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Prompt: Presidentâs daughter x bodyguard Natasha
Wanrings: Smut ahead. Minors and men dni.
G!P Natasha Romanoff, unprotected sex, p in v, subtle fingering, dirty talking, spitting. Tension, kind of angst, pining. Age gap (N is 37, r is 20)
Word count: 9K words
Part 2
Being the presidents daughter isn't as glamorous and fantastic as people make it to be. In fact, it was beyond horrible. You were expected to be a lady who was poised, perfect, untouchable and well, the president's daughter. You have to hold the reputation that your mother unfortunately placed onto you. And let me tell you, it was more than exhausting.
For years it's been like this. You don't even remember having a childhood at all. No friends, no sleepovers, no parties, no drunken mistakes, no kisses and all of that. Well, maybe all of that was a stretch. You'd done all of that in secret without your mother knowing. Which is probably the reason why you have Romanoff following you around now and watching you like a hawk.
In retrospect, you were still young and naive. You were seventeen at the time so it was pretty much inevitable for something like that to happen. For you to get into trouble. You didn't think you kissing some pastors daughter would land up all over newspapers, gossip columns, magazines and pretty much all of social media. And you sure as hell didn't think a picture of you dancing on a table with a dress that was short and quite revealing would land up on the media too.
Okay, maybe you did expect it and maybe you did it because you wanted to rebel against this unwanted persona you were given. But clearly that didn't work well because two weeks after the unforgettable incident, you had some weird emails and letters from potential stalkers coming in. You thought it was funny but your mother didn't think that, in fact she was far from amused. And at that time she was still running for president, so pretty much everything and anything could have jeopardize her career, which unsurprisingly didn't happen.
But the letters, the emails and the stalker behavior became consistent and disgusting, graphic even and your mother worried about your safety. She worried that one day, you'd end up in some trouble and she wouldn't be able to get you back. So one evening, she spent all night trying to find the best bodyguard for you. Someone firm, strict and who stuck to protocol. Someone who could relate to you and would protect you. Someone trustworthy and someone who would manage to put you in place when you stepped out of line. Someone who wasn't a potential danger to you but would literally kill to keep you safe.
And in comes Natasha Romanoff. Or Agent killjoy as you called her. You remember the first day you met her. Black suit, Valentino sunglasses, red hair tied up in a bun and the straightest posture you'd ever seen in your life. She stood next to your mother, conversating about something important until her head turned upwards to look at you. Your mother's attention followed suite.
"Oh, perfect. Y/n, I want you to meet your new bodyguard. Natasha Romanoff."
"Bodyguard?" It came out harsher than you'd intended but honest to god, what was your mother thinking.
"Yes. She will be with you all day, every day."
"I don't think that's necessary, really I-"
"If you want to speak to me, you'll come closer to me." She commands leaving no room for disagreements and you mumble something incoherent while walking down the rest of the stairs.
"Now, what were you saying?"
"I was trying to tell you that I don't need a babysitter mother."
"I'm not a babysitter y/n. I've been hired for your safety." Natasha explains, and her voice is so enticing. You want to hear it again.
"Same thing." You cut her off and the woman simply arches a brow before taking her sunglasses off.
Your stomach does a summersalt when you get a proper look at her. She was beyond good looking.
"Y/n, there are people out there who see you as bait, stalkers who want to harm you. In fact, they see you as something that not even I want to address."
"A whore?" You tilt your head and you see the corner of Natashaâs lips twitch.
"Please, excuse my daughter's language. She gets very vulgar sometimes, but we're still working on it." The glare you get afterwards has you rolling your eyes.
"No need for apologies ma'am." Natasha explains with a simple hand gesture.
"So what I'm gathering from this is, I now have a new bodyguard who will follow me around and basically my entire social life is over? Great. Thanks mom, you win the best mother of the year award once again." You turn on your heels before walking up the stairs of this ridiculously large house.
Downstairs, Natashaâs eyebrows are still arched. She found you to be quite amusing actually, almost like a feisty kitten.
"Well, that was an introduction." Your mother huffs out before stepping into the house.
"Do follow me so I can give you a tour." That's the last thing Natasha hears before following your mother.
___
Now you wouldn't say you hated Natasha or anything like that. In fact, you liked her. A bit too much. Sure, she was annoying as hell in the beginning. Like whenever she was everywhere you went, or when she would meddle in your business or when she pulled you away from people who so happened to bat an eye at you because she was worried about your safety. Her presence made you feel caged, watched even. So you basically hated her for doing her job.
But then you grew up. Two and a half years later and you finally got over your supposed hatred for the woman. Instead, that hatred boiled over into a crush. Yes, you harbored feelings for the woman who was your so called "protector". But really it was inevitable. Having Natasha around you at all times was like leaving food around a hungry kitten. You're gonna want to eat it at some point.
Maybe that analogy was a bad one but god the woman was so good looking. Everything about her drew you in. Her attitude, that stoic yet dominant attitude of hers that always managed to put you in your place. How she would whisper "behave" in public whenever you were about to act out, her voice coaxing you into something you didn't want to name at that time.
Her appearance. Well, there was no need to even say anything about that because her appearance spoke for itself. You were certain the woman was sculpted by Greek gods themselves. And you, nineteen, and still very much rebellious just so happened to be crushing on the redhead.
___
The ballroom glittered the way it always did on nights your mother wanted the country to believe everything was perfect. Crystal chandeliers bled gold over polished floors, senators laughed way too loudly, and the string quartet in the corner never missed a beat. You had spent the last hour practicing your best presidential-daughter smile which was polite, warm, and exactly the right amount of approachable.
Somewhere on the edge of the crowd stood Natasha. You could feel her before you saw her, a steady orbit just outside your own. She never wore the same dress uniform twice, never drank the champagne waiters kept offering, never let her hand stray far from the comm in her ear. You used to hate that constant shadow. But now, at nineteen, you told yourself youâd gotten used to it.
But the truth was you noticed everything about her. Everything.
How she scanned the room in slow, economical sweeps. How the light caught the faint red in her hair. How she never seemed to breathe wrong, even in heels and a tailored suit.
And when her gaze swept across you from the other side of the ballroom, you looked away quickly, pretending to admire the floral arrangements on the table. Even though the thump of your heart was louder than the awful classical music playing in the background. You continued to play the role of the dutiful presidents daughter, nodding politely at people you didn't care about, until one sharp sound rang across the ballroom, a metallic pop, sharp and wrong. Your ears caught it just as the second sound cracked, louder and closer. Gasps swept through the room. Before you could react, a hand pressed firmly against your back, guiding you off the floor.
"Move." Natasha ordered, her voice low and commanding. Your stomach dropped as you realized that she wasnât joking at all. You stumbled forward, heels clacking against the polished marble, one hand trying to lift your dress higher so you could walk faster while her body just ahead, angled to shield you from view. The hall erupted into chaos behind you. Shouts, alarms, screams. Cameras flashed, and waiters scattered like frightened birds.
Her pace was clipped and controlled. You had to jog to keep up, every step you took sending adrenaline through your veins. She didnât look back, didn't even need to slow down, her presence was a shield, her movement a promise that she would get you out of here alive.
The main exit was blocked. Natashaâs eyes scanned the room, taking in every pillar, every table, every cluster of frightened guests. She yanked you toward a narrow service corridor that you hadnât noticed before.
"This way!" she snapped, and you almost tripped over your own feet as she propelled you through the door.
Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and narrow. Shadows stretched along the walls, distorted and menacing. Natashaâs hand stayed on your back, firm but not harsh, guiding you past janitorial carts and maintenance doors. The alarmâs blaring was muffled here, but every footstep and every muffled shout from the ballroom, kept your senses taut. Your ragged breaths didn't seem to make the situation any better. Fuck, you really needed to work out more.
"What, whatâs happening?" you asked breathlessly.
"Unknown threat." she replied, voice rid of any emotion.
"Unbeknownst threat? What the hell is an unbeknownst threat, I deserve to know what's happening if it involves me dying and-" Natasha covered your mouth with her palm.
"I said, unbeknownst threat. That means I don't know but you'll listen to me and do as I say. Stay close." Furiously and a little (really) turned on, you bit her palm with your teeth and she retracted it with a glare.
"Did you just bite me?"
"Where's my mother?! She could still be in the ballroom and-"
"Listen y/n, your mother is safe wherever she is. But my job is you. I am here for you. Not her but you. And the last thing I'll let happen is for you to be carried out of here, in a body bag. So I'll say this one last time, you do what I say, when I say it if you want to make it out alive. Now stay close. "
Natashaâs tone left no room for any argument. You kept your shoulder pressed against hers, feeling her body move in precise and controlled steps. Your pulse thundered in your chest. The air smelled faintly of polished floors and something metallic, fear or maybe even adrenaline.
A sudden shout echoed down the hall. Natasha pivoted, pressing you against the wall in one fluid motion, gun raised. You pressed your back to the cool plaster, heart hammering. Her hand lingered near your shoulder, steadying you, and you realized how close you were, her body almost brushing yours, the warmth of her side grounding you against your fear.
Seconds stretched like hours. Every shadow seemed to come alive. You could hear her breathing now, slow, controlled, and practiced, yet kind of steady. It was almost comforting you in this moment of panic. But the faint tremor in your own hands reminded you that you were far less composed.
The footsteps passed. Natasha didnât move until she was sure the threat had moved on. Then she exhaled softly, lowering the weapon, though her gaze never wavered from the hallway.
"Stay here for a moment. "she said, voice low, almost gentle.
"Y-you can't be serious. You can't leave me here." Natasha gave you a pointed look that shut you up. She left you alone but came back minutes later. You could barely think, your chest still racing.
"Why do you always look so calm?" you asked, voice trembling.
She glanced at you, her eyes briefly softened in the dim light.
"Experience." she said.
"And focus. Very vital in this line of work." The silence after that was heavy, thick with unspoken words. You realized, with a shock, how much you were beginning to notice her. The tension in her shoulders, the glint of her eyes in the shadows, the way her breath barely shifted as she moved. You had never seen her like this, in danger, and the thought made something coil tight in your chest.
"Ready?" she asked finally, taking a careful step back. You nodded although the hesitation could be seen on your face.
"Yeah, ready." She led the way back to another service exit, moving with the same lethal precision. The closer you got to the safe zone, the more chaos bled through the suffocating walls. Alarms, shouts, the sharp edge of panic in everyoneâs voice. Yet with Natasha, you felt⊠something like calm. Controlled calm. Like she would never let anything happen to you. And indeed, she wouldn't.
When you finally stepped into the stairwell leading outside, her hand dropped from your back, but the electricity of proximity lingered. Your chest still raced, but your thoughts werenât just about fear anymore. They were about her. How easily she had moved, how certain she was, how impossible it was to stop noticing her. Her eyes, her hand on your back, her voice.
By the time you were ushered into the armored vehicle waiting in the rain-slick driveway, you couldnât deny it. You had felt it in the press of her hand, the closeness, the calm in the storm. Something inside you had shifted. The walls youâd built against her had crumbled, almost imperceptibly, leaving behind⊠curiosity. Infatuation. Something that scared you as much as the gala had.
She took her seat next to the driver, eyes forward, expression unreadable. But you caught the way she glanced at you once, sharp, assessing, like she knew youâd felt it too. And for the first time, you werenât sure whether that was comforting or borderline dangerous.
___
That same night you didnât sleep. In fact, you couldn't really sleep. You lay there for an hour, replaying the nights events in your head. The alarm, the sound of her voice cutting through the chaos, the solid weight of her hand between your shoulder blades when the world spun sideways. The AC in your room hummed softly, and beyond the balcony doors, Washington dripped furiously with midnight rain. You turned on your side, buried your face in the pillow, and told yourself you were imagining the way her voice still echoed under your skin. That maybe you were being delusional.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock. It was quiet, polite, but a firm three taps, the way only Natasha would knock on your door. You sat up fast, your heartbeat already kicking.
"Yeah?"
"I'm just checking in." she said through the door.
"Protocol after a breach." You hesitated but grabbed to put your silk robe back on, then crossed the room to open it.
Natasha stood there, still in her black tactical suit, rain-damp at the shoulders with hair pulled back in a rough twist like she'd done in just to keep her hair out of her face. She looked like she hadnât left the perimeter once. Her eyes swept over you automatically, not in the way older men at the galas did, not appraising, just scanning. Making sure you were real. Safe. And still breathing.
"You okay?" She asked and you nodded.
"Iâm fine." It wasn't a lie but neither was it the exact truth.
"You sure? Your hands are still shaking." You looked down and she was right. Your fingers trembled slightly, the adrenaline refusing to fade.
"Guess Iâm not used to all the excitement." you said, trying to joke although the chuckle you let out was dry. For a second she almost smiled, but it didnât quite reach her eyes.
"It wasnât supposed to get that close." There was something in her tone, frustration, maybe even guilt and that tugged at you. You leaned against the doorframe before crossing your arms.
"You canât control everything, Romanoff."
"Doesnât mean I donât try." You didnât know what made you say it. Could've been the exhaustion, the leftover fear, the way her voice dropped when she was serious, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
You saved me tonight Nat." Her eyes flicked up to yours. The corridor lights behind her were dim, washing everything around you two in amber.
âThatâs my job, to keep you safe.â
âI know. But still.â For the first time since youâd met her which was almost three years ago, she looked unsure what to do with that kind of gratitude. She shifted her weight, one hand flexing at her side like she didnât trust herself to keep it still.
âTry to get some sleep,â she finally mumbled, but it was softer now. You couldâve ended it there, probably should have just thanked her, closed the door and taken your ass back to bed. But something about the way she lingered, the faint shadow under her eyes, made you stop.
âYou havenât slept either, have you?â She didnât answer and quite frankly you didn't need one because it was already obvious. You stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
âFive minutes.â you said.
âYou can at least sit down right?â
She looked like she wanted to refuse on instinct, but after a beat, she finally stepped inside. Her presence filled the space immediately which was quiet, composed, but comfortable. She didnât remove the holster or the earpiece, just crossed the room to stand near the window.
âIt's still raining,â she murmured, glancing outside.
âYeah well, Washingtonâs dramatic like that.â You murmured while shrugging and it earned a small chuckle, low and genuine, the kind youâd never heard from her before. It caught you off guard, and you smiled before you could hide it.
For a moment, everything stilled. The hum of the city below, the faint rumble of thunder far off, the muted light against her silhouette, it all folded into the kind of silence that feels alive. And it made you feel alive too.
She turned back toward you, eyes softer than youâd ever seen them.
âYou handled yourself well tonight."Natasha murmured. She turned back toward you, eyes softer than youâd ever seen them before.
âI handled myself because you told me what to do.â
âThatâs still handling yourself.â
"Yeah well I guess I work better when I'm told what to do." The words tumble out of your mouth before you could think about them. Your mouth parts in attempt to take your words back but what would you even say. Why the fuck did I even say that?
"Sorry, that came out wrong." Natasha hums but her expression is unreadable. You held her gaze. It shouldâve been easy to look away, but you didnât. The air between you felt different now, less like command and obedience, instead more like recognition.
âThank you though.â you said quietly. She gave a small nod, but something flickered behind her calm expression, something like hesitation, or maybe the same awareness that you felt. The comm in her ear buzzed, a faint reminder of duty. She reached up, turned the volume down.
âI should-â
âGo?â
âYeah.â But she didnât move. Not right away. Instead, she looked at you, really looked, and for one dizzy second you thought she might say something more. Instead, she sucked in a slow breath, steadied herself, and stood up.
âGoodnight, kid.â
That word, kid, hit differently now. You smiled faintly.
âI told you not to call me that Nat.â
âI remember.â
âThen why do you keep doing it?â She met your eyes again, her expression still unreadable.
âMaybe it reminds me that Iâm supposed to keep my distance.â
The honesty in it made your chest ache. You wanted to say something, anything, to keep her there a little longer. But she turned before you could even build up the courage to respond. She walked back to the door, pausing just long enough to glance over her shoulder.
âYou need to get some sleep. Rest your body. â she said again, softer this time and then she was gone. Out of your sight but still in your mind.
The room felt heavier without her.
You stood by the window, watching the faint reflection of the city lights shimmer through the rain, and realized there was no use pretending anymore. Whatever youâd thought was resentment, irritation, rebellion, it had all shifted into something else entirely.
Something that made your pulse quicken every time she looked at you.
Something that felt dangerous in all the right and wrong ways. You pressed your palm to the cool glass and whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.
âYeah⊠this is going to be a fucking problem.â
__
A knock came just as the sky outside your window slipped from orange hues to a pitch black sky. You almost didnât hear it at first, too lost in the quiet of your room. The world had calmed after the chaos of the gala, but your mind hadnât. You still saw flashes of light, heard the echo of the alarm, felt the steady pressure of Natashaâs hand guiding you through it all. And her words... Maybe it reminds me that I need to keep my distance.
âCome in.â you called, pretending as if you werenât just a little bit startled. The door opened, and there stood Natasha. Her hair was tied back tonight, a loose braid that brushed against her shoulder. The fitted black shirt she wore rolled neatly to her elbows, revealing the strong line of her forearms, and you were able to catch a glimpse of her tattoo that you only got to see once in a blue moon. Her movements were effortless, quiet, controlled, like someone who never needed to announce her presence to be noticed.
She didnât speak right away. Just stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
âYou busy?â she asked.
âNo, not really. â you said, sitting up a little straighter.
âWhatâs up?â Her gaze flicked over the room once before landing on you. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled something small and rectangular from an inside pocket. A dark case, smooth and compact, with no label. She set it on your desk with a soft click.
âI wanted to give you something.â she said and you blinked.
âYou⊠got me a gift?â Her lips curved just slightly, but the expression didnât quite reach her eyes.
âSomething like that.â You crossed the room, curiosity tugging at you, and opened the case. Nestled inside the foam was a folding knife, black and sleek, simple but precise. It was the kind of object that demanded respect. You finally looked up at her.
âYouâre giving me a weapon?â
âItâs not a weapon if you use it right.â she replied.
âItâs protection.â You laughed under your breath, unsure what else to do. âYou really think Iâm the kind of girl who needs to carry a knife around?â Her gaze held yours, unflinching.
âI need to know that you'll have something to protect yourself with whenever I'm not near."
"But you're always there."
"Yes, but not always near. So I need to know that you'll be able to defend yourself."
Something in her tone made your chest tighten. There was no trace of mockery there, no patronizing calm. Just quiet sincerity. You turned the knife over in your hand, studying the weight of it.
âItâs heavier than I thought.â
âGood.â she said.
âIt should feel like something that matters.â You watched her as she spoke, the faint scar near her temple catching the lamplight, the sharpness of her expression softened only by the way she seemed to hold herself back. Always composed. Always in control.
âShow me?â you asked after a moment. Her brow lifted.
âShow you what?â
âHow to use it.â Natasha hesitated, and for a second, you could see the debate flicker across her face. Then she nodded and stepped closer.
âAll right. Give me your hand.â So you did. Her palm brushed yours as she adjusted your grip around the handle.
Her skin was warm, her touch firm but careful, like she was always aware of exactly how much pressure to use.
âKeep your thumb here.â she murmured, sliding her hand over yours to guide your movements.
âYou want control, not power. Because the goal is to get away, not to fight.â Your breath hitched slightly as she continued to guide you. You swallowed hard, trying to focus on her words, but the closeness made it impossible to think. Her breath touched your shoulder as she leaned in, her voice low and even which made you shiver.
âDonât let anyone take it from you. Always keep your center steady.â
She reached around you to correct your stance, her hand resting lightly against your side. The warmth of it bled through your shirt. For a second, your breath caught.
âLike this?â you asked, voice barely above a whisper. She nodded slowly. âBetter. Now, if you have to strike-â
Her words faltered, just barely. You both noticed it. The air between you changed, heavier now, charged with something that didnât belong to lessons about safety. You turned your head slightly, enough to meet her eyes. Her expression didnât shift, but her voice softened.
âYouâre trembling.â You laughed weakly.
âMaybe because youâre standing right behind me like youâre about to teach me how to kill someone.â That earned a small smile.
âThatâs not what Iâm teaching you.â
âThen what are you teaching me?â Her silence said everything that she couldnât.
When she finally stepped back, the loss of her warmth felt too sharp, too sudden. She folded the knife closed and placed it gently in your hand. âKeep it close.â she said. You looked down at the small object resting in your palm, the metal cool against your skin.
âYou didnât have to do this.â You whispered softly.
âI know.â You lifted your eyes to her.
âSo why did you?â Her gaze flicked away, just for a moment.
âBecause I donât like the idea of anyone getting close enough to hurt you.â
The words hit deeper than they should have. You didnât know how to respond, so you didnât. You just stood there, heart in your throat, while she adjusted her jacket and turned toward the door.
âTry not to lose it.â she said quietly. You smiled faintly.
âYouâre really giving me a knife and expecting me not to.â For the first time all night, her composure cracked into something almost human.
âThen Iâll have to come find you.â she said. And with that, she left, leaving only silence and the faint scent of her cologne lingering in the air accompanied with the sound of your heart beating rapidly.
You stared down at the knife again, your reflection rippling across the dark surface. It was supposed to be a tool. A precaution. But all you could think about was the way her hand had guided yours, the way her voice had sounded when she said she didnât like the thought of someone hurting you. Maybe it wasnât just protection anymore. Maybe it was infatuation.
___
"It's just some party dude. You can't let that nanny of yours stop you from having fun." Your friend, Layla, had spent almost ten minutes on the phone with you trying to convince you to come to her college party.
"I can't Lay."
"For fucks sake, you're nineteen and you're taking online classes for college, the least you can do is have some fun by sneaking out." You huffed and your friend only wiggled her brow.
"I know that look, you're considering it. And it's gonna be great." You're still uncertain about going but she gives you a pleading look.
"Okay okay okay fine. I'll see what I can do."
"Yay! Okay, wear something hot. And I'll handle the rest."
"The rest?"
"Booze, weed, duh."
"Right." You continue to talk with her for a while until she eventually has to end the call. Then you're left to cultivate a good plan.
It's not like sneaking out was difficult. Your mother barely batted an eyelash at your whereabouts especially after Natasha came into your life because at the end of the day, wherever you went, Natasha was there. That's the problem though, Natasha was everywhere. Hell she may have even been listening to your conversation and you wouldn't even know. But that was a risk you'd just have to take. Because for once in your life, you just wanted to have fun. Especially before your mother's rallies began. Then you'd be touring almost the entire country with her, just to hear her talk and talk and talk. Going out just once with drunk kids who weren't aware of their surroundings wouldn't hurt anyone.
So that's how you found yourself late at night at some frat house dressed in a white corset accompanied with a white miniskirt, thigh high socks, heels and of course the angel wings. Your collarbone practically sparkled from glitter, your makeup was left minimal and you topped the look off with your favorite scent. As per usual, you looked good.
Getting out was relatively easy. Especially when Natasha had taught you how to decode and hack systems at seventeen so that was pretty much child's play. The only problem was when she'd catch on to it because the woman was smart and alert. You figured you'd at least have two hours of unsupervised fun before she dragged you back home.
Your friend tugged onto your wrists, pulling you further in the house before you reached the makeshift bar area.
"Okay, what are we drinking?"
"I don't wanna drink." She scoffed and poured you whatever concoction was made in the bowl.
"Drink. Now." You took a slow sip then another before putting g the cup down.
"I'd rather we do something else." She gave you a look of excitement before pulling you outside, where you spotted a crowd gathered on couches. There were different things laying in front of them on the table, some which you didn't even want to name but what caught your attention was the already rolled up joints.
"Here." Layla hands you one before pulling out her pink lighter. And let's just say after a few drags, everything becomes so much better.
On the other side, Natasha knew within ten minutes that you were gone. Sheâd been at the residence, reading a report, when one of the other agents mentioned casually that you hadnât checked in since dinner. That you werenât in your room.
Her pen stilled.The moment she finally realized that the house had been oddly quiet, her jaw tightens. A quick glance at the monitors confirms it, your room was in fact empty. Your phone hasnât pinged in a while and you had obviously managed to hack into the tracking system to not be traced.
"Chertov ad." She mumbles, already pulling out her device to find you.
"Run the trackers." She barks almost immediately. Agents follow her command without another word.
And although Natasha is livid that you snuck out, she is kind of impressed that you mastered it. But as they say, you can never outdo the master. It takes her ten minutes tops to track you. And the moment she does find your location she grabs her jacket and keys before leaving the house.
She doesn't say anything on the drive to the frat house. Instead her knuckles turn white from how hard she's gripping the steering wheel while her mind runs wild with many curse words she'd rather keep in. When she arrives, sits in the car for a few minutes to calm herself down, then she grabs her shades, slips them on and walks into the packed house.
By now the party is in full blast. Bodies swing and grind into one another and it's quite a hassle to get through but Natasha manages to push a few people aside. She scoffs as a few girls willingly throw themselves at her. One even tries to grab her arm, ready to throw some flirtatious comment her way but she pulls her hand away before walking. The smell of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume invades her nostrils and it annoys her even further but her main focus is on finding you before you get killed, so that she can definitely kill you herself. Natasha finally spots you and though your back is turned she knows it's you.
You're dancing with a girl, one hand carrying a red cup while the other waves carelessly in the air. Natasha watches the scene, her insides boiling with anger and something she doesn't want to name just yet. She moves forward, ready to drag you out of this party.
You're still oblivious though. Your mind is quiet for once and for the first time in a while, you're relaxed. No pressure, no press, no pictures, just fun. So when you turn around after taking a drag from your friends vape, the last thing you expect to see is Natasha. You cough once, which sends the strawberry vapor her way. She doesn't do anything neither does she say anything and that's when you've registered the fact that you're fucked.
Finally she takes off her jacket and wraps it around you before pulling your arm.
"Outside. Now."
"But-" She gives you one of her looks and you drop your shoulders before walking out of the party. No one really cares about what's happening, instead they're focused on their own spontaneous activities. Assholes.
When you step outside, the cold hits you full force, and it's literally like taking a breath of fresh air. Nothing has been said yet, and you don't want to say anything because Natasha is still mumbling incoherent curse words in Russian. She opens the door for you, you get in and then she's on her side starting the ignition but she isn't driving yet. Five minutes go by until you finally talk.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"Really?" She laughs.
"It was just a party Nat."
"One that you didn't tell me about."
"I don't have to tell you about my whereabouts all the time."
"I'm your bodyguard, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Jesus y/n how could you be so stupid?!
"I'm not drunk."
"But you're high."
"Still not drunk." She shakes her head in frustration before grabbing the almost empty red cup in your hand and throwing it out the car window.
"Chertovski glupo."
The next ten minutes are spent in silence, her jaw is clenched and you could see the vein under her eye bulging. Yeah she was definitely keeping a lot of words in. When you finally get home, she switches off the ignition and then exhales. Neither of you speaks yet, it's just the sound of rain tapping against the car and your breathing.
"I'm sorry." You mumble softly, pulling the jacket, her jacket, around you. The scent wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
"I just wanted to have fun."
"Fun can get you killed y/n. Do you know how badly things could've went?"
"I know, and I'm sorry I almost cost you your job and-"
"My job!? This isn't about my job y/n it's about your safety. Do you understand what could have happened to you? Fuck y/n you could've gotten kidnapped, killed, drugged, assaulted?! Then what?" Her words finally sink in and the guilt gnaws at you.
"You tell me when you want to go somewhere. You tell me not for the sake of my job but because I care about you. You don't just disappear without telling me."
"I know." She let's out a sigh. You finally turn to look at her, chest still glistening, but heaving slightly, and Natasha looks away because she cannot trust herself to look where she shouldn't be looking in the first place.
"I just wanted space. Besides it's not like I was falling over."
"Yes but the president's daughter drinking underage is a good caption no?"
"Twenty, twenty-one, it's the same thing to me." She shakes her head but there's a small smile tugging her lips.
"I'm sorry though, and if it makes things better I did have my pocket knife." She sighs.
"I probably will sneak out again.
"I know." You smile before opening the car door.
"And y/n..." You turn around to look to her.
"Yeah?"
"Maybe leave the hacking to professionals." She teases and you flip her off before walking away with a subtle sway of your hips that she definitely does notice.
And that the moment where the redhead realizes that she was ready to risk it all.
___
Los Angeles had its own kind of heat, the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how high the AC hummed. Your mother was halfway across the city, shaking hands, giving speeches, being everything the cameras needed her to be. You were just the background, the presidentâs daughter tucked into a hotel suite with gold fixtures and no real privacy. The suite next door belonged to Natasha...
"For security reasons" your mother said, although you suspected it was more about control than safety.
"See to it that my daughter is dressed appropriately and shows up on time please. I'll be visiting a few other facilities today, so I'll just meet the both of you at the gala."
"No problem ma'am." Natasha gave a curt nod before your mother left her suite to attend some meeting.
A knock came just as you were scrolling through your phone, half-draped across the couch in your silk pajama set, pink, soft and expensive. You didnât bother to fix the loose strap when you opened the door.
Natasha stood there, posture perfect, one hand holding a tablet while the other was tucked behind her, and as usual, she was dressed in all black. The hallway light caught the sharp line of her jaw and the faint glint in her green eyes. She didnât say anything for a beat. Her gaze flickered once, down, then back up. Controlled. Professional. Barely. Because you could see the way her eyes shone with something else.
"Your mother asked me to remind you to dress appropriately for tonightâs gala." she said finally, voice even, clipped, a faint trace of her accent threading through.
âYouâre expected downstairs at six. Donât be late.â You leaned against the doorframe, studying her.
"That all?" Her eyes didnât move.
"Yes, thatâs all."
But she hesitated, just half a second too long. And in that silence, you felt something shift, subtle but real. The kind of tension that wasnât supposed to exist between a bodyguard and the girl she was hired to protect. Natasha cleared her throat then left you alone. This game between the two of you was getting heated and it seemed like you weren't the only one enjoying it.
___
The gala was well a gala. Sleek, expensive, polished in gold and silver accents. Rich white men boasting about anything and everything while some even tried to get your attention by touching your shoulder. You played your role well though. You pose for the cameras, nod at small talk about universities and policies you donât care about. Smile and laugh if need be.
Natasha is never far, she's like a shadow at the edge of the crowd, black suit, hair tied back, eyes scanning every single movement. You catch her gaze once, across the room, and for a heartbeat, it anchors you. But then someone laughs too loudly, another hand tugs you into another conversation, and she disappears behind a line of photographers.
You last thirty minutes before slipping outside to get some air. Your moment alone doesn't last long though because soon someone else walks out. You don't look at them but they move closer.
"Not your scene huh?" You finally look up to see a girl your age, maybe a little older than you.
"Nope."
"Me neither." She takes a sip from the flute before setting it aside.
"Never really liked feeling so caged." She murmurs softly.
"I feel that."
"It must be worse for you, being the president's daughter and all." You hum softly.
"It does. Especially when the whole world is watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake." She tilts her head, studying you further.
"I like you."
"Bold thing to say to someone you've just met." You mumble with a small grin and she chuckles before moving closer to you. You spend almost thirty minutes talking to her about anything. Music, movies, books even about university degrees. Somewhere along the line she gets even closer, so close you can see the freckles on her skin or feel the way her shoulder brushes along your own.
It sends a shiver down your spine. Not because you like her or anything but because you have a feeling that you were being watched. And you were. You turn your head to find Natasha standing not so far from the two of you. And when you look closely, you see the way her jaw clenches while her fingers twitch slightly. It makes you grin in triumph.
"Problem Nat?"
"No. I've been requested to come look for you. Take you back to the suite."
"There's no need to, I don't mind staying here with my new friend." The girl looks between the two of you before clearing her throat.
"Call me." She says before slipping away from the two of you. You're still leaning against the balcony, the straps of your dress falling from your shoulder. You don't rush to fix them.
Natashaâs face is void of any emotion. She cocks her head to the side and you laugh slightly before walking towards the door with a sway of your hips.
___
The water clings to your skin as you emerge from the shower. You wrap yourself in a towel while tending to your face. Natasha is still inside your suite. She could have retreated to her own but something tells you that she wasn't in the rush to.
You've now replaced the towel with a silk robe, and you glance at yourself in the mirror one last time. Good. Once you leave the room you find Natasha staring out at the window.
"You're still here." She doesn't say anything after that so you place yourself on the couch, just a few feet away from her.
"Tell me Nat, what game are we playing here?" You're direct and it takes her by surprise.
"What game?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She finally turns around.
"Really? But we've been at this for a while now. To me, it seems like you want me." Natasha scoffs but it's far from convincing.
"Stay in your lane y/n."
"Or what Natty? Tell me, does your job include watching me shower?" You push further. She clenches both of her fists.
"It's my job to protect you."
"Protect me from what exactly? The suds of soap dripping down my body? Or slipping in that big shower?" The smirk on your face is cruel and she wants nothing more than to wipe it off of you.
This cannot be happening. She tries to tell herself that. That she cannot be thinking about you the way she was. That she shouldn't be entertaining the idea of you. At all. Not only because she was your bodyguard and older than you but because your mother, the president, would kill her. Even though that was impossible given her status but that's a risk she didn't want to take.
"I'm warning you. Stay in your lane." You stand up before reaching for your robe. She watches you intently but her hands stop you from tugging it off, the warmth of her palm on your skin makes you dizzy.
"I don't feel that way about you." She retorts and you laugh.
"Oh? So if I called that girl from earlier on and told her to fuck me, you'd let me?" Her jaw clenches.
"I don't care what you do in your own time."
"Really? Huh." Deciding to push Natasha further, you grab your phone before punching in her number.
Natasha freezes, and for a moment, you see it. The green flash in her eyes, the flush that tugs at her neck, the rigid line of her shoulders. She grabs your phone before you can move, holding it tight in one hand.Â
"Ne smey." She says sharply, simple words that are clipped, dangerous. Donât.
She steps closer, every movement taut with unspoken warning. Her body is tight, coiled, like she wants to say more but wonât.
"Donât push me." she says, voice low, clipped, the edges of it shaking slightly. Not her usual calm. Not this time. The jealousy is there. Barely contained but it's there and you can feel it. You fucking love it.
"If you don't want me then why are you still holding my phone?"
The silence between the two of you is deafening. And just when you think she'll give up and hand you the phone, she takes another step closer. Her unoccupied hand moves to your chin.
"You don't know how much restraint is keeping me away from you. Holding me back." The phone is carelessly thrown onto the couch, your hand bringing her own back to your robe.
"Then stop fighting it." You can see the gears running in her head, like she's still contemplating whether she should bolt or stay. You want her to stay.
"Take me. I promise, I won't tell a soul Natty." You whisper, your hand still guiding hers to pull the robe off. You feel her lips brush against your own before she finally, finally kisses you. Your heart practically soars as her lips move with yours, her hands untying the robe. Natasha sucks in a breath once you guide her hand to place it on a soft mound.
The sigh that you let out afterwards makes her squeeze the mound, to feel it against her palm. You slip your robe off almost immediately and now you're bare in front of Natasha. She swallows, cock already hardening underneath her slacks. She wasn't expecting that at all.
"O bozhe." The uncertainty finally leaves her mind and Natasha has to restrain herself from pouncing on you.
Rough calloused hands pick you up, and you squeal in surprise. She guides you to the bed, just a few feet from where the couch was. She throws you onto the bed, a soft squeal escaping your lips. Her hands move down your calves to spread your legs apart. You're completely bare, at her mercy too, and it sends a thrill down her spine. You may have been her boss out there but now in here, she would be taking all the control.
Natashaâs hands move back up to your face, and thighs quiver from her absence.
"You want this?" She asks and you nod.
"Tell me."
"I want you." You confirm with another nod of your head. Natashaâs lips are on yours once again, her knee pressing against your core which makes you gasp.
"A-again, do that again." You plead and she smirks before pulling away.
Natasha throws her jacket onto the side table. Your gaze falls down, watching her fingers unbutton the white button up. Once it falls down, you're left to ogle at her covered chest. The tattoo you'd once seen in passing now on full display, toned abs that you can't help but touch and-
Natashaâs finger presses against your clit which makes you let out an unexpected moan.
"So distracted." Her thumb rolls around the sensitive nub, testing to see what you like. You drag her hand closer to your core, moaning when her finger slides around your slit.
"Jesus detka, so fucking wet." Her finger slips into your hole and you let out a choked gasp.
"Fuck, another."
"Another? Fucking greedy." But she adds another finger inside of you, your walls hugging both fingers.
Your lips part, a breathless wine escaping your lips while she fingers your pussy. Her thump swipes over your clit again and you moan even louder.
"Look at me." She commands and you're met with blown green eyes looking down at you. So fucking beautiful. Natasha thinks to herself while she watches your eyes flutter or when her eyes trail down to where you're connected.
Natasha becomes obsessed with the way your pussy sucks her in. How your wetness oozes out of your pussy, or how her fingers shine with your arousal as she pulls them in and out. Your hips slowly begin to move on their own accord but she presses down onto your hips.
Natasha pulls her fingers out just as you're about to peak and you whine.
"Why?"
"If you're gonna cum, you're gonna do it on my cock." She rasps, hands fumbling with the belt of her slacks. You wait impatiently, pussy clenching around nothing, nipples hardening at the thought of being filled up by her.
She slips out of her pants and underwear, cock slapping against her stomach, red, flushed, dripping with pre-cum. She was big. Length and girth. Your hand strokes her shaft and she hisses, head thrown back in ecstasy. You want to wrap your lips around your tip, but you can't because she pushes you down then lines herself up with your entrance.
"You sure no condom?"
"N-no, I want you in me, raw." She groans, cock throbbing. You're wet and needy so it's easy for her to slide right in.
Your breath stutters, legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. She thrusts inside of you a couple of times, her cock rubbing against your velvety walls. Her strokes start of fast and shallow before they slow down. Deep, hard strokes that make you lose breath, that make you choke.
"C'mon baby, breath for me huh, you're not breathing." She teases, pulling out before slamming back inside of you. That makes you moan out loud.
Your hands fist the sheets, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Natashas brows furrow, her hand placing your own on your pussy.
"Play with yourself." The command makes you clench around her. Your fingers rub your clit eagerly while she fucks you, you lift your head slightly, to watch the way her cock glides in and out of you. You throw your head back again, eyes closing in pure bliss, especially after a particularly hard thrust.
"Fuck!" You cry out, lips forming into a small pout.
"Open your eyes and look at me." Your eyes open, staring directly at the redhead, mouth hung open. Face to face. It's too intimate for Natasha's liking so she trails her eyes down to where you two are connected.
"So fucking wet, so warm and tight." You'd stopped rubbing your clit a while ago, once she'd lifted your leg and placed it above her shoulder.
With the new angle, you felt her digging your pussy, everywhere.
"Y-you're so big." You mumbled incoherently, it made her smirk.
"Yeah, can you feel me?" You nod your head vigorously.
"Say it."
"I c-can feel you." She spits directly onto your pussy, thumb rubbing your clit in fast circles. Your orgasm comes unexpectedly, crashing over you.
You have to bite your palm to keep yourself quiet. Your pussy gushes, a wetness coming out of you that you'd never felt before. Your eyes widen in shock, the redhead pulls out, more wetness just gushing out of your pussy. She'd just make you squirt for the first time.
"Fucking hell." She murmurs, sliding right back into you.
"Didn't think you had that in you. Is my dick that good baby?" Had she not have been fucking you into oblivion, you'd probably retort something back. Something sarcastic, something snarky .
All you do is nod, god you just nod. Her pace fastens, she's chasing her own orgasm, and you're chasing your second one. After one final thrust the both of you cum together, her seed filling your pussy up. Minutes later, she pulls out of you. Her cum mixed with yours just oozing out of you. She fucks it back in and you whimper.
Your leg is placed back down onto the bed. Your thighs ache in the best way possible. Your body hums from the pleasure, pussy still aching around nothing. You're content.
However the redhead isn't. Post nut clarity hits her.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What the fuck was she thinking? Why the fuck wasn't she thinking?
"Iisus Khristos." She mumbles quietly, to herself. She gets off of you, and gets dressed almsot immediately. Why the fuck did she just fuck you? Is what runs through her head while she makes herself presentable. You sit up with shaky hands.
"Nat what are you-"
"This was a mistake." She murmurs, fixing the collar of her shirt.
She turns around, and avoids your gaze like she wasn't inside of you minutes ago. Like her cum isn't still dripping onto your thigh.
"Jesus, no one finds out about this." There's no room left to argue. She leaves immediately, but you don't hear the door to her own suite shut.
You lay back down, staring at the ceiling with tears already forming in your eyes.
"Fuck."
After months of convincing from my friend and reading so many books, I finally had the courage to post my first fic. So with that said, hi!? I got inspired by the amazing writers on here and I said fuck it, why not post my own. I hope this fic meets the standard of Tumblr lmao. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this. Can't wait to write more. Feedback is appreciated đ«¶
It has been exactly one week since Natasha fucked you. One week since her cum had been dripping down your bare things before she got dressed, gave you a glance and a cold warning then proceeded to leave your hotel suite.
A day after that event, she had given you one sentence. Seven words.
"Make sure you take the morning after pill." That was all. No explanation to why she left, no apology, not even a spare glance after that. Her presence practically disappeared into thin air. She didn't even bother to address the elephant in the room. Instead she looked at you like that night was just a dream, or worse... a mistake she wanted to erase from her mind completely.
Washington was cold today, especially after the night before had been raining non stop, now the weather was cold and gloomy, just as you were feeling. The White House had been rather quiet. Agents patrolling around, your mother probably in her office signing treaties and whatnot while you sat in pure silence, inside of your bedroom, fiddling with the pocket knife Natasha had gifted you about a year ago.
You'd stopped thinking about it almost three days ago. You even tried to erase the thought of her out of your mind but that seemed impossible since you could still see her on top of you, could still feel her inside of you, and could still smell her on your body. It was as if her presence followed you around like a ghost. And perhaps it did.
Natasha still continued to follow protocols but unlike before she barely made her presence known. No nod, no greeting, no nothing. And that fucking hurt.
You remember spending that night in tears. Crying, sniffling, wondering. What could have gone wrong? Because two hours before that, you two were perfectly fine. An hour later, she took you home and made sure you were safe. Then afterwards she fucked you senseless before her entire mood shifted. The thought of it made you cringe, that maybe she'd taken advantage of you. Used your vulnerability against you, for her own pleasure. But you knew Natasha. She wasn't like that. She could be mean but she wasn't like that, at least you thought so.
At the moment, you couldnât breathe in your room anymore. The walls pressed in, gilded and suffocated you. You needed air. So you slipped out.
Past the agents who pretended not to see you, passed the photos of previous presidents and passed Natashaâs office.
You continued to walk down the south lawn, past the rose garden, to the old oak grove where the security lights barely reached. Where no one ever came. It was just you and your thoughts alone.
You sat on the stone bench, knees to your chest, staring at the moon like it owed you answers but also, like it could solve all of your problems.
Your breath fogged in the late fall air.
You didnât cry. You couldn't anymore.
But your chest ached like a bruise that wouldnât heal. You laughed to yourself, a single tear dropping down and you wiped it with another bitter chuckle.
"I'm so fucking pathetic." You murmured, as another tear dropped down. So much for being over it.
You sat in silence for five minutes but then you heard a sound. Footsteps. You didnât turn. You didn't want to turn.
Only one person moved like that. Silent, deliberate, like a predator whoâd already decided not to strike it's prey.
She stopped a few feet behind you.
You felt and smelt her before you even saw her. That pull? That heat? Even now, it was still prominent.
"Go back inside." Natasha said. Voice flat and rid of any emotion.
"Itâs not safe out here." You laughed, bitter and sharp, the sound sounded so foreign coming from you.
"Since when do you give two fucks?" Silence.
You stood then turned to face her.
She was in tactical gear black fatigues, hair pulled back, no makeup. Beautiful and untouchable. As always. It was unfair that she looked like she was in one piece while your heart was practically unraveling.
Her eyes flickered to yours, then away as if looking at you burned her.
You stepped closer.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her jaw flexed.
"Go to bed, y/n."
"Don't tell me to go to fucking bed. I want to know why you're ignoring me."
"I'm not ignoring you."
"Bullshit! I'm not five fucking years old. Look me in the eye and tell me why you're acting like such an asshole." Her jaw clenches again.
"Watch your tone."
"Or what? You gonna fuck me, teach me a lesson, then run away?" You blocked her path when she tried to move past you. You weren't going to allow her to go anywhere without an answer.
"You donât get to fuck me like Iâm the only thing that matters and then treat me like Iâm nothing." Your voice cracks towards the end, her nostrils flared.
"It was a mistake." The word hit like a slap. Huh, so she did still believe it was a mistake. You swallowed hard.
"Look me in the eye and say that again."
"It shouldnât have happened. I told you this." Her voice was steel.
"I crossed a line. Iâm your bodyguard. Not your-"
"Not my what, Natasha?" You stepped into her space, voice trembling.
"My lover? My friend? My anything? Because you sure as hell werenât acting like a mistake when you were balls deep inside me, begging me in Russian."
Her eyes flashed. Dangerous.
"Donât." One word. Clipped and ruthless.
"Donât what? Tell the truth?" Your hands shook.
"You think I donât replay it every night? The way you looked at me? Like I was yours? And now you wonât even speak to me?" Natasha takes a step back.
"You fucked me Natasha. Fucked me then left me like a pile of trash."
"Be quiet!" She yells before taking another step back, her hands balled in fists to calm herself.
"I'm going to say this again and I'm saying it for the last time. It was a fucking mistake. It won't ever happen again and no one finds out about it. Ever." She finishes and you scoff.
"Oh is that what it is? Embarrassment? God forbid you screw the black girl right?" Her mouth parts in shock. Genuine shock.
"Is that what you think it is?"
"I don't know. But I don't want to stick around to find out. It was just a mistake right?" You walk past her, hands shaking slightly, eyes filling with tears that you wouldn't let fall. You weren't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing you like that. She doesnât follow you anyway.
___
The next nine days are spent locked in your room. Your mother asks why she hasn't seen your presence in the hallway, you tell her you've been busy with university work. She believes you. Natasha hasn't spoken to you since that night where you'd confronted her. You weren't in the mood to be near her after that. And she didn't want to be near you
She rotates to outer-perimeter posts. You only see her in glimpses. Black tactical vest at the edge of the South Lawn, red hair tucked under a cap, eyes scanning everything except you.
Friday comes and that's when you finally decide to call your friend Layla, begging for her to come keep your mind busy before you did and said something stupid. She arrived earlier than you asked, two target bags in her hand. Secret Service clears her through the Dip gate in under five minutes. One agent announces that a guest of yours had arrived. You walk down a couple of stairs to find her halfway up the stairwell. You're dressed in sweats, hair wrapped and your eyes are slightly puffy. She gives you a confused look. You hadn't told her about the incident yet. You don't think you even have energy to fill her in.
Just then, Natasha walks out and your gazes meet. Yours is cold, unforgiving and slightly annoyed while hers is almsot, almost apologetic, Layla catches this exchange very quickly. Because nothing ever gets passed her.
Once the two of you are inside your room, she sets the bag down onto your bed then turns to you with crossed arms.
"Alright, madam First Daughter." She says, kicking the door fully shut with her foot.
"Why does your fine ass bodyguard look like sheâs been chewing glass every time someone says your name?"
You groan, face-planting into a pillow. She arches a brow, you sit up.
You scan the plastic bags before pulling out a bottle of vodka. You don't bother taking out one of the red cups inside the target bag, you just pick the bottle up, open it up and take a large swig.
"Hey, seriously are you okay? The last time I saw you like this was because of Hillary, junior year. " Her concern for you makes you feel a little bit better. At least someone cared enough.
"I-" You start but words fail.
"Take your time babe."
"We fucked. Natasha and I." You mumble so quietly, you're not even sure that Layla heard it. But she did. Oh, she did. Because when you finish, voice hoarse from all the crying you did before Layla came, she just stares at you for five long seconds.
Then she throws her head back and laughs. Not a chuckle. Full-on, wheezing, knee-slapping laughter that echoes off the historic crown molding.
"It's not funny Lay."
"Shit, I'm sorry, I just thought you were about to tell me that you were pregnant or something."
"Would I drink vodka if I was you dumbass?"
"My aunt did when she was pregnant with her son. He turned out just fine." And by just fine, she meant rehab. Layla finally takes a seat next to you.
"Do you wanna talk about it? Maybe getting it off of your chest will help."
"Well it just sorta kinda happened. We were together at the gala and then I slid off to go get some fresh air you know. I met a girl there, we talked a little bit, blah blah blah, and soon enough Natasha was standing by the doorway, looking at me like I-"
"Like you... ?"
"It doesn't matter okay, she took me back to the hotel and one thing led to another and she was on top of me."
"You can't leave me hanging. Tell me, was she good?" You give her one of your best "are you serious" looks. It's not like you felt weird about telling her about your sex life because in your friendship, there was nothing such as 'TMI'. But the girl in front of you was insistent. Layla wiggles her eyebrows, waiting for your answer. You end up sighing in defeat and she smiles in triumph.
"So fucking good. And it pisses me off because it's all I can think about. It's like I can still feel her rearranging my guts and-" Layla waves her hand in front of your face as a sign to stop talking.
"So what's the problem, why are you icing one another out?"
"Well literally after she fucked me, she told me it was a mistake."
"Really? That's weird."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean for someone who looks at you like you hung the stars and moon, it's odd that she'd say it was a mistake." You shrug before taking another large swig, the alcohol burns your throat but seems to numb the pain you're feeling.
"Then again, coming from Natasha it isn't."
"Fuck her." The incoherent mumble falls past your lips as you take yet another sip. Layla takes the bottle of vodka out of your hand even though you try to reach for it.
"Well you already did that babe." Her attempt to lighten the mood doesn't work that much.
Layla wipes the laughter-tears from under her eyes, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. Apparently your situation was amusing.
"Okay, wait, wait, hold up." she says, sitting up straighter.
"Did she eat you out? Like, properly on her knees, face between your thighs, âyes maâamâ type of service?" You groan but shake your head, cheeks burning hot.
"No."Â Laylaâs brows shoot up.
"At all? Not even a courtesy lick?"
"No. She⊠fingered me, fucked me stupid, came on me, then in me, butâŠ" You shrug, embarrassed.
"Every time I tried to pull her down, or when I arched into her, sheâd kiss my stomach or my hip and then move away. Like she was starving for it but wouldnât let herself."Â Layla whistles low.
"Damn. And did you go down on her?"
You bite your lip.
"Well I tried you know. I started to. Got on my knees, had her in my mouth for like⊠thirty seconds? She yanked me up by my hair so fast I almost got whiplash. Said something in Russian that sounded like a prayer and a curse at the same time."
Layla cackles again, softer this time.
"Oh, sheâs fucked fucked."
You flop back on the pillows, vodka bottle back in your hand.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means Natasha Romanoff, international super spy, trained to withstand torture, is terrified of intimacy with you." Layla says, counting on her fingers.
"She wouldnât eat you out because thatâs girlfriend level devotion. She barely let you blow her because that wouldâve required looking you in the eye while you had her dick in your mouth. She kept breaking eye contact, right? Looking at you like she wanted to memorize you, then forcing herself to look away?" You nod slowly.
"Well yeah, actually. Like if she held my gaze too long sheâd lose the plot."
"Baby." Layla says, voice dropping into that wise best friend tone.
"That woman is down bad. She tried to make it a quick, dirty fuck-and-forget mission to protect herself. No oral, no eye contact, no softness, just raw, animalistic, âIâm gonna ruin you and walk away.â But she failed spectacularly. Sheâs avoiding you now because every time she sees you she remembers how you felt wrapped around her, how you said her name when you came, and she knows one more second of weakness and sheâll be on her knees begging to taste you properly."
You swallow hard, face heating up at the memory.
Layla smirks, catching it.
"Exactly. She didnât eat your pussy that night because eating pussy is intimate. Itâs worship. And Natasha Romanoff does not want to worship the presidentâs daughter⊠because if she starts, she'll clearly never stop."
She takes another swig of vodka and flops beside you, staring at the canopy over your bed.
"Girl, I think you broke your super hot bodyguard. And sheâs pissed about it." You chuckle then stop and groan in embarrassment.
"What?"
"I kinda may have said something else. Something stupid"
"What did you say?"
"I kinda may have pulled the race card." Layla laughed again.
"Oh you are stupid. Trust me, this is not like that at all." You sit up, taking a final sip from the bottle in Layla's hand.
"I want her though." You whine like a toddler and she laughs.
"She wants you too. But she's not going to willingly come to you. So you need to push her."
"How?" Layla gives you a smirk. The evil kind that you see in cartoons when characters get a bright idea.
"This is about to be the messiest situationship in White House history, and I am here for it."
"And what's your plan exactly?"
"Well, I'm glad you asked me my friend. Firstly we donât chase. We donât beg. We make her remember exactly what she threw away, make her jealous enough to choke on it, then act like she no longer exists. We use the classic three step torture." You raise a brow.Â
"Details please."Â Layla counts on her fingers like sheâs briefing a military op.
Step 1: Remind her what sheâs missing.
"This one is easy. You start dressing like youâre trying to get laid by someone who actually deserves you. Short dresses, silk robes that slip off one shoulder in the morning, workout sets that make your ass look illegal. Lingerie under sheer tops when you know sheâs on residential duty. You smell expensive, look touchable, and never once acknowledge her. Sheâll be hard 24/7 and miserable about it. "
"That seems like I'm throwing myself. " You say and she tilts her head.
"Not when you ignore her presence."
Step 2: Jealousy, jealousy.
"This one may be a bit difficult since Natasha acts like she has a stick up her ass. But this one drives her out of her little facade. You know that hot Italian agent?"
"Who? Val?"
"Yes. Flirt a little, entertain her a bit. Just make sure Natasha sees it. By the end of the week? She'll be seething."
"I don't know..."
"Well I do. And it's gonna work."
Step 3: Ice-cold ignore.
"After we turn the heat all the way up, we freeze her out. No eye contact. No good morning. If she speaks to you directly, you answer in one word sentences or just put your airpods in. She wants to pretend it was a mistake? Cool. You pretend sheâs furniture. Watch her lose her damn mind trying to get your attention back." Layla leans in, voice low and wicked.
"By the end of week two sheâll be begging to talk, ready to apologize on her knees, probably literally. And when she does? You decide if sheâs earned the right to taste what sheâs been denying herself."
You bite your lip, equal parts terrified and turned on at the thought of Natasha on her knees for you.
"Youâre evil."
"No." Layla says, clinking the vodka bottle against your phone like a toast.
"Iâm your smart ass best friend. Operation âMake the Bodyguard Crawlâ starts tomorrow morning. Youâre wearing that backless red dress to breakfast with your mom. Sheâs on dining room detail at eight am."
She winks.
"Letâs see how long Natasha Romanoff lasts before she breaks."
___
Step one: Reminder.
It's eight am when you walk into the kitchen like the White House belongs to you, because technically half of it does.
Your hair is a fresh silk press, dark curtain falling to the small of your back. Your outfit is simple, a cream cashmere cardigan, three buttons undone, no bra, nothing underneath but a whisper-thin gold body chain that dips between your breasts and disappears beneath the waistband of low-rise silk pajama shorts the color of warm honey.
The shorts stop exactly where decency gives up. Every step makes the fabric slide against your skin like water.
Natasha is already there, stationed by the pantry door, black tactical pants and fitted long-sleeve doing nothing to hide the tension in her frame. Sheâs pretending to read threat reports on her tablet. Sheâs not.
You donât speak. You donât have to.
You reach for the top shelf for your favorite mug, the one you never use unless you want to be looked at. On your toes, cardigan riding high, shorts riding low, the body chain glints against your spine. The soft curve of your ass peeks beneath the silk for one deliberate second. A sharp inhale behind you. You still donât turn.
You pour coffee slow, letting the steam curl up your throat. Add oat milk until it turns the exact shade of your skin.
Then you lean against the counter, hip cocked, and take the first sip with your eyes half closed, like the taste is borderline orgasmic. Natashaâs tablet is now upside down. She hasnât noticed.
You lick a stray drop from your bottom lip, tongue slow and deliberate, then set the mug down with a soft clink.
You finally let your gaze slide to her, just once. Cold and indifferent. Like sheâs a stranger who so happens to be in your kitchen.
Then you reach up and retie the cardiganâs single remaining button, pulling the cashmere tight across your chest so your nipples press obviously against the knit.
You walk out, bare feet silent on the hardwood, hips rolling like you have somewhere better to be. Behind you, the tablet slips from Natashaâs hand and hits the marble with a sound that echoes like a gunshot. She doesnât bend to pick it up. Reminder delivered. She knows exactly what she threw away. And you? You're thriving on it.
___
Step two: Jealousy
The sun is slanting gold across the pillars when you decide to finally twist the knife. Agent Valentina Allegra de Fontaine is on loan from State Department security for the week. Tall, Italian, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a smirk that could make a nun reconsider her vows. Natasha has hated her since 2016, when Val âaccidentallyâ spilled red wine on Natashaâs dress uniform at a NATO gala and spent the rest of the night flirting with anything that moved. Theyâve been ice and fire ever since. That and word was, they dated before something went wrong.
Today Val is in a tailored charcoal pantsuit that fits like it was painted on, sleeves rolled just enough to show toned forearms. Sheâs been assigned to your personal detail for the afternoon because, officially, Natasha requested a perimeter sweep. You know better.
Youâre sitting on one of the stone benches under the colonnade, legs crossed, wearing a backless sundress the color of ripe peaches. The neckline plunges, the hem barely clears your thighs. Layla is perched on the bench arm, recording everything on her phone with the glee of a war correspondent.
Val stops in front of you, one brow arched.
"Miss Presidentâs Daughter." She purrs in that smoky Roman accent.
"Your mother asked me to make sure that youâre doing alright, comfortable.â
You tilt your head, all innocence.
"Iâm very comfortable, Agent de Fontaine. Although my shoulders are a little tight from yesterdayâs workout."
Valâs smile is slow and lethal.
"Allow me dolce ragazza." The endearment rolls off of her tongue, lips curling into that infamous smirk of hers.
She steps behind you. Both hands settle on your bare shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots with exactly the right pressure. You let your head fall forward, eyes half closed, and make the softest, neediest little sound.
Val leans down, voice velvet against your ear.
"Better?" Layla whistles.
"god, yes." You breathe.
"You have magic hands, Val." From the far end of the colonnade, Natasha appears like a storm front rolling in. Sheâs supposed to be on the South Lawn, but here she is, moving fast, boots silent on the stone, green eyes locked on the scene like a targeting system.
Val notices. Her smile turns absolutely shark like. She slides one hand down your arm, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the inside of your elbow.
"Youâre very tense here, Cara." She murmurs softly.
"I could fix that too. Privately."
Natasha stops five feet away. The air temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
"Agent de Fontaine." She says, voice flat and deadly.
"Youâre relieved." Val doesnât move her hands.
"I donât take orders from you, Romanoff. My detail assignment comes from-"
"Now." Natasha cuts in, stepping closer. The muscle in her jaw is ticking so hard itâs visible.
"Or Iâll have you off this property in the next sixty seconds."
Val lifts her hands slowly, palms up in mock surrender, but she lets her fingers trail across your collarbone as she steps back.
"Another time, bellissima." She says to you, winking. She saunters off, hips swaying like she owns the place.
The second sheâs gone, Natasha is in her place, towering, vibrating with barely leashed fury. You finally look up at her, expression cool.
"Problem, Agent Romanoff?"
Her nostrils flare. She opens her mouth, closes it, then forces the words out through clenched teeth.
"Youâre playing a dangerous game."
You stand up, sundress fluttering in the breeze, close enough that she has to tip her head down to hold your gaze.
"No." You say softly.
"You played it first. Iâm just changing the rules." You brush past her, close enough that the scent of your perfume lingers and you walk away without looking back.
Behind you, Natashaâs hands curl into fists so tight her knuckles crack. Her jealousy level? Nuclear.
Behind her Layla snorts before standing up and grabbing her cocktail.
"Jealousy isn't a good look on you Killjoy." She murmurs before following you. Natasha curses in Russian before walking back.
___
Step three: Ignorance.
After your little escapade with Val and Natasha, you went from seduction to ignorance. The ice was practically arctic now. You perfected it over six days. No glances. No accidental brushes in doorways. No more lingering scent of vanilla in the hallways. You even started taking the service elevator so you wouldnât have to pass her post. At first Natasha didn't notice it, but when she finally did, it her her like a truck. You were purposefully ignoring her and avoiding her.
It started small. Whenever you two were in the same room, you barely paid her attention, let alone glance at her. The scent of your perfume? Now it was rare for her to smell it through the hallways of the White House.
Then you flat out ignored her. Natasha tried to pretend she didn't care but it ticked her off when she spoke to you and you'd give her one word answers or just nod your head before slipping your airpods into your ears. Like yesterday, when she came up to your room and knocked. She got no response, so she knocked again then said something about your mother requesting your presence in her office.
She didn't get a response but she knew you heard her because the soft music playing got louder after that. Sure, you could've been being petty or mean but she wasn't thinking of your own feelings when she'd ran out on you.
Two days later, you walked into her office to find her reading something, probably files, on her tablet. She looks up and you see a glimmer of hope run through her eyes.
"Y/n, what are you doing he-"
"I'm here to tell you that I'm going out."
"It's late."
"I'm aware. I don't need you to follow me. I'll leave my location but I'm leaving."
"It's late y/n." She repeats, you let out an annoyed sigh that stings her.
"I'm not asking you Agent, I'm telling you. And quite frankly, you aren't the boss of me." Natasha's mouth parts, like she's about to say something but she doesn't. She simply clenches her jaw then goes back to reading on her tablet. But her mind? It's far from quiet.
Tonight however, was the final test.
You were coming back from a late âstudy sessionâ with a girl from Layla's poli-sci seminar. Her name was Jada, gorgeous, touchy, loud enough that half the detail heard you laughing in the library. You were both tipsy on stolen prosecco, barefoot, her lipstick smudged on your neck where she kissed you goodbye at the residence checkpoint. Natasha is on night corridor duty. Sheâs supposed to be invisible.
She isn't.
Sheâs standing dead center in the hallway outside your private suite, arms crossed, staring at the carpet like it owes her money. The second your footsteps echo, her head snaps up.
You see it hit her all at once. Jadaâs lipstick. Your swollen mouth. The way your silk camisole is twisted slightly, one strap fallen off your shoulder. The faint hickey blooming just above your collarbone. Her nostrils flare. You donât slow down. You walk straight past her, keys already in hand, Jadaâs laughter still ringing in your ears.
Natasha steps forward, just one step, voice low and cracked around the edges.
"Y/n." You stop. Donât turn around. Three heartbeats of silence. Then you speak, quiet and flat, the first full sentence youâve given her in over a week.
"Move."
She doesn't. You finally look at her.
Her pupils are blown wide, green irises almost gone. Jaw trembling. Hands flexing open and closed like sheâs trying not to reach for you. You let your gaze slide over her, slow, dismissive, like sheâs a stranger, then step around her without another word. Your door opens. You walk through. It shuts behind you with a soft, definitive click. On the other side of the wood, you hear it.
The smallest, most broken sound Natasha Romanoff has probably ever made in her life. Half exhale, half whimper. You lean your forehead against the closed door, heart hammering.
Thirty seconds later, a quiet knock.
Then her voice, raw and ruined.
"Please."
You donât answer. Another knock, softer.
"Y/n⊠please." You close your eyes, count to ten, and flip the deadbolt. After that you disappear into your en-suite, where you almsot break down.
Two hours later, you're sitting cross legged on the floor in an oversized Howard tee and nothing else, back against the foot of the bed, phone dark in your lap. You havenât slept. Youâve been listening to her pace the hallway for the last forty-seven minutes. Slow, measured steps that stop outside your door every third lap, then start again. The pacing stops. Silence stretches so long you think sheâs finally left. Then the softest knock, three taps, barely there.
You donât move. Another three.
A pause. One more, so quiet itâs almost a plea. You hear her forehead thump gently against the door. Her voice comes through the wood, hoarse, wrecked, Russian accent thick with exhaustion.
"I canât do this anymore." Silence from you, but she knows that you're awake. She tries again, lower.
"I was wrong. I was cruel. I thought if I stayed away I could keep you safe from me. From⊠everything that would happen if I let myself have you." You close your eyes. Your heart is trying to crack your ribs open.
"Iâm not asking you to forgive me tonight." She whispers.
"I just⊠I need you to know Iâm sorry. And that Iâm still here. Iâll be here every night you leave this door locked. Iâll wait as long as it takes."
Another thump, like sheâs slid down to sit on the floor, back to the door, mirroring you. Minutes crawl. Then, so quietly you almost miss it.
"I should have tasted you when I had the chance." Your breath catches hard enough that she must hear it through the wood.
A long, shaky exhale on her side.
"Goodnight, malyshka."
You listen to her settle, knees drawn up, arms probably wrapped around them, guarding your door like itâs the only post in the world that still matters.
You donât open the door. But you donât tell her to leave, either.
___
The air is sharp with November cold. You slipped out through a service door, heels in one hand, bare feet on freezing stone. You just needed to breathe somewhere that didnât smell like orchids and forced smiles. Youâre halfway down the long colonnade when you hear the door open and close behind you. Natashaâs footsteps are unmistakable. Measured, quiet, but faster than protocol allows.
You donât turn around.She stops five feet back.
"I know you donât want to hear from me." She starts, voice low, stripped of every layer of Agent Romanoff polish.
"But Iâm off the clock in thirty-two minutes and Iâm not spending one more night pretending I can do this job while you hate me." You finally face her and you almost regret it.
Natasha looks wrecked. Uniform still perfect, but the top button is undone, tie loosened, eyes glassy from too many hours and not enough sleep. The wind pulls red strands loose from her knot. You fold your arms.
"You donât get to decide when this conversation happens."
"I know." She simply exhales, white cloud in the cold.
"I just... I needed to say it where there arenât cameras and handlers and a hundred people waiting for me to stand still and shut up." Silence. The wind rattles the bare trees. Natasha takes one cautious step closer.
"I was wrong y/n." she says flatly.
"Not about the risk, there is risk. But wrong about thinking distance would hurt less than the truth. Wrong about thinking I could flip a switch and stop-" She cuts herself off, jaw working.
"I canât. I tried. Iâm failing at it every single day."
Your throat is tight. You look past her, at the lit windows of the residence.
"You made me feel disposable." She takes another step closer, hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach up and cup your cheeks but she doesn't.
"I know y/n, and I am so fucking sorry. I'll apologize every day until you see how sorry I am." You turn to look at the trees. You can't trust yourself to look at those green eyes of hers.
"Iâm not asking for anything tonight." She continues, voice rough.
"I just needed you to hear it from me, not through the grapevine or another 3 a.m. hallway apology you can ignore. I fucked up. I hurt you. I donât have a fix. I just have the truth, I canât keep doing this to either of us."Â Another step. Close enough now that you can see her hands shaking at her sides.
"Thatâs it." She finishes.
"Thatâs all I came to say."Â She waits. You let the silence sit for a long, freezing minute. Then you speak, quiet and even.
"You donât get absolution tonight, Natasha. You donât get a kiss, or a hug, or me pretending the last three weeks didnât happen." She nods once, sharp, like she expected exactly that.
"But." You add.
"You also donât get to stand outside my door like a martyr anymore. Go clock out. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out what the hell we actually are, because this half-in, half-out version is over.
Her shoulders drop a fraction. Relief, maybe, or just exhaustion catching up.
"Yes, ma'am. she says, soft. You turn to walk back inside. Three steps in, you pause without looking back.
"And Romanoff?" She straightens.
"Next time you decide to rip my heart out for my own good, donât."
You donât wait for an answer. The door closes behind you. Behind it, Natasha stays in the cold a long time, staring at the spot where you stood, breathing like someone who just surfaced from deep water. No grand declarations. No cinematic forgiveness. Just the first honest words either of you have managed in weeks, and a promise that tomorrow the silence finally ends.
___
It's 11 pm and you still can't find it in you to go to sleep. Not after Natasha's words continue to ring in your head. You continue to pace around your room, hands typing and deleting the same message on your phone. Finally you build up the strength to send it to her.
Come over. Door is unlocked.
You hit send, toss the phone onto the nightstand, and sit on the edge of your bed in nothing but an oversized silk sleep shirt and the low glow of the city through the bulletproof windows. Part of you feels relieved that you sent it while the other parts wants to lunge across the room to delete that text.
Ten minutes go by and she hasn't responded nor have you heard any sound outside your bedroom. You think that maybe she hasn't seen the text. That maybe you should delete it, go to bed and forget about this entire situation. But then you hear three knocks. Three soft knocks.
Natasha steps inside, closes the door with a soft click, and just stands there in a black tank and gray sweatpants, hair loose and messy, eyes wary like sheâs waiting for you to change your mind. You don't. You look at her for a long second, chest tight.
"I'm still mad at you." You whisper, she takes another step closer.
"I know." You stand up.
"Really fucking pissed."
"I know." Natasha moves closer, you move closer until you can feel her arms graze the sides of your hips. You want to push her away, and you do. Natasha grabs your hands and kisses them. You want to pull away, tell her you made a mistake inviting her over.
"I know you're mad detka. But be mad with me inside of you." Her words send a wave of heat down to your core, and you almost laugh to yourself at how easy you were, and maybe that was just how your body reacted whenever you were around the older woman.
But then your lips are on hers, and she's turning you around and backing you up against the wall. She picks you up as if you weigh nothing and your legs wrap around her waist. You moan as you feel Natashaâs tongue lick your lip, her fingers trailing across the expanse of your bare thighs.
Swiftly, she turns you around and places you onto the bed. Your clothes come off first, until you're left in lace panties. She sees the wetness in the center, a darker shade compared to the rest of your panties, she rubs it with her thumb then brings it to her lips. That's the first time she tastes you. A guttural groan escapes the redheads lips and that sound? It turns you on more than you'd like to admit.
"god, so sweet." Rough calloused fingers come up to hook underneath your panties. Slowly, she slips them off before setting them aside. Your pussy glistens in the light, it makes Natasha's tongue dart out to lick her lips, hands prying your legs open.
"Gonna do what I should've done." The redhead whispers as her head lowers down to in between your thighs.
Your pussy practically clenches in anticipation, your hands already pulling her closer. You feel the redheads breath ghost over your aching and awaiting center, your hips already arching into her. But just when you think she's going to relieve you, Natasha sits up, pulls her hair out of that perfect bun, red waves falling down her shoulder and when she leans back down, it tickles your thighs.
You feel the woman's lips on your thighs, teasing you, making you ache for more and you whine impatiently. She presses one kiss onto your clit, then she's back to in-between your thighs leaving a trail of wet kisses on each side.
"Nat, stop teasing me." It sounds borderline pathetic coming from you, but you'd had enough of her teasing.
"Tell me, what do you want detka?" Her voice is rough and needy and so fucking addictive. Only a breathless plea escapes from your lips.
"Come on, tell me." She kisses you from your pelvic bone downwards and stops her movements once she reaches your throbbing clit.
"Nat please, just lick me, taste me, eat me, please." Natasha groans then latches her mouth around the nub.
You moan, hands threading and grabbing strands of red hair. She sucks your clit gently, then slides her tongue down to your entrance, licking you and tasting you. Natasha groans in between your legs, as if your pussy was the best thing she'd tasted. And by far it was.
"My own fucking aphrodisiac." She'd mumbled just as you were about to reach your peak. Her thumb came up to rub tight circles on your clit while she made her way to your lips.
She kissed you like a woman starved, her tongue lacing with yours. You moaned at the taste of yourself on her tongue. Your pussy practically drools for more attention, but here Natasha was, sucking a mark onto your chest like she was trying to prove a point. Then she sat back on her heels and just looked, her eyes dark, lips parted and just drinking you in.
"Natty, please." The breathless plea does something to her.
She flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, then dragged your hips up until you were on your knees, while your face pressed into the pillow. One hand fisted in your soft hair, the other sliding between your legs from behind, her two fingers pushing in without warning, curling hard. You moaned into the mattress, already soaked.
The sound of your slicked pussy getting fucked was beyond obscene, embarrassing maybe but you couldn't care when Natasha was sliding in her digits then scissoring them inside of you. She then proceeded to shift into curling them, rough 'come hither' motions that had you biting your pillow to keep quiet.
"Look at that." Natasha spreads your lips apart, just to watch you clench around nothing. Her mouth comes back home. She licks, sucks and fucks you till you're a babbling mess. She then spits directly onto your entrance, just to watch it go down to your clit and then she's back onto your pussy again. Natasha moans into your pussy like she's the one getting fucked, spit mixed with your arousal dripping in between your thighs and on her chin but she does not care.
Her nose nudges your clit, hands spreading your cheeks apart, just to taste you better. Your hands are clenched around silk mulberry sheets, mouth parted to let out whines, whimpers, moans, anything that urges her on while your hips gyrate and arch like a little bitch in heat.
Natasha moans again like she can't get enough of your taste. She takes you from behind, one palm coming forth to deliver a firm slap on your ass, that sends the flesh rippling like water and you jolting forward. It's a sight indeed. Your orgasm creeps up on you unexpectedly and when it crashes, it crashes down onto you with a force.
The scream you let out is muffled by pillows, hands gripping onto silk for support, vision blurring and eyes shutting in pure bliss. Natasha doesn't stop at all, she fastens her pace, the taste of your cum spurring her on. Your legs tremble, your clit throbs from overstimulation. You tell her it's too much, but your hips never stop moving. She chuckles. A low, deep one that sends heat into your lower belly.
"Your pussy is telling me otherwise detka, she doesn't want me to stop." You moan, another loud sound muffled by silk fabric but the she pulls out and turns you around so that you're on your back again.
Slick coated fingers are brought to your lips, but she doesn't press them to your lips for you to clean up. No. She smears her coated fingers around your lips and your chin. And then she's kissing you, licking your cum off, letting you tatse yourself. You drown in her kisses, while she moans.
"Both fucking lips taste so sweet yeah?"
Her words manage to make you wetter than before. Now you need her inside of you. Your hands move to the strings of her sweatpants.
"Need you inside me."
"Yeah?" You nod impatiently and she smirks.
Sweatpants fall onto the floor and the outline of her cock is what you're so focused on. Your legs involuntarily open, the memories of her stretching you that one night, all come crashing back. You want her. You need her. You really fucking need her.
Her briefs come of soon, sitting halfway, on her thighs. Your hand wraps around her, giving her already rock hard cock a few strokes, thumb moving to the tip already covered in pre cum. Natasha groans and throws her head back, her hips move, thrusting into your hand.
"Do you like that?" She hums, you sit up and continue to stroke her.
"Do you want my mouth?" Natasha's eyes shoot open to find your doe eyes already looking at her expectantly.
"You're not answering my question Natty. Do you want my mouth on you?"
You stop pumping her and she let's out an actual whine. She nods and you smirk.
"Uh huh?" Somehow, miraculously, you manage to flip her over so she's on her back and you're on top. You flip your hair to the side before lowering your lips to kiss Natasha. Your center is pressed directly onto her covered cock and it makes her painfully hot and bothered.
With grace, you slip down her body, lips dragging down her chest to her stomach, biting, licking and sucking bruises onto pale skin. You kiss every inch that you missed while you were too angry to touch her. Over the scar under her ribs. Across the faint stretch marks on her hips. Down the sharp cut of her abs that flex every time your lips brush them.Then, your teeth are dragging her briefs down completely, eyes staring directly at the older woman. A part of you still fears that the redhead will bolt. That she'll change her mind, find this too intimate, and leave you at any second. But she doesn't, because the next thing that she says makes your stomach flip.
"Please." She begs. Natasha Romanoff actually begs. And who were you to deny your fine ass bodyguard. You smirk then spit on your hand before stroking her cock again. Natasha's cock throbs in your hand and you finally reward her by wrapping your mouth around her tip. She moans from the feel of your soft lips, you moan at the taste of her.
You wrap one hand around the base of her cock and continue to drag your tongue from root to tip in one long, filthy stripe. She jerks, a broken sound catching in her throat. You do it again, slower, letting spit pool in your mouth and drip down her shaft, making everything messy and wet just like she had been doing to you just a few minutes ago. When you finally take her in, you sink down fast and deep, no teasing, until your nose presses against her pelvis and your throat flutters around the head.
"Fuck!" Natasha's hips buck involuntarily, her hand tightens in your hair not to lead you, just to anchot herself. You pull back with a gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to her cock, and immediately dive back down, bobbing fast and sloppy, cheeks hollowed, letting the wet sounds fill the quiet room.
Every time you gag yourself on her you moan like itâs the best thing youâve ever tasted, vibrations rolling through her.
Natashaâs head falls back, neck arched, Russian curses spilling out between clenched teeth.
"Fuck detka, don't stop, don't fucking stop..." You double your efforts, your hand stroking what your mouth canât reach, twisting on every upstroke, tongue swirling around the head on every pull back. Spit drips down your chin, over your fist, onto her balls, and onto the sheets. You look up through wet lashes and watch her lose it completely, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, thighs shaking under your forearms. When you feel her start to swell you pull off just long enough to gasp.
"Cum in my mouth Nat." You plead, and the words send her over. She comes with a choked groan. Her hips jerking, thick pulses hitting the back of your tongue. You swallow around her greedily, milking every drop, humming in satisfaction until sheâs shuddering and oversensitive and trying to pull you off with trembling fingers. You finally release her with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping, and crawl back up her body, lashes fluttering innocently while your lips carry that evil little smirk of yours.
You straddle her waist, lean down, and kiss her slow and deep so she can taste herself on your tongue.
"Still mad?" She whispers against your lips, voice absolutely broken.
You smile, small and wicked, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Ask me again after Iâm done riding your cock." She groans, already pulling you down to straddle her semi hard cock.
You push Natasha down, so that she is flat on her back, her arms stretched above her head while her wrists are loosely pinned by one of your hands, not because she couldnât break the hold, but because she wants to be exactly where you put her. You line yourself before sliding down. You moan too loudly, one hand frees itself from your grasp and comes down so she can muffle the sound with her palm.
"Shh, come on be quiet for me yeah? Wouldn't want your mommy to hear what I'm doing to you huh. " You shake your head, hips already moving up and down.
"That's right, so take my cock quietly." Natasha thrusts her hips upwards and it makes you choke on a gasp. You lean down to place a kiss onto her lips. You release her wrist just long enough to grab her hands and plant them on your hips.
"Hold me." You pant.
"Fuck me harder." Her hands findin their way onto your ass, gripping it and thrusting harder, deeper until you practically feel it in your stomach.
"That's it baby, ride me, god look at you. Missed this."
"Yeah? You miss me Natty?" You ask breathlessly, she nods.
"So fucking much. Touched myself every goddamn night thinking about you."
Your pussy clenches at the thought of her, at home thinking about you, touching herself like you'd been secretly doing at night.
"Didn't like you being mad at me. Didn't like fucking Valentina touching you. Touching what I should have been touching." Her pace fastens, cock slamming into you at a rapid pace. The sounds of skin slapping and your mingled breaths bounce of the bedroom walls, it's borderline obscene.
"Then take me Nat." Her teeth scrape against your neck, down to your collar bone before she's tugging your nipple with her teeth, tongue darting out to soothe it after. Her thumb moves down to rub your clit in fast circles. Your head falls onto her shoulder, you moan directly into her ear, letting her hear what she was doing to you.
"Missed you too. My fingers couldn't fill me the way you did." Your thighs are burning, sweat dripping down your spine, while you ride her like itâs the only thing keeping you both alive.
Every downward slam takes her to the hilt, your ass slapping against her thighs loud enough to echo in the quiet room. The angle perfect, her cock dragging against that spot inside you on every stroke until your vision blurs at the edges.
"Fuck baby-" She chokes out, head thrown back, neck corded, abs flexing every time you grind down and roll your hips in that slow, filthy circle you know will destroy her. Spoiler alert: It does.
You lean forward, palms braced on her chest, nails leaving red crescents, and ride her harder, short, brutal bounces that make her cock hit so deep you see stars.
"Look at me." You demand, voice wrecked. Her eyes snap open, green and glassy and completely gone. She looks drunk on you.
You clench around her deliberately and watch her mouth fall open on a silent moan.
"Thatâs it, Natty." You breathe, grinding down in one slow, punishing roll.
"D'feel how mad I still am? Feel how much I fucking missed you?" You purposefully clench around her. She tries to answer, but all that comes out is a broken please.
You sit up straight, arch your back, and start riding her again, merciless, relentless, chasing your own high now. Your breasts bounce with every thrust, nipples hard and aching, sweat making your skin gleam in the low light. Natashaâs hands slide up to grip them, thumbs flicking your nipples, and thatâs what sends you over. You come with a sharp cry, whole body locking up, walls fluttering and squeezing her so tight she moans raw, shocked, helpless.
The clench drags her right after you, she thrusts up once, twice, and spills deep with a guttural groan, her hips jerking uncontrollably as she fills you up. You keep moving through both orgasms, milking her, drawing it out until youâre both shaking and oversensitive and laughing breathlessly into each otherâs mouths.
Finally you collapse forward, forehead to forehead, still seated on her, still feeling her pulse inside you.
"Still mad?" She whispers, voice absolutely shredded.
You rock your hips once more, slow and lazy, just to watch her shudder.
"Getting a bit more closer." You murmur against her lips. Natasha actually smiles, it's small, wrecked and perfect, before she pulls you down into a slow, filthy kiss.
Your bed is destroyed. Silk sheets are ruined. Neither of you really cares much
Youâve got all night to keep making up. And you plan to use every single minute.
___
The clock reads four am when you feel Natasha stir beside you. She pushes her hair back before sitting up and grabbing her clothes. Your mind is already reeling with possibilities, things that could go wrong just like last time but this time she simply turns to face you.
"I need to leave." You give her a simple nod but Natasha can see the gears turning in your head and she already has a hunch about what you're thinking about.
"Hey, I'm not leaving leaving. I just need to take a shower, change into my suit and not look like I just slept with the president's daughter." You let out a soft chuckle that makes her shoulders relax.
Natasha gets up and puts her clothes back on while you watch her behind your sheets.
"You keep watching me like that, I may just jump back in and give you another show."
"Who says I wouldn't want that. All it takes is ten minutes" The sheet slips past your shoulders as you sit up. Her gaze drops to your chest covered in her marks, her pupils dilate but she just shakes her head with a soft laugh.
"Tempting but you and I both know it wouldn't take ten." You hum and she leans down to press one last deep kiss onto your lips. You wrap your arms around her neck, deepening the kiss but she pulls away before anything can go any further. Although the tent in he pants says otherwise.
"I really need to go."
"Go then." You mumble while pecking her lips. Finally, finally, she manages to slip out of your room after a very heated few minutes that almsot lead to another round of mind blowing sex.
But at least this time when you go to sleep, it's with a faint smile on your lips and no regrets. You may have not fully resolved what happened, but at least there was a clear direction of where you two were headed.
Situationship begun.
I hope you lovelies enjoyed it!!! Feedback is welcomed
Prompt: G!P Silver fox Natasha Romanoff x Stripper Reader.
Warnings: Smut Ahead. Minors and Men dni. Age Gap (Natasha is 53, Reader is 22) Unprotected sex (p in V), stripper activities while being naked.
Word Count: 5.5K Words.
It was a late October night. The kind of crisp New York night that makes everyone look richer than they are. The charity gala smelled like old money trying to pretend it was brand new. Multiple assortment of orchids flown in from Singapore, champagne older than most of the waitstaff and more expensive than your salaries put together, and the faint metallic tang of desperation beneath thousand dollar cologne. Youâd been on your feet for six hours in heels that were quietly trying to murder you, smile plastered on, directing billionaires and their trophy dates to their tables.
You moved through it all in a borrowed black suit two sizes too stiff, bow tie choking you like a warning, balancing a silver tray of flutes while counting the minutes until you could trade the starched white button up shirt for body oil and eight inch pleasers back at Velvet Room where you actually belonged.
This is a favor, you should be grateful! You thought to yourself. An opportunity to get some extra cash even though it meant you'd get lingering eyes from older men while their trophy wives gave you glares. But it was all worth it since they were paying you double this specific evening. You handed another flute out, flinching when one of the ambassadors grabbed your arm too tight. But something in the air shifted after that.
You felt the way the crowd parted just enough for you to see the mysterious woman. Natasha Romanoff walked in. Alone. No entourage, no date on her arm, just a floor length black coat cinched at the waist and her silver hair swept into a low, elegant knot that showed off the sharp lines of her face.
Your lips parted in awe once you got a proper look at her. Her silver streaked red hair swept low into a bun, and when she took that coat off, her midnight blue velvet blazer cut sharp enough to draw blood, while her green eyes were already locked on you like sheâd been waiting hours for you to walk into range.
The sound of heels clacking on the floor brought you out of the trance you'd been in. Her eyes lingered on your face for a few seconds before you redirected your attention to the couple behind you. And when you looked back to where she had been standing a couple of seconds ago, the woman was already gone.
___
An hour maybe two went by and you'd secretly been stealing glances at the older woman. You knew who she was, of course you did. Everyone knew who the woman was. Natasha Romanoff. Famous ex-assassin turned CEO of Romanoff Incorporation, how she build her company from nothing to something in her mid twenties. Everyone feared the woman. She practically ruled security world or whatever the hell she did. You weren't sure. All you know was that she was the kind of loaded that came from hardwork and sleepless nights. You found yourself captivated by her.
The woman was interesting sure, but what intrigued you even more was the fact that she came with no one and paid attention to no one. Women circled around her, men stared her down and even the host was too nervous to hold eye contact while talking to her. That alone made her seem even more powerful.
You were certain that you spent almost an hour ogling at her before one of the wives attending the event called for you.
"You. Do me a favor and get me a scotch on the rocks."
"I only hand flutes out ma'am, I don't-"
"Is your job not to satisfy me? Isn't that what you're getting paid for?" The woman tilted her head, and from afar you could already see the head waitress giving you a warning look. Obey then walk away.
"Right away." You turned your back to her, making your way to the main bar area before placing the tray down.
"Scotch on the rocks please." The bartender nodded, and you took the time to unfasten the tie that had been irritating you for the past three hours. At least you had a few more seconds to breathe.
The bartender handed you the drink, you accepted it with a polite smile before handing it over to the woman. Little did you know that Natasha had been watching you for quite a while now. She watched you intensely. How every single one of your movements were deliberate. How your posture was upright but not stiff, shoulders squared like you were used to being looked at. Natashaâs gaze followed you without permission.
She watched you stop at a table of four ladies. One of them, a housewife in diamonds and too much perfume, didnât even look up. The woman who'd asked you for her drink.
"You spilled." The woman said sharply. Natashaâs eyes narrowed. She hadnât seen any spill. All she'd seen was grace walking around a room filled with arrogant women and hungry men.
"I didn't." She heard the way you replied. Your voice calm, low. Polite. Too polite.
"Yes, you did." The woman snapped, waving a manicured hand toward the hem of her dress.
"Do you people ever pay attention?" You people.
Natasha felt the familiar, unwelcome spark of irritation crawl up her spine. You simply glanced down, then back up, jaw tightening for just a fraction of a secon and you apologized anyway. A small apology. Controlled. Professional.
Natasha clocked it all. The restraint, the way your fingers curled just slightly around the tray, the way you didnât look at the woman again once turned away. She found you interesting. Very interesting.
Later that night, Natasha found you in the bathroom. You were fixing your jacket, then your hair before looking at her through the mirror.
"Long night?" She asked, leaning against the pristine walls.
"You have no idea." You replied dryly. Why would she be talking to you? It didn't make any sense.
You thought that she was probably just being nice. Or maybe she needed something from you, but Natasha just stared, observed and took you in.
"You know, it's rude to stare." You mumbled while tucking a loose curl behind your ear.
"I know. But I just so happen to be appreciating the beauty in front of me."
"Smooth." You finally turned to look at her.
"Do you need something Ms Romanoff?" Natasha raises her brow in amusement.
"You know who I am?"
"Of course. Everyone does." She hums a low hum that sends something down your core.
You find yourself admiring the woman's features. The freckles across her nose, the small wrinkles just beneath her eyes, those perfectly shaped eyebrows and her eyes, christ her eyes. This women was the epitome of perfection, age be damned.
"Now I'm not the one staring." She teases, you huff out a laugh.
"I should get going." You gesture towards the door and she steps aside.
Once you leave the bathroom, after a long moment, Natasha is left with the scent of your perfume swirling around in her nose and your face engraved in her mind. You on the other hand finally let the breath you were apparently holding out. Something about Natasha made you feel hot and bothered. But you weren't here to hit women up, let alone a woman of her status.
You made your way back to the bar, grabbing the tray filled with new flutes before rounding your way around the gala room. But fate apparently wasn't done. Because a few minutes later, Natasha was in front of you, and without a word, you handed her a flute. She glanced down at you once again. Green eyes. Predator green.
"Thank you..." She read your name tag. "Kelly." You simply nodded, the sound of her voice rolling around the fake name sent some sort of thrill down your spine. You wondered how it would sound if she said your real name.
"You're welcome Ms Romanoff. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You walked away before she could reply, feeling her stare on your back the whole way to the kitchen.
___
VELVET ROOM, Friday night, 1:12 a.m.
Three weeks have gone by since you worked the night at the gala. But now, you were in the place you felt like you belonged. And yes, maybe it was contentious that you preferred this over waiting hand and foot around other people, but the pay was exceptionally good, you worked flexible hours and well you were considered the best of the best in the club. "Considered" was just you being humble. You were the best.
The bassline was filthy, lights strobing crimson and indigo across your sweat slick skin. The main stage belonged to you tonight. Your stage name, Onyx written in neon colors on the screen and the crowd knew it and loved it.
You were drrssed nothing but a black diamond G-string, a silver sheer top and eight-inch Pleasers, your body oiled, curls pulled into a high ponytail that whipped when you spun. The pole was your spine, your lover, your throne. You climbed it upside down, legs split in a perfect V shape, back arched until your hair brushed the stage, then slid down slow enough to make grown men cry and thro hundred dollar bills your way.
Some tried to touch, some tried to pull the strings of your top but you brushed them off. Instead you made your way to a man, probably in his mid fifties, with a stack of hundreds in his palm. He gushed to his group of buddies when you pulled his tie forward. And although the feeling of his rough hand sliding down your ass made your insides spin in disgust, you brushed him off with a wink while he placed said stack in your palms.
It all amused yet kind of irked you, of course it did! How unsettling it was that a questionable amount of men sitting in this club were probably fathers, husbands, company owners, but who were you to judge when you were making more than others would make in a few hours. Money continued to rain, your stage name was chanted across the stage, even when you stepped aside to get some air and water.
When you were back on the stage, the routine started once again, money was tossed around while you mindlessly swirled and danced around the slick pole. You were mid routine, inverted crucifix, one handed, thighs gripping onto cold steel, when you finally felt it. A familiar stare. Heavy and unblinking.
You flipped upright, landed in a split that earned a roar from the floor, and finally let your gaze sweep towards the VIP booths. And there she was, Natasha Romanoff. Silver streaked hair, green eyes. Staring at you. At you.
Natasha was dressed in a similar velvet suit that she'd worn to the charity, soft and expensive. In her hand was an untouched drink, probably expensive bourbon. Next to her, were three other females who you assumed were to be her friends. They were too occupied with shoving bills into the waiters hands to really notice the sudden shift in Natasha's behavior. The rigid shoulders, how she stopped talking and replying to their murmurs, all because she was focused on one thing. You.
Her gaze made you swallow a non existent lump down your throat. You felt heat spreading all over your body like a wild fire spreading down a field. It's not that you felt embarrassed to see someone outside of your work life watching you parade half naked around a pole, no (though it rarely happened). But the way she was watching you, not just watching you for the fun of it, but really taking you in, observing you... It made you feel some type of way. Natasha didn't move, didn't blink, didn't show any emotion but she continued to stare at you like you were the only one in the room.
Eventually your set finished and the DJ shouted your name before the lights went black. That's when you made your way out of the room and into the locker rooms to change and maybe take a couple of seconds to breathe. A couple of girls scattered in and out, some refreshing their makeup, reapplying lip gloss, counting money, popping champagne while others were changing their clothes and the lucky ones were knocking off early.
You were about to change into a slick robe, ready to get a glass of water before your private dances but your boss, Anna, a carefree woman who'd stomp her foot on anyone who touched their girls inappropriately, walked into the locker room to stop you.
"No changing for you Onyx." You turned around with a small frown.
"What do you mean?"
"Velvet's asking for you."
"Who?" Anna cocked her head to the side, and that moment, behind the curtains your eyes met green ones.
Anna left, you covered your self in the thin robe before walking out of the room.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Well hello to you too, Onyx." Her voice was low, amused and rough from disuse.
"You dropped something at the gala." Natasha held out the same black bow tie youâd worn that night three weeks ago. She must have lifted it from your tray when you werenât looking. You took it slowly, fingers brushing her fingers on purpose this time.
"Keeping souvenirs now?"
"Only the interesting ones." Her gaze dragged down your barely covered body, then back up.
"Youâre wasted on charity events, malyshka." A thrill shot through you at the Russian endearment.
"Could say the same thing about you standing in this club." You shot back and the woman laughed, a low genuine sound.
"I'm here because a friend of mine lost a bet. I never lose bets." She said.
"Good to know." You leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of your body oil, a mixture of oud and vanilla. You then turned on your heels, ready to disappear but the woman stopped you.
"How much to get to see you longer?"
"I have scheduled private dances waiting for me Ms Romanoff." You cross your arms and the movement makes your cleavage pop out more. Natasha's eyes linger.
"I'll pay triple." You stutter out a response but nothing comes out.
"Of each." You let the silence stretch, then turned on your heel.
"Booth seven. Ten minutes. Bring your wallet and your manners."
You felt her watching you walk away again but this time in nothing but a robe and heels.
___
Booth seven was the biggest one, tucked in the far back corner where the music dulled to a low, syrupy throb and the lights were nothing but deep violet and slow moving spots. Velvet walls, a single chrome pole in the center, a low leather chaise that could fit two if they didnât mind touching.
You stepped inside first, let the curtain fall closed behind you, and turned the dimmer until the room felt like the inside of a bruise. Natasha followed without a word, hands in her pockets, posture relaxed, but you could feel the tension rolling off her like heat.
You didnât speak. You just let the robe slide off your shoulders and pool at your feet.
She inhaled, sharp and quiet, eyes tracking every inch of bare glowing skin now lit up for her alone. The diamond G-string, body chain dripping low across your hips, nipples already tight from the air and from knowing exactly who was watching.
"I prefer my clients to be seated while I work." You mumbled, she followed suite. You liked it quite a lot. How you were able to hold the reigns of the most powerful woman.
Then you moved. Not the stage routine. No. This was different. Lethal in a quieter way. You wanted her to be hooked. You started with your back to her, rolling your hips in a slow figure eight that made the diamonds on your waist flash. One hand braced on the pole, you sank into a low squat, thighs wide, back arched until your ass nearly brushed the leather between her spread legs. You could hear her breathing change. You may as well give her a full show now. You thought to yourself.
Rising again, you spun, walked forward until your knees bumped hers. She didnât move, didnât reach, just watched with that predator stillness that made your pulse race. You straddled the air just above her lap, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off you, not close enough to touch. House rules for now. You rolled your body like a wave, breasts brushing a whisper from her lips, then away again. When you dropped low, grinding against nothing, your hands slid up your own torso, cupping yourself, thumbs flicking your nipples once, twice, just to watch her jaw flex. And it did.
Natashaâs hands curled into fists on her thighs. You turned again, planted your heels wide, and bent slow, slow, slow until your palms touched the floor and your ass was a perfect heart shape inches from her hips. You held it there, letting her look, letting her want. Then you rose just as slowly, letting your hair spill down your back like ink.
When you finally faced her again, you stepped in close, one knee sliding between hers on the chaise. You took her wrists and she let you, guided her hands to the armrests, and leaned in until your lips almost brushed the shell of her ear.
"No touching. " You whispered.
"Yet." A low growl rumbled in her chest.
You smiled, sank down until you were straddling one of her thighs, the muscle hard beneath her slacks. You rolled your hips once, slow, letting the thin strip of diamonds drag over her leg, letting her feel exactly how wet you already were. Her nostrils flared.
You rose again, turned your back to her, and lowered yourself into her lap properly this time, no barrier except that scrap of fabric and her iron control. Your gaze dropped lower towards the tent tucked beneath expensive fabric. You smirked.
You started a slow grind, spine liquid, ass rolling in deliberate circles, feeling her cock swell hard and thick beneath you in seconds. You didnât speed up. You tortured her with the rhythm, rising until only the tip of you grazed her, then sinking down again, taking every inch of friction through her clothes. Natashaâs head fell back against the chaise, throat exposed, pulse hammering. You leaned forward, braced your hands on her knees, and rode her lap like you were fucking her right there, hips snapping, breasts bouncing, breath coming in soft moans you didnât have to fake.
Her hands lifted an inch off the armrests, then froze. You reached back, caught her wrists again, pinned them gently but firmly.
"Be good." You murmured, voice velvet and steel. She laughed, low and wrecked.
"Youâre evil." You rolled your hips one last time, hard, letting her feel your clit drag over the ridge of her cock through the layers between you, then rose smoothly to your feet. The song was ending. You stepped back, picked up your robe, slid it on but didnât tie it.
Natasha sat there breathing like sheâd run ten miles, pupils blown, lips parted. The front of her slacks was unmistakably ruined.
You leaned down, brushed your mouth against the corner of hers, barely a kiss.
"Next time..." You whispered.
"Bring cash. A lot of it. And maybe Iâll let those hands wander." You walked out first, hips swaying, leaving the curtain half-open so the hallway light striped across her flushed face and the very obvious problem in her lap. She was ruined. Absolutely ruined. In a way she hadn't been in decades. And you? You secretly thrived on it. And you knew she'd come back. Natasha was definitely going to be back.
___
It has almost been two weeks since you had last seen Natasha. At first you had hope. You hoped that maybe she'd show up, ask for another show, tell you how she desperately wanted you but that was all in your head. A week went by and still, nothing. You don't know why it bothered you so much. I mean yes the money that you got from her alone was an obscene amount but what was so special about her that you needed to see her again? Why were you still expecting her to waltz into the club and demand to watch you preform? She didn't need you and neither did you need her. Yeah. You didn't. Even though you still played with the bow tie that she'd handed you that night. But again, it was just a regular performance.
On the twelfth day, you've finally got the older woman out of your mind. Back to regulars, back to routine, back to normalcy.
But then, two nights later, Natasha waltzes into the club alone. No friends. No pretense. No velvet blazer this time. Just a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled high, top three buttons undone, and tailored trousers that did nothing to hide the long, hard line of her when she walked. She looked like sin with a platinum card.
She didnât sit in VIP. She went straight to the floor manager, slid an envelope across the bar, and said a few words.
"Onyx. All night." The envelope was thick enough that the manager didnât even blink. Anna just handed Natasha a brass keycard for the Champagne Room upstairs, the one that locks from the inside and has no cameras.
You were mid routine when security tapped your shoulder and whispered.
"Youâre done on the floor. VIP wants you upstairs. Full buy out." Your heart began to beat rapidly. You knew who it was before you even turned around.
You took your time getting ready. Showered off the stage oil, let your skin air dry so you smelled like nothing but warm cocoa butter and you. Slipped into the tiniest black lace balconette and matching thong you owned, the kind that looked like it would fall apart if someone breathed on it wrong. Thigh high stockings with the seam up the back. No robe this time.
When you pushed open the door to the Champagne Room, Natasha was standing at the window, city glittering behind her, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of something dark. She turned when she heard the click of your heels. Her eyes went almost black.
"Lock the door." She said. You did. The room was bigger than most apartments. Low black leather sectional, mirrored walls, a smaller pole in the center, bottle of 1996 Cristal sweating in a bucket you knew she hadnât touched.
You walked straight to her, stopped when your breasts brushed her chest.
"Hi." You said softly. Natasha set the glass down without looking. Both hands came up, slow enough that you could stop her if you wanted to. You didn't. Her thumbs traced your cheekbones, then slid into your hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt your head back.
"Hi." She echoed, voice gravel and smoke.
"What are you doing here?" You ask.
"I came to make good on what you said. Besides you were very bad that night malyshka.â
You smiled, let your tongue touch your bottom lip.
"You paid so much money for all night. You really wanna spend it scolding me?" Her laugh was low and dangerous. Her hands began to roam and you let her.
"Let me take you to dinner." She mumbles and you let out a soft surprised laugh.
"Did you book me to ask me out?" She hums.
"And what makes you think I'm single?"
"Well you're letting my hands sit on your ass."
"Letting people touch me this way is part of the job."
"Is looking at your clients like you want them to fuck you part of the job?" You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
"Bold huh?"
"I know what I want."
"And what do you want."
"You."
"You don't even know my real name."
"Niet, I don't. Tell me." You pause for a moment, and Natasha watches you, waiting not rushing.
"Y/n." You mumbled softly and she makes a pleased sound.
"Y/n." She repeats to herself.
"Beautiful." The older woman's hands have stopped roaming around, now just simply cupping your ass while the tent in her pants grazes against your bare skin. You find yourself leaning in slowly but she stops you.
"Dance for me first. I want to watch you with nothing in between." Her commend sends a pool of wetness down to your core. This woman was going to be the death of you. You hesitated for a moment but then you got up. You stepped back, unhooked your bra, let it fall. Then you hooked your thumbs in the thong and paused.
"Everything?" You asked. Her nod was sharp. Hungry. You stripped the rest off in one smooth motion, stepped out of the lace, and walked naked to the pole.
The song sheâd chosen started. It was something slow and syrupy, all bass and breathy vocals. You gave her everything youâd held back downstairs.
Climbed upside down, thighs locked, back arched until your hair swept the floor. Slid down into a split that put your pussy on full display, glistening under the low lights. Rolled your hips in the air like you were riding her, fingers trailing between your legs just long enough to spread yourself open for her eyes only.
Natasha never moved from the window. Just watched, chest rising and falling, one hand now openly palming herself through her trousers. When the song ended you were breathing hard, skin shining with fresh sweat. You walked to her, took the hand that wasnât stroking herself, and pulled her to the sectional.
"My turn." You whispered. You pushed her down, straddled her lap, and finally finally let your bare pussy settle over the thick ridge of her cock. You both groaned at the contact.
Her hands went to your hips immediately, fingers digging in.
"Tell me the rules tonight." She said, voice wrecked. You leaned in, licked a stripe up her throat, and bit her earlobe.
"No rules." You breathed.
"You paid for me. Take what you want." The sound she made was inhuman.
"Am I the only client who's seen you like this?" You nod your head and before you know it, your lips are pressed against hers.
In one motion she flipped you onto your back on the wide leather couch, mouth crashing into yours, cock grinding hard between your thighs. You reached down, frantic, fumbling with her belt. She helped, extremely impatient now, shoving trousers and briefs down just enough to free herself. Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
You wrapped your hand around her, stroked once, twice, thumb swiping over the head. She shuddered, forehead dropping to yours.
"Condom?" She managed.
"Clean. On the pill. Want to feel you raw." She cursed in Russian, lined up, and pushed inside in one long, relentless thrust.
Your back arched clear off the couch.
She was big. Bigger than youâd guessed and the stretch burned perfectly. She didnât give you time to adjust, just started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, hips snapping, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding between you to circle your clit.
"Fuck, look at you." She growled, watching herself disappear into your body over and over.
"Taking my cock like you were fucking made for it." You couldnât answer. You simply wrapped your legs high around her waist, heels digging into her ass, urging her deeper. She gave it to you harder, faster, leather creaking beneath you, your moans echoing off the mirrors. When you came the first time it was sudden and blinding, pussy clenching so tight she had to fight to keep moving.
She didnât stop. Flipped you over, pulled your hips up, slid back inside from behind and fucked you through the aftershocks until you were shaking, drooling into the cushion, coming again with a broken sob while throwing your ass back to meet her thrusts.
"Da, just like that!" Only then did she let herself go, burying deep, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you with your name torn out of her throat like it hurt.
After, she didnât pull out. Just folded over your back, arms wrapping around your waist, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses between your shoulder blades.
You stayed like that for a long minute, breathing together, her cock softening slowly inside you. Eventually she pulled out gently, turned you over, and kissed you slow and sweet and filthy.
Then she reached for her discarded jacket, pulled out a matte black card, and pressed it into your hand.
"My real number this time." She murmured against your lips.
"No games. Call me when you want to do this somewhere that isnât a club. Somewhere I can keep you all weekend." You traced the edge of the card, smiling.
"Iâll think about it." You lied. She laughed, low and fond, and kissed you again. You both knew youâd be texting her before sunrise.
___
You're in your apartment now. It's almost four in the morning. You'd taken a bath to ease your tender muscles but apparently it did nothing to soothe the throb in between your legs. It felt taboo honestly. How you let the women conmand you to do such things. How she fucked you, held you, kissed you. You should feel embarrassed, ashamed even but you didn't. Did you regret it? Absolutely not. Would you let her do it again? Yes.
And that's how you find yourself pulling out that matte black card, and saving her name in your contacts. And then, you're texting her.
You
Still awake, old woman?
Natasha responds almost ten seconds later.
Natasha
Old woman who carried you and fucked you against the wall? Try again.
You
Still awake ma'am?
Natasha
Much better. Yes, Iâm awake. I can still taste you on my tongue and Iâm trying to decide if Iâm pissed you left or proud you can still walk.
You
I'm at home now. My legs are questionable.
Pretty sure that I can still feel you inside of me.
Natasha
Jesus Christ.
You
Anyways, I was just checking to see if you had another girl on top of you or not.
Natasha
Iâm in my kitchen drinking vodka out of a coffee mug and trying not to jerk off to the memory of how you looked when you came on my tongue.
So no. No other girl.
You
Smooth talker.
Natasha
Truth talker.
A minute goes by then the next text comes in from the woman.
Natasha
I want you to come over to my place.
You
Oh?
Natasha
Yes. I want you again. I can send a car in ten minutes.
You
Hm. No. Thirty minutes. I like making you wait.
Natasha
Dangerous game, malyshka.
You
I play to win. And also, you left bite marks all over my ass. My boss is gonna have questions.
Natasha
Tell her the truth. Tell her that I fucked you so good you forgot your own name for ten straight minutes.
You
Wow, cocky.
Natasha
You came so hard you squirted on a $9,000 couch. Think Iâve earned the right. And I don't sugarcoat anything.
I donât usually do this. Like⊠Like text the client after. Or let them cum inside me. Or let them carry me to the couch when I couldnât walk. So if youâre about to ghost me, do it now. Iâd rather know.
You watch impatiently as the three dots disappear then reappear once again. And then she finally sends the message.
Natasha
I donât ghost. I also donât usually pay six figures to lock a door and spend four hours finding every sound a woman can make. I donât usually mark someone up like a teenager. And I definitely donât usually sit here at four in the morning wondering what your real laugh sounds like when youâre not on the clock. So weâre both off the script.
You
Damn.
Natasha
Come over.
You
Itâs almost sunrise, trying to kidnap me huh?
Natasha
No, and I know. Come watch it with me anyway. No money. No stage. Just you in one of my shirts, eating the pancakes Iâm about to ruin, sitting on my countertop while I kiss the bruises I left on your thighs.
You
Youâre making it really hard to keep my walls up, Ms Romanoff.
Natasha
Then stop trying. Let me see you. I'll send you a car.
You
Alright old woman, you win.
Natasha
Keep calling me that and I'll bend you over every surface of this penthouse.
You
Promise?
Natasha
You have my word.
You
Well then, I'll be on my way.
Natasha
Good girl.
Loved this. Hope you did too! Also attempting to crochet a black widow tote so that's fun!!!
The town car arrived exactly on time. During the entire ride across the city, you couldn't sit still. Your legs bounced. You kept smoothing down your simple black hoodie and leggings, wondering if you should have dressed up more. Inside, you felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous, thrilled, and a little dazed. This powerful, gorgeous woman wanted you again. At 5 AM. The memory of her thick cock stretching you open, her green eyes locked on yours, and the way she'd growled "good girl" kept replaying in your head, making you press your thighs together. The driver, a tall old man, spent the past few minutes humming to some popular song that had been playing on the radio while occasionally checking his rear view mirror. Maybe this was ridiculous. Were you really just about to go to a woman's apartment at 5 AM just because she fucked you good? Well, yes.
The car pulled up to Natasha's building which was a sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper made of glass and dark steel that screamed old money and power. Before you could even process it, the door opened and the driver held his hand out, waiting for you to accept it.
"Thank you." You mumbled softly before he escorted you inside. It was quiet inside the building, but you knew soon enough the hustle and bustle of 6 AM would come soon.
The lobby was visible through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors that gleamed under crystal chandeliers, minimalist leather seating, and massive abstract art pieces on the walls. It looked less like an apartment building and more like a private museum for the obscenely wealthy. You stepped inside, the cool air hitting your skin. The reception desk was a long, polished black marble counter. Behind it stood a tall, impeccably dressed blonde woman in her late 20s, sharp cheekbones, designer blouse, and an expression of practiced superiority. Her name tag read "Elena."
She looked you up and down slowly, taking in your casual hoodie, leggings, and the faint scent of club smoke still clinging to your curls. Her lips curled into a condescending smirk.
"May I help you?" she asked, tone dripping with fake politeness.
"This is a private residence. Deliveries and guests need prior approval." You straightened your shoulders, weight shifting to your other leg.
"I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff. She's expecting me." Elena let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. She checked her tablet, then looked back at you with open disdain.
"Miss Romanoff didn't mention any guests tonight. Especially not..." Her eyes flicked over you again.
"...Someone like you. Are you sure you have the right building, sweetheart?" The condescension was thick. Jealousy mixed with classist venom. It was clear this woman had been trying to get Natasha's attention for a while, and the idea of some random (curvy, beautiful and clearly not from their world) girl showing up at 5 AM offended her deeply.
Before you could respond, the private elevator dinged. Natasha stepped out like she owned the entire damn city. She was wearing a black silk robe loosely tied over what looked like grey sweatpants and a tank top, silver-streaked auburn hair tousled from sleep, or maybe lack of it, and those sharp green eyes immediately locked onto you with raw hunger. The robe did little to hide the heavy bulge already forming between her legs.
Elena straightened instantly, her voice turning sugary.
"Miss Romanoff, I was just telling this young woman that you-"Natasha didn't even glance at her. She crossed the lobby in long, confident strides, slid a possessive arm around your waist, and pulled you flush against her body. Her hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as she leaned down and kissed you . It was deep, claiming, and completely unconcerned about the audience. You melted instantly, a soft whimper escaping into her mouth.
When Natasha finally pulled back, she kept her arm locked around you and looked at Elena with cool indifference.
"She's with me." Natasha said, voice low and authoritative.
"Always. Don't question her again." Elena's face flushed with embarrassment and jealousy, but she nodded stiffly.
"Of course, Miss Romanoff." Natasha didn't wait for more. She guided you toward the elevator with a firm hand on your lower back, almost possessive. As the doors closed, she pressed you against the mirrored wall, lips brushing your ear.
"I've been hard for hours thinking about you," she growled.
"Couldn't sleep. Needed to feel this pretty warm pussy again." You shivered, grinning giddily against her neck as the elevator rose.
The mean receptionist was already forgotten.
All that mattered was the way Natasha Romanoff couldn't wait until morning to have you again.
The elevator ride up was thick with tension.
Natasha kept you pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other tilted your chin up for another deep, hungry kiss. Her silk robe had slipped open slightly, and you could feel the heavy, hard length of her cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of her sweats.
"I've been thinking about this tight little pussy since you left." she murmured against your lips, accent thicker with want.
"Couldn't even sleep properly." You shivered, heart racing with that same giddy, nervous excitement from the car ride.
This powerful woman, this older woman, had summoned you at 5 AM because she needed you.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. Your breath caught. You'd never seen anything like it. The space was massive and breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline that made you feel like you were floating above the world. The lighting was low and warm, soft recessed lights and the glow of the city beyond.
Everything screamed quiet, expensive luxury.
Sleek modern furniture in deep charcoal and cream tones filled the open-plan space. A massive sectional that looked like it could seat twenty dominated the living area. In one corner stood a glossy black grand piano. A fully stocked bar with crystal glassware and expensive bottles glowed under subtle lighting. The floors were dark polished hardwood that felt cool under your sneakers.
It smelled like her , woody cologne, faint whiskey, and something undeniably powerful. Natasha watched your reaction with dark satisfaction, her hand never leaving your lower back as she guided you inside.
"First time seeing it properly." she said, voice low.
"What do you think?" You stepped further in, eyes wide, turning slowly to take it all in.
"It's... insane. Beautiful. Like something out of a movie." You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"I feel like I shouldn't even be standing here in sneakers." Natasha's lips curved into a predatory smile. She closed the distance, sliding her arms around your waist from behind and pulling your back flush against her front. You could feel her hard cock pressing insistently against your ass.
"You belong here." she murmured, lips brushing your ear.
"I wanted you back the second you left. Couldn't stop thinking about how good you felt riding me. How pretty you looked with my cock buried inside you. The breathless sound you made just as you were about to cum, fuck. I want to hear it again." You whimpered softly, already wet. The contrast between the overwhelming luxury surrounding you and the raw hunger in her voice made your head spin.
Natasha didn't give you long to admire the view. She turned you around, picked you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you over to the huge sectional. She sat down and pulled you astride her lap, hands immediately sliding under your hoodie to grip your bare waist.
"Take this off." She ordered, already tugging the fabric upward. You obeyed quickly, pulling the hoodie over your head. Your full breasts spilled free, you hadn't worn a bra.
Natasha groaned at the sight, leaning in to suck one dark nipple into her mouth while her hands squeezed your ass.
"You're just so fucking perfect," she growled against your skin.
"This body has been driving me crazy for too many fucking days." You rocked against the thick bulge in her sweatpants, moaning softly. The city lights sparkled behind you through the massive windows as Natasha freed her heavy cock and pushed your leggings and panties to the side.
She didn't tease this time.She lined up and pulled you down onto her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying every thick inch inside you.You gasped sharply, head falling back as the stretch burned so good. Natasha's lips parted, eyes trained on those pink lips of yours. Her thumb pushed your bottom lip down, your tongue coming out to lick the digit. You maintained eye contact while you sucked her thumb and you could see the way Natasha swallowed thickly before she trailed that same thumb down your stomach, to your clit.
Natasha then gripped your hips tightly and started guiding you to ride her, deep and steady bounces that made your breasts jiggle and your ass ripple like water.
"Look at me." She commanded. You did. Those intense green eyes stayed locked on yours as she fucked up into you, the wet sounds of your pussy taking her cock filling the luxurious penthouse.
This was only your second time with her, but it already felt dangerously addictive.
And as Natasha pulled you down harder, growling "Good girl" while the city watched silently through the windows, you realized something thrilling:
You were already in deep.
â-
You woke up slowly, wrapped in the softest sheets you'd ever felt. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A solid, strong body pressed against your back, one heavy arm draped possessively over your waist. The second was the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft morning light, painting the entire penthouse in golden hues. The city stretched out endlessly below, making you feel like you were floating in the sky.
You were in Natasha's bed. Memories from a few hours ago flooded back. Natasha fucking you on the sectional, then carrying you to bed and taking you again. So much slower, and so fucking deep, until you were shaking and moaning her name. Until you could feel her in your stomach, just hitting that spongy spot that made you see stars over and over again. She fucked you so good, you went silent, mouth opened in an "o" shape.
"Don't you dare look away. I want to see you." She whispered, telling you how she wanted to see you fall apart. You came so hard that moment, thigh lifting slightly while you let out a choked gasp. You'd fallen asleep with her still buried inside you.
Now, Natasha was awake. You could feel her watching you. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare stomach, occasionally brushing the underside of your breast. Her thick cock was already half-hard, resting against the curve of your ass.
"Morning, gorgeous." she murmured, voice husky with sleep and that faint accent. She pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck.
"Sleep well?" You turned in her arms to face her, suddenly shy under the bright morning light. Natasha looked devastating, her silver-streaked auburn hair messy, sharp green eyes soft with satisfaction, pale skin marked with a few faint scratches you'd left on her shoulders last night and earlier that morning.
"I... yeah." You whispered, a giddy little smile tugging at your lips.
"This bed is ridiculous. Everything here is ridiculous." Natasha chuckled lowly and pulled you closer, hooking one of your thick thighs over her hip. Her hand slid down to squeeze your ass possessively.
"You look good in my bed." she said, eyes roaming over your dark skin against her white sheets.
"I could get used to waking up to this." Your heart did a little flip. This was only your second night together, but the way she looked at you...like she didn't want you to leave, it made butterflies erupt in your stomach again.
Natasha leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep. The kiss quickly grew heated. Her hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet for her again.
"You're just so greedy huh?" she teased against your lips, sliding two fingers inside you easily. "Even after I fucked you twice last night, your pussy, she just gets so wet." You moaned softly, rocking against her hand and pulling it closer to guide her movements.
"Can't help it... you feel too good." Natasha rolled you onto your back and settled between your spread thighs. She pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at the tight heat. This time it was lazy morning sex , deep and slow rolls of her hips, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
"Fuck, you take me so well." She breathed, forehead pressed to yours.
"This pretty wet pussy was made for my cock."
You wrapped your legs around her waist, nails digging into her back as she fucked you steadily. The morning light illuminated every detail. The way her silver hair caught the sun, the flex of muscle in her shoulders, the intense focus in her green eyes as she watched you fall apart. When you came, it was soft and shuddering, a quiet moan of her name leaving your lips. Natasha followed right after, burying herself deep and filling you with warm cum as she groaned against your neck.
She stayed inside you afterward, holding you close while the city woke up far below.
"I want you to stay longer today." she said quietly, brushing curls from your face.
"Cancel whatever you had planned. Let me feed you breakfast. Then maybe fuck you in the shower." You laughed breathlessly, still floating from the orgasm.
"You're not tired of me yet?" Natasha's expression turned serious. She cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your skin.
"Not even close," she murmured.
"I told you, I don't do this, inviting someone back the very next night. But with you... I can't seem to stop." Your heart swelled with that giddy, dangerous feeling again. You were falling fast. Too fast.
But lying here in her bed, full of her cum, wrapped in her arms while the morning sun warmed your skin... you couldn't find it in yourself to care.
"I'll stay, just cause you promised me pancakes." You whispered, leaning up to kiss her.
Natasha smiled against your lips. Slow, satisfied, and just a little possessive. Her arms wrapped around you, rough calloused digits tracing your back.
"Good girl."
â-
You left Natasha's penthouse around 11 AM.
She'd tried to convince you to stay longer by offering breakfast in bed (which you gladly took) and another round in the shower (messy, long, steamy and no not from the hot water). Natasha even suggested you cancel your plans for the entire day. But you needed a moment to breathe. Your body was deliciously sore, your mind was spinning, and you still smelled like her cologne and sex.
The town car dropped you off at your modest apartment building. The contrast was almost comical, going from a sky-high glass palace with marble floors and city views to your small one bedroom with creaky floors and a kitchen that barely fit two people. You kicked off your converse, collapsed onto your couch, and stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, replaying everything. Then you grabbed your phone and opened your messages with Anna.
You two had a strict "no TMI" policy. Nothing was off-limits.
You
Girl. I need you to sit down. I just left someone's penthouse. Like... 5 minutes ago.
Anna's typing bubble popped up instantly.
Anna
BITCH WHAT. Who??? You better not be talking about some random club guy. Spill RIGHT NOW.
You bit your lip, grinning as you typed, still feeling that giddy, floaty feeling in your chest.
You
Her name is Natasha. She's kind of a Silver fox. Late 40s/early 50s. Rich as hell. Like... stupid rich.
You paused for a moment, grinning like some teenager.
You
She has a penthouse that looks like it belongs in a movie. Floor to ceiling windows, grand piano, the whole thing. I felt like I didn't even belong there in my sneakers. I kinda met her at that gig you gave me and well we talked but nothing happened.
Anna
Hello!!?? That was a while ago
You
I'm not done. So then, a few weeks later I saw her at the club and she was watching me. She paid like a lot of money for me to dance for her. But the two weeks after that, she came back and asked for a full night performance and I guess we kind of fucked.
Your cheeks began to heat up from the memories. You even kicked your legs like some lovesick teenager.
Anna
Kinda??? And then what?! Don't leave me hanging.
You
We fucked okay. Anna, the dick is LIFE CHANGING. Thick, curved, she knows exactly how to use it. I rode her on her couch the first night. She fucked me twice more before I left this morning. I can literally still feel her inside me rn.
You sent a string of flushed-face emojis.
Anna
HOLD TF UP. You went home with a rich white woman. A WHOLE DAY AGO and you're just now telling me???
You
I was busy.
Anna
Well know I know why. Details. Measurements if possible. Is she a top? Does she eat pussy? I need the full report!!!
You laughed out loud in your quiet apartment, cheeks burning as you typed back.
You
She's a top. Very much a top. She ate me out like she was starving. Made me come so hard my back arched off the bed for a long moment. And she's so possessive but in this hot, controlled way. Woke me up this morning by pulling me on top of her and fucking me slow while staring into my eyes. Told me she couldn't stop thinking about me and wanted me to stay longer.
Anna
Woah
You
Anna... I'm scared of how much I already like her. Like, stupid giddy. I was smiling the whole car ride home like some idiot
Anna
Babe. This sounds like danger. Rich older woman who fucks like a god and lives in a sky palace? Red flags but also... live your best life??? But be careful. Make sure she's not just playing games. Also send pics of the penthouse next time if you can đ
You smiled, hugging a pillow to your chest.
For the first time, you had someone in your life who felt bigger than just a client or a one-night stand. And telling Anna about it made it feel real.
You
I'll be careful. But... I think I'm gonna see her again. Soon.
Anna
Of course you are. Just don't fall too fast, babe. Keep me updated on that silver fox dick tho.
You put your phone down, still grinning like a fool. Even back in your small apartment, surrounded by your normal life, you could still feel Natasha's hands on your body and hear her whispering "good girl" in your ear.
And you knew that this was only the beginning.
â-
Natasha Romanoff didn't do this. She didn't just invite women back to her penthouse the very next night. She didn't text at 4 AM because she couldn't stop thinking about someone or how they sounded when they laughed. And she certainly didn't spend the entire morning after watching her sleep with a stupid, soft smile on her face. Yet here she was. Still thinking about you.
After you left, Natasha stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand, staring out at the city. She was now wearing only her silk robe, your scent, coconut, vanilla, and sex was still clinging to her skin. She couldn't stop replaying it. The way you'd looked riding her on the couch that first night. The surprised, breathless sounds you made when she filled you. How your right thigh lifted when you came. The shy but glowing smile on your face when you woke up in her bed this morning. Natasha was in trouble.
Her phone buzzed. A group chat.
Carol
Brunch? I'm in town for 48 hours.
Wanda
I'm free. Natasha, you better not be working.
Natasha sighed and typed back.
Natasha
My place. 1 PM.
Two hours later, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff were sprawled across her sectional like they owned it. Carol, blonde and athletic in jeans and a leather jacket, was nursing a mimosa. Wanda, with her soft red hair and knowing green eyes, was curled up with a cup of tea.
They both noticed something was off immediately.
"Well you're glowing." Wanda said, tilting her head with a small smirk.
"And you have that 'I got laid and it was good' look. Spill." Natasha leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed.
"It's nothing." Carol barked out a laugh.
"Bullshit. You never invite us over last minute unless something's up. Who is she?" Natasha was quiet for a moment, then sighed.
"Her name is... y/n" she said, the name feeling intimate on her tongue.
"Shes young and so beautiful. Curves that should be illegal. She was waitressing at the Harrington event a couple of weeks ago. Some assholes were being rude to her. I shut it down... and then.."Wanda's eyebrows rose.
"You took a waitress home didn't you?"
"No!" Natasha frowned.
"That night we were at the club."
"What club?"
"The time Rio lost the bet and we went to the strip club, I saw her again. She's a dancer."
Carol grinned.
"You fucked the stripper didn't you?" Natasha shot her a look.
"How did you-"
"Because you have that 'I can't stop thinking about her' face," Carol said, pointing.
"The same face you get when you're closing a deal you're obsessed with. Except this time it's a person." Wanda had placed her drink down, her attention was now solely focused on the redhead.
"You guys had sex?"
"Yes."
"With the stripper?"
"Wanda she's more than just a stripper." Natasha murmured after taking a sip from her wine glass.
"And you like her?" Wanda asked and Natasha paused before nodding.
"Fuck. I think I do." Wanda leaned forward, more gentle.
"You like her." She repeated, softer this time.
Natasha ran a hand through her silver-streaked hair.
"I do." She admitted quietly.
"More than I should after two nights. She's... different. She's got this fire. She's just..."
"Indescribable." Carol finished and Natasha nodded.
Wanda's expression softened with understanding.
"Sounds like you're falling, Nat." Natasha didn't deny it. She just stared out the window, a small, rare smile tugging at her lips.
"She makes me feel... greedy. Like I want all of her time. All of her attention. I want to spoil her. Protect her from the assholes at that club." She let out a breath.
"It's only been two nights and I'm already thinking about when I can see her again."
Carol clapped her on the shoulder.
"Then stop overthinking and go get your girl. You deserve something real for once." Wanda nodded.
"Just be careful. Don't scare her off with the full Romanoff intensity too fast." Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already drifting back to you, wondering what you were doing right now, if you were sore, if you were thinking about her too.
She was falling. And for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she wanted to stop. Age be damned.
â-
You were lying in bed, freshly showered, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Your body was still tender. Your thighs sore, pussy faintly throbbing from how thoroughly Natasha had fucked you that morning. Every time you moved, you felt the ghost of her thick cock stretching you open. Your phone lit up.
Natasha
Tell me you're still thinking about me.
You bit your lip hard, a rush of heat flooding between your legs
You
How could I not? I can still feel you inside me.
Natasha
Good. I've been hard for the last hour just remembering how you looked riding me this morning. That pretty puffy pussy taking every inch. The way your thighs just kept lifting every time you came.
You squirmed on the bed, pressing your thighs together.
You
You're dangerous. I'm literally wet again just reading this.
Natasha
Send me a picture.
Your heart raced, heart slamming against your ribs . You hesitated for half a second, then angled your phone down. You pulled your shirt up, spread your thighs, and took a quick photo , showing your slick, puffy pussy still slightly swollen from earlier. Fuck it.
You sent it.
Natasha
Fuck. Look at that pretty pussy. Still leaking my cum? I should've kept you in my bed all day. Should've fucked you until you couldn't walk.
You
I'm sore but I want more. You ruined me for anyone else already.
Natasha
That's the plan.
You let out a shaky breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard as heat pooled low in your belly.
You
You're really trying to make me touch myself tonight, huh?
Natasha
Shouldn't have to try. You're already soaked just from texting me. Tell me the truth, are you touching that pretty pussy right now?
Your hand had already slipped between your thighs without you realizing. You bit your lip harder and typed with one hand.
You
...Yes.
You paused before continuing.
You
I'm so wet. Can't stop thinking about how deep you were this morning.
Natasha
Show me.
Another picture request. Your heart hammered as you spread your legs wider, angled the camera, and snapped a new photo, this one showing two of your fingers glistening with your slick, your swollen clit peeking out. You sent it.
Natasha
Fuck, look at you. You're such a needy little thing. Playing with that pussy while thinking about my cock. I want you to fuck yourself with those fingers and pretend it's me stretching you open.
You moaned softly in the quiet of your room and pushed two fingers inside yourself, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined her thick length instead.
You
Feels so good but not enough... I need you. Want you to bend me over and fuck me until I can't walk straight.
Natasha
Careful, beautiful. Keep talking like that and I'll come over there right now and ruin you all over again.
You
And what if I want that?
Natasha
Oh baby, I want those thighs shaking while I pound you. Want to hear you moan my name until your voice gives out.
You were breathing harder now, fingers moving faster as you read her messages.
You
Please... I'm so close. Tell me what you'd do to me.
Natasha
I'd pin you down on your back, spread those thick thighs wide, and slam every inch into you. I'd fuck you hard and deep until that pretty wet pussy is creaming all over my cock. And then I'd flip you over and fill you up while you're still shaking for me.
That pushed you over the edge. You came with a choked moan, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep as your pussy clenched and pulsed. You snapped one last blurry, post-orgasm picture, your fingers shiny and your pussy visibly wet and twitching , and you sent it.
Natasha
Jesus Christ.
She typed for a moment before the bubbles disappeared. Then they reappeared.
Natasha
Good girl. Such a perfect, messy little slut for me. I'm so fucking hard right now. Tomorrow night. After your shift. My car will be waiting.
Natasha
And you'd better not be wearing any panties.
You smiled breathlessly, still coming down from your high.
You
Yes, ma'am. I can't wait.
Natasha
Get some rest, beautiful. You're going to need it.
You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing and a stupid grin on your face.
This woman was going to be the death of you.
And you were already counting down the hours until you saw her again.
â-
The club was packed, but the second you spotted her in the VIP booth, everything else faded.
Natasha sat like she owned the place â legs spread, black suit tailored perfectly to her powerful frame, silver-streaked auburn hair catching the lights. Her green eyes were locked on you with intense, burning focus. She wasn't smiling. She was watching every move you made like a predator. So you danced for her.
Every roll of your hips, every arch of your back, every slow, filthy grind against the pole, it was all for her. You caught her gaze during a deep dip, biting your lip as you rolled your body back up. Natasha's jaw clenched. Her hand tightened around her glass. You winked before moving again.
By the end of your set you were soaked and buzzing. You grabbed the last of the money before walking off to the empty dressing rooms. You barely had time to step into your dressing room before the door opened behind you.
Natasha stepped in, locked the door, and had you pinned against the vanity in seconds. Her mouth crashed into yours, hungry, possessive, and almost angry.
"You danced like a fucking tease." She growled against your lips, hands already yanking your emerald bikini top down.
"Shaking that perfect ass for them. Letting every worthless man in here stare at what's mine."
You moaned into the kiss, grinding against the very obvious bulge in her slacks. When she pulled back for air, you looked up at her, breathing hard, and took her wrist.
"Yours?" you challenged, voice breathy but defiant. You guided her hand down your body, pushing it under the waistband of your tiny bikini bottoms until her fingers pressed against your dripping, swollen pussy.
"Yours?" you repeated, guiding two of her fingers to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.
"You sure about that already old woman?Natasha's eyes flashed with dark heat. She pushed both fingers deep inside you without warning, curling them hard as she pressed you back against the vanity.
"Yes," she snarled, fucking you roughly with her fingers.
"This pussy is dripping for me. Not for them. Mine." You gasped, head falling back as she pumped her fingers fast and deep, thumb rubbing your clit. Your thigh started to lift and tremble against her hip as pleasure built fast.
Natasha hooked her arm under your thigh, holding it up higher so she could watch it shake while she finger-fucked you.
"That's it," she growled.
Look at this pretty thigh trembling for me. Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your pussy knows where home is too."
You came hard with a broken cry, pussy gushing around her fingers, thigh shaking violently in her grip. Natasha kept working you through it, then pulled her fingers out and spun you around.
She bent you over the vanity, freed her thick cock, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
You cried out, gripping the edge as she immediately started pounding you hard from behind.
The mirror showed everything. Your breasts bouncing, Natasha's face dark with lust as she watched her cock disappear inside you over and over.
"Say it." She demanded, one hand fisting your curls, the other slapping your ass hard.
"Tell me who this pussy belongs to."
"Yours." You moaned, voice breaking.
"It's yours, Nat-" She thrust deeper.
"Who's? I didn't get that." Another rough thrust.
"It's yours Nat." She fucked you harder, deeper, until you came again with a silent scream, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Natasha buried herself to the hilt and came with a low groan, flooding you with thick, hot cum.
She stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting. Then she leaned down, kissing the back of your neck almost tenderly while still buried deep.
"Mine."Â She whispered and you smiled breathlessly.
"Yours."
Hi there! It's been a while, colleges been kicking my ass but I'm coming back soon. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it. Don't scroll too fast, you just might miss out on some good things ;)
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.
â-
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.
â-
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.
â-
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.
â-
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.
â-
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.
â-
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."Â 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.
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"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.
â-
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.
â-
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."
â-
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.
Chapter Summary: After a weekend that feels like you weren't fully there, it's finally your first day as an intern at Romanoff-Maximoff Global. Will the exhaustion catching up to you win first or will you get fired by the CEO herself before that?
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings for this Chapter: depersonalization, past psychological trauma
A/N: Longer chapters (7.5k+) after this one are only going to be on AO3. Tumblr changes my format quite a lot and fixing it (especially with this longer chapter) is giving me eye strain đ For the longer ones, I'll still do a preview here and tag those that asked. Hopefully this is an okay compromise! Thank you guys for reading!
Series Masterlist
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Muffled footsteps thud against the ceiling. Low chatter from the basement leaks through the metal vents. In the distance, people shout from one of the fraternity houses nearby. The world outside this room is alive. Itâs almost midnight on a Friday. Everyone around your age has exciting plans carrying late into the night, but you lie in your bed, in the dark, alone.
Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.
You deserve this pain.
Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.
It feels like pity.
An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.
Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?
You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didnât realize you were holding.
Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just beâŠ
âPerfect.â
Your motherâs voice finishes the thought for you.
Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe itâs the sheer fatigue of the day, but you canât wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.
You flinch.
Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. Itâs a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.
You just want to sleep.
Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. Youâre still trapped in this house.
You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.
You still need toâŠ
Pain shoots through your skull. Thereâs too much. And you have to do it all on your own.
The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. Itâs a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.
Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.
Not until you felt the contrast of Wandaâs hand holding yours.
You just want to sleep.
â
You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.
Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesnât arrive.
Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. Thereâs no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. Itâs an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.
Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.
Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.
You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesnât feel like youâre looking at yourself. It feels like youâre miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.
Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.
Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. Thereâs no warmth in the fabric.
Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.
You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.
The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Mattâs shoes on the wood.
This morning, thereâs nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.
Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.
â
The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.
Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.
"Next," you call out.
The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.
A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.
"Weâll make it again with oat milk."
You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. Itâs an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.
So this is how people hear you. Itâs pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesnât sound like you at all.
You continue anyway.
You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesnât feel like youâeven if youâre just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skinâat least it doesnât hurt. At least your head isnât pounding, and it doesnât feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms arenât shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isnât curling in on itself from the emptiness.
At least it feels like all the stressors in your life donât exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.
Maybe it wouldnât be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.
But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.
â
The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.
Your manager at the coffee shop hadnât exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.
You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.
This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.
Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.
Everything after that could be figured out later.
You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.
â
You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. Thereâs no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.
The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.
When a table sends back their steak because itâs undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like youâre reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.
Everything happens as though youâre a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tablesâit all bounces off you as if youâre made of wood.
You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.
You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.
Itâs easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.
But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.
â
You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.
The white collared shirt you wore the past two days wonât work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the questionâa cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.
Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.
Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.
Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your managerâs disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.
You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.
You blink rapidly in the darkness that youâve created. It feels like you canât stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.
But itâs impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.
Why is it only getting colder?
Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that youâre still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but itâs not from the cold.
The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. Itâs coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.
Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.
Like it did during your interview with Wanda.
Itâs scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you canât take a breath.
But it never fully culminates.
Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.
Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.
You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.
Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.
The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.
You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if thereâs a monster in your room that youâre desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.
The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.
You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.
Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that sheâs a better parent than everyone else.
You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.
Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. Itâs one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.
The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.
Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.
A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your motherâs perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.
She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.
You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.
Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.
Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.
You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.
âOnly incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.â
Your fatherâs teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.
Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you canât seem to release. The scent of your motherâs perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.
You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.
1:05 AM.
The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least Iâll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. Itâs better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.
First day.
The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.
2:23 AM.
If I sleep now, Iâll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.
What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?
You check the time.
2:51 AM.
Your sisterâs unanswered message. Your motherâs shirt. Your fatherâs harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.
You check the time.
3:15 AM.
Theyâre going to know Iâm exhausted. If I sleep nowâŠ
â
The alarm blares through the room.
You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.
Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.
Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.
A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe youâre lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.
That fact doesnât register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.
You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.
A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.
You take a single step toward your bedroom door.
Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.
The floorboards look like theyâre vibrating beneath you.
You can do this.
The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.
The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.
Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.
Not today.
The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.
Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.
Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.
The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memoryâyour mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.
You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.
Her version of a perfect daughter doesnât cry.
You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. Youâll have to cover it with concealer.
â
You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.
Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.
Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.
Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.
The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.
Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.
Not today.
â
The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.
Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if youâre wearing through the last bit of energy you have.
The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.
You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.
Suddenly, it feels like youâve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision youâve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.
You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.
The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. Itâs different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.
Youâre present.
It feels good.
The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.
Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.
She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.
âThe card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,â she says, offering a small smile. âHave a good first day.â
You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.
The floor numbers rise on the digital display.
â
Markâs familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that itâs him standing there instead of Wanda.
âHappy first day,â Mark says in his usual monotone voice. âIâll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.â
You give him a grateful smile. âThank you, Mark. Itâs good to see a familiar face.â
He gives you a quick glance. âFollow me,â he says, his voice noticeably warmer.
He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.
Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. Youâre at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.
Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.
âThis is Eli. Itâs his first year as an analyst. When youâre not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.â Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. âNice to meet youâŠ?â Eli prompts.
You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.
âMy office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.â He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. âOkay,â you respond lightly.
Markâs office is barely half the size of Wandaâs penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.
A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.
You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.
Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Markâs instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.
You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You donât move.
The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.
Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twiceâeach blink coming slower than the lastâbut your vision completely refuses to refocus.
Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.
A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.
Why? Everything was going so well.
Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you canât outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.
Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.
Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.
Wanda steps into view.
Sheâs wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.
You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.
Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if sheâs spotted something she dislikes.
You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.
Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.
Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.
A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.
The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.
âThis is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?â Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.
âNo. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,â Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. âIt raises morale.â
You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.
She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.
She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.
Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you canât even pay attention. Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.
Wandaâs fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.
âRemember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,â Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.
Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.
The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.
A cautious glance follows Wandaâs path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. Thereâs no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You donât have the time to be eating snacks.
Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. Itâs the only task Mark left you with since itâs only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.
The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.
A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.
Your head snaps up.
Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.
It hasnât even been a minute.
Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid youâre being, but your brain rejects the thought. You donât even have the energy to hate yourself right now.
Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.
Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.
The cycle repeats over and over, and you canât stop it.
A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.
Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. Sheâs smiling down at you softly. âHi, itâs good to see you again,â she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. âI was asked to bring you up for a meeting.â
Your pulse spikes. Youâre getting fired.
âIâŠâ you start weakly, clearing your throat. âI have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said itâs my task for today.â
Cindyâs soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. âDonât worry about that. This takes precedence.â
Donât worry because you wonât be coming back to this desk. Thatâs what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.
Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.
You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. Itâll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.
âLetâs go.â
She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure youâre keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.
The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesnât attempt to make conversation. Your brain canât process words quickly enough right now.
The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindyâs heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.
Cindy stops just short of Wandaâs office door.
She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.
âShe can come in.â
Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.
The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.
Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.
âSit,â she says simply.
She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. Itâs the exact same design from Wandaâs office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.
The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.
Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.
Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.
You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completelyâas if your motherâs knee is digging straight into the small of your back.
Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.
The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.
âWanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,â Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.
Thatâs a lie, you think tiredly.
âThank you, Ms. Romanoff,â you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesnât go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.
Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.
âHowever,â Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. âThat doesnât seem to be reflected today.â
Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.
âIt wonât happen again,â you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. âPlease. Give me another chance to prove myself.â
The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You donât waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.
She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.
Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.
You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.
The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you werenât about to be fired by the CEO herself.
Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.
She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.
The scent of your polo thatâs been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.
A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.
A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.
âDrink,â she says flatly. It doesnât feel like sheâs asking.
Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.
Don't fail now.
You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.
You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.
The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadnât realized just how dry your throat actually was.
You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.
âKeep drinking,â she commands bluntly. âI canât have an employee pass out from dehydration.â
You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So itâs just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. Thereâs barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.
âIf you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,â Natasha states sharply once youâre finished. âMaybe even fired on the spot.â
Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. âI⊠I know. Iâm sorry,â you apologize weakly. âIâll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I wonât ask for another chance after this.â
Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.
Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.
âI donât need you to do extra work,â Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. âI need you to do the work youâre assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.â
A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. Sheâs about to fire you.
âGo back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.â
Sheâs already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.
Why isnât she firing you? You literally slept on the job.
You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.
She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. âAre you not going to follow that instruction either?â
Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.
âI wonât waste the chance youâre giving me,â you say, your voice tight but urgent. âIâm sorry again and thank you so much.â
You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.
â
Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.
Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.
It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.
You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.
The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.
The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. âDid you give this to me?â you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.
His eyebrows furrow. âNo, that wasnât me. That definitely wasnât here earlier.â He offers you a small, easy smile. âLucky you,â he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.
Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar
The lingering memory of the warmth in Wandaâs office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.
Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.
Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.
âOh, sweet.â Eliâs voice rings out from beside you. âThey put the snack basket closer to us.â
Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Markâs office and the neighboring managerâs door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.
Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. âLucky us.â
You give him a wide grin back. Itâs been a long time since you smiled like this.
Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.
But you made it to the office safely. You didnât get fired.
Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.
âYeah,â you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. âI guess we are lucky.â
â
The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.
You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.
Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.
Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.
A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.
Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.
â
â...wanted her to take care of herself,â a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.
âYou always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,â a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.
âSays the one who left her a treat without a single word,â bites back the first voice.
âMmmâŠâ you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.
Silence follows for a moment. Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.
A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.
âSleep a little longer,â the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.
The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.
âOkay,â you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.
â
A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)
I really appreciate your guys' thoughtful comments here on each chapter. I hope the change with the chapters doesn't bother you guys too much đ
can we pretty please get a peek of sugarmommy!regina (not necessarily older Gina, just gf Regina who likes to spoil her lovely)x reader in the early stages of their relationship, because they seem like an unlikely pair.
Thanks friend! đ
Mommy 'Ina
Regina George x Reader
Regina George does not look like someone whoâd end up with you.
Thatâs the thing everyone agrees on.
Youâre the kind of person who double-checks prices before ordering, who still has that one hoodie from years ago because itâs âstill fine,â who thanks cashiers like theyâre doing you a personal favor. Regina George walks like the world already comped the bill. Designer bag on her arm, sunglasses even when itâs cloudy, credit card that never declines.
So when sheâs suddenly⊠there, at your side? It doesnât make sense to anyone.
Including you.
It starts small. Thatâs how she gets away with it.
Youâre standing in line at a coffee shop, glancing between the menu and your phone, already rehearsing how youâll justify not adding oat milk. Regina steps up beside you like she belongs thereâwhich she doesâand says, casually, âWhat do you want?â
You tell her. You make sure to add, âIâll Venmo you.â
She doesnât even look at you when she pays. Just taps her card and says, âRelax.â
You do not relax.
Later, when you try to pay her back, she sends the money right back with a single message:
Donât make this weird.
Except it is weird. To you.
To Regina, itâs⊠instinct.
She notices things. The way you hesitate before buying things for yourself. The way youâll admire something in a store and then put it back like it offended you by existing. She starts compensating without asking permission.
You mention your headphones are dying. Two days later, she shows up with a new pair, still in the box.
You protest. She rolls her eyes. âThey were on my way.â
On your way from where, Regina? Best Buy? The mall? The land of rich people excuses?
She starts doing this thing where sheâll invite you outâdinner, a movie, a weekend thingâand when the bill comes, sheâs already got it. Like it never occurred to her that it wouldnât be her responsibility.
One night you finally snap. Youâre sitting on her couch, knees tucked up, holding a glass she definitely didnât buy at Target, and you say, âYou know I donât need you to pay for everything, right?â
Regina pauses. Actually pauses. Like sheâs recalibrating.
âI know,â she says. Then, softer, more honest, âI just⊠like taking care of you.â
That shuts you up.
Because thereâs no smugness in her voice. No power play. Just sincerity. Just Regina, who has always been good at control, choosing to use it gently.
From then on, it becomes⊠a thing.
She buys you food when youâre stressed. Leaves little gifts âbecause she thought of you.â Slides her card across the table with a look that dares you to argueâand then kisses your temple when you donât.
You start letting her. Not because youâre dependent, but because she wants to. Because it makes her happy in that quiet, devastating way.
People still donât get it. They look at you like youâre an odd accessory, like you donât match the outfit.
But Regina does.
She laces her fingers through yours in public, chin high, like sheâs proud. Like youâre not an unlikely choice, but a deliberate one.
And when she buys you somethingâreally buys you somethingâand you thank her a little too sincerely, she just smiles and says,
âBaby. Youâre worth every penny in my bank account.â
And suddenly, nothing about it feels strange at all.
Hey can you make a smut fic thatâs really kinky where the user is a nerdy bottom who is Karenâs younger sister and Regina (2024 one) is a top has a soft spot for her but gets jealous easy and dosent want to admit she likes the reader (also kinda like a alpha and omega kind think) and just some how it leads to sex?
Apex Predator's Prey
GP!Regina George x Reader
Smut - breeding, ownership, younger x older, literally one slap
Another Req: Hey can you make the most kinky, smuty, dark, Regina x reader fic where the reader is Karenâs younger sister (NOT ILLEGAL KINDA YOUNG BUT YONGER THEN REGINA) and is a nerdy bottom who Regina wants so bad and when they are alone Regina makes it known that the reader is hers no matter what by fuvking her?
Regina George struts through the halls of North Shore High like she owns the placeâand honestly, she might as well. With her long blonde hair cascading down her back, sharp blue eyes that can cut through anyone, and that confident sway in her hips, she's the queen bee everyone either worships or fears.
She's popular, the kind of popular that comes with a entourage and a reputation for being mean to anyone who crosses her. But beneath that dominant exterior, there's a side of her that slips out around you, Karen Shetty's younger sister. You're the one exception to her biting sarcasm, the girl she can't help but soften for.
Karen's your big sister, always dragging you into her social circle because you're family and, well, she likes showing you off a bit. But when Karen's not lookingâwhen she's off gossiping with the Plastics or dealing with some dramaâRegina finds ways to corner you. A brush of her hand against your arm in the hallway, her body leaning in too close during lunch, whispering things that make your cheeks heat up.
"Hey, cutie," she'd say one afternoon, her voice low and teasing as she leans over you against the lockers, Karen nowhere in sight. "You know you're the only one who doesn't piss me off, right? Everyone else is just noise. Kinda makes me wanna keep you all to myself." Her fingers trail lightly up your arm, and she smirks, that dominant glint in her eye. "Don't tell Karen, though. She'd freak."
Another time, in the empty classroom after school, she'd pulled you onto her lap while apparently helping with homework. "You're so cute when you bite your lip like that," she'd murmur, her breath hot against your ear. "You have no idea how much I like you, do you?" Her hand would squeeze your thigh, possessive and warm, making your heart race.
She always makes it clear, these little moments where her meanness melts away just for you. It's like you're her secret weakness, the one person she lets her guard down for.
One Friday evening, your phone buzzes with a text from Regina: Hey, loser. Karen's out with the girls tonight. Come over to my place? We can 'study' for that bio test. Don't make me beg. You know it's a pretextâRegina's too smart to need help studyingâbut the thrill of it pulls you in. You sneak out, telling your parents you're heading to a friend's, and show up at her massive house, the door already cracked open like she knew you'd come.
She greets you in the foyer, wearing a tight tank top that hugs her curves and short shorts that do nothing to hide the bulge of her cock straining against the fabric. Her blonde hair is loose, and she looks at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. "Finally," she says, pulling you inside and kicking the door shut. "Been thinking about you all day." Before you can respond, her lips crash against yours, dominant and hungry, her hands gripping your waist to press you against the wall.
"That studying thing?" she whispers between kisses, her tongue flicking against your lower lip. "Total bullshit. I just want to fuck you. Been dying to bury my cock in that tight pussy of yours."
"'Ina, god," you chuckle against her lips as heat pools between your legs.
She chuckles softly, sensing your arousal. She leads you upstairs to her bedroom, all pink and plush, but the air is thick with tension as she pushes you onto the bed.
Regina climbs over you, her body pinning yours down with that effortless dominance. "Relax, baby," she murmurs, her fingers already tugging at your shirt. "I'm gonna take such good care of you, baby." She strips you slowly, kissing down your neck, her hands roaming your bare skin. When she's got you naked, she spreads your thighs wide, settling between them.
Her mouth descends first, tongue lapping at your pussy with firm, deliberate strokes. She sucks on your clit, swirling her tongue around it while her hands hold your hips steady. "Fuck, you taste so sweet," she groans against you, the vibrations making you arch. "Gonna make you cum on my tongue first. Let me hear those pretty sounds."
She dives deeper, tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you with it as her nose grinds against your clit. Your hands fist in her blonde hair, and she hums approvingly, speeding up until your body tenses, pleasure crashing over you in waves. You cum hard, thighs shaking around her head, and she licks you through it, not stopping until you're gasping.
"One down," she says with a wicked grin, wiping her mouth as she shifts up. Her fingers replace her tongue, two sliding into your soaked pussy easily. She curls them, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "Look at me while I fuck your pussy with my fingers, hm?" she commands, her voice husky. "You're so wet for me. Feel how I stretch you? Gonna add another, okay?" She pushes in a third, pumping steadily, her thumb circling your clit. "Cum again, sweetheart. Squeeze my fingers like you mean it." Her free hand pinches your nipple, adding to the overload, and soon you're clenching around her, another orgasm ripping through you as she talks you right to the edge and over.
Panting, you watch as she sheds her clothes, her hard cock springing freeâthick, veined, and already leaking precum. It's bigger than you imagined, and she strokes it twice, eyes locked on yours. "Now for the main event," she says, positioning herself at your entrance. "I'm gonna fuck you deep, fill you up with my cum. You want that?"
"Yes, Regina, please," you whisper, and she thrusts in with one smooth motion, bottoming out inside your pussy. The stretch burns so good, her cock filling you completely. "Fuck, such a perfect pussy," she groans, starting to move, hips snapping against yours. "Take it all, baby." She talks you through every thrust, her husky tone guiding you. "That's it, fuck yourself on my cock. You're doing so wellâgonna make me cum soon." Her pace quickens, balls slapping against your ass, and she leans down to capture your mouth in a messy kiss.
She cums first, burying deep and flooding your pussy with hot spurts of cum. "Shit, yesâtake my cum, baby," she gasps, grinding through it. But she doesn't stop, pulling back only to slam in again, her cock still hard inside you. "Not done yet. Gonna pump you full over and over." Round two builds faster, her thrusts relentless, hand between you to rub your clit. "Cum with me this time. Milk my dick." You shatter around her, pussy clenching as she unloads again, cum mixing with yours and leaking out around her shaft.
She flips you onto your stomach for the next, entering from behind. "Ass up, face down," she orders, spanking your cheek lightly. "Knew you'd look so pretty like thisâwatching my cum drip out." She pounds into you, the wet sounds obscene, talking dirty the whole time. "You're mine now, hm? This pussy belongs to my cock. Cum againâlet me feel it." Her fingers dig into your hips as you obey, orgasm hitting as she fills you a third time, cum leaking and soaking the sheets.
By the fourth, you're both sweaty and spent, but she spoons behind you, cock sliding back in slow and deep. 'One more, baby,' she whispers, kissing your shoulder. "Gonna breed you proper. Cum on my dick while I cum inside you, baby." Her hand snakes around to play with your clit, thrusts lazy but precise, drawing out your final climax as she pulses, cum spilling deep once more.
She stays inside you after, holding you close, her dominant edge softened into something tender. "Told you I like you," she murmurs, nuzzling your neck. "More than like. You're my favorite."
You both breathe into each other, taking all that had happened, you processing the cum leaking out of your pussy, Regina restraining herself in order not to start pumping you full all over again. Then as you let yourself close your eyes, Regina speaks.
"Don't worry about the mess. I'll clean you up with my tongue in the morning."
I think Regina George fucking me like a slut and then holding me afterwards would solve all of my problems. Like every single problem. Poof! Just like that, theyâre all gone.
it starts early onâlike before youâre even official. youâre sitting beside her in the cafeteria, legs brushing under the table, and sheâs talking about something snarky and flawless and Regina, and you just⊠lean in and bite her shoulder. not hard. just a little chomp.
she freezes, stares at you like youâve lost your mind, then smacks your arm with this gaspâ
âwhat the hell is wrong with you?â
and youâre just there, giggling into your drink, like,
âyou looked biteable.â
and she rolls her eyes, muttering something about rabies, but you see the tiny smile sheâs hiding.
then it becomes a thing. like sheâll be brushing her hair and youâll come up behind her, all sweet, all quietâjust to nibble her shoulder again, and sheâs instantly likeâ
âdonât you dare, you little gremlinââ
and then you do. and she swats at you with her brush but sheâs laughing this time, even though sheâs pretending sheâs not.
cut to months later: sheâs sitting on your lap during a movie night, wrapped in some silky pajama set, and you go for her neckâsoftly, just a nipâand she groans all dramatic, head thrown back like,
âwhy do I even let you near me?â
and you mumble,
âbecause you love me.â
and sheâs like,
âugh. unfortunately.â
but her handâs already sliding into your hair, thumb tracing over the exact spot you bit her last time. she acts like she hates it, but the little goosebumps give her away every damn time.
you, though? you start doing it everywhere. walking down the hallway and you bite her wrist; sitting in the car and you bite her shoulder; waiting in line and you nip at her collarbone and sheâs like,
âpeople can see, babeââ
but she doesnât move away.
and by the time youâve been together a while? sheâs resigned to it. sheâll literally just sigh and go,
âmake it quick.â
like sheâs letting you feed on her energy or something.
but deep down? yeahâshe loves that itâs you. that little wild streak of yours that breaks through her ice. she acts all annoyed, but when you donât do it for a few days, she starts picking fights just to get close enough for you to bite her again.
--
sheâs sitting at her vanity, perfect posture, brushing out her hair before school. you come up behind her, sleepy but mischievous, wrap your arms around her waist, and sink your teeth right into her upper arm.
she yelpsâ
âow! are you kidding me? again?â
youâre already laughing into her skin, muffled, refusing to let go, and sheâs swatting at you with her free hand, still holding the brush in the other.
âget off me, freakâow!âyouâre worse than Karenâs dog.â
but sheâs smiling in the mirror, her cheeks pink from laughing and pretending to be mad.
later, sheâs in bed scrolling on her phone, and you just quietly reach over, take her hand, and bite the back of it. she jerks her hand away like,
âwhat is wrong with youâthose are my typing hands!â
but then she keeps scrolling, pretending to ignore you. thirty seconds later, she offers you the same hand again with this ugh, whatever look.
âfine. justâmake it small this time.â
and of course, you donât. you go for it again, a little harder, and she squeals and hits you with the pillow, all âI swear to god, Iâm filing for domestic abuseââ while youâre giggling into her lap.
it gets to the point where sheâs got faint little bite marks all along her forearm, and sheâs showing them off to Gretchen and Karen like,
âsee this? sheâs feral. Iâm dating a feral person.â
and youâre in the back like,
âyouâre welcome.â
--
sheâs in the middle of giving this perfect queen-bee speech in the cafeteria, hair glinting, eyes sharp, everyone hanging on her wordsâand youâre standing just behind her, hands on her waist, and while sheâs talking you lean in and bite her shoulder.
her voice cuts off.
everyone stares.
and sheâs just standing there, jaw tight, likeâ
âdid you justâbite me?â
and youâre all wide-eyed, innocent,
â...maybe?â
the whole cafeteria loses it and she just pinches the bridge of her nose, whispering,
âyouâre lucky youâre cute,â
before shoving you off with that dramatic little huff thatâs so her.
or like sheâs in a student council meeting, trying to sound all serious about prom budgets, and youâre sitting next to her, looking bored, and out of nowhere you just lean over and bite her arm under the table.
she jerks, bumps the table, glares at youâ
âIâm literally in the middle of something important.â
you grin.
âyeah, I know.â
and she whispers through her teeth,
âI hate you so much right now.â
(but sheâs pink in the face and trying so hard not to smile.)
even in public. like youâre waiting in line at Starbucks, sheâs checking her phone, all calm and gorgeousâand you just tilt your head and bite her hand where sheâs holding the cup.
she gasps,
âyou are not doing this in publicâoh my godââ
but you can see her fighting back a laugh, like her composureâs hanging by a thread.
itâs gotten to the point where she has to warn people:
âdonât stand too close, she bites.â
and everyone thinks sheâs jokingâuntil you actually do it.
the best part? sheâll act like she hates it, but if you ever stopâif you go a whole day without even tryingâsheâll get all quiet and pouty, like,
âso you just⊠donât bite me anymore?â
and youâre like,
âoh my god, you miss it.â
and she just rolls her eyes, muttering,
âshut up,â
but sheâs smiling.
Youâre new. Like actually new. Fresh binder, fresh tote bag, shoes that havenât learned the layout of North Shore yet. You join this tiny, aggressively enthusiastic club that meets in a science room that smells like whiteboard cleaner and ambition. Their whole thing? Rarest facts. Weird facts. The kind that make people pause mid-sentence and go, wait, what?
Todayâs challenge:
Tell 30 people on campus one fun fact each.
No context. No prep. Just vibes and trivia.
You take it seriously because of course you do.
You get to twenty-nine just fine. Teachers. Janitors. A girl crying in the bathroom who really didnât need to know that octopuses have three hearts but appreciated it anyway.
And then thereâs her.
Regina George is leaning against her locker like the hallway was built around her bones. Pink sweater. Perfect hair. A crowd orbiting her like sheâs gravity. You donât know the rules yet. No one warned you. Sheâs just⊠another person. So you walk up, clutching your little checklist like itâs armor.
You clear your throat.
âUmâhi! Sorryâthis is for a club thing. Did you know thatââ
Regina turns. Slowly. Her eyes flick you up and down like sheâs scrolling through a menu she already hates.
âDid I know what?â she says, sweet like poison.
Your brain short-circuits. But you push through. âHoney never spoils. Archaeologists found jars in ancient Egyptian tombs that are still edible.â
Silence.
Her friends stare at you like you just barked.
Regina blinks once. Then twice. And then she laughsâsharp, incredulous. âOh my god,â she says. âAre you doing a bit? Is this, like, performance art?â
âNo,â you say immediately. âItâs just a fun fact.â
She steps closer. Invades your space. You can smell her perfumeâexpensive, floral, dangerous. âOkay, first of all,â she says, voice low, âyou donât just walk up to people like me and talk. Second of all, if youâre trying to be funny, youâre not. And thirdââ she pauses, eyes narrowing, âwhy do you know that?â
You swallow. âI just⊠like learning stuff.â
She should destroy you. This is the moment. The story everyone warns you about.
Insteadâsomething weird happens.
Regina tilts her head. Studies you. Not like prey. Like a puzzle.
ââŠThatâs actually kind of gross,â she says. âBut alsoâwhy is that kind of impressive?â
One of her friends opens her mouth to laugh at you, but Regina lifts a finger. Shuts it down instantly.
You shift your weight. âSo⊠can I check you off my list?â
Her lips twitch. âGod, youâre brave. Or stupid.â
You nod. âProbably both.â
That does it. She smiles. A real one. Small. Dangerous.
âWhat else you got?â she asks.
You freeze. âHuh?â
âAnother fact,â she says, folding her arms. âIf youâre gonna interrupt my day, you might as well commit.â
Your heart is trying to exit your ribcage. âUhâbananas are berries. Strawberries arenât.â
She stares at you.
ââŠShut up.â
âIâm serious.â
She scoffs, but thereâs this spark in her eyes now. Interest. She leans back against the locker, fully facing you. The hallway noise fades around her.
âOkay, Nerd,â she says, not unkindly. âYou can stay.â
Her friends look scandalized.
You check her name off your list with shaking hands.
As you walk away, Regina calls after you, âHey!â
You turn.
âIf anyone else gives you shit for talking to me,â she says, eyes sharp, voice cool, âtell them Regina George asked for the facts.â
Then, quieterâalmost just for you:
ââŠAnd tomorrow? Sit with us at lunch. I wanna see what else is rattling around in that brain.â
You walk off dizzy, smiling to yourself.
Regina watches you go, already plotting.
God help anyone who underestimates you now.
--
You know everything except Regina George.
You can explain dark matter in a way that makes people nod like they understand. You casually drop facts about extinct languages, medical anomalies, space debris trajectories. You correct teachers without sounding smug. Your brain is a weapon.
But Regina?
You are useless.
She sits next to you in class one dayânext to youâand you fully think itâs because the seating chart changed.
You donât clock the way she angles her body toward you.
You donât clock the way her foot keeps brushing yours.
You definitely donât clock the way sheâs watching your mouth when you talk.
She taps your notebook with her pen. âWhy are you highlighting in three colors?â
You light up. âOh! Pink is for confirmed facts, green is for theories that are widely accepted but still debated, and blue is for things I want to research later.â
She stares at you like you just did a magic trick. ââŠThatâs hot.â
You blink. âOh. Thanks.â
She laughsâsoft, surprised. âNo, like. I meantâwhatever.â
At lunch, you sit with the Plastics and genuinely think youâre just⊠included now. No suspicion. No fear. You pull out your food and immediately start apologizing.
âSorry, I know it smells. I read that fermented foods are actually really good for gut health andââ
Regina waves a hand. âYouâre fine. Eat.â
You beam at her. Full sunshine smile.
Karen whispers, âSheâs like a baby deer.â
Regina shoots her a look. âAnd youâre loud.â
Later, Regina leans in closeâtoo close. Her chin nearly brushes your shoulder.
âYou know,â she says casually, âpeople think Iâm scary.â
You frown, genuinely confused. âReally? Why?â
She freezes.
ââŠYouâre kidding.â
âNo,â you say softly. âYouâre just⊠intense. But youâre also really funny. And you ask good questions.â
Her throat bobs. She looks away. Youâve just done something irreversible.
She starts walking you to class every day. Not holding your handâyetâbut hovering. Always hovering. Someone bumps into you once and Regina is immediately in their space.
âWatch where youâre going.â
You tug her sleeve. âItâs okay, Regina, statistically accidents like thatââ
She softens instantly. âHey. No. I know. Iâve got you.â
You donât understand why your chest feels warm when she says that.
One afternoon she snaps at someone who makes a comment about you being âweird.â
You tug her arm again. âRegina, itâs fine. I am weird.â
She turns on you, eyes fierce but not angry. âDonât say that about yourself.â
You blink. âBut itâs true. Weird just means statistically uncommon.â
She exhales sharply, hands on her hips. âYouâre impossible.â
âIs that bad?â
She laughsâfull, helpless. âNo. Itâs⊠adorable.â
You nod like youâre filing that under interesting social feedback.
It isnât until she finally corners you by the lockers, voice low, eyes soft but intense, that she breaks.
âYou know Iâm flirting with you, right?â
You pause. Think. Really think.
ââŠOh.â
She waits. Heart in her throat.
ââŠIs that why you keep stealing my pens?â
She laughs so hard she has to lean against the locker. âGod, youâre killing me.â
You smile, shy and bright. âIf it helps, I like you. I just didnât realize I was supposed to.â
Her smile turns devastating.
âYeah,â she says. âI know. Thatâs why I like you.â
I get it Reginađââïžđââïž. I looooovvvvveeee me a good nerd đItâs so fucking cute when they go on their passionate rants about whatever.
She gets annoyed. She gets sharp. She gets mean when she thinks sheâs being underestimated. But fearâreal, chest-tightening fearâisnât something she lets live in her body.
Until you double over in the kitchen with a sound that isnât quite a cry and isnât quite a breath, one hand flying instinctively to your stomach.
Her brain blanks.
âHey,â she says too fast, already crossing the room. âHeyâwhat was that?â
You try to wave it off. You donât even finish the sentence before another contraction steals it from you, knuckles whitening against the counter.
Regina feels it then.
That sick, icy drop.
âOh my god,â she whispers. âOkay. Okayâthis is it. This is it.â
She doesnât wait for confirmation. She doesnât ask how far apart they are. She spins on her heel like a switch has flipped and suddenly sheâs movingâfast, frantic, terrifyingly focused.
She grabs her keys. Misses. Grabs them again.
âHospital,â she mutters to herself. âWe needâfuckâokay, we need the bag.â
She sprints down the hallway, yanking open the closet so hard the door smacks the wall. The hospital bag is right where itâs supposed to be. She still dumps the entire thing out onto the floor.
âNo, no, noâwhy did we pack so little?â she snaps, already re-stuffing it with aggressive precision.
She adds your comfy socks, the baby blanket you both argued about keeping, your charger, her charger, because what if hers dies, and a second charger, just in case.
Then she pauses, eyes wild.
âWhat if you get cold?â she blurts, grabbing a hoodie. Then another. Then her favorite coat. She shoves them all in.
She rushes into the bathroom, scooping up half the counterâhair ties, lip balm, hand cream, painkillers she immediately throws back because the hospital will have those, idiot.
She grabs a water bottle. Two. A protein bar. A second protein bar. A third one she drops, swears at, and picks up anyway.
âYou okay?â she yells, voice cracking just a little.
You donât answer right away. Thatâs enough to send her spiraling.
âIâm coming, Iâm comingâdonât move,â she says, racing back into the kitchen where youâre bracing yourself against the counter again.
She cups your face with both hands, breath uneven.
âOkay. Look at me,â she says, softer now, eyes scanning you like sheâs memorizing every detail. âWeâre going to the hospital. Iâm right here. Youâre not doing this without me.â
Another contraction hits and she freezes, helpless for half a secondâthen sheâs steady again, guiding you, grounding you.
She helps you into the car like youâre made of glass. Adjusts the seat. Buckles you in herself because she doesnât trust you to do it right now.
Then she runs back inside one last time.
She comes out with your pillow, the baby book you bought too early, and a random grocery bag she might need.
She throws it all into the trunk and slams it shut, hands shaking now, no point pretending otherwise.
When she finally gets behind the wheel, she grips it so tightly her knuckles go white.
âIâve got you,â she says, like a promise sheâs making to herself. âIâve got everything. Youâre safe. Iâm not letting anything happen to you.â
Her voice wobbles just a little.
And for the first time, Regina George is terrifiedâ
not because she doesnât know what to do,
but because the thing she loves most in the world is about to change everything.
âCan we do a drive thru at Wendyâs before the hospital?â You croak out.
--
At the hospital, Regina doesnât sit.
She hovers.
One hand never leaves youâyour shoulder, your thigh, your fingers threaded together so tightly it almost hurts. She keeps talking, like if she stops youâll disappear.
âYouâre doing so good,â she keeps saying, voice low, fierce. âYou hear me? Youâre perfect. Iâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You vaguely register her snapping at a nurse for a blanket that isnât warm enough. The way she positions herself between you and anyone who comes too close.
Then the doctor does somethingâsomething rushed, something unnecessaryâand you cry out, sharp and broken.
Regina straightens.
âNo,â she says, voice suddenly lethal. Calm. Polished. Dangerous.
âYouâre not doing that again.â
The room freezes.
âThat hurt her,â Regina continues, eyes locked on the doctorâs. âIf you touch her like that one more time without explaining exactly why, I swear to god weâre going to have a problem.â
No yelling. No hysteria.
Just pure apex predator energy.
The doctor nods. Apologizes. Adjusts.
Regina exhales only when your grip loosens.
âIâm right here,â she murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. âIâve got you. Iâve got both of you.â
--
When the baby finally cries, Regina doesnât say anything.
She just stares.
Her mouth opens like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Her eyes fill before she even realizes itâs happening.
âOh,â she breathes. âOh my god.â
She laughs, broken and stunned, pressing a shaking hand to her face.
âThatâs⊠thatâs our baby.â
For the first time since labor started, Regina George looks genuinely overwhelmed.
--
Later, when itâs quiet and dim and the world feels far away, Regina sits on the edge of the bed with your newborn tucked carefully against her chest.
She doesnât move.
Like sheâs afraid breathing too hard might ruin it.
âHe's so small like you,â she whispers, which you give her a blank look for, eyes glossy. âHow did you make something this perfect?â
"With your magic dick, babe. With your magic dick," you rasp out.
She cackles and leans over, kisses your forehead gentlyâreverently.
âThank you,â she says, voice thick. âFor him. For everything.â
Then she looks down at the baby again, jaw setting with quiet promise.
âIâll protect you forever,â she murmurs. âBoth of you. I swear.â
--------------
this is making me actually want to get pregnant and have a child. yall please send help.
She gets annoyed. She gets sharp. She gets mean when she thinks sheâs being underestimated. But fearâreal, chest-tightening fearâisnât something she lets live in her body.
Until you double over in the kitchen with a sound that isnât quite a cry and isnât quite a breath, one hand flying instinctively to your stomach.
Her brain blanks.
âHey,â she says too fast, already crossing the room. âHeyâwhat was that?â
You try to wave it off. You donât even finish the sentence before another contraction steals it from you, knuckles whitening against the counter.
Regina feels it then.
That sick, icy drop.
âOh my god,â she whispers. âOkay. Okayâthis is it. This is it.â
She doesnât wait for confirmation. She doesnât ask how far apart they are. She spins on her heel like a switch has flipped and suddenly sheâs movingâfast, frantic, terrifyingly focused.
She grabs her keys. Misses. Grabs them again.
âHospital,â she mutters to herself. âWe needâfuckâokay, we need the bag.â
She sprints down the hallway, yanking open the closet so hard the door smacks the wall. The hospital bag is right where itâs supposed to be. She still dumps the entire thing out onto the floor.
âNo, no, noâwhy did we pack so little?â she snaps, already re-stuffing it with aggressive precision.
She adds your comfy socks, the baby blanket you both argued about keeping, your charger, her charger, because what if hers dies, and a second charger, just in case.
Then she pauses, eyes wild.
âWhat if you get cold?â she blurts, grabbing a hoodie. Then another. Then her favorite coat. She shoves them all in.
She rushes into the bathroom, scooping up half the counterâhair ties, lip balm, hand cream, painkillers she immediately throws back because the hospital will have those, idiot.
She grabs a water bottle. Two. A protein bar. A second protein bar. A third one she drops, swears at, and picks up anyway.
âYou okay?â she yells, voice cracking just a little.
You donât answer right away. Thatâs enough to send her spiraling.
âIâm coming, Iâm comingâdonât move,â she says, racing back into the kitchen where youâre bracing yourself against the counter again.
She cups your face with both hands, breath uneven.
âOkay. Look at me,â she says, softer now, eyes scanning you like sheâs memorizing every detail. âWeâre going to the hospital. Iâm right here. Youâre not doing this without me.â
Another contraction hits and she freezes, helpless for half a secondâthen sheâs steady again, guiding you, grounding you.
She helps you into the car like youâre made of glass. Adjusts the seat. Buckles you in herself because she doesnât trust you to do it right now.
Then she runs back inside one last time.
She comes out with your pillow, the baby book you bought too early, and a random grocery bag she might need.
She throws it all into the trunk and slams it shut, hands shaking now, no point pretending otherwise.
When she finally gets behind the wheel, she grips it so tightly her knuckles go white.
âIâve got you,â she says, like a promise sheâs making to herself. âIâve got everything. Youâre safe. Iâm not letting anything happen to you.â
Her voice wobbles just a little.
And for the first time, Regina George is terrifiedâ
not because she doesnât know what to do,
but because the thing she loves most in the world is about to change everything.
âCan we do a drive thru at Wendyâs before the hospital?â You croak out.
--
At the hospital, Regina doesnât sit.
She hovers.
One hand never leaves youâyour shoulder, your thigh, your fingers threaded together so tightly it almost hurts. She keeps talking, like if she stops youâll disappear.
âYouâre doing so good,â she keeps saying, voice low, fierce. âYou hear me? Youâre perfect. Iâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
You vaguely register her snapping at a nurse for a blanket that isnât warm enough. The way she positions herself between you and anyone who comes too close.
Then the doctor does somethingâsomething rushed, something unnecessaryâand you cry out, sharp and broken.
Regina straightens.
âNo,â she says, voice suddenly lethal. Calm. Polished. Dangerous.
âYouâre not doing that again.â
The room freezes.
âThat hurt her,â Regina continues, eyes locked on the doctorâs. âIf you touch her like that one more time without explaining exactly why, I swear to god weâre going to have a problem.â
No yelling. No hysteria.
Just pure apex predator energy.
The doctor nods. Apologizes. Adjusts.
Regina exhales only when your grip loosens.
âIâm right here,â she murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. âIâve got you. Iâve got both of you.â
--
When the baby finally cries, Regina doesnât say anything.
She just stares.
Her mouth opens like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Her eyes fill before she even realizes itâs happening.
âOh,â she breathes. âOh my god.â
She laughs, broken and stunned, pressing a shaking hand to her face.
âThatâs⊠thatâs our baby.â
For the first time since labor started, Regina George looks genuinely overwhelmed.
--
Later, when itâs quiet and dim and the world feels far away, Regina sits on the edge of the bed with your newborn tucked carefully against her chest.
She doesnât move.
Like sheâs afraid breathing too hard might ruin it.
âHe's so small like you,â she whispers, which you give her a blank look for, eyes glossy. âHow did you make something this perfect?â
"With your magic dick, babe. With your magic dick," you rasp out.
She cackles and leans over, kisses your forehead gentlyâreverently.
âThank you,â she says, voice thick. âFor him. For everything.â
Then she looks down at the baby again, jaw setting with quiet promise.
âIâll protect you forever,â she murmurs. âBoth of you. I swear.â
--------------
this is making me actually want to get pregnant and have a child. yall please send help.
Regina George shows up like she always doesâperfect hair, perfect outfit, that look on her face like sheâs bracing herself to be impressed. She steps inside your place and immediately clocks it: a cat stretched out on the back of the couch like she owns the mortgage, and a corgi trotting over with his stupid little legs and his stupid little smile.
Regina freezes for half a millisecond.
You donât notice. Or you pretend not to.
âOh,â she says, voice way too casual. âYou⊠have animals.â
Your cat flicks an ear. The corgi sits. Stares. Breathes.
Regina straightens her shoulders. âI donât like them,â she adds quickly, like sheâs announcing a preference for oat milk. âJust so you know.â
The corgi wags his tail.
Regina flinches.
She recovers instantly. âThat wasâfine. I just wasnât expecting⊠movement.â
You grin because you know. You absolutely know.
The cat hops down and brushes past Reginaâs leg, tail high, smug as hell. Regina looks like sheâs trying not to scream but instead she just goes rigid, jaw clenched, whispering, âOkay. Okay. Thatâs okay. Weâre not doing anything weird.â
You take her hand, all sweet, all innocent. âCâmon, let me show you my room.â
Upstairs, Regina relaxes the tiniest bitâuntil the unmistakable sound of little paws follows behind you.
She turns slowly. âTheyâre⊠coming with us.â
âOh yeah,â you say lightly. âThey do that.â
She swallows. âCute.â
It is not cute. Sheâs terrified.
In your room, you sit Regina on the bed. The cat jumps up immediately, circling like sheâs inspecting new furniture. The corgi plops down at Reginaâs feet and looks up at her like sheâs the most important thing in the world.
Regina does not move.
You pat your pockets. âShit, I forgot my phone downstairs. Iâll be right back.â
Her head snaps toward you. âWaitââ
Too late. Youâre gone.
Door clicks shut.
Silence.
Regina George, ruler of North Shore, is alone with a cat and a corgi.
She breathes shallowly, hands planted on the bed like if she moves, something terrible will happen.
âOkay,â she whispers, voice shaking just a touch. âListen. I donât know what your deal is.â
The corgi tilts his head.
âThatâs fine. You donât have to explain it. I just need you to stay⊠there.â
The cat sits directly beside her thigh.
Reginaâs eyes widen. She doesnât look down. She refuses to look down.
âI will literally buy you better food,â she murmurs. âLike, premium. Organic. Whatever you want. Just donâtâtouch me.â
The catâs tail flicks.
Regina squeezes her eyes shut. âOh my god. Oh my god. Okay. Okay. Weâre negotiating now.â
The corgi scoots closer.
Regina lets out the tiniest, most betrayed whimper. âI have a girlfriend. She will destroy you if you hurt me. Sheâs really nice, but she will end you.â
The door opens.
Youâre leaning against the frame, trying not to laugh.
Regina looks at you like youâve committed the worst crime imaginable. âYou left me. With them.â
You cross the room, kissing her cheek. âYouâre alive.â
She grabs your wrist. âNever. Ever. Do that again.â
The cat immediately curls into Reginaâs side.
She freezes.
ââŠI hate them,â she mutters.
But she doesnât move away.
---------------
i firmly believe that regina is scared of cats and dogs.
