warnings: 18+ nsfw MDNI!! , heavy SMUUUT, predator/prey play, g!p toph, mean sadist!toph, masochist!reader, hide and seek, brat taming, hair pulling, spit play, cum play, gagging, face slapping, spanking (not much tho), degradation, humiliation, name calling, feral sex, p in v sex, edging, panties are used as a gag, ANYTHING on your mind you name it, toph is VERY rough sorry i’m a whore :((
summary: your wife’s been neglecting you, so you decide to get her attention one way or another. and of course, she reminds you who the fuck you’re married to.
!!! disclaimer: i’m ovulating, so tread with CAUTION!! this is my longest work and it doesn’t even have a plot. yeah i’ll go end my life
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toph was supposed to be away on a work trip.
it had been eight days since she left, pressing an apologetic kiss to your pouty lips as she excused herself and explained the urgency of the matter.
you knew you couldn’t hold your wife back just because of your selfish whims, so you reluctantly sent her off, but you did not go a day without pestering her with constant phone calls or letters.
she’d often snap at you for calling her at work, scolding you for how unprofessional you made her seem, but then you’d apologize so sweetly and whine about how much you missed her so needily that she’d spare you the long lecture.
it was always so short, though. she was so swamped with work she was barely giving you any attention, and as the days went by, she only got more irritated, her replies shorter and meaner.
that pissed you off! you were just being a good spouse, checking in on your hard working wife, but now the only reply you’d get as soon as the line connected was “hang up. talk to you later.” and of course, that “later” would rarely come.
if she wasn’t going to give you proper attention, you were more than petty enough to make her regret that.
she thought your well-intended calls were “unprofessional”? oh, you were going to show her what unprofessional meant alright.
your fingers swiftly dialed her office’s number, holding the phone snug against your face, readying yourself.
beep.
“hello, chief beifong’s office here.” you smiled at her assistant’s voice.
“please,” you let out a soft breathy moan, “i need toph.. immediately. mhh, put her on the line.. it’s an emergency, please. hurry.”
you heard the poor assistant’s flustered gasp, her voice lowering to a whisper, “e-excuse me? who is this? chief beifong is busy. this is not funny—”
“ah, please,” you whimpered louder, “this is her wife. please, put her through, right now. i can’t.. hold on much longer.. mmph..”
you had to bite back a laugh as you heard her scandalized tapping away on the phone pad, murmuring a quiet “i don’t get paid enough for this” under her breath before a sharp click interrupts all sound.
a short pause followed suit, then erupted the voice you’d been longing to hear all this time. “beifong here. in a meeting, so make it quick.”
bingo. that meant she likely had her coworkers nearby.
“tophhh..” you drawled out, hearing her breath hitch. you pressed the phone tight against your lips, gasping out a small whine, “mmh, toph, i need you so badly.. need your hands all over me.. i miss your—”
the line abrupty cuts. well, that was quick.
you chuckle, setting your phone down, as you lean back against your couch.
she was probably a mortified mess right now, you made sure to be loud enough for at least someone near her to pick up on your sounds.
you wondered how she’d try and fix this. would she say she had no idea who you were? that this was a completely random prank call by some unknown? or maybe she’d just deny it all, reframing the entire context into something more innocent?
she deserved it. if she found you embarrassing for simply calling her, you’d go ahead and show her true embarrassment.
you get up, your smile only widening the more you imagined her flustered face as she’d try and justify the mess you got her into, then you decide to get started on laundry.
you’re about halfway through the second batch of clothes when you suddenly hear steady, rhythmic knocking on your door. you hum, a little confused on who would be there. did a friend drop by without warning you? or maybe some old delivery just came?
you lift yourself up from the floor, dragging your feet until you reach the door, hand on the knob. “yes? who is it?”
no answer.
you scoff, “haha, very funny. if this is one of you kids again, i’m coming to kick your sorry butts next time!”
just as you turn on your heel, the knocking comes back, stronger this time. oh, those little twerps.
you groan, slamming the door wide open, “ugh! i told you i would kick your— .. ah..”
the air is knocked out of your lungs, your brain trying to make sense of the sight before you.
a very, very displeased toph was standing in front of you, one hand on the door frame, a finger tapping on it insistently. you noticed a prominent crack forming under where her finger laid.
you swallowed, your gaze travelling back to her face.
lips tightly pursed, brows sternly straight, silently glaring you down — and you knew quiet toph was always the most dangerous toph.
but what was she doing here?
she was supposed to be miles away from you! this didn’t make sense at all, your mind raced to come up with any plausible explanation for this utterly unpredicted appearance.
you were only confident about your brattiness because you thought you were safe enough with her so far from you.
her low, gravelly voice cuts through your frenzied thoughts. “i’ll count to ten.”
you stopped breathing.
you blinked, panic brutally setting in, “huh? no no no, toph please, wait, i—”
“ten.” her voice remained level as a crunchy crack of wood reached your ears, her hand clutching the door frame tighter, scrunching it like it was styrofoam, “nine.”
you didn’t even have the time to negotiate.
you trip over yourself and quickly stand back up to run up the stairs, your breathing erratic while your eyes sweep around your surroundings for a good spot to hide.
“five.” her voice resounds from the entrance, reaching you even a floor away.
the bathtub? the closet? the kitchen pantry? the problem was that you’d exhausted all those options before.
“four.”
you rush to your room, not closing the door so its shutting “click” wouldn’t reach her ears, as you crawl under the bed. it wasn’t an extraordinary spot, but it was the furthest one in the house.
you thought of it as reverse psychology too — your other spots were often always in the first floor, all witty and well-chosen — so maybe she’d suspect this one last.
the hiding place didn’t even have to be some perfect place that fully concealed you — it just had to be good enough to stall her for three minutes.
only three.
if the timer ended before she found you, all would be forgiven. the only rule was to get through those three minutes.
but if she found you..?
you shuddered at the thought.
and additionally, she was blind, so this was a huge added advantage to you.
yes, it’d take her around two minutes to go through your usual spots on the first floor, and maybe a minute to actually go up the stairs, so by the time she’d find you, time would be up.
“one.” you heard the frame give out under her death grip, loudly crashing down on the ground.
you gulped.
“i’m coming, ready or not!”
you exhaled, trying to even out your breathing as you listened to her slow steps on the floor beneath you. yes, nothing to panic about. she wouldn’t get here in under three minutes.
drawers were being pulled. cabinets opened. fabric rustled.
“where’s my sweet baby?” she cooed, voice deceptively sweet, followed suit by a terrifying door slam that had the entire house shaking. “where’s my sweet, needy baby who wants my attention so badly? hmm?”
you swallowed, curling in on yourself, your cheek pressed against the cold tiles of your room.
“where is she? the sweet, sweet girl who thought embarrassing me was a great idea? hmm? i wonder.”
you counted down two minutes in your head, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. just one more minute to go — or less, even — and she was still on the bottom floor. you still had a chance.
“ah,” a humorless chuckle rumbled through her throat, her steps coming to a halt, “sounds like somebody’s hyperventilating upstairs. in our room, actually.”
you froze.
your heart sank down to your gut.
you heard her pace pick up, quickly going up the stairs, and you almost threw up.
you crawled further under the bed, curling into the deepest corner of it against the wall, your hands over your mouth to muffle your frantic breathing, peeking at the entry way from the gap beneath your bed.
please, please, just twenty seconds left.
“now,” you have to bite back a scream when her shoes come into view, walking into the room, “where’s my bunny? you’re muffling your breathing, hm? smart girl.”
she roughly opens the closet, feeling up the clothes.
ten seconds left. please, please, time, go faster.
“aw, shucks,” she dramatically sighs, heading back towards the door, “i guess my darling’s not here. i must have heard things.”
five seconds left.
no way, you were going to win?
you squeeze your eyes shut in hope, prayers jumbling up in your poor panicked head.
three. two.
relief started slowly setting in your bones.
“there she is,” a firm hand suddenly shot out, finding your ankle. a startled scream rips through your throat as you’re dragged out from under the bed.
“aw,” she laughs, and it’s not kind. “couldn’t muffle your heartbeat though, could you?”
your head spinned from the sheer fear, her teal eyes set on you with such terrifying accuracy you wouldn’t think her blind.
you trembled, her fingers tightening around your ankle, cutting blood flow to your foot, “t-toph, please, just listen t—”
“be quiet.” her voice brooked no disobedience. she leant down, ditching your ankle to grab a huge fistful of your hair, dragging you on the ground.
you cried out in pain, hands flying up to your scalp.
“you lost,” she threw your head against the bed, and you scrambled up to get on it properly, “and you know the rules.”
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you squirm, wrists pinned above your head so tightly you thought they’d crack, as she crawls on top of you, “mmph— toph—”
“shut up,” her free hand roughly grips your jaw, squeezing your cheeks to pry your mouth open. her thumb prods at your teeth, tugging your lip up further, before you watch her gather up a glob of spit in her mouth.
you open your mouth wider, complying as best as you can to hopefully soothe her nerves, but she decides to spit right on your eyes instead.
“whoops,” she huffs, clearly lying. “bad aim.”
you can’t even rub it off, unable to use your hands, the gross texture forcing you to keep your eyes shut.
a mean prod of her thumb at your cheek makes you wince.
“open them,” she whispers softly, smearing the saliva over your shut eyelids. you want to cry.
when she doesn’t feel your eyelids move, her nails dig into your wrists in warning, sending chills down your spine.
she hums, the threat obvious in her tone, “are you disobeying me?”
“n-no!” you quickly reply, shaking beneath her touch, “i’m.. not..” you try, slowly cracking them open, biting back a sob at the burning sting as the saliva seeps in.
she scoffs, impatient. you don’t feel her hand leave your jaw until your head whips to the side, a firm slap landing on your cheek.
you gasp, eyes blowing wide open in shock, and she grins, rubbing over them, “there. well open. much better.”
you stare at her, baffled and deeply upset. you knew she’d punish you, but you didn’t deserve a treatment this.. degrading. after all, this was her fault in the first place! she was the one who kept ignoring you, kept pushing you away when the only thing you wanted was reassurance.
“toph.” you use up all the strength you have to spit her name firmly, and that does catch her attention. bad or good, you couldn’t tell yet.
she silently gazes down at you, and you clear your throat, “l-listen, i know i.. shouldn’t have.. um, done what i did.. b-but this isn’t entirely my fault! i—i just needed you! you’ve been gone for over a week, and you didn’t even—”
“ah,” she cuts you off, thumb swiping over your bottom lip, a small smile tugging at her lips. “so you just wanted my attention, hm? just wanted me to touch you, sweet baby?”
she was actually listening to you?
you blink, a little surprised, then eagerly nod, “yes! yes, it’s all i wanted, tophie. i never meant to—”
“alright,” she interrupts you again, her voice uncharacteristically airy as her hands find your thighs, “i’ll touch you, then. if my touch is what made my poor, innocent wife pull that very bratty stunt, i’ll take responsibility.”
she slots herself between your legs, then fumbles with the belt of her uniform, and you note the hazy look in her eyes, “i’ll give it to you, baby. oh, i’ll give it to you so good. so good you’ll never want it again.”
what?
you don’t get to process her words before her belt finds your wrists, looping around them and pulling you up with it. you yelp at the stretch of your arms getting pulled, making you sit up. she ties the leather to the headboard, pinning you against it, then settles back down between your thighs.
she smiles, and it makes you break into a cold sweat. “are you ready?”
are you?
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“a—ah! toph!!” you desperately cry out, tears streaming down your face as you grind down on her palm. she stripped you down to only your panties — the one item you wanted her to take off the most — and stubbornly cupped your soaked cunt, kneading it through the damp fabric.
it was nowhere near enough stimulation, and it was driving you insane. her thumb would teasingly join in to rub over your clit, sending a hot jolt of pleasure straight to your gut, but the touch would leave just as quickly, and you’d only cry harder.
“you wanted my touch,” she sighs, condescendingly patting your aching pussy, “there you go. i’m touching you.”
it was so, so unfair. you forgot how much you missed sex with her, the pent-up frustration from this toph-less week crashing down on you, rendering you so needy for her touch, and she refused to give you more.
your hands tingled with numbness from how much you thrashed against the tight belt. these were the worst ten minutes of your life.
“please..” you pleaded, rutting up against the base of her palm for some friction, “i-i can’t do this. please, i need you to— mmph.. p-properly touch.. mm.. me..”
“no you don’t,” she argues simply, and her hand digs into your clit, earning a startled gasp of pleasure from you, “this is all you’ll get, and you will cum from it.”
you whimper, writhing, shamelessly riding her palm, “p—please! j-just your fingers— ahh..— in me, please—”
“no.” her voice is firm and unmoving, just like her hand. this time, she stops her measly kneading too, letting you do all the work.
it was so agonizing, feeling her fingers faintly graze over your clothed folds, you wanted nothing more than to just tear off your fucking panties and sink down on them, but whenever she felt you angle yourself over her fingers, she’d move her hand, only allowing you to use her stupid, useless palm.
“toph, please..” even your crying got weaker now, your voice hoarse, begging for reprieve, “i— i can’t cum like this, and you know it..”
she tuts, “that a challenge, sweet girl?”
all your words die on your tongue when her palm deliciously digs into your swollen bud again, and you arch up despite your exhaustion, mewling as you shamelessly grind down on it like an animal.
she pulls a startled yelp out of you when her fingers fiddle with your sensitive folds through the cotton of your underwear, slightly thrusting the fabric in you with each prod.
“t—toph??” you mewl, confused and aroused. was she half-fingering you with your panties still on?? what the hell was she doing?
“you will cum like this,” she states it like the weather report, her thumb skillfully toying with your puffy clit while her fingers continue doing whatever the hell they were doing.
she crawls over you, her thumb pressing more insistently as her eyes met yours.
her lips hovered over your quivering ones, an invitation you had to resist. then she smirked, her voice a low authoritative murmur, “you will cum like this.”
you’ll later come to cringe with second-hand embarrassment whenever you remember this exact moment, because you had no idea what happened.
whether it was the feral look in her eyes, or that smug smile, or the effortless authority in her voice — you don’t know which one of them had you gushing all over her hand immediately.
you don’t even process it until she laughs, disgusted and mocking, “well, you certainly didn’t keep me waiting. look at the mess you made, you slut.”
you blink dazedly, eyes drifting down to the big, wet patch you left on the sheets, your slick dripping off her hand in embarrassing quantities. she pulls away, shaking the wetness off her fingers in a bored manner, “you even ruined your pretty, pretty panties. isn’t that a shame?”
she plays with the hem of them, then sighs, “aren’t these the ones i got you as a gift last month? what a bad girl. how could you ruin my lovely, handpicked gift for you? you’re so ungrateful.”
not only did none of her words make sense to you, they barely registered into your brain, completely out of it from that hell of an orgasm. you didn’t even understand how or when you came, you just felt that blinding hot climax crash down on you, wracking your whole body, and this was the result.
“not even answering me now?” you gasp in pain, one of your peaked nipples caught between her fingers. she tuts, giving it a hard tug, “i’m so, so disappointed in you.”
you want to reply, you really do, but never in your life had you felt this mushy, only your earlier orgasm looping over and over again in your addled brain.
she suddenly stops, her eyes widening, and you can almost see the little cartoonish lamp flickering over her head at whatever idea she just got.
“righttt..” her hands find your panties again, and she pats your hips, “lift them up.”
you take a minute to understand her words, but quickly obey at the warning pinch it gets you, then she slides the sopping wet underwear off.
she chuckles, and that brings you out of your stupor. you stare at her, puzzled, when she starts toying with the ruined fabric. you flush a deep shade of red when she coats her finger with some of your slick, giving it a taste.
“good enough,” she comments before crawling back towards you. your confusion only grows the closer she gets, then she sits up, undoing the belt around your wrists.
god, the relief was incredible.
you shake your hands, curling your numb fingers to get the blood flowing again, a pleased sigh leaving your lips.
it doesn’t last long, because the second they parted open, damp, soft fabric was harshly stuffed into your mouth, the taste tangy and oddly familiar.
toph grins, and that’s when it clicks. she just gagged you with your own used panties!
“mmh—” you try to spit them out, flustered, but she scoffs, giving you a light slap on the cheek as she shoves them back in, “they’re my gift for you, slut. first, you ruin them, and now you won’t even take them back? since when did you get so bad?”
you were blushing furiously now, baffled and completely taken off-guard. she taps your temple, smiling down at you, “taste what the base of my palm alone did to you, my little whore. not even a bitch in heat would come that fast.”
and with that, she wastes no time in waiting for your reaction before grabbing your waist and flipping you over on your stomach.
her hands hook under your hips, lifting them up, and you protest uselessly against the fabric.
you were too sensitive from how much you cummed just a minute ago, so you tug the panties off your mouth to tell her that. but the instant a proper syllable slips out of your lips, an angry smack lands right on your bare backside, earning a startled yelp from you.
“who the fuck allowed you to speak?” she spat, one of her hands slipping to lower her pants enough to free her hard, flushed dick, “put them back in. i don’t want to hear anything but moans from you, you stupid slut. you hardly deserve me fucking you, so i suggest you don’t test my patience any further.”
you shamefully stuff them back into your mouth, the taste of yourself still so strong on your tongue.
she was so mean, so cruel, so inconsiderate.. and yet you couldn’t help but clench around nothing at her demeaning words.
a garbled moan is coaxed out of your lips when the fat tip of her cock glides over your drooling slit.
“does everything get you wet?” she grunts, her cock already well lubed with only your wetness, sliding deep into you with humiliating ease.
she huffs out a small laugh, “zero resistance, too.”
you writhe, mewling around the gag, desperately pushing your ass up against her. your eyes roll to the back of your head when she picks up the pace.
she leans down to nip at your ear, her hot breath hitting your sweaty nape, “you’re so fucking easy.”
the bed creaks violently under you, the sound of skin slapping and the nasty squelching of your pussy filling the room, your moans increasing in pitch by the second — you two sounded straight out of a porno.
your vision blurred with pleasure, drooling over the gag as your saliva dribbled down your chin.
you felt so disgusting, the smell of sweat and sex along with the taste of your arousal overwhelming your senses, but pure ecstasy overtook all of that, clouding your judgment and allowing yourself to enjoy the animal pounding you were getting.
you were so blissed out you didn’t even hear her pick up your phone, using the speech feature to make the device start a call for her.
you only realized it when she nudged your warm cheek with the cold frame, jolting you into attention.
you lifted your hand to take it, confused as to why she would want you to check your phone right now of all moments, but when you take a look at the screen and see the “boss” text on it, along with the call being ten seconds in already, your heart flipped over itself in panic.
you shakily bring the phone to your ear, removing the panties from your mouth, “y-yes? boss?”
her furious thrusts didn’t stop, and your boss’ awkward reply only made you want to shoot yourself immediately.
“i.. see this isn’t a good time? so what’s with this unprofessional behavior, miss?”
please, a gun to your head right now.
“b-boss,” you briefly cover the mic to let out a high pitched moan when her cock finds your g-spot, then bring it back to your lips again, “i-i’m very sorry, please forgive me, i.. i don’t know how the call went through. i suppose i didn’t pay attention. ah, d-don’t mind the sounds, please. i-i’m just.. renovating my room?”
out of all excuses, seriously?
“that’s.. great,” the reply is very unconvinced, but he really didn’t want to engage in this conversation any longer. he sighs, rubbing the crease between his brows, “may i ask you to come to my office early tomorrow morning? to discuss this.. unprompted call further? you can go back to.. renovating your room now.”
yes, this sealed it. tonight, you were going to off yourself.
“y-yes boss.. i’ll— mmph.. talk to you tomorrow..”
you hang up immediately, tossing the phone away as you bury your face in the sheets. this was the one boss who actually liked you and consistently promoted you, admiring your seriousness and dedication— and now, there you were. having to explain to him why your ass was getting busted while you renovated your room.
“that was so funny, right?” she chuckles, pulling out to brutally slam back into you, making you cry out. “just wanted you to know what it felt like. wasn’t that just hilaaaarious, baby?”
“i-i get it..” you grumble against the sheets, flushed with humiliation, mulling over what the fuck you were going to say tomorrow.
“you can worry about that later,” she angles your hips up better, striking your spongy spot with toe-curling precision, “for now, focus on cumming all over my cock.”
seriously? did she just expect you to forget about—
“augh!” you scream, eyes blowing wide open, her hand slipping between your legs to rub fast circles on your swollen clit, causing your walls to clench around her twitching cock.
she moans at the sensation, somehow fucking into you even harder, “fuck! fuck, you’re so good— so fucking gooood.”
and with that, thick, hot bursts of cum paint your insides white, making you in turn sob as you come all over her, your sensitive walls milking her dry.
“shit,” she presses a harsh kiss to your neck before sitting up straight, her hand feeling the wet mess of your cunt, dripping with your slick and her own cum. she scoops some up with her fingers, taking them to your trembling mouth, and your lips weakly close on them, too exhausted to even suck properly.
“mhh,” she pulls them away after you’ve licked them clean, slowly pulling out. she caresses your ass, her touch gentle for the first time since this whole ordeal started, “good girl.”
she lets go of your hips, and you plop down like a rag against the sheets, completely knocked out.
she smiles and lays down next to you, propped up on her side, running her fingers through your sweaty hair, “good job, baby. you were so good for me. don’t sleep now, though, you still need a shower. you made a big mess, remember?”
you mumble sleepily, eyes fluttering shut as the intensity of your two orgasms catches up to you.
she chuckles, pressing a sweet kiss to your squished cheek, like she didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of you. “i suppose i’ll carry you then. since you made me come home early anyway, time for a nice, warm bath with toph.”
that is the last thing you hear before sleep overtakes you, snoring against her arms as she pulls you closer.
she sighs, burying your head against her chest, “you’re so stinky.”
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* i’m TERRIBLY attracted to mean toph and i will never stop writing her i fear.. anddd yes consent is implied thank you
hi ok plz write g!p reader who cums fast but almost never gets soft so Daniela takes advantage of it and makes reader cum inside her multiple times until her stomach has that little bulge ok bye
↬ Fill it.
-> pair ; dom!daniela avanzini x g!p!reader
-> synopsis ; you always came faster than her, so she took advantage of that.
She knew you came fast—sometimes embarrassingly fast—the second you slid inside her.
But she also knew the part that made her eyes sparkle with mischief; once you started, you almost never went soft.
Even after you finished, your cock stayed hard, thick, and ready for more. It was like your body had a switch that only turned off when she decided it was time.
And tonight, Daniela was in the mood to take full advantage.
You had both just gotten back from a long dinner with her members. The moment the front door clicked shut, she kicked off her heels and turned to you with that look—the one that said she had been thinking about this the entire night.
She walked over slowly, hips swaying, and pushed you gently backward until you sat down on the edge of the bed.
“You were quiet during dinner,” she said, voice low. “I could see you watching me the whole time.”
You swallowed, already feeling the familiar heat building in your stomach. “You looked good tonight.”
She smiled, slow and knowing. “I wore this dress for you.”
The dress hugged her body perfectly—short enough to show off her legs, tight enough to remind you exactly what was underneath. She climbed onto your lap, straddling you, and kissed you deep and slow. Her hands slid under your shirt, nails lightly scratching your stomach.
“I’ve been wet since we left the restaurant,” she whispered against your lips. “Thinking about how fast you cum… and how you stay hard for me afterward.”
You groaned softly, hands gripping her thighs. “Dani…”
She kissed you again, then pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.
“I want you to cum inside me tonight,” she said quietly. “As many times as I want. Until my stomach starts to show it.”
Your cock twitched hard in your pants.
She felt it and smiled.
“Already?” she teased. “We haven’t even started.”
She reached down and unzipped your pants, pulling your cock out. It was already hard, thick, and leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around you and stroked slowly, watching your face the whole time.
“Look at you,” she murmured. “So eager.”
She didn’t take her dress off. She just hiked it up to her waist, pushed her panties to the side, and lined you up with her entrance. She was already soaked.
She sank down slowly, taking you in one smooth motion until you were buried to the hilt.
The moment you bottomed out, you groaned and came.
Your cock pulsed inside her, spilling thick ropes of cum deep into her pussy. Your hips jerked up involuntarily as the orgasm hit you fast and intense.
Daniela moaned softly, rolling her hips in slow circles as she felt you filling her.
“Already cumming for me?” she whispered, voice warm and amused.
You were still panting, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Shit—sorry… I couldn’t hold it.”
“That’s okay, baby. I love when you do that.”
She didn’t stop moving.
Even as you were still pulsing inside her, she started riding you—slow, deep rolls of her hips, grinding down so you stayed buried deep. Your cum made everything slick and messy, and she used it to her advantage, sliding up and down your still-hard cock with ease.
You were panting, oversensitive, hands gripping her thighs.
“Dani—fuck… it’s too much already…”
She leaned down and kissed you softly.
“I know,” she said against your lips. “But you’re still so hard for me. I’m not stopping.”
She kept riding you—steady and deep—her pussy clenching around your cock with every downward motion. The wet sounds of her taking you filled the room. Your cum was already leaking out around you, coating your balls and the sheets.
You came again—faster than the first time—groaning into her mouth as another load pumped deep inside her. Daniela moaned, grinding down harder to take every drop.
“That’s two,” she whispered, smiling. “Keep going, baby.”
She didn’t slow down. She rode you through the sensitivity, her hips moving in a smooth, relentless rhythm. Her dress was still on, bunched around her waist, and every time she came down, you could see the slight bulge in her lower belly from how full she was getting.
You were a mess underneath her.
“Daniela… I can’t… it’s too sensitive…”
“You can,” she said softly, but firmly. “You always can for me.”
She leaned forward, pressing her chest against yours, and rode you harder. The angle made your cock hit deeper inside her. She was so full of your cum that every thrust made a wet, squelching sound.
You came a third time—harder than the last—your whole body shaking as you spilled even more inside her. Daniela moaned loudly, grinding down to take it all.
Her stomach was starting to show it now. A small, noticeable swell just below her navel from all the loads you’d given her.
She looked down at it, then back at you with dark, satisfied eyes.
“Look what you’re doing to me,” she whispered. “You’re filling me up so much.”
She kept riding—savoring the way your cock stayed rock hard inside her overflowing pussy.
You were whimpering, oversensitive, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Dani… please… I’m so sensitive…”
“I know, baby,” she said gently, but she didn’t stop. “Just one more. Give me one more.”
She rode you through the overstimulation until you came again—the fourth time—a weak, trembling orgasm that left you gasping and shaking underneath her. More cum pumped into her already swollen belly.
Daniela finally slowed down, breathing hard, her stomach visibly rounder from everything you’d given her. She placed a hand on the small bulge and rubbed it gently.
“So full…” she whispered, almost to herself.
She leaned down and kissed you softly, still keeping you inside her.
“You did so good,” she murmured against your lips. “My perfect girl.”
You were completely spent.
Trembling, oversensitive, but still hard inside her. Daniela smiled and gave one last slow roll of her hips.
“We’re not done yet,” she whispered. “I want to feel you cum inside me at least one more time tonight mkay?”
“U-uh huh,”
You’re fucked.
—
a/n ; this is the one where i keep it in my draft for months.
You and natasha are sent in as a couple to work a weapons broker at an upscale gala. the cover is airtight. you're both professionals. you've done this before. The problem is you haven't done it with her. and natasha romanoff touching you like you're hers and whispering mission updates against your ear is a lot harder to be professional about than anyone briefed you on.
Written May 16, 2026 —May 18, 2026
----------------------------
You take longer in the bathroom than you mean to.
It's not nerves. You don't get nervous, or you do, and you've spent enough years training the evidence out of your body that the difference stopped mattering a long time ago. It's something else. Something quieter and more inconvenient than nerves, which is the fact that on the other side of this door is Natasha Romanoff, and tonight you have to stand next to her in a room full of people and pretend you're in love with her.
The pretending isn't the problem.
The problem is that you're starting to forget what the pretending feels like.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The dress is black, sleek, fitted, cut just low enough to be intentional. Your hair is done. Your earrings catch the light. You look, objectively, like a woman who has her life completely together, which is an excellent lie and you're grateful for it.
You open the door.
Natasha is at the vanity mirror across the room, fingers raised to her ear, working in an earring and she stops. Not gradually. Not the slow trailing off of someone distracted. She just stops, earring half in, hand suspended, and she looks at you in the mirror.
You watch her look at you.
It lasts three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough that you feel it move over you like something physical, her gaze, unhurried, taking in the dress and then up, your face, and then something happens in her expression that she almost immediately collects and puts away. Something that had no business being there on the face of a woman who is supposed to be a professional.
She finishes putting in the earring.
Looks back at the mirror. Adjusts it once though it didn't need adjusting.
"You're ready," she says. Not a question. Her voice is even and unbothered and tells you absolutely nothing.
"I'm ready," you confirm.
You don't smile. You do what you always do, you take it, fold it small, add it to the collection of things you keep about her that you don't examine too closely. The two hours on the extraction flight where she slept against your shoulder and you didn't move. The way she always knows where your hand is in a crowded room. The fact that she put your name in the request form for this op and told Fury it was because you were qualified, and Fury had looked at her for a moment too long before he agreed.
You're very good at collecting things and not examining them.
You cross the room to get your clutch off the bed.
That's when you see her dress properly, deep green, and devastating in the specific quiet way that Natasha does everything, not loud about it, just irrefutably true. It's doing something deeply unfair to her shoulders and you know for a fact she chose it and you know for a fact she knew exactly what it would do and you look at your clutch.
"You look good," you say, because you are a professional and professionals make neutral observations.
She glances at you in the mirror again. One corner of her mouth moves.
"I know," she says.
There it is. You almost laugh. Eight months of working next to the most self-possessed woman you've ever met and she can still catch you off guard with the sheer unbothered certainty of her. I know. No thank you, no deflection. Just the flat acknowledgment of fact from a woman who has never needed your confirmation and doesn't intend to start.
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
It's also, and this is the part you don't examine, sort of the most attractive thing you've ever heard.
She picks up her clutch from the vanity. Inside it, you happen to know: one lipstick, one knife, one comm unit. Very Natasha.
"Let's go over parameters," she says, turning for the door.
"I know the parameters."
"Humor me."
You don't argue. Arguing with Natasha about mission prep is like arguing with weather, technically possible, completely pointless, and you'll end up doing what the weather wants anyway. You follow her out.
The car is a black SUV with tinted windows and Hill's voice already waiting in the earpiece when you climb in.
Natasha takes off her coat.
She crosses her legs and looks out the window.
You look out yours.
You get a two-minute debrief you already have memorized: Aldric Voss, weapons broker, mid-level but climbing. Known associates, exit points, your cover ID, a couple, eighteen months together, met through work, vague enough to be waterproof.
The city slides past in amber and dark. She's close enough that you can smell whatever she's wearing tonight, something warm, something that cost more than your first apartment, and you look at the window on your side very deliberately and think about the mission.
"You nervous?" she asks.
"No."
"You're doing the thing with your hands."
You look down. Your fingers are doing a slow press against your knee, one-two-three, one-two-three. Stress habit. You've had it since you were twenty-two and you've never successfully hidden it from her.
"I'm focused," you say.
"Mm." She's still looking out the window. "You need to be relaxed tonight. Couples are relaxed."
"I'm relaxed."
"Y/n."
"Natasha."
She finally looks at you and the city light through the window catches her eyes at an angle that's really unfair, is what it is. "I'm good at this," she says simply. "Cover. Persona. I've been doing it longer than you've been an agent. Just follow my lead and it'll read."
"I know you're good at it," you say. "That's not what I'm nervous about."
A beat. You realize half a second too late that you've said too muc, left the door open, and you watch her clock it, watch the small shift in her expression that means she filed it.
She doesn't push. She looks back out the window.
"Follow my lead," she says again, quieter.
You look back at yours.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
The gala is exactly what the briefing photos promised: too much money in one room, everyone dressed like they're auditioning for something, a string quartet earning their pay in the corner. The kind of event where the champagne is real and so is the danger and the two things coexist with a smoothness that always makes you feel slightly ill.
Natasha takes your arm at the door.
Just, takes it. Slides her hand into the crook of your elbow like she's done it a thousand times, which she hasn't, which your nervous system clocks immediately and thoroughly. Her grip is light. Her posture shifts, shoulders drop a fraction, chin lifts, the set of her mouth changes. She becomes someone softer. Someone with nothing to hide.
It's the most unsettling thing you've ever watched.
"Smile," she says from the side of her mouth, still looking forward. "We're happy."
"We're happy," you repeat, and smile, and hate that it doesn't feel entirely like acting.
You walk in.
The first twenty minutes are choreography.
You work the room the way you were trained, slow circuit, no urgency, let the crowd bring the target to you rather than hunting him directly. Natasha is extraordinary at this. You've worked with her before, field ops, extractions, twice in situations where both of you probably should have died and didn't purely out of stubbornness, but you've never watched her do this. The social work. The performance.
She laughs at something a man in a grey suit says and the laugh is perfect, warm, just shy of flattered, the exact sound of a woman who is charmed but not available. Her hand stays on your arm the whole time. Anchored there. When the man in the grey suit looks at you she angles slightly, just slightly, and the body language is so clean you almost don't catch it.
Almost.
She's pulling you in. Closing the gap between you without making it a thing, just leaning into your space until you're close enough that anyone looking would see a couple, would see someone who doesn't want distance between herself and her woman
You redirect your thoughts aggressively.
"Voss is at the bar," you say quietly, mouth barely moving.
"I know." Her fingers press briefly against your arm. "Don't look."
"I wasn't going to look."
"You were calculating an angle."
"That's not the same as—"
"He's not going anywhere. Relax."
You exhale slowly through your nose. Fine. Relaxed. You're the picture of a person enjoying a gala with someone they're absolutely not in love with, everything is completely normal.
A waiter passes with a tray. Natasha plucks two glasses off it without breaking the conversation she's half having with a woman in pearls and hands one back to you without looking, just, reaches back, finds your hand, presses the stem into it with the kind of easy intimacy that comes from time and attention and knowing someone.
You stare at the glass.
She knew where your hand was. She always knows where you are in a room, tactical awareness, you've told yourself, she's built that way, but that wasn't tactical. That was something else. That was the muscle memory of a person who reaches for someone because reaching for them is just what you do.
You drink the champagne. It's very good. It does nothing helpful.
Forty minutes in, she dances with you.
You'd like to say it was for the mission. You'd like to say Voss was watching or the angle required it or there was some clean operational reason that Natasha Romanoff took your hand and led you toward the floor without asking. Without explaining. Just a slight pressure at the small of your back and an expectation that you'd follow.
You followed.
If there was a reason, she doesn't share it.
She turns to face you and puts one hand at your waist and you put yours at her shoulder and you start to move and the thing is, the thing is, she's warm. You knew that in the abstract. You've been close to her before, in the field, in debrief rooms, once on a six hour extraction flight where she fell asleep against your shoulder and you stayed completely still for two hours because you didn't want to wake her. You know she's warm.
But her hand at your waist, steady and certain and not going anywhere, is a different kind of knowing entirely.
"Voss's contact is late," she says.
Her mouth is at your ear. Not quite touching, just close enough that her voice arrives before her breath does, low and even, meant only for you. A tactical update delivered at a register that does things to your concentration that are deeply inconvenient on an active op.
"How late?" you manage.
"Fifteen minutes." A pause. You turn with the music. Her grip at your waist tightens, not dramatically, just enough to guide, just enough to feel. "He's nervous. That's useful."
"Copy," you say, which is a completely normal thing to say and not at all the voice of someone whose higher functions are running at approximately forty percent.
She pulls back just far enough to look at you. Checks your face the way she checks everything, quickly, thoroughly, filing. Whatever she finds there she keeps to herself.
"You're doing well," she says.
"We established I'm good at this."
"I'm acknowledging it."
"Natasha Romanoff acknowledging someone else did something well." You let the pause breathe. "Should I be worried? Are you dying?"
Something moves across her face. Not quite a smile, she doesn't smile easily, and you've spent eight months learning to catch the things that happen instead. The slight softening. The fractional shift in her eyes.
"Focus," she says.
"I am focused."
"On the op."
"Obviously."
She exhales through her nose. You count that as a win.
You turn again with the music and that's when you feel it, the quality of her attention shifting. Still moving, still perfectly composed, but something underneath changes. A new kind of stillness. You keep your eyes on her and say nothing.
She sees him before she means to.
He's at the edge of the room, drink in hand, shoulders loose, the easy posture of a man who has never once in his life had to make himself smaller, and he is looking at you.
Not a threat. She'd already know. She's had the full room mapped since the moment you walked in together, every exit and variable catalogued and filed, and he is nobody. Soft hands. No tells. He is absolutely nobody and he is standing there looking at you in that dress with the specific expression of a man who has decided he'd like to do something about that, and something in Natasha's chest goes very, very still.
She keeps dancing.
Her hand stays at your waist. Her face stays composed. She gives him exactly three seconds of her peripheral vision and then she makes a decision, not consciously, not with any particular deliberation, she simply decides, and lets her eyes move.
She looks at him.
The full weight of it lands across the room like a hand around a throat. Her jaw sets, the line of it going sharp and certain beneath her skin. Her chin tilts up, barely, just the fraction of an inch that means she has assessed something and found it lacking. Her eyes, green and flat and depthless, the particular green of water that goes down further than you'd expect, settle on him with the unhurried patience of a woman who has never once needed to hurry.
Her brow lifts. One increment. The period at the end of a sentence that requires no words.
She has done this in dark rooms in six different countries. She has done this to men with weapons and men with power and men who thought they were untouchable, and every single one of them has made the correct decision. This man, with his soft hands and his expensive watch, is not going to be the exception.
But here is the thing, here is the thing she is fully, lucidly, uncomfortably aware of as she holds his gaze across a crowded room, this is not the same. This is not a threat assessment. This is not operational. There is no version of tonight's debrief where she writes down redirected civilian attention via sustained eye contact and means what she actually means, which is something rawer and more inconvenient than anything she'd put in a report.
She's mine.
Not performed. Not tactical. Just, true, in the quiet way that things are true when you stop arguing with them. True in the way that has been accumulating for eight months in the space between her professionalism and something she hasn't named yet and has no intention of naming tonight.
He looks away.
Good.
She looks back at you. You're watching her, you're always watching her, those eyes that take everything in like they're cataloguing her the same way she catalogues everything else, patient and thorough and giving nothing back. She doesn't know exactly what you saw. She knows you saw something.
She doesn't adjust her expression. She doesn't reach for an explanation.
Instead she moves.
Her arm slides around you, slow, smooth, the way she does everything, with the efficiency of someone who has decided and is simply following through, and her hand presses flat against the small of your back. Drawing you in. Closing whatever distance was left between your body and hers until there is very little of it, until you're held against her, encompassed by the line of her arms, her warmth wrapping around you with a completeness that has nothing to do with cover and everything to do with the thing she is not calling what it is.
She is aware she is doing this. She is fully, consciously aware.
She does it anyway.
Her red hair falls forward as she dips her head, one curtain of it brushing your cheek, warm and deliberate, the scent of it close enough to be a thing you'd remember, and she brings her mouth to your ear. Not touching. Just the proximity. Just her lips a breath away from your skin, close enough that the warmth of them would reach you, close enough that if she spoke it would arrive like a secret.
She doesn't speak.
She just stays there. Her jaw near your temple. Her lips at the curve of your ear. One hand flat at the small of your back and the other at your waist and her whole body a quiet wall between you and the rest of the room, between you and him, between you and anyone who might be under the impression that you are something available to be looked at without consequence.
She knows he's still watching. She can feel it, the way she feels everything she isn't looking at directly. And she knows, she knows, that what he sees right now is not a cover. Is not a performance. Is not two agents running a gala op in a city that doesn't care about either of them.
What he sees is a woman who has made something abundantly, irrevocably clear.
And she lets him see it.
She stays exactly where she is, lips at your ear, red hair falling soft between you, and she breathes out once, slow, controlled, the only concession she makes to the fact that her heart is doing something she would not put in a report, and lets the silence say everything she won't.
Then she straightens.
The red hair settles. Her hand moves back to your waist, one hand, appropriate, professional. Her face reassembles itself into something even and unreadable and composed, the mask back on so smoothly it would be invisible to anyone who didn't know where to look for the seams.
She is, she reminds herself, very good at this.
She is also, and this she acknowledges only briefly, only in the space between one breath and the next before she closes the door on it, completely aware that she stopped running cover a long time ago.
When she pulls back she's composed again. Completely. The mask is on and the op is running and her hand is at your waist and her expression gives you nothing.
Except.
You were watching. You caught the tail end of whatever that was, the quality of her gaze before it came back to you, the extra second at your ear where she said nothing at all. You've run enough ops to know what performing looks like. You know every tell of a woman pretending something is fine.
You say nothing. You add it to the collection, fold it careful and small, tuck it somewhere you won't examine until later, much later, when you're alone and she can't see you figuring her out.
Her hand at your waist does not move.
The man at the bar does not look back.
The music plays on, and you let yourself be held, and neither of you say a single word about any of it.
It's after the dance, during the slow drift back into the room, when she does the thing with the dress.
You've stopped near a tall window, good sightline to the bar, natural place to stand, and she's beside you, close, her arm just brushing yours. She glances down. Frowns, very slightly. Reaches out and adjusts something at your shoulder, a strap that had shifted maybe two millimeters out of place, and her fingers are careful and light and she's looking at what she's doing instead of at you.
"Just selling it," she says.
"Right," you say.
She smooths the strap once. Doesn't move her hand immediately.
"You know," you say, because apparently you've lost your self-preservation instincts somewhere between the car and the champagne, "most people don't have to remind themselves they're acting when they're acting."
Her hand stills.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah you do."
She looks up. And this, this is the thing about Natasha, the thing that you have spent eight months carefully not examining, when she drops it, when the performance falls away and it's just her, just the actual her underneath all that careful control, she looks at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looks at you like that now. Just for a second.
Then she looks back at the bar.
"Voss is moving," she says.
He is. You both straighten. The op reasserts itself, clean and welcome, something to do with your hands, a reason to be standing this close that has nothing to do with anything.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Always," you say.
She takes your arm again. You walk toward the bar. Her grip is just slightly tighter than before and you don't say anything about it and she doesn't either.
The system, holding.
For now.
It happens naturally, the way professional things do, Voss's contact finally arrives and the op requires coverage on two sides of the room at once. Natasha clocks it first, the way she clocks everything first, and she leans in close enough that her mouth brushes your ear when she speaks.
"Split up. You take the east side, draw out the associate by the column. I'll stay on Voss."
"Copy," you say.
She pulls back. Looks at you for just a half second longer than the mission requires.
Then you separate
You are focused, present, professional, and entirely on task, and you do not look for Natasha once.
What you do, approximately four minutes in, is hear her.
Her voice arrives in your earpiece low and warm and completely unhurried, the cover voice, the one that's softer than her real one, the one she puts on like a second skin, and she's talking to Voss.
"I've heard about your work in Vienna. My associate mentioned it actually, she has excellent taste."
A pause. Voss says something you don't catch.
"Oh, she's very selective." A small laugh, warm and practiced. "That's what I've always loved about her."
You become very focused on your associate's left cufflink.
Because that, the ease of it, the way she says loved like it costs her nothing, like it's just cover, like it's just words, is doing something to your concentration that you are not going to examine while you are actively on an op. You ask your associate a perfectly calibrated question about his employer's shipping routes and you do not think about Natasha Romanoff's voice saying that word in your ear.
You think about it for the next twenty minutes.
Across the room, Natasha finds you.
The first time is almost involuntary. She's mid-sentence with Voss, something charming, something that makes him laugh, the warm practiced ease of a woman who has made men feel interesting in four different languages, and her eyes move. Just for a second. Just long enough to find you across the crowd, to confirm you're there, to take in the easy angle of your shoulders and the way you've got the associate exactly where you want him.
She looks back at Voss.
Files it. Moves on.
Tells herself it was a tactical check.
The second time she's at the bar, waiting on a refresh, and the room has shifted enough that you're visible through a gap in the crowd. You're laughing at something the associate said, not a real laugh, she can tell the difference, she's always been able to tell the difference with you, and the line of your profile is caught in the warm overhead light and she watches for two seconds longer than any tactical check has ever required.
The bartender puts a glass in front of her.
She picks it up without looking at it.
The third time she's not even trying to justify it.
She's wrapped up a conversation, Voss circling back to the contact, the op running clean and smooth in the background the way good ops do, and she lets her eyes find you across the room because she wants to and she has apparently stopped arguing with herself about that.
You're there. Of course you're there. Working the room with that particular ease that she has spent eight months quietly cataloguing, the way you move through a crowd like you belong in it, the way you make people feel like the most interesting thing in the room without ever quite letting them have you.
She raises her glass and takes a slow sip.
And you look up.
Right at her.
Like you felt it. Like you knew.
She doesn't move. Doesn't adjust. Keeps the glass raised and her eyes on yours and lets the moment sit there between you, twenty feet of crowded room and a string quartet and the whole careful architecture of the last eight months, and she does not look away.
Neither do you.
Three seconds. Four. Five. Long enough that it stops being accidental on either side, long enough that something passes between you that has no tactical classification, long enough that she is aware, fully, uncomfortably, with complete clarity, that she is not performing anything right now.
Then someone steps between you, a body crossing the sight line, and the moment closes.
She lowers her glass.
Goes back to work.
Does not examine what just happened. Does not examine the fact that her pulse has done something she would not put in a report. Does not examine the way you looked at her like you already knew, like you've always known, like you've been waiting for her to stop pretending long enough to just
Voss moves toward his contact. She follows.
The fourth time she finds you she's already on her way back across the room, op nearly wrapped, Voss handled and filed. She's not looking for you. She doesn't have to look for you.
She just knows.
Her eyes find you through the crowd without searching, the way they always do, the way they have been doing all night, all eight months, if she's being honest, which she isn't, not yet, and you're there, exactly where she knew you'd be, and she lets herself watch you for just one unguarded moment before she schools her face and moves through the crowd toward you.
Her arm finds yours when she arrives. Slides in easy and warm, like it never left. Like this is simply where she ends up.
Because it is. That's the part she's been not examining. This is just where she ends up.
"Voss is clean," she says quietly. "Associate?"
"Account manager. Name and location. Hill's going to want it."
The corner of her mouth moves. Not a smile, the thing she does instead. "Good."
"I know," you say.
She glances at you sidelong. Something in your voice. Something dry and certain that catches in her chest the way you've always caught in her chest and she looks back at the room and says nothing about it.
The silence holds.
Then Voss moves.
Her eyes cut across the room. Mission, clean and immediate, the mask back in place between one breath and the next.
"He's going for the east exit," she says. "That's not on the brief."
"No," you say. "It isn't."
Her hand finds your arm. And you move, together, no words, no briefing, the kind of sync that only comes from time and attention and knowing someone down to the way they breathe in a tense room. Her hand steering slightly, you adjusting without being asked, cutting through the crowd like one thing, not two.
She has spent eight months telling herself that this, this particular feeling, this specific ease, is professionalism. Training. Field familiarity.
She is no longer telling herself that.
You reach the corridor just as Voss slips through the east exit.
Her hand tightens on your arm.
"Ready?" she murmurs.
You look at her. The mission in her eyes, and underneath it, still there, not put away, not this time, the other thing. The real thing. Looking right back at her.
"Always," you say.
And you go in.
The corridor is narrow and dim and smells like old carpet and money, the kind of back hallway that exists in every building like this, the one the staff uses, the one that connects the public rooms to the private ones, the one that Voss just slipped into with the quiet purposefulness of a man who doesn't want to be followed.
You follow him anyway. Natasha three steps behind you, silent.
Voss stops at a door near the end of the corridor. Produces a key card. Your hand moves to the comm unit, ready to relay to Hill. And that's when you hear it.
Not from the corridor. From the earpiece. A voice, young, female, clipped with the particular tension of someone trying very hard to sound calm "
This is Reyes, I have eyes on the asset, I'm moving to make contact—"
You and Natasha go still at exactly the same moment.
"Reyes, stand down." Hill's voice, sharp. "Do not make contact, I repeat—"
"I have a clear window, I'm taking it—"
"Agent Reyes, that is a direct order—"
And then another voice, male, younger, with the breathless energy of someone who has already made a decision "Cole in position, I've got the east side covered, Reyes go—"
"Cole, stand DOWN—"
You look at Natasha.
Natasha is already looking at the end of the corridor, where it opens back into the main gala room, and her expression is the specific expression of a woman who has just watched two people set something on fire and is calculating exactly how fast it's going to spread.
It spreads fast.
Through the corridor entrance you can see it unfold in real time, Reyes, young and dark-haired and moving with the misplaced confidence of someone who thought they saw an opening, crossing the room toward the SHIELD asset with all the subtlety of a person who has trained for six months and believes that is enough.
And Cole, flanking from the east side, doing exactly what a panicking rookie does when they realize too late that the plan is already wrong, overcorrecting, moving too fast, drawing the eye of every person in a thirty foot radius.
Voss hears it before he sees it.
Some shift in the room's atmosphere, the specific change in energy that a man who has survived this long learns to read, and he turns. Slowly. His eyes move to Reyes, to Cole, to the asset between them, and you watch the calculation happen behind his eyes, clean and fast and professional.
Then his eyes move to the corridor.
"Abort." Natasha's voice in the earpiece is flat and final. "Hill, we're pulling out."
"Confirmed, Romanoff. Reyes, Cole — you are blown, extract immediately—"
"Wait—" Reyes, realizing. "Wait, I can still—"
"You are done," Natasha says, and there is something in her voice that closes the conversation like a door being shut. "Both of you. Out."
She doesn't wait for the response.
She steps forward, in front of you, between you and the corridor entrance, between you and Voss's eyeline, and her hand closes around your arm.
"We're leaving," she says. Not loud. Not urgent. The tone of a woman who has already made every calculation and doesn't need to hurry because she's already three steps ahead of whatever happens next.
She steers you back down the corridor, away from Voss, away from Reyes and Cole and the mess they've made of the east room. Her hand is on your arm and her body is angled slightly in front of yours and she moves with the unhurried certainty of someone running a controlled exit, not a retreat.
It works because it always works. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and this is what she does.
You reach the side exit without a single person looking twice.
The car is waiting exactly where it should be. She opens the door and her hand is at your back and you're inside before you've finished processing what just happened and she slides in beside you and the door closes and the city starts moving past the windows.
She doesn't look at you.
In your earpiece Hill's voice comes through tight and clipped "intel is secure, cover held, Reyes and Cole are being extracted, debrief tomorrow oh-seven-hundred" and then the channel goes quiet and it's just the two of you and the city and twelve minutes of silence that has a specific weight to it.
You watch her in your peripheral vision. The straight line of her shoulders. The set of her jaw. Her hand on the inside door handle, gripping it in a way that has nothing to do with the car moving.
She doesn't look at you once.
Not for twelve minutes.
You don't say anything either. You think about the corridor, her stepping forward, placing herself between you and Voss's eyeline before you'd even registered the threat. The way it happened before it was a decision. The way she hasn't looked at you since.
You file it.
For now.
The hotel room door closes behind you.
You set your clutch on the nightstand. She sets hers on the vanity. You reach back to unclasp your earring and she moves to the window and looks out at the city and the silence in the room has weight to it now, the kind that accumulates over twelve minutes of nothing and lands all at once.
You take out the second earring.
"Reyes and Cole," you say. Neutral. Conversational.
"Yes," she says. Still at the window.
"First field op?"
"Second." A beat. "Which somehow makes it worse."
"The intel's still clean. Cover held. Hill has everything she needs."
"I know."
"So." You set the earrings down. "We're fine."
She turns from the window.
"You were out of position," she says.
You look at her. "I was exactly where you put me."
"When the contact arrived you should have pulled back to the secondary—"
"If I'd pulled back Voss would have had a clear corridor and we'd have lost him entirely—"
"That wasn't your call to make—"
"It absolutely was, I was the one standing there with eyes on—"
"We had protocols, Y/n—"
"Natasha." You face her fully. "It worked. All of it. The only thing that didn't work tonight was Reyes and Cole and that has nothing to do with me—"
"It could have." Her voice drops. Gets quieter. That's the tell, you know that by now, the way her volume decreases as the thing she's actually saying increases.
"If they'd moved thirty seconds earlier you would have been in that corridor without cover and Voss would have had eyes on you and I was—"
She stops.
You go still.
I was. The sentence trailing off into the room like smoke.
"You were what?" you ask. Quiet.
"Nothing." She looks back at the window. "Get some sleep. Debrief is—"
"Natasha."
"—oh-seven-hundred—"
"Natasha."
"Drop it."
"You were what." Not a question this time. Something steadier than a question.
A long pause. The city outside is indifferent and glittering and she stares at it like it owes her something.
"You stepped in front of me," you say. "In the corridor. Voss didn't even have eyes on us yet and you stepped in front of me."
Nothing.
"That wasn't tactical," you say. "That was—"
"I said drop it—"
"You were scared," you say. "You were scared and you won't say it and now you're standing at a window picking a fight about protocol because it's easier than—"
She turns.
And crosses the room.
And her hand finds the back of your neck, certain and warm and without a single moment of hesitation, fingers pressing up into your hair, and she kisses you.
Not soft. Not careful. Not the measured thing of a woman who is uncertain. This is eight months arriving all at once, her hand firm at the back of your neck like she's been waiting to put it there, like she decided somewhere between the window and here and didn't once stop to argue with herself about it.
You melt into it.
That's the only word for it, the argument dissolving out of your chest like it was never there, your hands finding her without instruction, your body making a decision your brain is still catching up to. You kiss her back and it's nothing like you imagined. It's better.
It's eight months of careful distance collapsing all at once and the specific relief of it moves through you like a current, warm and total, and you make a sound against her mouth that you don't plan and don't take back.
Her hand tightens at the back of your neck.
The kiss deepens, not gradually, not carefully, but with the particular certainty of two people who have been waiting too long and have simply stopped being careful. Her mouth is warm and deliberate and she kisses you the way she does everything, like she's already decided, like she knows exactly what she wants and the only thing that was ever stopping her was the thing neither of you were naming.
You give it back.
Your hand finds her jaw and you tilt into her, angle shifting, matching everything she's giving and then some, and you feel the small catch in her breath, feel the way her whole body reacts to it, the subtle arch toward you, the grip at the back of your neck going from certain to something that borders on desperate, and that undoes you a little. More than a little. You press closer, eliminate the last fraction of space between your bodies, and she makes a sound low in her throat that you are going to be thinking about for a very long time.
Her other hand finds your waist.
Pulls.
Like she's been wanting to do it all night, like every careful professional touch, every tactical adjustment, every time her hand found you and had to have a reason, was building to this, to her hands on you with no reason required, no cover to maintain, nothing to perform for anyone. Just want. Just her wanting you and not doing anything about it except pulling you closer and kissing you like the argument was foreplay and eight months was foreplay and the entire evening was foreplay and she is done, she is so done, being patient about this.
You walk her back. Or she walks you back, honestly you're not sure, it's collaborative, two people moving in the same direction with the same urgency, until something meets your back and you don't care what it is.
Her body is against yours and her mouth is on yours and her hand has moved from your jaw into your hair and the grip of it sends something down your spine that makes your breath stutter.
She pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
Her lipstick is still perfect. Her red hair has come loose on one side, falling forward, and she doesn't fix it. Her eyes are dark and close and the mask isn't just gone it's nowhere, there's no trace of it, there's nothing between you and the real her, the actual her, the one she keeps underneath everything, and she's looking at you like she's been hungry for a long time and has finally decided to do something about it.
Her chest rises and falls. Once.
Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, slow, unhurried, like she's been wanting to do it for months and is taking her time now that no one can stop her, and her eyes follow the movement and come back to yours and what's in them makes your stomach drop in the best possible way.
movement and come back to yours and stay there.
The silence holds for exactly one more second.
Then her eyes drop. Your mouth. Back up. And when she speaks her voice is low and unhurried and completely certain, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is done negotiating with herself about it.
"I want to take this dress off you," she says. "I've wanted to since I saw you walk out of that bathroom."
"Then take it off," you say.
She kisses you.
Deep and deliberate, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and when she pulls back you're both breathing differently and her eyes are darker than they were a second ago.
"I've been thinking about what's underneath it," she says, low, right against your mouth. "All night."
Something pulls tight in your stomach. "All night," you repeat. "And you said nothing."
"I'm saying it now."
Her fingers find the zipper at your back, slow, deliberate, not rushing, like she wants you to feel every second of it, and you reach for her too, hands finding the fabric at her waist, pulling the green dress taut.
"You're not the only one," you say. "Who was thinking."
She pauses. Looks at you. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more interested, the look of a woman who has just been handed something she intends to do something about.
"No?" she says.
"No."
Her mouth curves. Not a smile, something better than a smile, something with teeth in it.
"Tell me," she says, and her fingers resume their work, and yours do too, and the green dress and the black dress and the whole long evening are all running out of time simultaneously.
You feel the zipper give. Her fingers trail the newly exposed skin of your back and you breathe out.
"I was thinking," you say, "about your mouth."
Her fingers pause.
"All night," you continue, steady, holding her gaze. "Every time you put it near my ear. Every time you smiled at something Voss said and I had to stand there and watch and do nothing about it."
She looks at you for a moment. Something shifts in her expression, darker, more focused, the look of a woman recalibrating.
"What about my mouth," she says. Low. Not a question, a pull.
"What I wanted it to do," you say. "Where I wanted it."
The silence lasts exactly one second.
Then her hands are moving again, more purposeful now, less patient,and she steps closer and her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, and she says against your skin: "Show me."
Your breath catches.
"Natasha—"
"Show me," she says again, quieter, right at your pulse point, and you feel her smile there. "Where."
Your hand finds her hair. Guides her. And she goes, willingly, without hesitation, like she's been waiting to be told, and the sound she makes when she gets there is
Her zipper gives completely under your other hand. The green dress falls.
She pulls back just long enough to look at you. Flushed, hair loose, eyes so dark they've swallowed the green entirely, and she looks at you like you are something she intends to take her time with.
"Bed," she says. One word. The voice that closes rooms.
You go.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you go down without breaking eye contact.
The sheets are cool against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the way Natasha crawls over you, predatory and graceful. The green silk is a forgotten puddle on the floor, leaving her bare in the dim light, stunning and terrifyingly focused.
She settles between your legs, her hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. Her hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out everything but her. She's so close you can feel her breath against your lips, see the way her pupils swallow the green of her eyes.
You lift a hand, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw before your palm settles against her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft, burning hot beneath your touch. She leans into it instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a fleeting second as her expression softens from predator to something much tenderer.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, watching the admission shatter her composure.
With careful, deliberate movements, Natasha finishes unhooking your dress, sliding the fabric down your body to reveal your bare skin. Her eyes drink in the sight of you, her pupils dilating as she takes in every curve and detail.
She runs her hands over your newly exposed flesh, worshipping your form with her touch.
Her touch skims over your collarbone, down between your breasts, tracing the curve of your waist before her palms spread flat across your stomach.
A shuddering breath escapes her as she leans down, pressing her forehead to yours.
"Absolutely breathtaking," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with something far deeper than lust. Her thumbs brush your lower lip, gentle and reverent.
You surge forward, crashing your lips against hers in a deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from your lungs.
Mid-kiss, she captures your hand, guiding it down the front of her torso until she slips it firmly between her thighs. The sensation makes you gasp sharply against her mouth, you can feel exactly how hard she is for you, throbbing and desperate beneath your fingertips.
"Feel that?" she breathes against your mouth, hips shifting to press more firmly into your touch. "That's what you do to me. One look, one touch, and I'm harder than I've ever been in my life."
"God, Natasha..." You whisper, your voice shaking with desire. You can feel her length pulsing against your palm, and you can't help but squeeze gently, making her suck in a sharp breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She lets out a ragged moan, her forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder as your fingers tighten around her. "I think I have some idea," she pants, her hips bucking instinctively into your grip. "You're destroying my control, sweetheart. Every single inch of me is screaming for you."
"Then don't hold back," you murmur, your thumb tracing slow circles over the leaking tip, feeling her shudder and drip in your palm.
"Fuck," she groans, her composure finally shattering as she grinds herself desperately against your hand. "I want to fuck you so bad it hurts. I want to be deep inside you, feel you clench around me, hear you scream my name until you're hoarse." Her words come out in a heated rush, raw and unrestrained.
"God, yes," you whimper, your legs spreading wider as you imagine her thick length filling you completely. Your own arousal drips down your inner thighs, and you can feel yourself growing increasingly wet and needy. "Natasha, please," you beg, squeezing her hard length again. "Fuck me."
"Not yet," she grits out, wrenching her hips back just enough to escape your grasp. Before you can protest, she's moving down your body, kissing and biting at your skin until her face is level with your dripping core. Her eyes rolling back at the sight of you.
"Natasha," you gasp, lifting your head to look down at her.
Her expression is one of pure hunger, her gaze locked onto your glistening folds like a starving woman presented with a feast. Without a word, she leans in and drags her tongue through your wetness, tasting you deeply.
Your back bows instantly off the mattress, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as her tongue flattens against your clit. She eats you with a terrifying intensity, alternating between broad, heavy strokes and pinpoint flicks that make your toes curl.
Your hands fly to her hair, tangling in the red strands to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
"Natasha, oh god."
"Mmm," she hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your system.
She spreads your legs wider, burying her face deeper between your trembling thighs. Her hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle and expose you even more to her merciless mouth.
You moan out, your thighs trembling as her tongue finds that perfect spot inside you and circles it relentlessly.
Pleasure builds like a storm behind your navel, your nails scraping against her scalp as you hold her tight against your soaking core.
"I'm close," you warn in a broken voice. "Natasha, I'm gonna—"
She doesn't slow down.
Your eyes roll back in your head as she sucks your clit into her mouth and flattens her tongue against it. You scream, your entire body convulsing as your orgasm hits you like a truck.
She swallows every drop of your arousal, lapping at your folds like a woman possessed.
Only when your trembling begins to subside does she pull back, her chin and lips glistening with your release. She crawls up your body, pressing her wet face into your neck with a satisfied groan.
"Still want me to fuck you?" she asks, her breath hot against your ear, her hard length dragging against your overstimulated folds.
"Yes," you whimper desperately.
Without hesitation, she slips between your thighs, her thick head pushing against your sensitive entrance. You spread wider, pulling your knees back to give her better access.
She grabs your legs, spreading them even wider and hooking them over her shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck," she groans, pushing in slowly despite her obvious desperation.
You're so wet and sensitive from your orgasm that she slips in easier than expected, but you're still tight enough to make her see stars.
Natasha's jaw tightens as she pulls out slowly, watching her wet, shiny length slide out of you. She pushes back in with equal slowness, her eyes fluttering at the incredible sensation of your tightness surrounding her. Out, then in, out...
"Natasha," you moan, your walls fluttering around her despite her agonizingly slow pace.
You grip the sheets, needing something more to anchor yourself as she rocks back and forth at this torturous rate.
"You're so tight," she grits out, her hips stuttering as she watches herself disappear inside you. "You feel so good," she admits, her voice strained with effort.
She pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, her eyes rolling back at how perfectly you squeeze her.
"Fuck," you whimper, your nails digging into her arms as she continues that slow, deep thrusting. Each withdrawal leaves you feeling empty, each push back in hits that perfect spot inside you.
"Natasha... please..." You're begging without even knowing what for....more speed? Deeper?
"Please what, sweetheart?" she whispers, her voice dangerously low as she leans down to nip at your bottom lip.
She pulls out slowly, her length sliding out until only the tip remains inside you. She holds still, teasing you with that shallow penetration.
"More," you pant, trying to lift your hips to take her back in. "Fuck, Natasha, give me more." You need her deeper, faster anything but this agonizing slow pace that's driving you mad.
"Deeper?" she asks softly, pushing back in slightly slower than before, watching as her length disappears into your tight heat. "Like this?" She pulls out again, leaving just the tip inside, making you whimper. "Or do you want it faster?"
"Yes, like that," you gasp, your head falling back against the pillow as she bottoms out inside you. "And faster, please Natasha, fuck me faster."
Your legs tighten around her waist, heels digging into her ass to encourage her.
With a low moan, Natasha starts moving faster, her hips snapping forward with more force. The slow torture is replaced by deep, quick thrusts that make the bed shake and your breasts bounce.
She hooks your legs higher over her shoulders, changing the angle to hit deeper inside you.
"Oh god, just like that!" you moan out, your back arching beautifully off the mattress as she hits that perfect spot inside you. The new angle is devastating, allowing her to plunge so deep you see stars with every thrust. "Don't stop, Natasha, please don't stop."
Natasha's composure finally shatters. Her head falls back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat as a loud, broken moan tears from her lips. Her eyes roll back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of your heat gripping her tightly.
"Fuck—oh god, you feel so good," she pants breathlessly, her rhythm faltering slightly as pure pleasure washes over her.
She's reduced to incoherent moans and curses, her hips moving wildly as she loses herself in the feeling of being buried deep inside you. One hand grips your thigh tightly while the other reaches down to spread you wider, giving herself better access.
"Natasha..." You whimper her name like a prayer, your voice breaking on a high note as she hits that perfect spot inside you again.
Your hands fly to her bouncing breasts, squeezing the soft mounds desperately as pleasure overwhelms you both.
Natasha leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy, passionate kiss that steals your breath. You pant into each other's mouths, tongues tangling as she continues thrusting hard and deep.
The kiss is sloppy and needy, a perfect reflection of how desperately she's fucking you.
With a low groan, Natasha pulls out slowly, her wet length slipping free of your dripping core. You both watch, panting heavily, as she brings the tip to your mouth.
"Taste how wet you are," she pants, rubbing her slick head against your lips.
You open your mouth obediently, your tongue darting out to lick along the tip, tasting yourself mixed with her. Natasha moans, thrusting slightly deeper between your lips.
"Good girl... Suck," she commands breathlessly, gripping your hair. You wrap your lips around her and take her into your mouth, bobbing your head as she slowly thrusts down your throat.
Natasha's eyes roll back into her head as your mouth works her wet length, your tongue swirling around the tip while you suck eagerly.
A moan rips from her throat, her thighs trembling as pleasure rockets through her.
She grips your hair tighter, fucking your mouth with shallow, desperate strokes while her head falls back, completely lost to the sensation.
Her red hair falls wildly around her face and shoulders, green eyes squeezed shut as she rocks her hips forward, feeding you more of her length.
Your own hair is messy from her fingers, face flushed and dripping with saliva as you enthusiastically take her, cheeks hollowing out with each suck.
Natasha's large, round breasts bounce freely with each thrust into your mouth. Yours heave with every breath you take around her length.
Natasha's thick, veiny length glistens with a mix of spit and precum, stretching your lips wide as you suck her. Her green eyes are still rolled back, mouth open in a silent moan.
Your jaw works overtime, tongue flattened against her shaft while you bob your head eagerly, cheeks caving with each greedy suck as a string of saliva connects with each suck.
Natasha's green eyes flutter open, half-lidded and glassy with pleasure as she looks down at you. Her gaze is fixated on her length disappearing between your stretched lips, a low groan rumbling in her chest at the sight.
She watches, transfixed, as your mouth works her over eagerly, the wet sounds of your sucking filling the room.
With a pop, Natasha pulls her length out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip.
She drags the wet head down your between the valley of your breasts, coating each before moving lower.
She presses the tip against your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that make your whole body shudder.
"I need to come so bad..." Natasha moans, her voice trembling with desperation.
She rubs her wet tip against your clit, teasing you both mercilessly.
You respond by spreading your legs wider and arching your back, wordlessly begging for her to fill you again.
"Then fuck me," you whisper breathlessly, your hips lifting toward her.
Natasha groans, sinking her length deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
"Fuck—" she gasps, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as she starts moving, chasing her release with every deep stroke. Her pace quickens, chasing that edge.
Your eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you grip the sheets beneath you.
"I'm— I'm close," you gasp, your walls tightening around her in warning.
Natasha pushes deeper, her hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, two fingers pressing against it as she thrusts harder.
"Come on my dick," she demands it, her fingers rubbing tight circles against your sensitive bud as she drives into you relentlessly.
The pressure snaps instantly, your back bowing off the mattress as a scream tears from your throat. Your vision whites out, your entire body shaking violently as you clamp down around her, dragging her over the edge with you.
"That's it, baby," she grits out, pounding you through it. "Fuck!"
Natasha's entire body goes rigid above you, her length pulsing deeply inside you as she comes with a strangled cry. Her hips stutter, losing rhythm as she spills into you, painting your tight walls white with her thick release.
Her head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone as aftershocks wrack through her.
A broken moan vibrates against your skin, her fingers still pressed to your clit as she rides out every pulse inside you.
"You feel— fuck— can't stop—" She's trembling, entire body locked in the aftermath, completely undone beneath her usually composed exterior.
"Natasha..." you moan softly, your hands sliding up her trembling arms to hold onto her as your own orgasm fades.
Your body feels like jelly, completely spent and utterly satisfied. You nuzzle into the side of her neck, placing gentle kisses along her jaw as she catches her breath against you.
Natasha presses lingering, open mouthed kisses against your collarbone, her lips trembling against your skin.
It's a reverent, grounding touch, the final release of months upon months of tightly wound control finally snapping. She holds you impossibly close, burying her face in the crook of your neck as if anchoring herself to reality.
"I've needed this," she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with emotion. "Needed you—so fucking badly."
Her arms tighten around you practically painfully, 8 months of suppressed desire pouring out in every tender kiss she presses against your neck.
"You have no idea...How much I've craved your touch... your voice... your smile," she murmurs roughly, trailing kisses down to your chest. "Being with you—it's heaven. Pure, perfect heaven after so long in hell."
"I'm right here," you whisper softly, running your fingers through her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere." You tilt your head up to press a tender kiss on her lips, pouring all of your love and dedication into it. "I've been waiting for you, too."
Natasha's eyes flutter shut at your words, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans into your touch. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she just... exists in the moment with you.
For the first time in a long time, she feels at peace. At home.
Sevika knew that maybe She might've taken it too far. The argument you had last week had indeed not blown over the way she thought it would, you didn't come crawling back the way she thought you would. Though you were stubborn, just dragging it out to be dramatic, that had to be it... right?
The divorce papers that sat on the dining room table infront of her along with her pretty, little wife who looked pissed beyond belief -still- after a whole week was maddening. Her cock should not have twitched when she saw your cute frown, her cock shouldn't have twitched when you realised she wasn't going to entertain the idea so you pushed the papers closer.
But it did.
"I want a divorce, you're a terrible wife." You fold your arms, pouting like a kid in a candy store who had been told no.
Again, Sevika's cock twitched as she imagined those pouty lips wrapped around her shaft as you try to apologise for being so dramatic. "I'm not signing them baby, so you can go ahead and cancel that request."
Her lips twitch as you huff, she can't see it, but she does hear the way your foot stomps on the ground beneath the table. "Sevika you said my hair looked 'okay'. Okay?! I'm your wife and you don't love me anymoreee!!" The whiney tone in your voice, and the flush of your cheeks tells her everything she needs to know.
Even you know you're being dramatic now, but you made your bed and laying in it. Staying on this path because you're to stubborn to admit you maybe overreacted, so you did what you did best. Took it to the extreme.
"Baby, your hair looks amazing now, alright? You got dressed up all pretty to try and leave hm?" She doesn't miss the way your cheeks heat up, flushing a blotchy bright red. No matter how many years you'd been together a simple compliment from her was enough to get you heated.
"Well I-... yes." You whine quietly, avoiding her eyes, knowing she won't sign them because it wasn't actually what you wanted. Dramatics were your thing, it was what you did best. But this... maybe you'd taken it too far. Yet Sevika couldn't be more amused.
Like she knew you were hers and nothing would ever take that away from her. Not a piece of paper, not the law, not the universe. "Get up."
Her voice was immediately lower, dropping to that one she used when she expected compliance. Blind obedience. And you have to physically fight yourself to defy it, god you want to move, your panties were positively more soaked than they were when this conversation started.
"Get. Up. I'm not going to ask you again, wife. Move those feet and get that pretty ass over here, if I have to move you myself don't expect me to be gentle."
Maybe that's what you wanted. What you needed. Over the past week with your dramatics she hadn't touched you- she gave you space to cool off. Though you didn't need space, not really.
You needed her.
"I'm not moving." You keep your arms folded, you try to keep the defiant look on your face even if it falters when Sevika stands. It was hard not to be intimidated by her, she was 6ft 3 of solid muscle. Like an unbreakable brick wall, and your pussy did not get the message. You felt the little gush of arousal soak into the fabric as you clenched. You felt the tingle, that feeling of anticipation, like your cunt knew it was going to get wrecked before your mind had fully caught up.
The slow, almost lazy smirk that spreads all the way to her eyes is dangerous as she moves. There's no rush. She knows you won't run away, Sevika doesn't need to feel your panties to know how wet you are. She's your wife, she can see it in your eyes, they way your pupils are blown, the color easily missed. As she stops in front of you natrually you look up, your eyes meeting hers. The defiance is still there but she knows you're seconds away from breaking. One word. One gesture and you'll break.
"Up. Bend over, now. I'm not askin' love." Before your brain fully registers it, your body is moving, bent at the hips, forearms braced on the table with your palms flat on the wood. The divorce papers right in your face. Sevika steps up behind you, flipping up your flimsy little nightdress you wore- it was all a ploy for sure. You got dressed up so pretty, with easy access. All you needed was a good dicking down and you'd be fine. That's what she told herself, at least. "You're an asshole..."
The muttered words were quiet, ever so quiet but Sevika caught them. Instead of responding with words, she brought her hand down hard, the loud cracking of her hand connecting with your cheek echoed off the walls. "Maybe, but you married me, love. Ain't no going back on that. You're mine."
It was so simple to her. You were hers. Her property. She had you and now she wasn't letting you go... you were stuck in an invisible cage, because you could leave, but you knew you wouldn't. "I'm y-yours!" You cry out as her hand comes down hard on your other cheek, both now stinging and red, marked with her handprints.
"There's my girl."
‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹
No matter how many times you took it, her cock always stretched you out beyond belief. Every drag of her shaft against your inner walls elicited pathetic whines, accompanied by a small gasp each time her tip bullied that spot inside you. "So fuckin' tight baby, it's stretching you so good ain't it love?"
Her words came out forced, through pants and groans as her hips thrust over and over again. Her chest was flush against your back, forcing you down onto the table as she rut into you, giving you nowhere to go, making you take each inch- which you took perfectly. "Nghh 'vika it's s-so... ohh my god-"
Sevika groans into the back of your neck, her breath hot on the already sweaty skin as your walls flutter around her. One arm was around your neck, holding you in a headlock, ensuring you couldn't escape, the other gripping your hip so tight there was guaranteed to be finger shaped bruises there by morning. "Shh I know love, take it for me yeah? Yeahhh that's it good girl." Her hips pick up speed as your gasps get shorter, needier.
She couldn't help the loud groan that escapes her, like a werewolf mid transition as your walls clench and unclench around her shaft, strangling it to the point where its getting hard to move. "Goddamn it love... your cunt is trying to milk my cock huh? Is that what you want? Want me to put a baby in your belly and keep you with me forever, yeah?"
Whatever answer you could manage to spew from ypur lips wouldn't be enough evidence to contradict the way your pussy tightens around her at the mere thought of gettin all swollen with her offspring. "Nghh please baby please! Please... oh god pleaseee-" it's all your fucked out brain could muster up was to beg. The primal need to get bred was overwhelming. Like it was your purpose, because it was. Natrually. Though that wasn't what had you cumming over her cock.
Sevika moans, her hips stuttering as your cunt gushes all over her, soaking her cock and your inner thighs almost instantly. The thought in question? Little mini Sevika's. A little girl with her skin, her hair, her eyes. Or a little boy rough-housing with her mama... yeah. You needed it and you needed it now.
Despite wanting to blow her load right there and breed you, Sevika counts to ten over and over in her head as she keeps thrusting, her hand on your hips sliding around to slowly rub circles on your clit. "Look at those divorce papers baby, you don't want that do you, love? You want me to make you a mommy so so bad, don't ya?"
Her arm around your neck moves to grip your cheeks and force your head down to look directly at the papers. "I don't- mmph I don't wan' it! I wanna..." Words were becoming increasingly difficult to muster with each brush of her fingers on your clit and each slow, dragged out thrust of her hips. Sevika smirks, looking over your shoulder to see the papers completely ruined with drool, and maybe tears. She couldn't see your face but it was certainly wet with something, unfortunately not her cum though.
"Maybe we'll send the papers back like this, ruined just like your pretty little pussy will be when I'm done with you." Her hips still, filling you upto the brim as her pelvis sits perfectly flush against your ass cheeks, reveling in the way your cunt rhythmically clenches with each circle of her fingers on your sensitive nub. "Y-yeahhh..."
You didn't quite know what you were responding to anymore, all you know was that she spoke and you agreed. Your head tilts natrually as her breath ghosts your ear, taking the lobe between her teeth. "Tell me that you're sorry and you love me, baby."
She smirks as your hips grind back into her, desperately seeking the lost friction despite you still being so full of her cock. "I... 'm sorry... I don't wanna.. mmm get divorced." She pulls out slightly, just so she watch you fuck yourself on her cock- which you do immediately. Nails digging into the table, scrunching the papers slightly as you lose yourself in the pleasure of taking your wife wholey. "And?"
She gently slaps your cunt, chuckling atthe soft squeal that escapes you as you grind back on her cock. "And I love you, mmmph I love you so much!" She lets out a feral sound that almost sounds like a growl as she takes over once more. She lets go of your cheeks only to twist your hair around her fist, pulling it back to arch your back. "Good fucking girl, now let me breed this perfect little pussy."
With each pump of her cock you whine so prettily which only spurs her on. Holding her own orgasm back was getting increasingly difficult, especially with how fucked you were. Your pussy responded to each thrust with an obscene, wet squelch and tight squeeze. "That'sss it love squeeze me tight, just like that. So fuckin' perfect for me."
Each argument, all the dramatics, all the whining was worth it. Seeing you like this right now reminded her why she loved you- not because you were insanely hot and so fucking obedient- which was an added bonus. But because you did love her so deeply which was why you got so upset and dramatic over the little things, you wanted her to want you, because you wanted her just as badly.
"Fuuuck baby I'm filling you up-" Sevika's orgasm gets triggered by yours as you soak her shaft once more, cum dribbling out from your needy hole around her cock. Her hips stutter and still inside you as ropes of cum paint your inner wall, with her buried to the hilt it feels like she's shooting her load straight to your womb. "Mm 'vika I'm soo full..." your little, happy whine encourages another small dribble of cum to seep out of her cock, settling nice and deep inside you.
Sevika doesn't pull out, she never does after sex. Admittedly she loves the feelin of softening inside of you as you both come down together. "Gonna be such a pretty mommy, all nice 'n swollen for me. No more dovorce papers, no more whining about your hair. Mkay?" You nod, practically going limp on the dining table as you think about the future, all the babies your going to give your wife that you love so much.
scene : daniela wants to touch something 'tangible' to buss a nut in. Though you're her best friend she wants you.
content warning : tit sucking , jerking off , g!p daniela , Daniela being a pervert , riding , pet names , creampie , fem reader , dirty talk , kissing , hickeys.
author's note : so hey guys 😋 . m.list
Daniela groaned her head dropping back onto her pillows as her tv played some random porn video that she clicked on - the first one that showed up on the website. "F-fuck" she pumped her shaft over and over again the pre-cum dripping from her tip all the way down to her "blue balls.
She but down on the bottom of her lip, "It hurts so m'funkin bad.." her gaze drifted from the tv screen to the photo of you and her on her wall. Her dick twitched at the thought of her bending you over —
"no m'huggfuck." she hummed, "she's my best friend." but her hand didn't stop stroking her length. It got faster, her breathing got heavier and she closed her eyes.
— you were on her bed. Completely bent over as she shoved her whole shaft into you, though she stated that shed put
"only the tip in it pretty" she thought of how'd you moan, whimper, whine her name and ask her to give you her 'babies'.
"s-shit yn." her grip became tighter as she went around the tip of her length. "..oh gosh.. yn.. I'm so m'hard tor you right now." She whined, "wish i could just shove this huge cock into those plumb limps of yours." She kept murmuring to herself, completely clueless of your presence at her door.
You stood there shocked, your mouth dropped - she was moaning your name. Not just moaning, she was clearly imagining herself fucking your mouth and pussy. Though you watched in awe as the wet sounds from her hand moving was clearly drawing your attention away from the clear porn video playing on the tv.
You stood silent your own heat becoming wet from the sight. You considered stepping in or making your presence known or even letting her know you were standing at the door or in the same room as her.
Though as soon as you stepped in an item from her dresser dropped, you froze - daniela's movement slowed as she opened her eyes. You froze standing still as you guys eyes locked together.
Her hazel eyes meeting your brown ones.
However, she didn't stop as her hand continued moving over the tip. "oh fuck." she squeezed her length from the base.
"Are you gonna just stand there and watch me jerk my shit off or are you gonna come here and lemme burry my dick into your pretty pink hole.."
You froze at the vulgar language — "what?"
Daniela sighed— clearly enjoying your reaction, "your basically drooling over my cock pretty, do wanna ride it.?" You nodded subconsciously, biting down on your bottom lips.
"C'mon pretty, my dick don't bite, but my teeth do." Daniela smirked, looking at your tits as you walked over to her bed.
“Are those my joggers..?” She nodded towards the grey sweatpants that you were wearing, it was her you technically ‘borrowed’ it from her this morning when she was at work.
You nodded, “I borrowed them this morning— when you left..” you crawled over to her sitting on your knees between her legs on her bed. “..is that okay..?” you asked tilting your head to the side.
But Daniela was too distracted by your boobs as you talked, she was looking at your nipples that looked to be begging to be freed. You poked her shoulder, “my eyes are up here daniela.”
She looked up to you, smirking, “oh i know pretty — but, i don’t care if you wear my clothes.. your boobs are just so..” she sat up and reached out, her thumb rubbing over your nipple. Your breath hitched.
“Arms up pretty..” you followed arms up in the air as Daniela took off your white tank top. Her mouth came agar, “fuck..” you noticed her dick twitched at your boobs, like she was aching for you.
She cupped your right and left boob. “Just perfect for my hands pretty.. — you fit right into my palms..” she shifted her weigh, patting her lap.
You sat in her lap your clothed heat against her naked heat. “Lemme just taste you..” her mouth lowered to your boobs as your head leaned back whimpering.
She sucked like there was something to get out of your boob. Her tongue traced lines all across your nipple taking in the sweetness of your skin. She sucked on your chest her mouth moving to your neck then back down. Leaving a trail of hickeys across your body.
She then pulled away looking up at you.
“Imma fill you up with my fucking babies yea?” She nodded as you guys locked eyes, you nodded in sync. “..yeah..”
She tugged at the sweatpants, you shimmied to take it off and watched as daniela maundered underneath you so that you could fit her inside you. Her thumb grazed your heat, “oh fuck..you already that soaked for me pretty?”
You nodded, she smacked your ass causing you to whine in response. You giggled as she pulled your panties to the side, she grabbed the base of your cock rubbing it up and down your slick sticky folds. “So gushy fuck...”
You whined, “just.. put it in already..” becoming impossibly pathetically impatient by the moment.
She teased your entrance once more, “woah, i gotta savour this moment pretty.. unless you want me to full this pussy up seven times a week, twenty four hours a day for me..” you didn’t even think about what she said but you nodded anyways, at this point you just wanted daniela deep inside you.
She pushed in owning a moan / groan from the both of you. “S-shit.. ooh you tight as fuck ma.. damn.. just be gripping my shit like.. fuck..” her hands reached your waist as she guided you on how to ride her.
You took her all in and you moved back and forth, wet sounds echoing in her room. “ahh..dani..” she continued to guide you as your hands search for her baggy tee shirt gripping the tee. You looked down letting yourself go.
“Thats it baby, work for that cream pie.. m’fuck..” you felt her thrust into you, your pace quickened — chasing that feeling. “Dani.. dani.. m’close..” you leaned into her hold as she thrusted into you.
“Whose pussy does this belong to?” Daniela asked into your ear, her grip on your waist getting tighter and the skin slapping getting louder.
“Y-yours dani.. all m’yours..” you clenched harder, sucking her straight back in.
She whined, “oh I’m so fucking close, lemme nut in ya, yeah?” Your brain was so foggy you couldn’t recognise what she was asking so you. “I promise ah i’ll buy u.. hmpf’uckk..” she continued to pound into you, “..a plan B..”
You hid your face in her neck shock disagreeing with her rambling. “Mhm..no..i can’t..” but you gripped on daniela’s shirt, you were clenching hard on her cock.
“i wanna cum in you pretty..” she continued to thust into you hitting your cervix completely. “..imma give you mghh my baby.. bring us closer together yea..”
She pulled you in close, “yeah fuck c-cumin ma.. s-shit.. yn.” she thrusted straight up and into you, you clenched down so hard you could feel that one big vein on the aide of her cock.
Your legs shook, moaning into her neck. “hungg daniela..” she thrusted into you letting you ride out your orgasm, “oh gosh.. you really fit me perfectly in that pussy of yours..”
You went limp on her, you head rested in her shoulder. She pulled out causing all the cum to slowly drip out of your hole and onto Daniela’s abdomen. She smirked.
-> ❝ you’re a dancer for katseye and gets paired with daniela for a sexy choreo. the tension is so intense that you got hard, and daniela can’t hold back either, so she grabs you and go to somewhere private. ( the closet. ) ❞
warnings : – dom! daniela – penetration – cussing – cum inside – teasing – oral ( r! receiving ) – lowk pathetic reader – shy reader – i lowk made a new song and choreo – kissing – cussing
- notes : requested by anon. mdni !
the practice room feels electric tonight.
the choreographer just left after a brutal 4 hour session, yelling 'clean it up tomorrow!' before slamming the door. the lights are dimmed to the emergency strips, casting long blue shadows across the mirrors.
only you and daniela remain.
the new choreo is filthy—slow, sensual, extremely close contact. you’ve been paired with daniela for the center section because you’re tall, strong, and can lift her during the lift.
the song is dark, sultry r&b with heavy bass. every move is intimate. body rolls, hip isolations, hands sliding down waists, thighs pressing between thighs, chests brushing, lips almost touching.
you’re already nervous.
daniela is in a black sports bra and very low rise leggings that sit below her hips. sweat glistens on her collarbones and abs.
she looks at you through the mirror, eyes dark, a tiny smirk playing on her lips.
“ready?” she asks, voice low.
you nod, throat dry.
the music starts.
from the very first beat, she’s on you.
she presses her back against your front during the opening, rolling her hips slow and deep, grinding her ass directly against your crotch. you feel her heat through the thin fabric.
your cock twitches instantly. she notices and pushes back harder, rolling in a slow figure-eight that makes your breath hitch.
during the drop, she turns to face you, hands sliding up your chest, nails grazing your skin under your tank top. she leans in so close her lips brush your ear.
“you’re getting hard already?” she whispers, voice dripping with amusement. “we’re only 30 seconds in.”
your face burns.
your cock is now fully hard, straining painfully against your sweats, visibly tenting.
she feels it—presses her thigh between your legs, grinding against your bulge on purpose while doing a body roll.
every move after that feels like torture.
she grinds on you during the chorus.
she lets her hand ( totally not on purpose ) brush your erection multiple times. during the bridge, she drops low in front of you, face inches from your crotch, looking up with those dark eyes while rolling her body up slowly, lips parted.
you’re leaking pre-cum into your boxers, cock throbbing so hard it hurts.
by the final pose, her back to your front, your hand possessively on her waist, both of you breathing hard—she subtly grinds her ass back against your cock one last time, slow and filthy.
the music cuts.
you’re panting, sweating, painfully hard. daniela turns slowly to face you, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
she doesn’t say a word.
she just grabs your wrist, pulls you across the room toward the small storage closet at the back, and pushes you against the wall.
the storage room door barely clicks shut before daniela drops to her knees in front of you.
“you’ve been hard for me for the last forty minutes,” she says, voice low and rough. “now you’re gonna let me take care of it.”
she drops to her knees, yanks your sweats and boxers down in one rough motion.
your cock springs free. thick, pre-cum dripping steadily from the tip. she licks her lips. “fuck… look at you,” she breathes. “so fucking hard just from dancing with me.” you can’t answer. your cock twitches hard under her gaze.
she wraps one hand around the base, her fingers don’t even meet and gives you one firm stroke. you groan, hips jerking forward. she smirks knowing what she can do with you.
“so sensitive already huh?” she teases. “poor baby. all that dancing with me pressed up against you… must’ve been torture.”
before you can beg, she leans in and takes you into her mouth.
the heat is immediate. she doesn’t start slow—she sinks down halfway in one smooth motion, lips stretching around your girth, tongue pressing flat against the underside.
you moan loudly, one hand flying to the wall for balance, the other tangling in her hair.
she hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your balls. then she starts moving— deep bobs, taking more of you each time until her nose is brushing your pelvis.
she gags softly when you hit the back of her throat but doesn’t pull off. instead she swallows around you, throat fluttering, eyes watering but locked on yours the whole time.
“fuck, daniela—” you choke out.
she pulls off with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to your cock. her hand strokes you fast, slick and messy.
“you’re so fucking big,” she says, voice hoarse. “i can barely take all of you… but i’m gonna try.”
she dives back down—messier this time. spit drips from the corners of her mouth, runs down your shaft, coats your balls.
she sucks hard, hollowing her cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time she pulls back. the sounds are obscene—wet slurping, gagging, her soft moans vibrating around your cock.
you’re shaking. your thighs tremble. you can feel yourself getting dangerously close already.
“daniela, wait—i-i’m gonna—!”
she pulls off suddenly, hand still stroking you slowly.
her lips are swollen, shiny with spit, a thin string of saliva still connecting her to your tip.
“not yet,” she says, voice low and commanding. “you don’t get to cum until i say so.”
you whimper—actually whimper—hips twitching desperately.
she stands up, shoves her leggings and panties down in one motion, kicking them aside.
she’s soaked. her pussy glistening, clit swollen and peeking out. she turns around, bends over the stack of mats, ass up, back arched perfectly.
she looks over her shoulder at you, eyes dark.
“fuck me.”
you step forward, grip her hips, and push in and letting her feel every inch. she moans loud, head dropping forward, fingers gripping the mats.
“god—yes... fill me up baby...”
you bottom out, hips pressed flush against her ass, and still for a second—savoring how tight and hot she is.
then you start moving, deep thrusts that make her gasp every time you bottom out.
but daniela isn’t satisfied with slow.
“harder,” she demands, pushing back against you. “don’t be gentle. fuck me like you mean it.”
your grip on her hips tightens, and you start pounding into her, but harder, faster, and deeper. the sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the small room.
she cries out, back arching deeper, ass bouncing with every thrust.
“fuck! yes—right there, j-just right there—!” she moans, voice breaking. “don’t stop! oh! harder—give it to me!”
you rail her. relentless, cock slamming into her over and over, balls slapping her clit.
she’s soaking, wetness dripping down your thighs. her pussy clenches around you like a vice, trying to pull you deeper.
you reach around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast and rough. she sobs, thighs shaking violently.
“i’m gonna cum—” she gasps. “don’t stop. please don’t stop—”
you keep pounding, fingers working her clit, until she shatters, screaming your name, pussy spasming hard around your cock, gushing wet and hot.
you fuck her through it, deep and rough, until her legs give out.
you pull out, flip her onto her back on the mats, and push back inside in one thrust. she moans loudly, legs wrapping around your waist.
“fill me,” she begs, eyes locked on yours. “cmon' d-don't be a pussy.”
you thrust deep one last time and come hard.
thick fluids flooding her, spilling deep inside her pussy. she moans at the feeling, clenching around you, milking every drop.
you collapse on her shoulder, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. she wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you closer, kissing your neck softly.
“fuck…” she whispers, voice hoarse. “that was so good.”
you smile against her skin, still buried inside her, heart racing.
“y-yeah. it was.” she laughs breathlessly, then kisses you playing with your tongue.
“next time,” she murmurs against your lips, “we’re doing this in my room. i want to take my time with you.”
You’re the new transfer student who couldn’t care less about cliques, more focused on finishing your Lego builds than impressing anyone. When you casually shut down a jock’s hazing attempt, Daniela Avanzini — the school’s untouchable mean girl — takes notice.
She’s used to boys falling at her feet, not a Lego-obsessed masc girl who doesn’t even look twice at her. Intrigued, she makes it her mission to get your number, even if it means tearing down her own walls.
What starts as teasing and petty power games spirals into stolen kisses, jealousy, and late-night Lego “dates.”
The deeper she pulls you into her orbit, the more Daniela realizes she wants more than just a fling — she wants you. Between rumors, exes, and her fear of losing face, she has to decide if she’s brave enough to love you out loud.
— #Paring :: Daniela Avanzini x Masc g!p Reader
— #Warning :: High school/college AU (18-19), enemies-to-lovers, banter, jealousy, smut, possessiveness, fluff, angst.
— You transfer to a new school, completely indifferent to its cliques, spending lunch building Legos while everyone else whispers.
Chapter 2 :: “Text me maybe?”
— Daniela tries to embarrass you but only ends up more obsessed when you don’t flinch. She shifts from public games to chasing your attention, pestering you until she gets your number.
Chapter 3 :: “why are you so obsessed with me?”
— Daniela’s obsession with you only grows — she ditches her exes, starts shadowing you around school, and turns every “accidental” encounter into a flirt war.
Chapter 4 :: “So kiss me maybe..?”
— As Daniela’s walls begin to crack, she lets Reader see the truth behind her “mean girl” mask. What starts as small vulnerability turns into full-blown obsession, jealousy, and finally a public fallout when rumors spread across school.
Chapter 5 :: “Me and You”
— As Daniela and you grow closer, playful distractions turn into something real. She flirts her way through study sessions, defends you against her exes, and finally lets her walls down during a late-night Lego build — confessing feelings she never meant to have.
