don’t look away even when her head lowers, lower, lower, until her lips ghost where you want them most. “Say please,” she whispers, and you feel the words on your clit.
“Please, Mommy.”
A pleased hum, and then the swipe of a warm tongue parting your folds delicately. Your body shoots up off the couch, back arching, a gasp wrenched from your lips. “Mm– ah, Mommy!" is all you say between needy moans, and Wanda simply hums, her lips curled into a grin like the cat that got the cream. She traces your cunt delicately, circling your entrance, and lets out her own terribly sinful moan when the tang of your arousal hits her tongue.
“Oh, my baby,” she groans, breathing hot against you, and you shudder. “You taste so good for Mommy.” And then her mouth is back on you, hot and electric, tracing every part of you like she’s committing it to memory. Your clit thrums with desperation, and when her lips finally, finally, wrap around your clit, your hips buckle, a bolt of heat spreading down your legs.
“M-Mommy, oh–” You’re silenced by a finger circling at your quivering entrance, wet from Wanda’s mouth, and suddenly it’s pushing inside you roughly while she kisses, licks, noses at your clit like she’s starving for you.
She looks up at you through her lashes, and even though you can’t see her mouth anymore, you’re sure she’s smirking up at you. Her finger presses against your front wall, finding the spot she’s felt so many times before. A moan is torn from your chest, so loud you could’ve felt embarrassed, but Wanda purrs in satisfaction. When she pulls her finger out again, you whine at the loss, but then she starts fucking you, angled just right to hit the spot that makes you see stars whenever she bottoms out.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” you babble, words failing you, your brain slowly turning into mush while Wanda fucks you, looking up at you like you’re the prettiest thing she ever did see. It feels like you’re on fire, every inch of skin, like oil is heating in your belly. “M-Mommy.”
Her hand doesn’t slow. Her eyes, usually so green, are darkened with lust, pupils blown out and swallowing the color completely. Her tongue flicks at your clit teasingly, and, fuck, when did she slip another finger in? You can feel them pump, twisting, scissoring inside you, fucking you with carefully calculated precision that could only come from a Mommy knowing her girl’s pussy with years of experience on you.
You’re twitching with barely contained pleasure, pins and needles in your feet, and you start to writhe. Wanda knows what that means, because her fingers move achingly faster, her balm-smudged lips sucking on your clit even with the violent bucking of your hips. Your throat tightens, your brow furrows. The heat in your belly is turned high.
“I- Mommy, I’m gonna… Mommy, gonna cum, fuck,” are the only words you can string together. With a long low hum on your clit, Wanda replies wordlessly, another violent curl of her fingers, and it’s enough to send you careening over the edge.
Your entire body tenses, crumples for a long, slow moment, pussy clenching around Wanda’s hand, and then relaxes slowly, limbs going slack, chest heaving for breaths. Wanda fucks you slowly through it, then achingly pulls her fingers from you, leaving you empty.
You’re leaning up to meet her halfway when she leans down to kiss your mouth, teeth just barely brushing your lower lip before she pulls away.
“Oh, moya lyubov,” she coos softly, another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “So, so clever. Mommy’s so lucky to have such a smart little girl like you, isn’t she?”
Your cheeks, mystifyingly, heat even more than before, and you smile a little shyly at the praise. “Well, I don’t know…” you start to say, but then a little shove at your chest knocks the air out of you as your back hits the couch again. “Wh– I–”
Wanda’s lips, still sticky and wet from your arousal, curl into what can only be described as a devilish grin. “Oh, did you think I was going to stop at one?”
You blink up at her, wide eyed. Already your pulse is jumping under your skin. “B-But Mommy, I-I just came.” You squirm with sensitivity. Wanda makes a little faux sympathetic sound.
“Why stop at one? You’ve always been a little overachiever.”
Prompt: Track Runner Reader x Beefy Coach Natasha Romanoff
Warnings: Smut Ahead. Oral (reader receiving). Just establishing the plot.
Word Count: 7.9K Words.
The stadium lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets as you pushed through yet another set of 400-meter repeats. Your lungs were burning and your thighs were screaming. The track was still damp from an earlier rain, and every footfall sent cold spray up your calves. You were the only one left on the track. Everyone else had been dismissed about thirty minutes ago.
"Again!" Natasha Romanoff snapped from the sidelines.
Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her red hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, the wind whipping loose strands across her sharp cheekbones. Even in a simple black windbreaker and leggings, she looked completely untouchable.
"Pick up your knees. You're running like you're afraid of the ground. Don't be pathetic." You gritted your teeth and drove harder on the next rep, arms pumping, curls swinging against your shoulders. You should have tied it into a bun earlier, but when Romanoff said she wanted to speak to you, you didn't expect to still be running laps like a crazy woman.
Sweat stung your eyes. Your skin was practically glistening under the floodlights. Mahogany against moonlight. You'd come to this university on a partial athletic scholarship, determined to make something of yourself. In high school, you were the best track runner there was. You had broken your school record a couple of times and that was just when you were sixteen. But now at twenty, in university, you were no longer on the receiving end of the spotlight because Coach Romanoff had other plans. She'd been riding you since day one. Extra drills. Snide comments about your form. Public corrections that made the rest of the team glance away uncomfortably. At first you thought it was just tough love. Now you weren't so sure.
You crossed the line and bent over, hands on your knees, gasping for air.
"You run like a girl." she mumbled disapprovingly after you'd reached the finish line, almost collapsing onto the ground
"I am a girl." It came out breathlessly.
"I thought you wanted to qualify for regionals. You're six seconds slower than last week." Natasha said, checking her stopwatch. Her voice was flat, cold.
"At this rate you'll be warming the bench for conference. Maybe you should stick to intramurals." You straightened up slowly, chest still heaving.
"I ran a personal best two days ago and you know it." Her green eyes flicked over you, taking in the rise and fall of your sports bra, the way your compression shorts clung to your thick thighs, the defiant tilt of your chin. For a second something unreadable flashed across her face. Then it was gone.
"Personal best means nothing if you fold under pressure. Now you either run again or I bench you for the entire season, your choice." You wanted to tell her to fuck off. You wanted to walk away. Instead you lined up and ran. Fuck her.
—-
The feeling of the hot water running down your back managed to calm the burning ache in your body. You stood underneath there for almost ten minutes just to calm your muscles. But for some odd reason, you felt an ache elsewhere that you didn't want to believe.
When Natasha had pulled you aside to correct your form, she'd pressed down onto your stomach, hard. The feeling of her warm hand on your skin seemed to make your skin prick while it sent an unwanted thrill down your body. When she removed her hand, you still felt the warmth even though it started raining.
You hit your fist against the shower wall, frustration mixed with unwanted arousal lingering inside of your body. Your mind now filled with thoughts of your Coach. Her voice, her fingers, her lips, her back, her legs. Everything. The one thing you were good at doing, was hating Natasha Romanoff but right now, even that seemed to fail.
You switched the water off before getting out of the shower and reaching for your towel. Afterwards you stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. You could see the bags under your eyes from sleepless nights, your toned arms and stomach from hard work but still, the feeling of Natasha pressing her arm against your back, or when she placed both arms on your waist to better your form and stride, was the only thing you could focus on. You huffed in annoyance before walking out of your bathroom and into your bedroom.
—-
The track was still wet from overnight rain. Most of the team had already been sent home after the main session, but you were still out there. Natasha had kept you behind. Again.
"Again!" She snapped, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice was ice cold.
"That was pathetic. You looked like a fucking amateur on that last 300." You stood bent over, hands on your knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from your curls onto the track. Your legs burned. This was your eighth repeat and she still wasn't satisfied.
"I hit my split-" You started.
"I don't care what your split was." Natasha cut you off sharply.
"Your form fell apart in the last 80. You're lifting your knees like you're running through mud. Lazy. Soft."
She walked closer, her knee making her gait slightly uneven. Even with the slight limp, she looked intimidating.
"You want to be great?" She continued, voice dripping with bitterness.
"Then stop running like you're scared of the pain. I've seen high school girls with better finishing drive than that." The words stung. You straightened up, jaw clenched, glaring at her.
"I ran a personal best last meet and you're still treating me like shit!" You shot back.
"What the hell do you want from me?" Natasha's green eyes flashed with something dark.
"I want you to stop wasting your talent." She said, stepping right into your space.
"You have the raw tools, the power in those legs, the speed, but you're mentally weak. You fold when it gets hard. Just like half the girls I've coached who thought they were special." She looked you up and down slowly, almost disgusted.
"And the way you prance around this track in those tight shorts like you own the place... it pisses me off. You think you're hot shit? You're not. Not yet." Your hands curled into fists at your sides. Part of you wanted to scream at her. Another part , a darker, more confusing part, felt heat low in your stomach at the intensity of her attention.
"I fucking hate you." You whispered before you could stop yourself. Natasha's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
"Good." She said coldly.
"Use it. Channel that hate into the next rep. I want to see you run like you're trying to prove me wrong." She stepped back and gestured to the starting line.
"Again. Full effort. Or you can pack your shit and quit." You lined up, anger and something else burning in your chest. When the beep sounded, you exploded forward harder than you had all morning, legs pumping with pure fury.
Natasha watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, her face unreadable. But her eyes never, not even for one second, left your body.
—-
After the session, you were cooling down when she approached again.
"Better." She said flatly.
"Still not good enough, but better." She paused, then added in a lower voice.
"You're improving. Slowly. But if you ever talk back to me like that in front of the team, I'll make your life hell. Understood?" You met her stare, breathing still heavy.
"Yes, Coach." Natasha held your gaze a second too long. The air between you crackled with resentment, frustration... and something dangerously close to hunger. She turned and walked away without another word, her limp more noticeable after standing on the track for so long. You watched her go, fists still clenched. You hated her.
—-
The rain had started again, light but steady. You were drenched, exhausted, and furious.
This was your eighth 300m repeat. Your legs felt like concrete. Natasha had been tearing into you nonstop for the last forty minutes, and you'd finally reached your breaking point.
"You're still hesitating!" Natasha shouted from the sidelines.
"Stop being so fucking soft! Drive through the damn curve!"
You crossed the line and immediately turned on her, chest heaving, rain mixing with sweat on your dark skin.
"I am driving!" You yelled back, voice cracking with exhaustion and rage.
"I just ran a 38.2 split and you're still not happy? What the hell is wrong with you?!" Natasha stalked toward you, eyes blazing.
"What's wrong with me? I'm trying to make you into something worth watching. You have all this talent and you waste it all with that weak mentality-"
"Maybe if you think you're such a perfect fucking coach, you should run it!" You snapped, the words flying out before you could stop them.
"Since you know everything so well, why don't you get out here and show me how it's done instead of standing on the sidelines like a bitter has-been?" The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Natasha froze mid step.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the rain seemed to quiet down. You watched the color drain from her face. Her jaw clenched so hard you thought it might actually break. Her hand instinctively twitched toward her scarred right knee before she caught herself. For a moment, something raw and painful flashed across her usually stoic expression, like you had just reached into her chest with a knife and twisted it. She took one slow step back.
"Get off my track." She said, voice dangerously quiet.
"Now."
"Coach, I didn't-"
"I said get off my fucking track." Her voice cracked on the last word. You stood there, rain pouring down your curls, horror settling heavy in your stomach. You hadn't meant it. You were just angry. But you knew exactly where you'd hit her.
Natasha turned away from you, limping slightly more than usual as she walked toward the equipment shed. Her shoulders were rigid, like she was barely holding herself together. You took a shaky step after her.
"Natasha.."
"Don't." She didn't even look back.
"Go home. We're done for today." She disappeared into the shed without another word.
You stood alone on the wet track for a long time, rain soaking through your clothes, guilt eating you alive. You had never seen her look that hurt before. You waited for nearly two hours in the rain before she finally emerged from the building. Natasha had changed into dry clothes, but her eyes were red-rimmed. She looked exhausted. When she saw you standing there, soaked and miserable, she stopped. You stepped forward carefully.
"I didn't mean it." You said, voice thick.
"I was angry and tired and I... I lashed out. I know what your knee means to you. I'm sorry."
Natasha stared at you for a long moment. The bitterness was back in full force, but underneath it was something deeper. Hurt. Vulnerability.
"You think I don't know I'm broken?" she said quietly, voice rough.
"You think I don't remember every single day what I lost? I live with it every time I stand on the sidelines watching you run." She took a shaky breath.
"I push you because I see what you could be. What I could have been. And you throw that in my face?"
"I'm sorry." You whispered again, stepping closer.
"I really am." Natasha looked away, jaw tight.
"Go home, y/n." She started walking toward the parking lot. Her limp was more noticeable tonight. But after a few steps, she paused.
Without turning around, she said softly...
"Tomorrow. 6 AM. Don't be late." Then she kept walking. You stood there in the rain, watching her go, heart aching with guilt... and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to longing.
—-
The track was still damp. The sky was gray and heavy. You showed up early, nerves twisting in your stomach. Natasha was already there. She stood near the starting line in her usual black windbreaker, arms crossed, face unreadable. Her red ponytail whipped in the cold morning wind. She didn't acknowledge you at first. Just stared at her stopwatch like it had personally offended her.
You approached slowly.
"Coach... about yesterday..."
"Warm up." She cut you off sharply.
"Four laps easy. Then we start." Her voice was colder than you'd ever heard it. Professional. Distant. Like she'd built an entire wall overnight. You swallowed the guilt and started your warm up. Every stride felt heavier than usual. When you finished and jogged back, Natasha was waiting with a set of cones already placed on the track.
"Today we're doing broken 400s." She said flatly. "150 hard, 100 recovery jog, 150 hard. Six sets. I want perfect form. No excuses." You nodded. The first set was brutal. She watched you like a hawk, correcting every tiny mistake with biting precision.
"Arms higher. Stop swinging them like that."
"Knees up. You're dragging your feet."
"Drive. Stop being lazy."
Each correction felt sharper than usual. There was no teasing, no lingering looks. Just cold, professional cruelty. By the fourth set, your legs were screaming. You crossed the line on the second 150 and bent over, gasping. Natasha walked up slowly. She stopped a few feet away.
"You're tightening up again." She said, voice flat.
"Same problem as yesterday. You fold when it hurts." You straightened up, breathing hard, and met her eyes.
"I said I was sorry," you said quietly.
I didn't mean what I said about your leg." Natasha's jaw flexed. For a moment, something painful flickered across her face before she locked it down again.
"I don't care if you're sorry." she replied coldly. "You said it. You meant it in the moment. That's what matters." She stepped closer, voice dropping.
"You want to know why I push you so hard?" Her green eyes were intense.
"Because I see myself in you. The talent. The fire. The potential. And every time you waste it, every time you complain or talk back... it reminds me that I'd give anything to still be able to run like you do." She looked down at your powerful legs, then back up to your face.
"So run. Or don't. But don't ever throw my injury in my face ever again." The silence between you was heavy. You nodded, throat tight.
"Yes, Coach." Natasha held your gaze for another second, long enough for you to see the storm behind her eyes, before she stepped back.
"Again."
The rest of the session was miserable.
She rode you harder than she ever had. Extra reps. Constant corrections. Public humiliation in front of the few early arrivals who showed up. By the end, you were soaked in sweat and fighting back tears of exhaustion and guilt. When she finally dismissed the group, she kept you behind once more. You stood in front of her, legs trembling. Natasha looked at you for a long moment. The cold mask cracked just slightly.
"Go ice your legs." she said, quieter now.
"And drink something. You pushed hard today."
You hesitated.
"I really am sorry." you whispered. She exhaled slowly through her nose.
"I know." She turned and started walking away, limp more pronounced after the long morning on her feet.
But before she got too far, she paused.
"Film room tomorrow night," she said without turning around.
"We still have strategy to work on." Then she left you standing there, sore, guilty, and more confused about your feelings for her than ever. You went back to your dorm and spent the night crying. You don't know why. It just happened.
The tension between you was now unbearable.
And it was only getting worse.
—-
The next day at practice, you showed up on time, earbuds in, head down. No attitude. No backtalk. No fire. You did exactly what Natasha asked and nothing more or nothing less. When she corrected your form, you adjusted without a word. When she told you to run another set, you lined up silently and ran it hard. But you wouldn't look at her. Not once. Your eyes stayed on the track, on your shoes, on the cones ...anywhere but her face.
Natasha noticed immediately. By the third rep, her voice had sharpened.
"Y/n. Eyes up when I'm talking to you." You briefly lifted your gaze to her chest, then looked away again. No defiance. Just quiet, heavy guilt. She hated it. But she still made you run nonetheless.
"Again!" Natasha barked after you finished a 400m time trial.
"You slowed on the final straight. Fix it." You nodded once, still not looking at her, and jogged back to the line without argument. No eye contact. No snappy comeback. Just obedient silence. Natasha's jaw clenched tighter with every lap. After the sixth rep, when you crossed the line and immediately started your recovery jog without waiting for feedback, she finally snapped.
"Stop." You slowed to a walk but kept your eyes on the ground. Natasha walked over, stopping right in front of you. She was breathing harder than usual, frustration rolling off her in waves.
"Look at me." She demanded. You didn't.
"Y/n." You finally lifted your eyes, but only to her collarbone. The guilt was written all over your face. Natasha stared at you for a long moment. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
"You think ignoring me makes it better?" She said, voice low.
"You think shutting down like this is going to fix what you said yesterday?" You swallowed hard but stayed quiet. She stepped closer, voice dropping even more.
"I'd rather you yell at me than this. At least when you're angry, you're present. Right now you're just... empty. And it's pissing me off." Still, you said nothing. You just stared at the ground again, shoulders slightly slumped. Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose. She ran a hand over her ponytail, clearly battling with herself.
After a long pause, she spoke again, quieter this time.
"Go cool down. Ice your legs when you get home." You nodded once and turned to leave.
Before you could take more than two steps, Natasha's voice stopped you.
"Y/n." You paused. She hesitated, like the words were physically painful to say.
"I know you didn't mean it." She said stiffly.
"But it still hurt. Don't... don't do this silent treatment shit. It's worse." You finally looked at her, really looked. For a brief second, the guilt in your eyes met the complicated storm in hers (anger, hurt, frustration... and something softer underneath).
Then you nodded again and walked away toward the locker room. Natasha stood there watching you go, fists clenched at her sides. She hated how much your silence bothered her. She hated how much she wanted you to look at her again.
Later that afternoon, you were stretching alone in the corner of the weight room when Natasha walked in. She stopped a few feet away.
"You're still avoiding me." she stated. You kept stretching, eyes on your quad.
"I'm doing what you asked." You said quietly. "Running. Fixing my form. No arguing." Natasha took another step closer.
"I don't want a robot on my track." She said.
"I want you. Even if you're pissed at me." You finally looked up at her. The guilt was still heavy in your expression.
"I hurt you." You said simply.
"I didn't know how else to... not make it worse. Natasha's jaw flexed. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but instead she just stared at you for a long moment , eyes tracing your face, your shoulders, your powerful legs.
Then she turned and walked out without another word. But the tension between you had only grown thicker. And Natasha was clearly not done with you yet.
—-
"The last curve was awful. You're lacking." Natasha commented while other girls came back from their own laps.
"You gonna give them some criticism or just me?" You bite back, sweat running down your forehead before you wipe it away. Natasha blows her whistle directly into your face.
"Again." You sigh in frustration before your feet move on their own accord. Natasha's been more harsher on the girls these days. You all know it was because the regionals were in two months but really you felt like she was overdoing it. You didn't complain or speak much because you still felt bad for throwing that comment a week ago. But her behavior was worse. Especially when it came to you, and the other girls saw it too.
They were used to it all. The bickering between you and Natasha, how she made you work ten times harder, her harsh criticism and all the other stuff. At first they thought it was tough love too, that maybe Natasha saw something in you but then it got worse and well, really it wasn't in their place to say anything. Rather it be you the them. Natasha blew the last whistle, signaling that practice was done for the day. But when she motioned for you to stay, you groaned in annoyance. What more does she want from me!?
Your steps were slow as you moved towards the benches. You were dreading whatever she had planned for you, and watching all the girls take off their running shoes to replace them for crocs or Birkenstocks wasn't really helping your case. You could feel a blister coming in on your foot soon.
"Cone duty. Then we meet to strategize." Natasha stated, picking up and placing her clipboard underneath her arm.
"Can't you ever say please?" Natasha ignores you, but something in her stance changes. You see the way her leg subtly twitches before she turns around, like she's hiding it. It's probably her bad knee. You look away before she catches you staring at her.
The thing is, Natasha was a good athlete. Actually good wasn't even the word to describe her. But she was the best in Russia, impeccable even. After making her way to the top and getting various scouts interested in her, she made a name for herself. Speed, agility and diligence, that's what she had.
She'd won medals, trophies and even got top sponsors to sponsor her university in hopes that she'd eventually part from the university and become one of their own sponsored athlete. It was all going well for Natasha until the unfortunate incident. It happened when she was nineteen years old, during the Russian Olympic Trials in Moscow.
She was running the 400m hurdles final, one of the top prospects in the country, expected to make the Olympic team and potentially contend for a medal. She was dominating the race, running with perfect rhythm and aggressive power that only she seemed to have.
On hurdle seven, she took off a fraction too early. Her trail leg (right leg) clipped the top of the hurdle. It wasn't a clean clip, it was bad. Her body twisted awkwardly in the air, and when she landed, her right knee buckled sideways under the full force of her momentum. The injury was catastrophic. Complete tear of the ACL, severe tear of the MCL, shredded meniscus and significant damage to the surrounding cartilage and ligaments.
Natasha heard the pop herself. It was loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd. She collapsed on the track in agony, clutching her knee and screaming. The stadium went dead silent as medics rushed out. That single moment ended her elite running career.
She underwent three surgeries over the next two years. The Russian athletic federation basically abandoned her once it became clear she'd never return to world-class level. She went from being a golden girl, destined for the Olympics, to a bitter, washed up coach. At least that's the story you heard.
When the cones were finally in their bag, Natasha cocked her head over to the Film Room which was also known as the Tactic Room in the athletics department. You both walked in silence, only because you had no idea what to say to her and the thought of speaking right now didn't seem very possible.
When you reached the building, Natasha pulled out her key to unlock the door. The film room was a small, dimly lit room with a large projector screen, a long desk, a few chairs, and a whiteboard. The walls were covered with old race photos, national championship banners, and dry erase boards with strategy notes. The room was rarely used late at night, which made it the perfect private space for Natasha to do one on one sessions with you.
"Close the door." She mumbled and you did so before plopping yourself down on the seats. The small film room smelled like stale coffee and rubber flooring. The only light came from the projector that was now casting a blue glow across the walls lined with old race photos and dry-erase boards covered in race splits.
This was the third time this week that Natasha kept you over. "Strategizing" is what she called it. You were both leaning over the long desk, shoulders nearly touching, as she paused and replayed the same 15-second clip of you running the curve during last weekend's meet.
"Watch." Natasha said, her voice low and focused. She pointed at the screen with a pen.
"Right here. You're standing up too early out of the turn. You lose power every time you do that. Your drive phase shortens and you start floating instead of attacking." You tried to focus on the footage, but it was getting harder with every session. Natasha stood so close you could smell her. Sharp citrus, clean sweat, and something uniquely her. Her red hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, a few strands loose against her sharp cheekbones.
"I thought I was staying low." You muttered, glancing at her.
"You're not low enough." She reached over and adjusted the frame. Her arm brushed against your breast for half a second. Neither of you acknowledged it, but you felt the contact like electricity.
Natasha cleared her throat and continued.
"In the 400, the third 100 is where races are won or lost. You have the raw speed, but your rhythm breaks on the curve. You hesitate. You think too much." You turned your head to look at her.
She was already looking at you. For a moment, the race footage kept playing in the background, but both of you had stopped watching it. Her green eyes flicked down to your mouth for a split second before snapping back up. Your breathing had grown slightly ragged.
"I... I'll work on it." You said quietly.
Natasha's jaw flexed. She leaned in a little closer under the pretense of pointing something else out on the screen. Her hip brushed against yours.
"You have the talent to be elite, Y/n. But you're still soft. Still doubting yourself mid race." Her voice dropped.
"I hate watching you waste what I lost." The air felt thicker. You could feel heat radiating off her body. You swallowed hard, realizing with sudden clarity that the fluttering in your stomach wasn't just nerves about the upcoming meet. You were attracted to her. To your cold, bitter, extremely hot coach who pushed you harder than anyone ever had. And the way she was looking at you right now... you were almost sure she felt it too.
"Is that why you hate me?" You asked softly and Natasha's face morphed into a look of shock and something you didn't want to name.
"I don't hate you. I hate that you're lazy." She licked her lips before continuing.
"You've got talent that I haven't see in all my years of coaching, and instead of bettering it, you're playing with it. You could go so fucking far, that's why I push you." The tension in the room heightened, you were certain that if you leaned a fraction closer, her lips would touch yours.
Natasha straightened up slightly, but didn't step away. Her eyes trailed down your body for a moment, lingering on your sports bra, your toned stomach, the powerful lines of your thighs in your compression shorts, before she caught herself. She turned back to the screen, gripping the edge of the desk a little too tightly.
"Next week I want you running the curve ten times after practice. I'll film you myself. We're going to fix this before conference."
"Yes, Coach," you whispered. She glanced at you again. The tension was so thick it felt suffocating.
For a second, it looked like she might say something else. Something real. Instead, she stepped back, putting some much-needed distance between you.
"Go home and rest," she said, voice rougher than usual.
"And stop looking at me like that." You blinked.
"Like what?" Natasha's eyes darkened. She didn't answer. She just stared at you for another long, heavy second before turning off the projector.
"Dismissed." You grabbed your bag slowly, legs feeling unsteady.
As you reached the door, you looked back. Natasha was still standing at the desk, watching you leave with an unreadable expression. Hungry, frustrated, and conflicted all at once. You closed the door behind you, heart racing. Something had shifted tonight. And you both knew it.
—-
The tension didn't fade. If anything, it got worse.
The next night, Natasha kept you late again. This time the film room felt even smaller. The projector was off. The only light came from a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across the walls. You were sitting on the edge of the desk while Natasha stood between your slightly spread legs, reviewing handwritten notes on your race strategy. Close. Too close.
"We need to talk about your finishing kick." She said, voice lower than usual.
"You have the speed, but you're still afraid to hurt. You hold back when it matters most." Her eyes flicked up from the paper to your face. Then slowly down your body. Over your sports bra, the curve of your waist, and the powerful thighs on either side of her. You felt your breathing change again. Shallower. Heavier.
"I'm not afraid." You replied, barely above a whisper. Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"No?" She placed one hand on the desk beside your hip, leaning in. The scent of her filled your lungs.
Her other hand rested lightly on your quad, not quite a coach's touch anymore. Her thumb brushed slowly across the muscle.
"You hesitate on the straight because you're scared of the pain." She murmured.
"Just like you're hesitating right now." Your heart hammered against your ribs. The room felt ten degrees hotter.
"I'm not hesitating." You said, staring at her lips.
Natasha's jaw tightened. Her fingers flexed on your thigh, digging in just enough for you to feel it. Her eyes dropped to your mouth again, then back up.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me." She said, almost like a warning.
"Every practice. Every time these legs move on my track. Every time you look at me like that. You swallowed hard.
"Like what, Coach?" Natasha let out a shaky breath. Her hand slid higher up your thigh, stopping just under the hem of your shorts. So close.
"Like you want me to ruin you." She whispered. The silence stretched. Heavy. Dangerous.
You could feel the heat between your legs. The way your body was responding to her touch, her voice, her proximity. Natasha's breathing had grown ragged too. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown. For a moment, it felt like she might close the gap. Like she might finally kiss you.
Instead, she pulled her hand away like she'd been burned and stepped back.
"Fuck." She muttered under her breath, running a hand through her ponytail.
"Go home, Y/N." You didn't move right away. Your legs felt weak.
"Coach..."
"Tomorrow." She said, cutting you off. Her voice was strained.
"We'll finish this discussion tomorrow. After practice." You slid off the desk slowly. Your body was buzzing. When you reached the door, you looked back.
Natasha was gripping the edge of the desk with both hands, head slightly bowed, like she was physically holding herself back. You left before either of you did something you couldn't take back. But you both knew the truth. It was only a matter of time.
—-
The tension had only gotten worse. You barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Natasha's darkened eyes and felt her hand sliding up your thigh. When you walked into the film room the next evening, the air felt charged, like the moment before a storm. Natasha was already there. She stood at the desk in a black long sleeve top and leggings, arms crossed, staring at the paused footage on the screen. The moment you closed the door behind you, she looked over.
"Sit." She said, voice rough. You sat on the edge of the desk like last time. Natasha positioned herself between your legs again, closer than necessary, too close to be just Coach and prodigy. The projector light flickered across her sharp features.
"We're going over your last two races." She said, but her tone made it clear the footage was secondary.
We're going over your last two races," she said, but her tone made it clear the footage was secondary. She hit play. The video showed you powering through the final straight. Natasha pointed things out, but her voice was lower than usual.
"Your hips drop here." She murmured, leaning in so her chest nearly brushed your shoulder.
"You lose power because you're not staying tall through the drive." Her hand rested on the desk beside your hip. Then slowly, deliberately, her other hand settled on your quad again. Higher than last time. Her thumb stroked the bare skin just under the hem of your shorts. Your breathing picked up immediately.
"You're doing it again." Natasha said quietly, eyes still on the screen even though neither of you was really watching anymore.
"Looking at me like you want something you shouldn't." You swallowed.
"I'm not the only one." You whispered. Natasha's jaw flexed. Her fingers tightened on your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you inhale sharply. She finally turned her head to look at you. The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable now.
"You have no idea how badly I want to bend you over this desk." She said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Every single night I think about it. About shutting that smart mouth up. About seeing how wet you get when I'm mean to you." Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Natasha noticed.
Her hand slid higher, fingertips slipping just under your shorts. She stopped right at the edge of your bare pussy then pulled her hand away. You let out a soft whine. She noticed.
"No panties?" She asked, you tilted your head to the side.
"Did you feel em?" Natashas mouth parted, her green eyes were locked on yours, dark and burning. She finally broke the silence, voice low and rough.
"How wet are you right now?" Your breath caught in your throat. The question sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. You held her gaze, heart pounding.
"I don't think you want to know the answer to that question Coach." Natasha's eyes darkened further. Her fingers flexed on your thigh.
"Tell me." The command hung in the air.
Without breaking eye contact, you slowly slid your right hand into your shorts. No barrier from your panties underneath. The moment your fingers touched your soaked folds, the wet, obscene sound echoed clearly in the quiet room.
Schlick... schlick... schlick...
You pushed two fingers inside yourself, slowly pumping them in and out. The sloppy, wet noises were unmistakable. Your breathing grew heavier, lips parting as your eyes fluttered half closed. You fucked yourself deliberately, letting her hear exactly how drenched you were, all for her.
Natasha watched with rapt attention, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling faster. Her hand tightened almost painfully on your thigh.
You kept going, fingers moving faster, the slick sounds growing louder and messier. A soft moan slipped from your lips as you curled your fingers inside yourself.
Right when you were getting close, you pulled your hand out. Your fingers were glistening, strands of your arousal stretching between them. You held them up between you and Natasha, breathing hard.
"That's how wet I am." You whispered, voice husky.
"Coach." Natasha stared at your dripping fingers like a woman starved.
For half a second, she looked like she was fighting herself. Then she lost. She grabbed your wrist and brought your soaked fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean with a deep, guttural moan. Her tongue swirled greedily around them, tasting every drop of you while her eyes stayed locked on yours.
"Fuck." she groaned, voice wrecked.
"You taste so fucking good, even better than I imagined." She pulled your fingers out with a wet pop, then suddenly grabbed your hips and yanked you forward on the desk. In one rough motion, she ripped your shorts down your legs and dropped to her knees.
The moment her mouth latched onto your pussy, you cried out. Natasha devoured you like she'd been dying for it for month, tongue dragging through your folds, sucking hard on your clit, two fingers pushing deep inside you instantly.
"So wet." She growled against your cunt, pumping her fingers fast.
"You've been walking around my track this soaked for me?" You moaned loudly, one hand flying to her red hair as your powerful thighs trembled around her head.
"Fucking slut, walking around my track with this bare pussy hanging out. Wanted me to see your pussy so bad huh." Natasha slapped your pussy then ate you out with raw hunger, fingers curling viciously inside you while her tongue worked your clit. She was done holding back.
She ate you like she was angry at you. Like she was punishing you for making her want this so badly. Her tongue was relentless, licking broad and messy through your folds before flicking rapidly against your swollen clit. She sucked your clit into her mouth hard, then released it with a wet pop, only to do it again. Two of her fingers pushed deep inside you without warning, curling instantly against your g-spot as she fucked you with them.
The sounds were borderline filthy. Wet, obscene slurping and sucking mixed with the slick plunge of her fingers. Natasha groaned loudly against your cunt, the vibration shooting straight through you.
"So fucking wet." She growled, voice muffled as she licked you sloppily.
"You've been hiding this pretty dripping pussy from me for months?" She sucked hard on your clit again, fingers pumping faster, deeper. Your powerful thighs started shaking on either side of her head. You gripped her red ponytail tightly, hips rolling against her face.
Natasha pulled back just enough to look up at you, her chin and lips shiny with your arousal, eyes dark with lust.
"Look at me while I eat you y/n." She ordered.
You forced your eyes down. The sight of Natasha Romanoff, your cold, intimidating coach, on her knees with her face buried between your dark thighs was almost too much. She held eye contact as she flattened her tongue and licked you in long, slow strokes from your entrance up to your clit, then sucked hard again. Her fingers never stopped moving at all, just curling, thrusting, stroking that spot inside you that made your legs tremble.
"You taste so good." she moaned against your pussy, licking messily.
"So sweet and sloppy for me. This is what you get when you tease your coach." She slapped your pussy again then added a third finger, stretching you open as she sucked relentlessly on your clit. Her free hand gripped your thick quad hard, fingers digging into the dense muscle to hold you in place while she feasted. Your moans grew louder, more desperate like a fucking bitch in heat. Your hips bucked against her face. Natasha didn't let up, she fucked you with her fingers and worshipped your clit with her tongue, alternating between fast flicks and long, dirty licks.
When you started clenching around her fingers, close to the edge, she pulled back slightly and looked up again.
"Don't you dare come yet." She warned, voice husky.
"I'm not finished with you." Then she dove back in even harder, tongue working your clit furiously while her fingers drove deep and fast. The redhead was completely lost in you.
She ate your pussy with filthy, desperate hunger, no restraint left. Her tongue moved in fast, messy circles around your clit before sucking it hard into her mouth again and again. Three fingers thrust deep inside you, curling relentlessly against your g-spot with every stroke.
The wet, sloppy sounds were loud in the small room. Every lick, every suck, every plunge of her fingers made your thighs shake harder around her head.
"Natasha, ah, f-f-uck." You moaned, gripping her red ponytail tighter. She groaned loudly against your cunt, the vibration making your back arch off the desk. She pulled her mouth back just enough to speak, lips and chin shiny with your arousal.
"You're soaking my face detka." She rasped, voice thick.
"You're just such a messy girl for your coach." Then she dove back in even more aggressively.
Her tongue flicked rapidly over your swollen clit while her fingers fucked you harder, faster. She curled them perfectly, stroking that sensitive spot inside you over and over. One of her hands gripped your thick quad, nails digging into the muscle as she held you open for her mouth.
You were trembling. Whimpering. So close it hurt. Natasha could feel it. She sucked your clit hard and moaned against you, refusing to let up.
Come," she growled, voice muffled.
"Come on my tongue right now." The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your powerful thighs clamped around her head as you came hard, crying out her name. Your pussy clenched violently around her fingers, gushing against her tongue. Natasha didn't stop, she kept licking and fucking you through every wave, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive, tears pricking your eyes.
Only when your moans turned into broken whimpers did she finally slow down.
She gently pulled her fingers out and gave your pussy one last slow, soothing lick before pressing a soft kiss on your clit then stomach. Natasha stayed between your legs for a moment longer, forehead pressed to your stomach as you both caught your breath. Her hands gently stroked your thighs, soothing the trembling muscles, her lips and chin were glistening. She looked wrecked, her pupils blown and breathing ragged.
Without a word, she leaned over you, pressing her body against yours on the desk, and kissed you deeply. You could taste yourself on her tongue. When she pulled back, her voice was low and rough.
"I've wanted to do that for so fucking long."
She rested her forehead against yours, one hand still gently stroking your trembling thigh.
"You okay?" she asked, softer now. You nodded, still catching your breath, a small, dazed smile on your face. Natasha kissed you again, slower this time, almost tender.
Then she whispered against your lips.
"This doesn't change anything on the track. I'm still going to be mean to you." She smirked, eyes sparkling with heat.
"Even after this?" You teased and she laughed before kissing you again. The kiss started tender but quickly turned hungry again, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, her hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you close. When she pulled back, her eyes were still dark.
"You're going to ruin me." she whispered against your lips. She helped you sit up, then grabbed tissues from the desk drawer. She was surprisingly gentle as she cleaned you up between your legs, wiping away the mess she'd made. Her touch lingered a little longer than necessary, thumb brushing softly over your sensitive skin. Once you were both decent again, she pulled you in for one more kiss, slower, almost reluctant, like she didn't want to stop.
"Come on." She said quietly, voice rough.
"I'm taking you back to your dorm."
—-
The drive back to your dorm was thick with silence and heat. Natasha's hand never left your thigh. Her fingers dug into the thick muscle possessively, occasionally sliding higher, teasing the hem of your shorts. Every red light felt like torture. At one stoplight, she slid her hand fully between your legs and cupped your still sensitive pussy over your shorts, rubbing firmly. You gasped hard, hips twitching.
"Still wet." She murmured, eyes on the road."Even after I ate you out for twenty minutes. Greedy girl." You whimpered softly, spreading your legs a little wider in the passenger seat. Natasha's jaw clenched. She pressed harder, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric until the light turned green.
By the time she pulled up in front of your dorm building, you were squirming in your seat and she was breathing hard. She put the car in park but didn't unlock the doors. Instead, she reached over, grabbed the front of your shirt, and yanked you into a rough kiss across the console. It was desperate, all tongue and teeth. Her hand slid back between your legs, pushing under your shorts this time to stroke your bare, soaked pussy.
"You're going to go upstairs and think about my tongue on you." she growled against your mouth, fingers teasing your entrance.
"Every time you move tomorrow, you're going to feel how sore I made this pretty pussy." You moaned into her mouth as two fingers dipped inside you again, just enough to make you clench.
Then she pulled back abruptly, breathing ragged, and removed her hand.
"Go." She said, voice strained.
"Before I say fuck it and take you home with me."
You stepped out of the car on shaky legs. Before you closed the door, you looked back at her.
Natasha was gripping the steering wheel tightly, lips swollen, eyes burning as she watched you.
You walked into your shared dormitory, and slipped into your own room. The suite was quiet except for the loud music that was probably coming from some frat party. Your friend was also probably out at that exact same party. You couldn't care less, instead you flopped down onto your bed and let out an actual scream. Your coach was in between your legs. Your coach ate your pussy. Nothing about this was platonic or "Prodigy x Coach". This was serious.
At 11:20 PM you got a text from an unknown number. Well just a number you didn't plan on saving to your contact list until now.
Unknown number
You make it inside okay?
You
Yeah. Still can't stop thinking about your mouth on me.
Natasha
Fuck, Y/N. Don't text me shit like that.
You
Why? You liked how I tasted, didn't you?
A long pause.
Natasha
I'm still wet just thinking about it. You were so fucking wet for me.
You
I'm still wet now.
Natasha
Stop. I'm trying to be responsible.
You
Come be irresponsible then.
Natasha
You're going to get me in so much trouble.
Natasha
Go to sleep, baby. Tomorrow I'm back to being mean to you on the track.
You
Yes Coach.
Natasha
Good girl.
Just casually dropping another series amidst my exam season. Enjoy.
