Your hands scramble to find anything to hold on to against the cold wall. You hadn’t expected to be in this situation, but really, you should’ve.
“Fucking dragging me in, malen'kaya shlyushka.” Natasha’s voice is mixed with her panting into your ear, rough and quick. She knows she only has a few minutes with you before you both have to go back to the party. She’s making the most of them. The degradation—little slut—hits where it normally does, somewhere deep in you, but somehow it’s more arousing than normal, pulling you closer and closer to an orgasm. Perhaps it’s because there are people right outside the storage closet you’re getting fucked in. You can hear them discussing the music playing, can clearly make out one man’s distaste for Taylor Swift.
“Nat—please—fuck—“ You moan and try to hold the orgasm back, rising up on your toes. From behind you, Natasha chuckles and bites down on your shoulder, her hips continuing to pound the strap deeper into you.
“Shh, baby,” she growls, one hand holding your hip and the other twisting one of your nipples. “Don’t let people hear you. I’ll leave you desperate and stretched open, won’t even fuck you properly later.”
The threat is enough. You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, but it’s the only thing stopping you from screaming out as you cum. Your vision goes white for a moment, and you’re barely able to hear Natasha’s moans as she cums as well because of the ringing that floods your ears.
“Good girl. Such a good girl. Fuck, you’re so good for me.” Natasha sounds as wrecked as you feel, especially as she pulls out of you and tugs her pants back up. Your dress is pulled back down and into place right after, and just as you’re catching your breath, Natasha grabs your hips again and turns you to face her, catching your lips in a kiss. It’s just as full of want as you’ve both been for the last six minutes, but there’s a softer quality to it, something like a silent thanks.
When she finally pulls away from the kiss, Natasha brushes your hair out of your face, smiling at you like she hadn’t just fucked you thoroughly in record time with people right outside.
“Just needed to remind you who that pussy belongs to.”
You text Natasha from a bar because a man is not taking your hints to back off. She arrives by motorcycle and handles the situation accordingly. Then she fucks you to celebrate it. Featuring Liho.
featuring: possessive/protective Nat, spit kink (thank you to my unc anon), breeding kink
18+, NSFW, oneshot | 5.9k words
Based on the song from Victorious
ao3
This wasn't the first time this had happened.
It was always men, and it was always the ones who just didn't seem to get it. You liked to think you were a nice person—you genuinely tried to be, tried to lead with warmth and give people the benefit of the doubt—but maybe that was exactly the problem. Maybe the polite nod and the friendly smile read as something other than what it was, which was you being too kind to say what you actually meant, which was: please stop talking to me. Please take your cologne and your name-dropping and your incremental lean and redirect them toward literally any other person in this building.
Kate and Yelena had been gone for twenty-three minutes.
You'd clocked what they were up to the moment they'd both excused themselves to the bathroom at the same time, with the poorly concealed urgency of two people who had been eye-fucking each other across the table for the better part of an hour. You'd checked your phone with resignation, having seen this coming from the moment Yelena had suggested this particular bar—which had, you'd noted upon arrival, a single-occupancy bathroom that locked from the inside. You were happy for them. Genuinely, completely happy that they were in love and passionate about it in bar bathrooms on Friday nights. You were also alone now, your drink getting low, with a man standing approximately eight inches closer to you than he'd been when he first materialized at your elbow, and the gap was still shrinking.
He had been talking for a while now. You'd stopped absorbing the content of it around the five-minute mark, somewhere in the middle of his third celebrity name-drop, which you were fairly certain represented a one-time encounter he'd since promoted in his memory to a close personal friendship. Since then you'd been performing the minimum facial expressions required to sustain the impression of a conversation—a small nod here, a neutral sound there—turning your glass slowly on the bar and waiting for literally anything else to happen.
"—so at that point I just told him, look, I know more about this than you do—"
"Mm," you said.
"—and honestly the numbers backed me up completely—"
"Hm."
He shifted his weight, leaning further on the bar in a way that angled his whole body toward yours, and you noticed immediately. He had the confidence of someone who had never seriously entertained the possibility that this conversation might be going worse than he thought, not aggressive but something almost worse than aggressive, simply and completely certain of himself in a way that made your skin prickle. He'd had you at hello, if you were being honest with yourself. You had thought he was nice and this would simply be a casual conversation. And then he'd opened his mouth, and here you were.
He leaned in slightly when he laughed at something he'd said, and his breath reached you, and you thought very privately that he could use a mint. Several, maybe. A whole pack and a lifestyle change.
"You know what I mean?" he said.
"Totally," you said, having retained nothing.
He smiled, encouraged—the wrong reaction on your part, you knew it the moment his posture opened up—and his eyes dropped to your mouth in a way he'd been doing periodically for the last ten minutes, a recurring check that had started to make the back of your neck prickle. He looked back up and seemed to think the eye contact was going well.
"So what's your sign?" he asked.
"Stop," you said, laughing it off because it was a little funny, like a stop sign. You were still trying to be nice.
He laughed too. "You’re a funny one. Can I buy you a drink?”
"I'm good," you said, lifting your current one to demonstrate.
"Come on," he said, with the smile of someone who had decided your no was a negotiating position rather than an answer. "Let me get you something. I know the bartender."
You looked at him steadily. "No, thank you."
He smiled again, wider, like your refusal was a move in a game rather than a conclusion, and you thought if you had a dime for every name he'd dropped tonight, for every thinly supported claim, for every moment of this conversation—you'd be somewhere considerably more pleasant than this bar stool. He said something else, something about a rooftop bar nearby, and you were doing the math on how bad it would actually be to just text her, whether that was the nuclear option or just the sensible one, when his hand settled at your hip.
He wasn’t aggressive about it, not trying to hurt you or restrain you. He genuinely thought this was a reasonable course of action based on the way he perceived the conversation to be going.
It wasn't.
You went very still, but he kept talking. You weren't hearing it anymore. You pulled out your phone, angled it away from him, and typed. You knew she’d be able to decipher the words being typed, so it didn’t worry you that you couldn’t quite see the entire keyboard as your thumb slid against it.
Bar n Clement. Kate and Ylena in bthroom. Man tlking to me
The three dots appeared before you'd finished the sentence.
Are you okay?
He wont take th hint
On my way.
You locked your phone, tucked it away, and turned back to the man with the polite expression of someone who had just quietly solved the problem and was simply waiting for the solution to arrive.
"Sorry," you said. "You were saying?"
He was saying something about interest rates. You chose to sing the ABC’s in your head to pass the time.
(-)
You heard the motorcycle before the door opened.
It cut through everything—the music, the hum of conversation, the man who had now progressed to telling you about his apartment—and it didn't go to your ears so much as land somewhere lower, somewhere that didn't require conscious processing. A sound you'd learned to recognize the way you recognized her voice. Your body knew it before your brain had finished the sentence, some deep-wired thing that had developed over a year and a half of her arriving places and your nervous system treating it like a fixed point.
The door opened and she was moving before you'd fully located her in the room.
The leather jacket was the dark one, worn soft at the elbows and fitted to her like it had been made specifically for the geometry of her shoulders, which knowing Natasha it might well have been. Dark jeans, her boots, her hair down and longer than it had been last spring. She had all her ear piercings in, the small silver ones climbing the curve of her left ear, the simple ones in her lobes. When she was just herself, the version of herself that existed in the spaces between everything else, and you thought every time you saw her like this that it was your favorite version, which was saying something because you were partial to all of them.
She wasn't scanning the room. She already knew where you were. She'd known before she walked in.
Her eyes found you and she read the situation in the two seconds it took her to cross half the distance—the man at your side, the placement of his hand still at your hip, the careful neutral set of your face that she knew was not relaxed neutrality but managed neutrality, which were two different things and she had always been able to tell them apart. Something in her expression did a thing, like the physical look of a decision completing itself. She was already done deliberating before she reached you.
Natasha didn't look at him at all.
Her hand came to your jaw—warm, certain, the cool familiar weight of her rings—and she kissed you. You tasted coffee and underneath it the warmth that was just her, and you felt it move through you from the point of contact outward. Down your spine, into your fingertips, somewhere warm and low. The man ceased to be a factor you were tracking for several consecutive seconds.
Her thumb moved once across your cheekbone when she pulled back. Those green eyes, darker in the bar light, asked their question without asking it out loud.
You were fine. She already knew you were fine. She was checking anyway, because she always checked, because that was who she was underneath everything else.
The man had recalibrated. You could hear it in the way he broke the silence. "Okay, so—" his hand hadn't moved from your hip, and now his other arm was beginning to move, angling toward Natasha— "if you're both—I mean, I'm very open-minded—"
Natasha looked at his hand on your hip.
Then she looked at his face. The sequence of it was very controlled, very still, and you watched something happen to his expression in real time—the beginning of the understanding that he had fundamentally miscalculated something—and then his arm finished its motion, trying to loop around toward Natasha's shoulder.
She caught his wrist. One hand, smooth and immediate, and then she had his head and it met the bar with a sound that made the nearest tables go completely quiet. The efficiency of someone who had done this many times and saw no reason to perform it. He made a sound that was both startled and pained. She let him start to straighten and her knee found his stomach before he'd finished the motion, and the air went out of him entirely, and he folded. She stepped back and looked at him on the floor for a moment with the expression of someone completing a checklist, and then, almost as an afterthought, she placed one boot on his crotch and applied just enough weight to make her feelings on the matter clear.
She held it for a moment. Then she stepped off when she was satisfied.
The bar was very quiet.
Natasha reached past you for a cocktail napkin. She wiped her hands—methodical, unhurried, the way she did most things—and set it down. She looked at her hands briefly, checking, and then looked at you with an expression that had loosened around the edges, the loosening that happened when the thing she'd been carrying since your text had been handled and set down.
"Ready?" she said.
You looked at the floor. You looked at her. "We should probably—"
"No," she said.
"But—"
"No." Her hand found the small of your back, steady and familiar through your shirt, and she steered you toward the door with the calm certainty of someone who had already closed the chapter.
Outside, the night air was cool and smelled like the city, and the motorcycle sat at the curb where she'd left it, and Natasha was already pulling the spare helmet free and holding it out.
You took it and stood with it in your hands, looking at her in the low light from the bar window—hair loose around her shoulders, rings catching the light, the leather jacket, the small silver piercings along her ear—and felt the thing that had been sitting warm in your stomach since the sound of the engine on Clement Street.
"Nat."
She raised an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you—”
"He had it coming," she interrupted. The corner of her mouth twitched into her familiar smirk.
The laugh arrived before you could do anything about it. "Okay," you said. "Okay. But are we—should we be worried about—"
"Get on the bike, baby," she said.
You didn’t argue with that tone. She swung on in front of you with the easy automatic grace of someone who had been doing this for decades, and you wrapped your arms around her waist and pressed your face between her shoulder blades and felt the warmth of her through the leather, the solid reality of her back against your chest. The engine came alive beneath you both—low and certain, a sound you felt in your sternum—and just before the helmet went on, she paused.
"The cops know better by now," she said.
You didn’t question it.
(-)
Natasha kept her eyes on the road and let the rhythm of the bike work through her the way it always did, stripping things down to their simplest version.
She'd been moving before she'd finished your text. She had just grabbed her jacket and her keys without deliberation. The whole ride over she'd been running the numbers on how long you'd been sitting there being polite while some man who didn't deserve a minute of your time had taken twenty-four of them, and by the time she'd walked through that door she'd already decided.
She hadn't been angry, exactly. Anger was loud and imprecise and she'd never found much use for it. What she'd been was certain, in the way she was certain about things that mattered to her—clear-eyed and calm and entirely, completely sure of what was going to happen next.
You pressed closer against her back through a long curve and she felt your arms tighten at her waist and one hand press flat against her stomach briefly, just a moment of contact, and it moved through her chest and settled there warm in a way she'd stopped trying to catalog because the catalog had gotten too long.
Mine, something in her said, the way it always said it. Simple and blunt and not interested in being argued with.
Yeah, she told it. I know.
(-)
The apartment was quiet when you got in, smelling like home, and Liho appeared from the hallway within seconds—black cat, hazel eyes. She wound around Natasha's ankles with focused thoroughness and then, after visible deliberation, extended the same courtesy to you.
"Hi, Liho," you said. “Have you behaved?”
Liho walked away, which was the typical response you got.
Natasha hung up the leather jacket and turned, finding you watching her with an expression she recognized—that look, the one you had when you were feeling something large and hadn't decided what to do with it yet. She crossed the room, taking your face in her hands and kissing you. You got your hands into the front of her shirt, and she walked you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
She sat you on the edge of the bed and stood in front of you in the lamplight and just looked at you for a moment, really looked, the way she let herself look in rooms like this one when there was no performance required of her. She'd seen you in lamplight hundreds of times by now, in this room and in rooms that weren't this room, and she should have been past the part where the sight of you did something to her chest. She wasn't past it. She suspected she never would be.
She reached for her own shirt first and pulled it over her head, set it aside, stood there in the unselfconscious way she'd arrived at gradually over years—the scars, the map of everything she'd survived written into her skin, none of it something she needed to manage or explain. You looked at her the way you always looked at her and she felt it land in the place it always landed, which was the place she'd never thought to armor because she hadn't known anyone would aim there.
She reached for you, undressing you with careful hands, each piece of clothing removed deliberately, her eyes following what her hands uncovered with the focused attention she gave to things she found worth her full care. By the time she pressed you back against the pillows there was warmth in her chest alongside everything else, something she'd stopped trying to name because naming it hadn't ever done justice to it. She settled over you and looked at your face again in the lamplight.
She kissed your throat first, finding the spot below your ear that she'd mapped the very first time and committed to memory because your breath changed there without fail. She let herself stay there for a while because she wanted to, her mouth warm against your pulse point, feeling your heartbeat quicken under her lips while her hands moved down your sides in long, slow strokes. She found your breast and her thumb traced circles against it until you arched into her hand, and she kept the pace deliberate, not rushing toward anything, letting the warmth build at whatever pace it wanted to build.
She kissed down your body after—your collarbone, the center of your chest, the soft curve of your ribs—pressing her lips to each place with intention, spending time where your breathing changed. She found the birthmark at your hip and pressed her mouth there, acknowledging it, and felt the small sound you made above her move through her chest. She kissed along the inside of your hip where the skin was thin and sensitive and felt you shift against the mattress, and she took her time there too, not because she was teasing but because she was here and she wanted to be here, wanted every part of this the way she'd wanted it since the first time she'd understood that she wasn't going to stop wanting it.
She pushed your thighs apart gently and settled between them, looking up at you with dark eyes that seemed to explain everything she wanted to do to you.
She slid her hand up the inside of your thigh and found you through your underwear and pressed, and the sound she made at what she felt there was involuntary and entirely sincere—quiet and satisfied, something low in her pulling tight in response. She pressed again, feeling the soaked fabric give, and felt your hips tilt toward her hand before you'd decided to move them.
"Christ," she said softly, almost to herself. She rubbed slow circles against your cunt through the fabric, learning the pressure that made your thighs tremble, and listened to the sounds you were making above her get less managed. "You're soaked through. All of this is for me?"
“Natasha—please—"
"I know,” she said, grinning at you.
She hooked her fingers into your underwear and drew them down and off in one smooth motion, and then her hand was back and there was nothing between her and you. She slid through your folds slowly, thoroughly, the way she always started—learning you again even though she already knew every part of you. She pressed two fingers to your entrance and felt you clench toward them and held them there, not pushing in yet, just letting you feel the promise of it.
"You did a good job,” she said. “Texting me tonight. I hate that you had to deal with that.”
"Natasha," you said. "Please—can you just—”
She pushed inside, both fingers deep and immediate, your back coming off the mattress before she'd finished the motion. She curled them on the first stroke, finding the right place with the accuracy of someone who had learned you completely, and the sensation of that curl dragging against your inner walls made you make a sound that filled the room entirely. She held that angle and started to move—not slow, because tonight wasn't a slow night, because she could feel how wound up you were and had been since the bar—purposeful and steady, the curl on every stroke deliberate, her thumb finding your clit and pressing in circles that matched her rhythm. Her free hand spread flat across your lower stomach and she felt the movement of her fingers from the outside and you clenching around her.
"Natasha—" Your voice was already broken at the edges. "I'm already—I'm going to—"
"Not yet." She eased the pressure by a fraction, held you right at the edge with the particular patience of someone who found the edge interesting. "You can wait."
"I really—I genuinely—Nat—please—"
"You can," she said, against your hip. "You're going to be so good about it." Her fingers pressed deeper and you made a sound that wasn't a word. "Aren't you?”
"Yes—yes, please—I'll wait—"
"Good girl." She felt you clench hard at that, the immediate response you always had, and the pull in her stomach went sharp and low. She added a third finger gradually, feeling you stretch around them, heard the sound you made—different from the others, fuller—and held there for a long moment, just letting you feel it, before she began to move again. The fullness of all three, the curl on every stroke, her thumb working your clit without mercy, was intoxicatingly intense and you were gripping the sheets in both fists, making sounds that had moved well past language.
She built it and held it and built it and held it—watching your face the whole time, reading every shift and sound and the way your expression kept cresting toward something and falling back—and when she finally pressed her thumb hard over your clit and curled her fingers one final time and said "okay", the orgasm that broke over you came from somewhere compressed and suddenly released, rolling through you in long deep waves. Your back came fully off the mattress, your thighs locked around her hand, and she worked you through every second of it without stopping until you were trembling and pulling weakly at her wrist.
She slid free, looking at her hand for a moment. Then she started moving down your body.
Her lips at your ribs, your stomach, the soft skin below your navel, each place acknowledged with the warm press of her mouth. She found the mark she'd left at your hip and pressed her mouth there briefly, and then settled between your thighs and looked up at you.
She let the spit gather slow in her mouth and released it—warm and deliberate, landing directly on your cunt—and the sound you made was completely undignified and she felt a low pull of satisfaction move through her at it before she lowered her head.
The first press of her tongue was thorough and exploratory, moving through your folds like she was relearning something she already knew. She didn't go to your clit first. She mapped the rest of you with slow attention, the taste of you moving through her, and you found her hair with one hand and held on without directing. Her tongue moved and she heard every sound you made in response.
Then her hands slid under your thighs and pushed them wide.
She was strong, and the experience of her using that strength to hold your thighs open and simply keep them there—while your body tried instinctively to close them against the overwhelm and found that it couldn't, that she was simply holding you where she wanted you without apparent effort—registered in a category entirely its own. She held you wide and lowered her mouth to your clit and the sound you made was loud enough that she was briefly aware of Liho somewhere in the apartment making a mildly concerned noise, and she didn't slow down at all.
She worked your clit with focused attention, in tight circles that varied just enough to keep your whole body chasing, pressure building and redirecting, her arms locked around your thighs. Then she sealed her lips around it and sucked once, brief and precise, and the sound you made filled the room completely.
She pressed the flat of her tongue against you and held. She didn't move and your hand in her hair was not gentle anymore and she didn’t care. She held your thighs wide and stayed exactly where she was, your back coming fully off the mattress again. The orgasm arrived enormous and deep, rolling through you in long waves that started in your chest and moved outward, and she stayed through every second of it—licking you through each wave, easing gradually as the oversensitivity built—until you were trembling and making sounds that were nearly the word stop.
She lifted her head, looking at you. You were flushed, your chest heaving, barely coherent—exactly what she loved seeing. She crawled up your body again, strong biceps supporting her weight over you. She cocked her head to the side, an idea visibly forming on her face.
"Say ahh," she said, her voice very close to a coo.
Your brain processed that slowly and opened your mouth.
She grinned in satisfaction, leaning over you and letting the spit gather and fall from her lips to your tongue in one slow, warm drip. You felt it land on your tongue, the weight of your taste left in her mouth and the thought of what had just happened at the same time, and then she kissed you—deep and slow, her tongue moving against yours. You barely kept up, your body still reacting to the act in ways you didn’t know how to explain. She pulled back and looked at you for a long moment with that open expression, the one that only surfaced in rooms like this one, and then she reached for the nightstand.
She got the harness on with practiced efficiency, no ceremony, the way she approached everything she'd already decided. She checked the reservoir carefully, ran her thumb along it, and came back between your thighs and looked down at you in the lamplight.
"Still with me?" she asked.
You made a sound that was approximately yes.
"Good." She settled her weight, lining the strap up against your entrance, and she pressed forward slowly, watching your face the entire time. She felt you stretch around the strap as she pushed inside, the ridging catching at your entrance and dragging along your inner walls on the way in, each ridge distinct and registering clearly in your oversensitized body.
Once she bottomed out inside of you, she held there for a long moment—both of you breathing, the strap fully seated, the base of the harness against her clit—and she let you feel the fullness of it, the warmth of what was already inside you, before she started to move.
The rhythm she built was deep and deliberate, long strokes that gave you everything on every push forward, the ridging dragging back along your inner walls on every pull. She felt the base grinding against her clit on each stroke and the accumulation of it was something she had to focus through, the pleasure building steadily alongside yours. At the deepest point the strap filled you completely and she held there on each stroke for a half-beat longer than necessary just to feel it, just to hear the sound you made at the fullness of it.
"You feel incredible," she said in a low tone, and she meant it completely. "So perfect. Taking me so well." She moved deeper and you made a sound that went straight through her. "Mine. You understand that? All of this is mine."
"Yes—" Not really a word.
"Good—fuck—good girl." She kept the rhythm steady and deep, her breathing going less even with each stroke, the base working against her. The sounds you were making were just sounds, incoherent and unmanaged, filling the quiet apartment. She groaned softly on a particularly deep stroke, the sensation of the base against her clit sharp and exact, and she felt your nails in her back at the sound.
Natasha was shaking slightly with the effort of maintaining herself through it, the base relentless, and she pressed the mechanism at the bottom of each deep stroke, small measured releases, and felt more fake cum filling you each time. Every time she bottomed out she could feel it, the increasing warmth and fullness of you around the strap.
She pulled out and grabbed your hips and flipped you, and before you'd finished registering the position change she pushed back inside from behind. The angle was entirely different—deeper, more direct—and you dropped onto your forearms with a sound that filled the room. She grabbed a handful of your hair, gentle enough not to hurt, tilting your head back slightly, and she felt you push back toward her, your body asking for more before you could have formed the words.
She gave it to you. Of course she did.
She moved fast from here, the rhythm she'd been managing coming loose, her hips striking yours with a sound she felt in her sternum. She was groaning on the deep strokes—the base against her clit, the feeling of being inside you, the sounds you were making below her all layering into something she was losing the edges of.
Her hand came down on your ass—clean and sharp—and she felt you clench hard around the strap at the impact and she hissed through her teeth and smoothed her palm over the heat before doing it again, lower. You made a sound that was not a word and she groaned at it and reached around to find your clit with her fingers.
"Come on," she breathed. "Give it to me. You're so—god—" Her rhythm stuttered slightly and it took her longer than either of you expected to steady it. "So perfect. Mine. Say it."
"Yours—" Not quite a word. "Yours—please—"
She felt you clenching toward another orgasm and moved harder and you came apart. She groaned through it with you and then pulled you upright—her arm hauling you back against her chest, the strap still buried inside you, your back against her front. She held you there with one arm across your chest and her hand splayed across your stomach, and you grabbed her forearm with both hands and held on.
She rolled her hips slow and deep and from this angle the strap hit somewhere new and the sound you made against her throat was broken and helpless. You both loved it.
"I've always protected you," she said, into your ear. Low and certain, nothing performed in it, just true—the way the truest things came out of her, plainly, like stating something decided long ago. "I'll always protect you. You know that."
It was said in desperation, like she needed you to know. She needed you to understand it. You were hers, and she would never let anyone harm you. She’d slam every man who annoyed you into a bar, and she would break any law she needed to, if it meant you were safe and happy.
"You're mine," she said. "So fucking mine." Her hips thrusted deeper and you sobbed. "And you're going to feel that. Right now. You're going to feel exactly who you belong to."
You came completely apart.
She held you through every wave and then eased you down—one hand gentle between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward until your face was in the pillow and your hips were up—and she moved with everything she had left. Her arms were trembling on either side of you with the sustained effort of it, the base of the harness grinding against her clit on every stroke, and her groans were real and uncontrolled as she approached her own orgasm. Each thrust brought her close, and it was the way you arched into her even in your current fucked-out state that allowed her to fall over the edge.
She pushed deep and held there, pressing the mechanism for the last time, giving you the full release. Her whole body was shuddering, her breaths uneven through her parted lips, beads of sweat forming on her brow.
Natasha’s forehead dropped to the back of your shoulder, both of you breathing in the quiet apartment. When she could move without falling on top of you, she pulled out slowly, shushing you softly when you whined.
She reached between your thighs after removing the strap—gentle now, entirely gentle, the shift from one thing to this happening without a gap or an announcement, just a change in temperature—and felt where the fake cum had begun to slip out. She pressed it back in slowly, two fingers careful and deliberate. You made a small sound, and she kept going, until she was satisfied.
"There," she said softly. Maybe it was to you. Maybe to herself. Maybe just to the room.
She cleaned you up with a warm cloth from the bathroom—careful with every mark, her lips pressing briefly and without comment to the ones at your hips—and got you into the sheets with the efficient tenderness she brought to this part every time. She lay down beside you, and you turned into her immediately. She let you, her arm coming around your back, her chin at the top of your head. Her fingers began their slow arcs along your spine.
You lay there in the warmth of her and felt your heart rate making its slow return to something resembling normal. The city outside did whatever cities did, and in here there was just the lamplight and both of you breathing.
The mattress dipped, and Natasha smiled into your skin.
Liho landed with the authority of a cat executing a decision that didn't require anyone's input. She walked the full length of the bed, assessed the situation with hazel eyes that missed nothing, turned in a precise circle, and settled against Natasha's side. Her small warm weight pressed against you both.
One small black paw extended and came to rest on your neck, and you didn't move it.
Natasha's hand migrated from your back to Liho's fur and then back, the same slow rhythm for both without any apparent awareness that she was doing it, and you felt that somewhere in your chest in a way that didn't need explaining. The tenderness of being included in the same motion as something else she loved and would never fully admit to loving.
A long quiet settled. Liho purred. Your eyes were closed.
"She’s beautiful, isn’t she?" Natasha mused quietly to Liho, the way she talked to Liho when she thought you were asleep.
Liho purred once, an agreement.
"There was a man," Natasha said, with the serenity of someone reporting mild weather. "He had his hand on her hip." The hand in your hair stilled briefly. Then resumed. "He made a miscalculation."
Liho made a small sound, and Natasha interpreted it as a knowing laugh.
"She's mine," Natasha said, the way she said things she had decided were simply true and required no further support. "And I’m glad she trusts me with that.”
Liho flexed her small paw against your neck.
"Think I’ve been softened up," Natasha laughed, sighing at the end as she stared at the ceiling for a few moments before her eyes came back down to Liho. “Did you ever expect that?”
Liho purred again. Natasha could’ve sworn the cat said “yes, I did”.
Natasha laughed once again, closing her eyes and burying her face in your neck. You smelled like yourself, but you had her scent as well, and that comforted her in a way nothing else could.
Liho was the last to fall asleep, settled against both of you like she knew it was right where she belonged.
And somewhere, probably at home with his golden doodle named “Gracie”, the man from the bar held a bag of frozen peas to his crotch and whimpered with every breath he took.
You didn't mean for it to happen (yes, you did). You let a bartender flirt with you for twenty minutes while Natasha watched from across the bar, because you liked the look on her face. You maybe hadn't thought it all the way through. Natasha had. Natasha also had a sharpie.
Natasha x Fem Reader (for the love of god please be gentle with me this is not my usual stuff and this took so much courage to post)
18+, NSFW oneshot | 6.8k words
ao3
The bartender's name was Jake, or maybe Jack, or possibly something that started with a J that you had already stopped caring about approximately eight minutes into the conversation.
You were paying attention to Natasha instead.
Specifically to the stillness that had settled over her in the last few minutes, the kind that wasn't relaxed at all—the coiled, dangerous, watching kind of stillness you'd learned to recognize the way you learned to read weather. The way the air changed before a storm moved in, that particular drop in pressure that meant something was coming and there was no point pretending otherwise.
Natasha was leaning against the far end of the bar with her drink loosely in hand and her eyes fixed on you, looking completely calm, and she was absolutely not calm at all. You could tell by the line of her jaw, gone tight in a way she probably didn't know was visible. By the way her thumb moved slowly and deliberately over the condensation on her glass, round and round, a motion that looked idle and wasn't. By the quality of her gaze, which had shifted somewhere in the last ten minutes from I'm watching because I always watch to I'm watching because I have already decided something, and you felt that shift from across the room like a change in the air, like the moment before thunder when everything holds its breath.
Jake-or-Jack said something. You laughed, because it was the social thing to do, and also because you caught Natasha's jaw tighten fractionally from across the bar and felt warmth bloom low in your stomach that had nothing to do with the bartender and everything to do with her.
You hadn't meant for this to happen, exactly.
Okay…you had maybe, a little bit, meant for this to happen.
It had started innocuously enough—your usual Friday, your usual bar, the one tucked down a side street that nobody found unless they were looking for it, with its low lighting and decent whiskey and a jukebox someone kept loading with Fleetwood Mac and old Motown. A corner booth had become so thoroughly yours over two years together that you half-expected to find your names worn into the wood. You'd been sitting at the bar while Natasha grabbed the booth, and the new bartender had materialized in front of you with the focused energy of someone making their intentions very clear, and you had glanced over your shoulder without quite meaning to.
Natasha had been looking back at you from across the room with that expression. The low, flat one. The one that promised several things. Your brain had made a decision that the rest of you hadn't been fully consulted on, because you turned back to the bartender and smiled at him. Something across the room had gone very, very still.
That had been twenty minutes ago.
In your defense, you hadn't thought it all the way through.
The problem with loving Natasha Romanoff was that the most dangerous thing about her had never been her training or her aim or the efficiency with which she could dismantle a room full of people. The most dangerous thing about her was the way she looked at you when she'd made a decision, and you'd been living with that danger for two years, and apparently you had not built up as much immunity as you'd thought. Every time she leveled that gaze at you from across a room, your body responded before your brain got a vote, warmth spreading through your chest and down into your stomach and further, and you'd gotten very good at pretending you weren't affected and very bad at actually not being affected, and that was the situation you were currently in.
Jake-or-Jack leaned a little closer and said something about your eyes, which was not a particularly original line. You were opening your mouth to respond with something noncommittal—you'd been about to wrap this up, because twenty minutes felt like enough and Natasha's silence from across the room had crossed a threshold you could feel in your chest—when a hand closed around your wrist.
Sure and steady, fingers curling around the inside of your wrist right over your pulse point, which was doing things it had no business doing in a crowded bar. You knew whose hand it was before you turned around. You'd have known it anywhere, in any light, in total silence.
"We're leaving," Natasha said. She said it to you, not to the bartender, without room for negotiation. Her eyes hadn't moved off your face. In your peripheral vision, the bartender had gone very quiet in the specific way people went quiet when they realized they'd fundamentally misunderstood a situation they'd wandered into. Natasha picked up your jacket from the barstool with her free hand, held your wrist with the other, and then glanced at the bartender exactly once with an expression that contained an entire paragraph without a single word.
The bartender took a small step back.
Smart, you thought, as Natasha steered you toward the door. Very smart of him.
(-)
The night air was cool when you stepped outside, carrying the smell of rain that had fallen earlier in the evening, the pavement still dark with it, the streetlights catching the wet surface and scattering light in long pale streaks. Natasha's hand had migrated from your wrist to the small of your back—guiding, certain, the steady pressure of her palm through your shirt saying this way without saying anything at all. Three blocks between the bar and your apartment. She didn't speak for any of them, and you'd been with her long enough to know the texture of her silences, to understand what lived inside them. This one wasn't cold or angry. It was focused the way Natasha got focused when she'd made a decision and was moving toward it with her full attention, and you'd learned a long time ago that focused Natasha was its own category entirely. One that made the hair on your arms stand up, your pace quicken slightly, and your heart do something unreasonable against your ribs for the entire three blocks.
You got the door open, stepped inside, and made it exactly two steps into the entryway.
Then Natasha's hand spread flat between your shoulder blades and walked you forward until your back met the closed door with a soft thud that seemed very loud in the quiet apartment. She was right there behind you, and then beside you, and then in front of you—like the space between two points was a formality she was choosing to observe. Close enough that her breath was warm against your face in the dark, her body not quite pressing you into the door but near enough that you felt the heat of her along your whole front. The only light came from the city through the windows, catching the pale lines of her face, the green of her eyes that had gone very dark.
She looked at you for a long moment without speaking, like she was reading something carefully and wanted to get every word exactly right before she committed to it.
The apartment was quiet around you. The refrigerator hummed somewhere in the kitchen. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping brief and pale through the window and gone. You stood in the dark entryway with your back against the door and Natasha in front of you and your pulse going absolutely haywire, and you waited.
"You looked at me first," she said finally, unhurried. "Before you smiled at him." Her head tilted fractionally to the right. "You wanted to see what I'd do."
She wasn't wrong. She'd never been wrong about you—not since the second week you'd known each other, not once in two years, not about anything that actually mattered. You'd known exactly what you were doing at that bar and you'd done it anyway, because the look on Natasha's face when she decided something was worth almost any consequence, and the look on her face right now, here in the dark of your entryway with the city light catching her eyes, was confirming that assessment entirely.
Her eyes dropped briefly to your throat—to the place where your pulse was visible, giving you away completely—and her expression settled into one of satisfaction.
Then she kissed you, and you stopped thinking.
Her hand came up to grip your jaw and tip your head back, her mouth covering yours with the focused certainty of someone who had already decided what she wanted and was simply taking it. You made a sound against her lips and her grip tightened just enough to feel, just enough to know she had you exactly where she wanted you, and your hands found the front of her jacket and grabbed on. She kissed you until you were breathless and then she kept kissing you thoroughly, like she had all the time in the world and wasn't planning to waste any of it. The heat of her mouth and the press of her fingers against your jaw and the solid reality of the door behind you combined into something that made your knees unreliable, and you held on tighter.
When she finally pulled back it was only far enough to speak, her lips still brushing yours, her breath warm against your mouth.
"He was looking at you," she said, her voice perfectly even, "like you were something he could just decide to want. Like there was any version of tonight where that was going somewhere." Her thumb moved against your jaw. "Did you like knowing I was watching?"
Your lips parted.
"Yeah," she said quietly, reading the answer off your face before you could find words for it. "I know you did." The corner of her mouth moved. "That's what I thought."
She bit your lower lip—precise, measured, the pressure building slow before it sharpened into something bright and clean—and the sensation of it shot down your spine, your hips pressing forward involuntarily. Natasha felt it and made a low sound against your mouth that was somehow more devastating than the bite itself. She did it again, slower, holding the pressure with the patient certainty of someone who knew exactly what it was doing to you and was doing it on purpose, and the sound that came out of you was not quiet. She released it and kissed down your jaw instead, lips and teeth both, taking her time with the line of it like she was mapping something she intended to revisit. Her mouth found the soft skin beneath your ear, her teeth grazing it, and you made a sound that echoed in the entryway. Your hands fisted hard in her jacket.
"Mine," she said into your throat. Her lips moved against the mark she'd just made, pressing the word into your skin. "You're mine." It carried the weight of something she meant all the way down, something that had been true for two years and that she said now like she needed you to feel it, not just hear it. "And I think you forgot that tonight. So I'm going to remind you."
She bit down on your throat—harder this time, the kind that would still be visible tomorrow—and you gasped, your head falling back against the door and your whole body arching toward her because there was nothing else to do with itself. She worked the mark with her lips, pressing warmth into it, and then found a new spot lower on your neck and did it again. Your hands were pulling at her jacket uselessly and your hips were searching for friction that wasn't there yet.
Her hand left your jaw and found your hip instead, gripping hard through the denim, and she pulled you off the door, turning you toward the hallway with her mouth still at your throat. She guided you with the calm efficiency of someone who had already mapped out exactly where this was going and was simply executing the plan.
The bedroom lamp was already on from earlier, throwing the room in warm amber that caught the edges of things and softened them—the rumpled corner of the duvet where you'd sat to put your shoes on before leaving, the surface of the nightstand with its familiar clutter, the pale expanse of the bed. Natasha walked you to the foot of it and stopped, and you stopped with her, and she let go of your hip to look at you.
Really looked, like when she wasn't performing looking but actually doing it. Her eyes moved over your face, your expression, your mouth, the marks she'd already put on your throat that were going pink at the edges, and whatever she found there settled something in her own expression, some last piece of a decision clicking into place.
Her hands found the hem of your shirt, and she pulled it up and over your head in one smooth motion, dropping it somewhere behind her without glancing at it. She reached around and unclasped your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps off your shoulders and letting it fall. Then she stepped back and just looked at you in the amber light, completely at her pace, taking you in the way she sometimes did when she thought you weren't noticing—like you were something worth stopping for.
You stood there under her eyes and felt the weight of them everywhere they landed. Your collarbone. The curve of your breasts. The soft plane of your stomach. She tracked all of it with the focused attention she gave to things that genuinely mattered to her, and your skin prickled in the wake of every place her gaze moved, warmth blooming beneath it like she was touching you without touching you at all.
"You know what I kept thinking about," she said, her voice quiet and conversational, "while I was sitting across that bar watching you?" She worked your jeans open—button, zip—and pushed the denim down over your hips with the same easy efficiency she brought to everything she'd decided to do. "I kept thinking about how everyone in that room could look at you and have absolutely no idea." You stepped out of the jeans. She hooked her fingers into your underwear and that followed, and then you were standing in nothing but the amber lamplight with Natasha still completely dressed and her eyes moving over you like she was reading something she'd written and was checking every word. "No idea you were already taken. No idea you'd come home with me. No idea that the only reason you were smiling at him was because you wanted to see my face when I'd had enough." She tilted her head. "We're going to fix that."
She turned to the nightstand. Opened the drawer—the bottom one, the one that was hers by habit and two years of accumulated presence—and reached past the familiar contents to something further back, something she'd clearly placed there recently. When she turned back around you had one full second to register what she was holding before your brain processed it.
A…black sharpie? You had expected the strap, maybe a vibrator.
She held your gaze and brought the marker to her teeth. Pulled the cap free. Spit it onto the nightstand without blinking, her eyes on yours the entire time, and the casual deliberateness of it—the easy confidence of someone who had thought this through and was now simply doing it—sent heat through you so fast it was almost dizzying. Your whole body flushed with it, a wave that started in your chest and moved outward to your fingertips, and Natasha watched it happen with dark, satisfied eyes.
"Lie down," she said. God knew you wouldn’t disobey.
The bedding was cool against your back, the lamp warm on your face, and you lay there in the amber light and watched Natasha settle onto the bed beside you, the marker in her hand, her eyes already moving over your skin like she was deciding where to begin.
Her free hand came to rest flat on your sternum, grounding you, and she held it there for a moment, feeling your heartbeat. It was going faster than usual, she could definitely feel that, and she was filing that away with satisfaction.
"I'm going to write on you," she said, like it was perfectly reasonable, like this was just what happened on Friday nights. "So you remember. So there's no confusion—for you or for anyone else—about who you belong to." Her thumb moved once in a slow arc over your sternum. "And you're going to lie still and let me do it."
She pressed the marker to the skin just below your collarbone and began.
You felt every stroke of it—the cool drag of the felt tip moving in clean lines, Natasha's eyes fixed on your skin with the same concentration she gave to anything she cared about doing correctly. She wrote N.R. in clean capital letters, each stroke of the marker intent and clear. When she finished she leaned down and pressed her lips to the letters, her mouth resting against the ink for a moment like she was sealing something in. Then she bit the skin just above them, the sensation pulling a ragged sound from your chest, your back arching off the bed.
She pressed her free hand flat on your sternum and pushed you back down without a word.
She moved to the curve of your left breast and wrote mine along the inner curve of it, lowercase, small and neat. Her lips followed each letter, kissing them, and then her teeth closed on the soft flesh above—held there, real pressure, long enough to make you grip the sheets and hold your breath—and released. She moved to your ribs, just below your heart, and she said the words aloud quietly as she wrote them, her first language falling from her mouth low and even: "moya malen'kaya shlyukha." Each word deliberate, shaped with a particularity that English didn't have room for. My little slut. Written on your ribs in the language she dreamed in, the language that lived closest to whatever was most true about her, and you felt those words go into your skin and stay there.
She kissed the Russian. Then she bit the skin directly below it, lower on your ribs where the flesh was more sensitive, and held the bite until your hands were fisted in the sheets, your hips pressing down into the mattress and a broken sound working its way continuously out of your throat. And then she released it and soothed the mark with her tongue.
"Good girl," she whispered, quiet and hypnotic, already moving lower.
She wrote belongs to N.R. across your stomach in full, large letters, her free hand pressing flat on your hip to hold you still when you shifted. You felt every letter form beneath the marker, the cool felt tip moving over your skin, and the combination of the sensation and the knowledge of what she was writing and the weight of her attention and the heat still blooming from every bite she'd left was building something in you that had moved well past want and into something more like desperation. Your skin felt oversensitized everywhere she'd touched, every bite mark a point of awareness, and she hadn't even gotten to the part where she touched you the way you needed. You were already so wound up it was embarrassing.
She moved lower still, her free hand pressing your left thigh open, and she wrote her initials on the inside of it—N.R. again, high up where the skin was thin and sensitive—and every single stroke of the marker there registered at double the intensity, your thigh flexing involuntarily under each one, a sound building steadily in your throat that you couldn't fully suppress. She held your thigh flat with her forearm when you tried to close your legs and took her time with it, each letter carefully precise, and when she finally sat back and looked at the full picture of what she'd made of you, you were breathing hard through your nose and your hands were twisted in the sheets and the ache between your legs had become something enormous.
Natasha looked at you in the amber light, her eyes moving over every mark in sequence—N.R. at your collarbone, mine on your breast, the Russian on your ribs, belongs to N.R. across your stomach, her initials high on your inner thigh—reading all of it, her expression private and thoroughly, completely satisfied. Like you were a room she had arranged exactly to her liking and was now standing in the doorway of, finding everything precisely where she'd intended it to be.
"Tam," she said softly, to herself and to you both. There.
She capped the marker and set it aside on the nightstand, her hand moving between your thighs and pressing against you fully—palm flat, fingers together, the whole weight of her hand cupping you. What she found there made her exhale slowly through her nose in a way that was somehow more devastating than anything she could have said.
"Oh," she said, low and intent, her hand not moving yet, just resting against you while she felt everything. The slick heat of you, soaking against her palm. The way you clenched instinctively at the contact, your body reaching for pressure it wasn't getting yet. She held her hand still and let you feel her there. Your hips tried to roll forward and her free arm pressed flat across your pelvis to hold you down again.
"Look at this," she said softly, almost to herself. Her fingers shifted, just slightly, parting you, and the slick sound of it in the quiet room made heat crawl up your chest. "You're soaking." She pressed two fingers against your entrance, holding them there, not pushing in, just the firm presence of them while you clenched desperately around nothing, and your whole body shuddered. "Absolutely soaking, and I've barely touched you."
She drew her fingers upward slowly, dragging through your folds, gathering heat and slick on the way to your clit, and pressed down in one firm steady circle that made your back bow completely off the bed, a moan tearing out of your throat loud enough to embarrass you. She kept the pressure—the same firm circle, again and again, merciless and even—and your thighs shook on either side of her hand, your hands abandoning the sheets to grab at the duvet. She watched your face fall apart with dark attentive eyes and did not let up.
"Who does this to you?" Her voice was completely even, like she was asking something mildly interesting rather than doing what she was doing to you. "Who gets you this desperate without even getting you to the bedroom first?"
"You," you gasped, your voice wrecked already. "Natasha—it's always you—only you—"
"That's right." She lifted her hand entirely.
The sound you made at the loss of it was not something you were going to think about later. Your hips chased after her fingers into empty air and found nothing, your whole body furious and bereft, and Natasha watched you do it with an expression of warm, focused satisfaction.
She brought her fingers to your lips and pressed them against your mouth—slick and sticky, carrying the evidence of how badly you'd wanted her for the past twenty minutes—and your lips parted for her on instinct, completely automatic. She pressed two fingers onto your tongue and you tasted yourself, salt and want. Natasha's eyes went somewhere very dark and very focused, fixed on your mouth with an intensity that made heat pool low all over again.
"Taste how wet you are," she said, quiet, watching every movement of your lips. "Every bit of that is mine. The fact that you get like this—" she pressed her fingers slightly deeper and you took them, "—is mine. The fact that some bartender couldn't get you half this wound up just by existing near you is mine." She held your eyes. "Your body already knows who it belongs to. Doesn't it?"
You nodded around her fingers, which was not the most dignified thing you'd ever done and you were entirely past caring.
She slid them free and kissed you instead, her tongue against yours so you tasted yourself on her mouth too, her free hand curving around your jaw like something she was keeping safe. When she pulled back she looked at you in the amber light—marked up and absolutely desperate—and the expression on her face was patient and certain.
Her eyes came up to yours and stayed there.
"Every mark on your skin is mine. Every sound you make in this room is mine. You went and smiled at that man and spent twenty minutes letting him think he had a chance, and every second of it you were already mine, had been mine, were going to come home with me and end up exactly here." She pressed her palm harder against the Russian writing for a moment and then released it. "Didn't you know that?"
"Yes," you said, meaning it completely.
Something in her expression softened without losing any of its heat, a shift so small someone who didn't know her would miss it entirely. But you did know her, had known her for two years, and you felt it like a change in the room's temperature. She leaned down and pressed her lips to your forehead, deliberately tender, and then sat back and looked at you with dark eyes.
"Come here then," she said. "Show me.”
You pushed yourself up and moved to straddle her thigh, her hands coming to your hips before you'd fully settled, positioning you with the calm authority of someone who had already decided exactly how this was going to go. She tilted your hips to the angle she'd chosen—slightly forward, the one that would give you the friction you needed while keeping control of how fast you got there firmly with her—and you sank down against the firm solid press of her thigh, the feeling of her muscle between your bare legs pulling a sound from you that filled the whole room.
The friction was immediate and overwhelming. The rough drag of denim against your bare, slick skin, the heat of her leg solid beneath you, the pressure hitting your clit on every roll of your hips. Your hands braced on her shoulders and your body found a rhythm before your brain had caught up with events. The fact that you could feel how wet you'd made the fabric of her jeans within seconds of settling against her was humiliating and you were completely past caring about it.
Natasha's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs moving slow over the marks she'd written there, tracing N.R. on your left hip with proprietary deliberateness, following the lines like she was reading something she'd authored and was revisiting. Her eyes moved over you constantly—your face, then your throat with its darkening bites, then the words on your collarbone and your ribs and your stomach, reading all of it, tracking each mark in sequence before coming back to your face to read what was happening there. You felt every place her gaze landed. Felt the weight of her attention moving over her own work, and something about being looked at like that, like you were something she'd made and was pleased with, made the heat in your lower belly spike sharply.
"There she is," Natasha said, her eyes still moving. "My pretty little slut. Right where she belongs."
Her grip on your hips shifted and pressed you forward, grinding you against her thigh with more friction. Your whole rhythm stuttered and you cried out, your nails digging into her shoulders. She guided you back to the pace without commenting on the sound you'd made.
"That's it. Work for it." Her eyes moved to the mine on your breast and stayed there for a moment, and then came back up to yours. "You let him look at you for twenty minutes," she said, conversationally, like this was a perfectly normal thing to be discussing while you were falling apart on her thigh.
"Twenty minutes of some man who doesn't know the first thing about you thinking he had a chance."
Her thumbs pressed into the marks on your hips, careful pressure.
"Your body was already doing this. Already wound up from across the bar because I was watching you." She tilted your hips again, a small adjustment, and the new angle made you keen and lose the rhythm entirely for a moment. "He couldn't have done that if he'd tried for an hour."
"No," you managed, barely a word.
"No," she agreed. Her right hand left your hip and came down sharp on your ass—a clean crack of her palm that made you lurch forward with a gasp, the sound and the sting blooming together. She caught you with her left hand and guided your hips back into the rhythm before the echo had faded.
"Keep moving." Her voice hadn't changed at all. Even and certain. "Don't stop."
You kept moving. The sting from her palm radiated heat through you that layered over the friction in a way that made your whole lower body feel electric, warmth spreading from the impact outward and downward, concentrating where you needed it. She let you find the rhythm again, gave you long enough to really chase it, to feel the build starting to steepen, and then her hand came down a second time, harder, on the other side. You cried out and your hips snapped forward involuntarily. She felt the way the impact made you grind harder against her and made a low sound of satisfaction deep in her throat.
"Good girl," she said, rubbing slow firm circles over where she'd struck, her palm soothing the heat she'd made, while her other hand kept your hips in motion. "You feel that? Your body can't even help it. Every time I touch you, every time I give you something, you take it and you want more." A third strike—harder still, on the same spot as the first—and you made a sound that wasn't a word and ground down against her thigh hard and she caught you and kept you moving, the rhythm she'd set relentless and steady. "That's mine too. Every greedy, desperate part of you is mine." She rubbed the mark slowly, thoroughly, the sting radiating into warmth under her palm. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasped. "I'm yours, Natasha—"
"Yeah, you are." Her hand gripped your hip again and tilted you slightly, and the angle change made the friction hit your clit directly with every roll, so precise and deliberate that it forced a broken, continuous sound out of you that you couldn't moderate. "You're mine, and you knew that when you sat at that bar and smiled at him, you wanted me to come over and take you home and remind you of it." Her free hand moved up your side and pressed flat over the Russian on your ribs—her palm steady over the ink, over her own words written into your skin—and held it there. "Didn't you?"
"Yes," you said, ragged and completely sincere.
"I know." She pressed her palm harder against the words on your ribs. "I know you did. And here you are." Her eyes moved over you once more, all of it, everything she'd marked and bitten and written, taking inventory. "Here you are, exactly where you wanted to end up."
Her voice shifted slightly, going private, the way it did when it was just the two of you and she forgot to hold back the part of her that was simply fond of you.
"My greedy girl." She tilted your hips forward, pressed you against her thigh with more friction than you'd had yet. You sobbed with it and your rhythm went completely to pieces. "Come on. I want to watch you."
The build was steep now, urgent, all the accumulated tension from the bar and the walk home and the entryway and the sharpie and her fingers on your tongue converging into something that was right there—right there, close enough that every roll of your hips was chasing it. Natasha's hands guided and her eyes moved over the marks she'd made and her voice kept going, steady and certain: good girl, that's it, you feel so good losing it like this, look at you, mine, all of this is mine, you came home with me and there was never any question was there, no, because you're mine and you know it—
Her right hand came down on your ass again, and you sobbed aloud, grinding down against her thigh and chasing the edge with everything you had, your nails leaving marks in her shoulders, your whole body shaking with want.
"Natasha—" The word came out broken. "I'm going to—please, I need to—"
"I know," she said. Her hand moved from your hip to the small of your back and pressed you forward, changing the angle one final time, and the new pressure against your clit was so perfectly placed that you couldn't breathe for a full second. Her other hand came to your jaw, tipped your face down to hers, made you look at her from inches away.
"Look at me," she said, her voice dropping low and very steady. "Right here. Eyes on me. Stay with me."
You looked at her. Her eyes were present and completely fixed on yours, holding you there with the same certainty she held everything she'd decided to keep, and there was something about being seen that completely—about having every part of you accounted for, looked at, held—that cracked something open in your chest even as everything else was cresting.
"Moya," she said. Soft and certain, just for the room. Mine.
Everything broke.
The orgasm came in a long rolling wave that moved through you from the inside out, your whole body shaking with it, Natasha's name leaving your mouth in pieces. Your thighs locked against her leg, your hands grabbing her shoulders, and she held you through every second of it—her hands firm and steady and grounding, her voice continuous in your ear, good girl, there you are, I've got you, that's it, mine, all mine, so good for me, stay with me, I've got you—talking you through every shudder until the wave finally ebbed and you went heavy and soft and boneless against her, your face dropping to the curve of her neck.
Her hands moved to your back. Long slow strokes from your shoulders to your hips and back, steady and unhurried, keeping you tethered to the room, to the bed, to her.
You stayed there for a while. Just breathing. The amber light, the warm sheets, the distant sound of the city through the window, the solid reality of her arms around you and her hands moving on your back and her heartbeat steady against your cheek. You let it all come back slowly, in pieces, the way it did after something that had taken everything from you and given it back rearranged.
"There she is," she said quietly, her lips pressed to your hair. "There you are."
She took care of you after, because she always did—damp cloth from the bathroom, brought back without ceremony, her hands gentle and methodical as she worked over your skin. You lay loose and boneless in the amber light and watched her face while she moved, the focused expression having softened into something that only surfaced in rooms like this one. Something that she didn't perform for anyone and that you'd come to understand was among the things she trusted you with most.
She was careful with every mark. The bites, she pressed the cloth to gently and then examined after, her eyes moving over each one like she was checking her work and finding it satisfactory. The ink she left entirely alone, tracing each piece of writing once with her fingertip as she passed, reading it again.
When she finished she set the cloth aside, laying down beside you, and you went into the space of her arm without having to think about it—two years of that particular muscle memory, the shape of her so deeply familiar that your body found it the way it found other things it needed. She pulled the blanket up over you both and the room settled around you, safe and quiet.
Her fingers moved into your hair. Slow passes from your forehead back, steady and even, the rhythm of it grounding you further with every stroke, the last tension leaving your shoulders by increments until you were fully, completely soft.
She held you like that for a long time without speaking. The city made its distant sounds. The lamp threw its amber warmth across the ceiling, and the shadows in the corners of the room were familiar and kind, and Natasha's heartbeat was steady against your cheek, and there was nowhere else you could possibly want to be.
Her lips pressed to the top of your head and rested there, right where they belonged.
"Moya," she murmured into your hair, barely above a breath. It was the same word she'd said all night. She’d said it at the entryway, said it during, said it at the end, but it was different now, stripped of the performance of possession, distilled down to something smaller and more essential. It wasn't a claim. It was just true, the way her heartbeat was true, the way the weight of her arm around you was true, the way two years of this—of her and you and the particular life you'd built in this apartment with its familiar corner booth at a bar three blocks away—was true. Something that didn't need to be proved or written into skin. Something that simply existed between you like it always had and always would.
You pressed your lips to her collarbone and felt her exhale, slow and even, and felt her arm tighten just slightly around your shoulders.
Outside, the city went on doing what cities did. In here, there was just the amber dark and the weight of the blanket and Natasha's hand moving through your hair in its slow steady rhythm, like she had the entire rest of the night and had chosen exactly this.
The marks would last a few days. The bites would be purple by morning, would soften to green and yellow by the middle of the week, would fade entirely by the weekend. The sharpie was another matter—it would smear in the shower if you weren't careful, ghost at the edges, migrate slightly with time, but the ink would cling longer than the bruises if you were gentle with it. And you thought you might be gentle. You thought you might want to look down at your collarbone tomorrow morning and find N.R. there looking back at you. You thought you might want that for as long as you could possibly keep it.
"Next time," Natasha said, her voice quiet and edged with something that was trying to sound casual, "maybe I do this to you back there."
You lifted your head to look at her. Her eyes were half-closed, the lamplight soft on her face, the corner of her mouth curved with something that wasn't quite trying to be innocent but was giving it a go.
"You'd let me," she said, which was completely true and you both knew it.
You put your head back down on her chest and felt the quiet laugh move through her, safe and real, felt it rise and subside, felt the return of her hand in your hair and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
"Moya," she said again, softer still, and it sounded like the last thing before sleep—something said not because it needed saying but because it was simply what was true and she wanted to say it one more time.
"Yours," you said into her skin.
The lamp held its amber warmth and the city kept its distance and Natasha's hand moved slow and easy through your hair. You fell asleep covered in her writing, held in her arms.
Right where you wanted to be, so maybe your plan had worked all along.
a/n: I dunno how to feel about this. Halfway through, I got an icky feeling, but I pushed through. I guess I don't hate it, but it was definitely a step out of the comfort zone. If it sucks, that'd be why :D
Wanda decides to make a boring meeting not so boring. Natasha is very thankful she has a good poker face.
18+, NSFW, oneshot | 6.3k words
A/N: Old one I never posted. I think I've gotten better at writing, at least marginally, so maybe this one isn't my best. But there's something about Wanda using her magic like this...I mean, she's the Scarlet Witch. She can rewrite reality. Obviously, she can use her magic for other things. I don't know, that's just my personal headcanon.
ao3
The thing about Avengers meetings was that they were almost always unnecessary.
Natasha had sat through approximately seven hundred of these things over the years—that was a conservative estimate, but probably accurate—and maybe ten percent of them had actually required everyone to be physically present. The rest could have been emails. Or texts. Or literally anything that didn't involve gathering Earth's Mightiest Heroes in a conference room for two hours to discuss things like "protocol updates" and "equipment inventory" and "quarterly budget reviews."
Today's meeting was shaping up to be a particularly egregious waste of time.
They were forty-three minutes in, and Tony and Steve had already derailed the agenda four times to argue about... something. Natasha had honestly stopped paying attention around minute fifteen. Something about shield storage protocols? Or was it the new quinjet maintenance schedule? She'd lost the thread entirely when Tony had made a sarcastic comment about "Captain America's thoughts on proper hangar organization," and Steve had taken the bait like he always did, that stubborn set to his jaw that meant he was digging in for a long argument.
Now they were going in circles while everyone else looked progressively more dead inside.
Sam was scrolling through his phone under the table, not even pretending to pay attention anymore. Bruce was doodling something in his notebook—looked like molecular diagrams, because of course Bruce would use boring meetings to work through actual science problems. Clint had that thousand-yard stare that meant he was mentally somewhere else entirely, probably thinking about his farm or his kids or literally anything more interesting than hangar organization protocols.
Natasha was sitting in her usual seat at the conference table—the one with a clear view of both exits and her back to a wall, because old habits died hard—directly across from Wanda. Her wife looked about as thrilled as Natasha felt, slouched slightly in her chair with her chin propped on one hand, watching Tony and Steve go back and forth with the glazed expression of someone who'd mentally checked out thirty minutes ago.
At least they were suffering together. Small mercies.
Natasha pulled out her phone under the table, intending to at least get some work done while trapped in this purgatory. Maybe she could respond to those SHIELD emails that had been piling up, or review the mission report from last week that was due tomorrow, or literally anything productive—
She felt it immediately.
A gentle pressure between her legs. Subtle, barely there, but unmistakable. Like phantom fingers tracing along the seam of her jeans, a whisper of sensation that made her breath catch and her spine straighten involuntarily.
Natasha's eyes snapped up to Wanda.
Her wife wasn't looking at her. She was still watching Tony and Steve argue, her expression unchanged—bored and slightly annoyed, like everyone else at the table. But as Natasha stared at her, the afternoon light from the window shifted slightly, and for just a moment Natasha caught the faint red glow in Wanda's eyes. That telltale sign of magic at work.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Wanda's lips curved into the tiniest smile, barely perceptible to anyone who wasn't looking for it. And the pressure between Natasha's legs increased slightly—still subtle, still just a tease, but definitely, unmistakably intentional.
Natasha focused her thoughts the way she'd been trained to over years of practice, directing them clearly and deliberately at Wanda.
“Wanda. We're in a meeting.”
A moment later, Wanda's voice filled her head—warm, amused, with that particular playful tone that meant Natasha was in serious trouble. “I know. A very boring meeting. I'm entertaining myself.”
“By torturing me?”
“By entertaining both of us.” The pressure shifted, became more focused, tracing a deliberate line up the inside of Natasha's thigh. “You're bored too. Don't pretend you're not.”
Natasha was bored. Had been actively dying of boredom for the last forty-three minutes while Tony and Steve argued about absolutely nothing of consequence. But there was a significant difference between being bored and having your wife use magic to tease you under the table in front of the entire team.
“Someone's going to notice,” Natasha thought at her, trying desperately to keep her expression neutral even as Wanda's magic traced another slow, deliberate line up her inner thigh.
“No one ever notices.” Wanda finally looked at her directly, and the heat in her eyes made Natasha's stomach flip. “They're all too busy arguing about absolutely nothing. We could probably fuck on this table and Steve wouldn't notice until we knocked over his water glass.”
“Wanda—”
“Relax, Nat.” The pressure increased again, and Natasha had to physically fight the urge to shift in her seat. “I'll be gentle. Mostly.”
That "mostly" was not even remotely reassuring.
Natasha tried to focus on the meeting, on whatever Tony was currently saying with increasingly dramatic hand gestures. Something about equipment requisitions? Budget allocations? She genuinely couldn't tell anymore, and the phantom pressure between her legs was making it functionally impossible to concentrate on anything else.
“This is insane,” Natasha directed at Wanda, gripping her pen hard enough that her knuckles went white.
“This is fun,” Wanda corrected, and Natasha caught another flash of red in her eyes as the magic moved with more deliberate purpose. “And you're already responding. I can feel it.”
“Of course I'm responding. You're using magic on me. What did you expect?”
“I expect you to sit there and take it like the professional spy you are.” Wanda's mental voice had taken on a teasing quality that made Natasha's pulse quicken and her thighs clench involuntarily. “You're so good at keeping your composure under pressure. Let's see just how good.”
The magic increased in intensity significantly—no longer just a tease but actual, deliberate pressure. Still subtle enough that no one would notice from looking at her, but intense enough that Natasha had to actively concentrate on keeping her breathing even and her expression bored.
“You're evil,” Natasha thought at her with feeling.
“You love me,” Wanda countered, and the smug satisfaction in her mental voice was both infuriating and devastatingly attractive.
“I'm going to get you back for this.”
“I'm counting on it.” And then Wanda's magic pushed past the barrier of Natasha's jeans—which should not have been physically possible, but apparently magic didn't care about things like fabric and physics—and touched her directly, skin to skin, through her underwear.
Natasha's hand clenched on her pen hard enough that she heard the plastic crack slightly. She forced herself to relax her grip before she snapped it completely, forced herself to keep her expression neutral and vaguely bored, even as Wanda's magic traced maddening patterns directly against her most sensitive areas through the thin cotton of her underwear.
This was a problem. This was a serious, ongoing problem that was only going to get worse, and Natasha had absolutely no idea how she was going to survive the next hour and fifteen minutes.
"—which is exactly why I'm saying we need to completely restructure the storage system," Tony was saying, gesturing emphatically at something on the projected screen behind him. "The current setup is inefficient and frankly dangerous to anyone who needs to access level-three equipment in under two minutes—"
"It's been working perfectly fine for three years," Steve interrupted, his jaw set in that stubborn way that meant he was prepared to die on this hill. "If it's not broken, we don't need to fix it."
"'Fine' isn't good enough when we're talking about response time in crisis situations—"
Natasha stopped listening entirely because Wanda had just increased the intensity significantly, her magic stroking firmly and deliberately against Natasha's clit through the thin fabric barrier, and it was taking every ounce of her considerable training to keep her expression neutral and her breathing steady.
“I hate you,” Natasha directed at Wanda, even as her body betrayed her with a fresh rush of arousal that Wanda could definitely sense.
“No you don't.” Wanda's mental voice was unbearably smug. “You love this. You love that I can do this to you and no one else knows. You love that you have to sit there perfectly still while I take you apart piece by piece.”
Natasha couldn't even deny it. Because Wanda was absolutely right—there was something thrilling about this, something that made her pulse race and her skin flush with more than just arousal. The danger of it, the complete control Wanda had, the fact that they were surrounded by their teammates who had absolutely no idea what was happening three feet away from them.
“You're already so wet,” Wanda observed, her magic confirming what she was saying as it slid easily through gathering arousal. “God, Nat. You're soaked while we’re in a meeting.”
“Whose fault is that?” Natasha shot back, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity even as Wanda's magic circled her clit with absolutely maddening precision.
“Mine,” Wanda agreed, sounding extremely pleased with herself. “All mine. And I'm going to make it so much worse before I'm done with you.”
The magic shifted without warning, and suddenly Natasha felt what distinctly felt like fingers—phantom fingers, magical fingers, but fingers nonetheless—pushing aside her underwear and touching her directly with no barriers at all. No fabric, no protection, just Wanda's magic stroking through her wetness with increasing confidence and skill.
Natasha bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound, her free hand moving under the table to grip the edge of her chair hard enough that her knuckles went completely white. This was so much worse than she'd anticipated. The sensation was surreal and overwhelming—she could feel it so clearly, the pressure and movement and friction, the way it dragged through her wetness and circled her clit with perfect precision, but there was nothing physically there. Just Wanda's magic, invisible and intangible to everyone else in the room, but absolutely devastating to Natasha.
“This is insane,” Natasha repeated, because she genuinely couldn't think of anything else to articulate.
“You said that already.” Wanda's magic found her clit and circled it with perfect, maddening pressure that made Natasha's hips want to jerk up involuntarily. “Try to be more creative with your complaints.”
“I'm too busy trying not to cum to be creative,” Natasha thought desperately, her thighs clenching together under the table in a futile attempt to either increase or decrease the sensation—she honestly wasn't sure which.
“Then don't try so hard.” The magic increased its pace deliberately. “Let it happen. I want to feel you cum while Steve is pontificating about hangar organization.”
“We're not even talking about hangar organization anymore. I think they've moved on to... actually, I have no idea what they're talking about now.”
“See? No one's paying attention anyway.” Wanda's magic pushed inside her without warning—just one finger, testing, but enough to make Natasha's breath catch audibly in her throat. “Now stop overthinking and just feel.”
Natasha wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Wanda that this was inappropriate and dangerous and absolutely could not continue. But Wanda's magic pushed deeper, curling in that perfect way that made stars burst behind Natasha's eyelids, and all her protests died before they could fully form.
“That's better,” Wanda said approvingly in her mind. “Much better. Now let me work.”
And work she did.
The phantom sensation of Wanda's fingers inside her was surreal and overwhelming in equal measure. Natasha could feel everything—the stretch and fullness, the way Wanda's magic curled just right to hit that spot inside her that always made her see stars, the drag of withdrawal and the press of penetration. It felt impossibly real, and Natasha had to keep reminding herself that there was nothing actually there, that this was all Wanda's magic and her considerable skill at using it for deeply inappropriate purposes.
“You're doing so well,” Wanda praised, her mental voice dropping into that lower register that always made Natasha's stomach clench with want. “Sitting there so still, so quiet, so perfectly composed. No one has any idea that you're falling apart right now. That you're seconds away from cumming all over my magic while Tony explains quarterly budget allocations.”
Natasha's nails dug crescents into her palm as Wanda's magic increased its pace, fucking her with steady, deliberate, devastating movements while phantom pressure circled her clit with perfect rhythm. She was getting close—embarrassingly, terrifyingly fast—and she knew with absolute certainty that there was no way she was going to make it through this meeting without cumming at least once.
“Wanda,” she thought desperately, not even sure what she was asking for anymore. “Please—”
“Please what?” Wanda's mental voice was deliberately teasing. “Please stop? Please keep going? Please make you cum right here in front of everyone? You have to be specific, baby.”
“Please—” Natasha's thought cut off abruptly as Wanda's magic hit that perfect spot with devastating precision, and she had to physically transform her resulting gasp into a cough.
"You okay, Romanoff?" Clint asked from beside her, looking mildly concerned as he finally emerged from his mental absence.
"Fine," Natasha managed, her voice only slightly strained, remarkably steady considering. "Just—dry throat. Need water."
She reached for her water glass with a hand that was almost steady, taking a long drink to cover for the fact that she'd nearly lost complete control of her physical reactions. Across the table, Wanda was watching her with dark, knowing eyes, and her magic hadn't slowed down at all. If anything, it had increased its pace.
“Nice save,” Wanda said in her mind. “But I'm not going to make it easy on you.”
“You're going to get us caught,” Natasha thought at her, setting down her water glass with deliberate, careful precision.
“I'm not.” Wanda's magic curled inside her again, hitting that spot that made Natasha want to moan. “Because you're going to sit there quietly and cum for me without making a single sound. Aren't you?”
It wasn't really a question. It was a command, delivered in that tone that made Natasha's knees weak and her resolve crumble into dust. And because Natasha had apparently lost her mind entirely, she found herself nodding almost imperceptibly.
“Good girl,” Wanda said, deep satisfaction coloring her mental voice. “Now let go. Cum for me, Nat. Right now.”
And because Natasha's body had apparently decided to obey Wanda over her own sense of self-preservation and professional dignity, she did.
Her orgasm built with terrifying speed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly as Wanda's magic worked her with relentless, perfect precision. The phantom fingers inside her hit that perfect spot with every thrust while pressure circled her clit in exactly the right pattern, and Natasha knew—absolutely knew with crystal clarity—that she was about to cum in the middle of a team meeting while Tony Stark argued with Steve Rogers about god knows what.
“That's it,” Wanda encouraged, her mental voice wrapping around Natasha like a physical caress.” I can feel how close you are. Can feel how hard you're fighting it. Stop fighting and just let it happen. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The magic increased its pace one final, devastating time, and Natasha's orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. She kept her expression carefully neutral through sheer force of will, kept her breathing even despite her racing heart, kept her body still and composed—the only outward signs were the white-knuckled grip she had on her water glass and the way her thighs clenched together involuntarily under the table. But inside her mind, behind her carefully constructed mask, she was completely falling apart. Pleasure rolled through her body in intense, overwhelming waves, and Wanda's magic worked her through every second of it with gentle, perfect movements, drawing it out until Natasha was trembling with the effort of staying still and silent.
“Beautiful,” Wanda said in her mind, and Natasha could hear the genuine affection and awe beneath the teasing satisfaction. “You're so beautiful when you cum. Even when you're trying to hide it from everyone.”
“I’m going to divorce you,” Natasha thought weakly, still trying to catch her breath without being obvious about it, still trying to look like she was just bored and shifting position.
“No you won’t.” Wanda's magic gentled considerably, became soothing instead of stimulating, helping Natasha come down slowly from the intensity. “You love me.”
“I'm going to kill you when we get home,” Natasha amended, finally releasing her death grip on her water glass before she actually shattered it.
“Looking forward to it.” And then, mercifully, Wanda withdrew her magic entirely.
Natasha slumped slightly in her chair, trying to make it look like she was just bored and adjusting her position rather than recovering from an intense orgasm. Across the table, Wanda had turned her attention back to the ongoing argument, looking for all the world like she was following the discussion with genuine interest rather than having just made Natasha cum at a team meeting using invisible magic.
Natasha took another long drink of water, using the moment to compose herself properly and slow her still-racing heart. She tried to focus on what Tony was saying—something about quarterly budget reviews now, apparently they'd moved completely away from hangar organization—but her brain felt pleasantly fuzzy and her body was still tingling with aftershocks.
She lasted approximately seven minutes before Wanda's magic returned with a vengeance.
“What are you doing?” Natasha demanded, feeling the familiar phantom pressure return between her legs with alarming intensity.
“The meeting's not over yet,” Wanda replied, and Natasha could hear the wicked grin in her mental voice. “And I said you were going to cum at least once. We're going for twice now. Maybe three times if you're really good for me.”
“Wanda, I just—I can't do this again—”
“You can.” The magic was gentle at first, teasing, building her back up slowly despite her recent orgasm. “And you will. Because you're perfect and I love watching you struggle to keep it together.”
“This is cruel,” Natasha thought, even as her body—traitorous thing that it was—responded immediately to the touch, still oversensitive from her first orgasm.
“This is fun,” Wanda corrected cheerfully. “There's a significant difference.”
“Not from where I'm sitting.”
“From where you're sitting, you're about to cum again.” The magic circled her clit lazily, building pleasure with patient, maddening, absolutely devastating precision. “So I'd say your perspective is about to get much more interesting.”
Natasha couldn't even argue with that deeply flawed logic. She just gripped the edge of the table with both hands now and tried to mentally prepare herself for round two.
This time, Wanda took her time with deliberate, almost cruel patience.
The magic moved slowly, teasingly, building Natasha up with maddening care and attention. She'd stroke firmly for several long moments, bringing Natasha right to the desperate edge of needing more, then pull back to barely-there pressure that left Natasha silently begging for anything substantial. It was torture of the absolute sweetest kind, and Natasha knew with certainty that Wanda was thoroughly enjoying every second of her struggle.
“You're fucking evil,” Natasha thought for what felt like the hundredth time.
“So you keep saying,” Wanda replied, utterly unbothered and clearly amused. “And yet you keep responding so beautifully to everything I do.”
The magic pushed inside her again without warning—two fingers this time, stretching her in that delicious way that made Natasha want to moan out loud. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek instead, maintaining her neutral, bored expression even as Wanda's magic started to move with clear, deliberate purpose.
And then Natasha felt something entirely new flooding her mind: vivid images with perfect clarity.
She saw herself through Wanda's eyes—a memory from last week, the two of them in their bed at home. Natasha was between Wanda's spread thighs, looking up at her with dark, intent, hungry eyes, and Wanda's hand was fisted tightly in her hair, guiding her movements. Natasha could hear Wanda's voice in the memory, breathy and desperate and absolutely wrecked: “God, yes, just like that, don't stop, Nat, please don't stop—”
The memory was so viscerally vivid that Natasha could almost taste Wanda on her tongue, could almost feel the weight of Wanda's thigh pressed against her shoulder, the way Wanda's hips had rolled up to meet her mouth. And underneath the overwhelming sensory details of the memory, Wanda's magic was still working steadily between her legs in the present, the dual sensation of memory and physical pleasure making her head spin dangerously.
“Stop,” Natasha thought desperately, though whether she meant the memories or the magic she honestly couldn't say anymore. “That's not fair—”
“All's fair in love and boring meetings,” Wanda replied smugly, and she sent another memory crashing into Natasha's consciousness—this one from the shower two days ago. Natasha was pressed hard against the cold tile wall, hot water streaming over both their bodies, and Wanda's fingers were buried inside her, moving with devastating purpose and skill. “You feel so good, Nat. So perfect for me. So tight and wet. Come on, baby, let me feel it. Cum for me just like this—”
“You're going to make me cum again,” Natasha thought, somewhere between rising panic and overwhelming arousal.
“That's the entire idea,” Wanda confirmed with satisfaction, sending yet another memory. This one was from last month—Natasha wearing their strap-on harness, Wanda riding her with complete abandon, her head thrown back in pure ecstasy, hands braced on Natasha's shoulders for balance. “Fuck, Nat, you're so deep like this. So perfect. So good. Don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop—”
The combination of intensely erotic memories and the very real physical sensation of Wanda's magic working inside her was absolutely overwhelming. Natasha's second orgasm was building significantly faster than the first, pleasure coiling tight and hot and insistent in her belly, and she knew she wasn't going to last much longer at all.
"—don't you think, Romanoff?"
The sound of her name cut sharply through the haze of pleasure and memory, and Natasha's attention snapped back to the meeting with something very close to pure panic. Tony was looking directly at her with clear expectation, and she realized with growing horror that he'd just asked her a direct question. A question she definitely, absolutely hadn't heard because she'd been too busy drowning in erotic memories while Wanda finger-fucked her with invisible magic under the conference table.
“Oh god,” Natasha thought at Wanda in genuine panic. “What did he ask? I wasn't listening—”
“Something about security protocols,” Wanda supplied helpfully, her magic not slowing down even slightly. “For the armory specifically. You reviewed them last week, remember?”
"Could you repeat the question?" Natasha asked Tony, remarkably proud of how steady and professional her voice sounded despite the fact that Wanda's magic had just hit that perfect spot inside her with devastating accuracy.
"The new security protocols for the armory," Tony said, looking mildly annoyed that she apparently hadn't been paying proper attention. He gestured impatiently at the complex diagram displayed on the screen behind him. "You reviewed them last week, right? What's your professional assessment? Are they actually going to improve our response time in crisis situations, or are they just more bureaucratic nonsense that'll slow us down?"
Natasha had reviewed them. Three days ago, in fact, sitting at her desk with coffee and her tablet. She could absolutely provide her thorough, professional assessment. The only problem—the significant, glaring problem—was that Wanda had just increased the intensity of her magic dramatically, and Natasha was approximately thirty seconds away from her second orgasm.
“Wanda, stop,” Natasha thought desperately, trying to focus. “I have to answer him properly—”
“So answer him,” Wanda replied, her mental voice maddeningly calm and collected. “You can multitask. You're Natasha Romanoff.”
“I'm about to cum—”
“Then you better talk fast.”
Natasha took a careful, measured breath, forcing her brain to focus on security protocols instead of the magic currently destroying her from the inside out.
"They're solid," she said, and she was professionally, almost absurdly proud of how completely normal her voice sounded despite everything. "The biometric scanning updates are comprehensive and address the previous vulnerabilities. The redundancy protocols make tactical sense—if one system fails catastrophically, we've got two independent backups. I'd recommend adding a secondary verification step specifically for the level-four weapons storage, but overall it's a significant improvement over the current system. Should cut our emergency access time by approximately forty percent while actually increasing overall security measures."
"See?" Tony said triumphantly, turning to Steve with vindication written all over his face. "Romanoff gets it. Secondary verification for specific cases, not a complete systematic overhaul of everything that's currently working—"
Natasha stopped listening entirely because Wanda had just sent her another intensely vivid memory—this one of Natasha pressed urgently against their bedroom door, Wanda's hand shoved down the front of her pants, kissing her desperately while Natasha gasped and moaned helplessly into her mouth. And simultaneously, the magic inside her curled with absolute perfection, hitting that spot that made her see actual stars behind her closed eyelids, and Natasha knew with crystal clarity that she was completely done for.
“Cum,” Wanda commanded, her mental voice firm and absolute and impossible to resist. “Right now.”
Natasha's second orgasm hit her like an actual freight train.
She kept her expression carefully, meticulously neutral through what felt like superhuman effort, kept her breathing even despite her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, kept her body still and professionally composed—but inside, behind her careful mask, she was absolutely shattering into a million pieces. Pleasure rolled through her in waves that seemed to go on forever, and Wanda's magic worked her through every single second with perfect, devastating, utterly merciless precision.
“Good girl,” Wanda praised warmly. “So good for me. Staying so quiet and still while you fall completely apart inside.”
When it finally subsided enough for Natasha to think again, she was sweating slightly and both her hands were shaking where they gripped the table edge. She reached for her water glass yet again, taking another long drink to cover for the fact that she'd just had her second orgasm in an hour while her teammates continued arguing about bureaucracy and protocol updates.
“Two,” Wanda said with unmistakable smugness. “That's two orgasms. We're doing great.”
“Are you done now?” Natasha asked, not even remotely hoping for a yes.
“Not even close,” Wanda confirmed cheerfully. “We've still got at least forty minutes left in this meeting. I'm thinking we can definitely go for three. Maybe even four if you're really, really good for me.”
“I'm going to die,” Natasha thought with absolute certainty. “You're actually going to kill me right here in this conference room.”
“You're not going to die.” Wanda's mental voice was affectionate despite the relentless teasing. “You're going to cum a few more times and then we're going to go home and I'm going to do all of this properly in our bed where you can actually make noise.”
“A few more times?”
“I'm thinking four total is a nice round number.” Wanda sounded delighted with her plan. “Very satisfying and complete.”
“Four orgasms. At a team meeting.”
“Exactly!” Wanda's enthusiasm was almost endearing. “Isn't this so much better than just being bored?”
Natasha couldn't even formulate an answer to that absolutely insane question. She just slumped in her chair and tried desperately to recover while Wanda's magic withdrew temporarily, giving her a brief, blessed reprieve to pull herself back together.
The meeting continued with absolutely no awareness of what had just transpired. Tony and Steve had apparently finished their argument about armory protocols and moved on to discussing the upcoming training schedule revisions. Natasha tried genuinely hard to pay attention, tried to actually follow and contribute to the conversation, but her brain was still pleasantly fuzzy from two intense orgasms and she was already dreading the inevitable moment when Wanda decided to go for number three.
She lasted fifteen whole minutes.
Fifteen blessed, magic-free minutes where Natasha actually managed to contribute meaningfully to the discussion about updating the hand-to-hand combat training schedule. She'd even pulled up her digital calendar on her phone and checked her availability for the advanced tactics sessions Steve wanted to implement next month.
And then Wanda's magic returned with absolutely no warning or mercy, and this time there was no gentle buildup whatsoever. This time, Wanda went straight for absolutely devastating, her magic pushing inside Natasha with clear purpose while phantom pressure circled her oversensitive clit with firm, deliberate, unrelenting movements.
“Wanda—” Natasha's thought was barely coherent anymore.
“One more,” Wanda said, her mental voice leaving no room for argument. “Give me one more and then I'll let you rest for a bit. I promise, my love.”
“I can't—it's too much—I'm too sensitive—”
“You can.” Wanda's magic increased its pace mercilessly, and Natasha felt herself responding despite her desperate protests, her body apparently fully on board with this plan even if her brain was having serious reservations. “And you will. Because I want you to. Because I love watching you try so hard to keep it together while I systematically take you apart.”
The magic worked her relentlessly, and Wanda started sending more images—but this time they weren't just memories of things that had actually happened. This time they were fantasies, vivid imaginings of things Wanda was planning, things she wanted to do the absolute moment they got home.
Natasha saw herself bent over their kitchen counter, still fully clothed in her meeting outfit, while Wanda's hands worked expertly between her legs from behind. Saw herself tied securely to their bed with soft rope, wrists bound to the headboard while Wanda took her sweet time exploring every single inch of her body with hands and mouth. Saw herself on her knees on their bedroom floor, looking up at Wanda with desperate, pleading eyes while Wanda's hand guided her head exactly where she wanted it.
“Stop,” Natasha begged weakly, even though she absolutely didn't mean it, even though her body was responding to every single image with fresh waves of arousal. “Please—”
“You don't really want me to stop,” Wanda observed with absolute certainty, her mental voice knowing and confident. “You're already so close again. I can feel it building. Your body knows exactly what it wants, even if your brain is still trying to protest.”
She was absolutely, infuriatingly right.
Natasha was close—desperately, embarrassingly close—oversensitive from two previous orgasms and completely overwhelmed by the constant flood of erotic images Wanda kept sending. The phantom sensation of Wanda's magic inside her was relentless and perfect, hitting that spot with every single thrust while pressure circled her clit with increasing, maddening intensity.
“Almost there,” Wanda encouraged warmly. “Just a little bit more, baby. Let go for me one more time. Let me feel you cum.”
Natasha's third orgasm built with agonizing, torturous slowness, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly until she thought she might actually scream from the unbearable tension. Every single muscle in her body was taut and trembling, and she was gripping the table hard enough that her knuckles had gone completely white and bloodless.
And then Wanda sent her one final image—the two of them in bed that very morning, before they'd gotten up for work and this godforsaken meeting. Natasha curled protectively around Wanda's back, her hand working slowly between Wanda's legs, bringing her gently to orgasm while Wanda was still half-asleep. The memory of Wanda's voice, drowsy and satisfied and full of love: “Love you so much, Nat. Love waking up like this with you every single day.”
The unexpected tenderness of the memory combined with the relentless physical sensation pushed Natasha over the edge one final, devastating time.
Her third orgasm crashed through her with absolutely brutal force, and she barely—just barely—managed to keep from crying out loud. She bit down on her tongue hard enough to taste copper, her whole body going completely rigid in her chair, and the only sounds she made were a sharp inhale through her nose that she somehow managed to disguise as a tired sigh.
“Perfect,” Wanda said in her mind, satisfaction and genuine affection coloring her mental voice beautifully. “You're so perfect for me, Nat. I love you so much.”
“Love you too,” Natasha managed weakly, slumping in her chair as the pleasure finally faded to manageable levels. “Even though you're genuinely the worst person I've ever met in my entire life.”
“Flattery will get you absolutely everywhere,” Wanda replied warmly, and her magic finally—finally—withdrew completely and didn't return.
Natasha sat there for a long moment, just trying to remember how to be a functional human being who could sit through meetings. Her body was still tingling pleasantly, oversensitive and thoroughly satisfied in a way that made her simultaneously want to sleep for twelve straight hours and drag Wanda out of this conference room immediately to continue this somewhere private.
"—so that wraps up today's agenda," Steve was saying, and Natasha could have genuinely wept with relief and gratitude. "Any other business we need to address before we adjourn?"
Silence. Beautiful, blessed, merciful silence. No one had anything else to add. Everyone just wanted to escape this godforsaken meeting and get on with their actual lives.
"Alright then. Thanks everyone for your time and input," Steve said, closing his notebook with finality. "Same time next week."
People immediately started gathering their things and heading for the door with barely concealed relief, conversations breaking out about lunch plans and afternoon training sessions and literally anything that wasn't this meeting. Natasha stood on legs that felt distinctly unsteady, trying desperately to look normal and professional even though she'd just had three intense orgasms in the last hour and forty-five minutes.
She made her way around the table toward Wanda with as much dignity as she could muster, which honestly wasn't much. Her wife was innocently checking her phone like she hadn't just committed several acts of magic-assisted indecency in front of the entire team.
"Hi," Wanda said brightly when Natasha reached her, looking up with perfectly innocent eyes. "How was the meeting for you?"
"You know exactly how the meeting was," Natasha said through gritted teeth, keeping her voice low enough that no one else would overhear.
"Do I?" Wanda's eyes were wide and innocent, but there was a wicked glint in them that made Natasha want to kiss her and strangle her in equal measure. "I thought it was pretty boring personally. Standard protocol updates. Were you bored?"
"You're the worst person I've ever met," Natasha repeated, but there was absolutely no heat behind the words.
"And yet you married me," Wanda pointed out reasonably, standing and gathering her things. She leaned in close, her lips brushing Natasha's ear so quietly that only Natasha could possibly hear. "Car. Now. We're going home."
"I can barely walk," Natasha hissed back.
"Then you'd better hold onto me," Wanda said cheerfully, looping her arm through Natasha's like they were just two colleagues leaving a meeting together.
They made it to the parking garage without running into anyone else, which was a minor miracle. The moment they were in Natasha's car with the doors closed and locked, Wanda was on her.
"You," Wanda said between desperate kisses, her hands already sliding under Natasha's shirt, "are so incredibly hot when you're trying not to cum."
"You," Natasha replied, kissing her back just as desperately, already pulling Wanda closer, "are completely insane."
"Maybe." Wanda kissed down her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point. "But you loved every second of it."
"I can't believe you made me cum three times at a team meeting," Natasha said, even as she tilted her head to give Wanda better access to her throat.
"I can't believe you didn't make a single sound," Wanda said admiringly, pulling back to look at Natasha properly. "Your control is genuinely incredible. I was honestly trying my hardest to break it."
"I'm a highly trained spy," Natasha pointed out, slightly breathless. "It's literally my job to not react to things."
"Well, you're excellent at it." Wanda settled back in the passenger seat with a deeply satisfied smile. "Now take me home so I can make you cum a few more times without having to worry about Tony Stark interrupting to ask you about armory protocols."
"A few more times?" Natasha looked at her incredulously, even though her body was already responding enthusiastically to the promise in Wanda's voice. "You broke me. I might actually be done for the day."
"You're not done," Wanda said with absolute confidence. "You're never done. And besides, I've been thinking about what I want to do to you since I started this whole thing in the meeting."
"You're genuinely insatiable," Natasha muttered, but she was already starting the car, already pulling out of the parking space, already heading for home.
"You love it," Wanda said, reaching over to take Natasha's hand and thread their fingers together on the center console. "And you love me."
"I really do," Natasha admitted, bringing Wanda's hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Even though you're absolutely terrible and just sexually tortured me in public for ninety minutes straight."
"It wasn't torture," Wanda corrected with a grin. "It was entertainment. For both of us."
"That's definitely a matter of perspective."
"Admit it was at least a little bit fun," Wanda challenged.
Natasha was silent for a moment, actually considering it as she navigated through afternoon traffic. "It was..." she said slowly, carefully, "terrifying and overwhelming and..."
Wanda left one rule. You told yourself it was unreasonable. You were wrong. Wanda was very patient about being right.
Mommy Wanda x Fem Reader
18+, NSFW oneshot | 6.3k words
ao3
The rule had been unfair and you wanted that on the record.
Not that anyone was keeping one. But if someone had been, the entry would read: unreasonable. Excessive. Fundamentally misaligned with the biological realities of being left alone for twenty-four hours by Wanda Maximoff.
She'd said it the way she said things she meant completely, which was warmly: both hands cupping your face, her eyes right on yours, that slow curve of her mouth that made your brain go quiet. She'd already kissed you three times: once when she'd told you she had to go, once when she'd packed her bag, once standing in the doorway with her coat on and her hair still a little mussed from earlier, looking like something out of a dream that was actively inconveniencing you by leaving.
"Eat dinner," she'd said. "I made the pasta you like. Or get something else if you want it. I left money on the counter."
"I know how to feed myself," you'd said.
"I know you do, baby." She'd smiled at that. Fond, not condescending, in the way she was fond of you doing the thing where you pretended you didn't need taking care of, which she found genuinely endearing and also not very convincing. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, probably. Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
"And—" She'd paused, and her hand had come to your jaw, tipping your face up just slightly. Her eyes had been soft and certain. "No touching yourself."
The air had done something.
"Wanda—"
"Mommy's baby can wait a day without touching her needy little pussy, can't she?" She'd tilted her head, just slightly, with that smile, soft and absolutely in charge of both of you, and you'd had the sensation of standing at the edge of an argument and looking down into it and deciding not to jump. "One day."
"That's—"
"Can't she," Wanda had said again, and it wasn't a question.
"...Yes," you'd said.
She'd kissed you once more. Slow and thorough, her thumb brushing your cheek like you were something she was very pleased with. Then she'd picked up her bag and gone, and you'd stood in the doorway feeling the absence of her before she'd even reached the elevator.
And that had been fine. That had been completely fine for most of the day, actually, because you'd had things to do—laundry, a show you'd been meaning to watch, the pasta which was, as always, perfect. You'd texted Wanda at seven that you'd eaten and she'd sent back a heart and a photo of herself looking tired but okay, and you'd felt warm all the way down.
The problem had been bedtime.
The problem had been the bed. Alone in it and it smelled like her—the pillow on her side, the apartment quiet without her in it, a Wanda-shaped absence you were apparently more aware of than you'd realized.
You'd tried to sleep. Genuinely tried; tired, full day, all conditions met.
But you kept thinking about the way she'd said it. Needy little pussy. With that smile. The thumb on your cheek. The way she'd looked at you like she already knew exactly how you were going to get through the next twenty-four hours and had decided it would happen her way.
It wasn't your fault.
It was basically her fault. She'd said it like that, with that voice and that mouth, and then left, and you were supposed to just—what? Lie in the bed that smelled like her and think about something else? About what, exactly? You'd been given nothing to work with except the echo of her voice in your head saying words that seemed, if you were being honest, almost deliberately designed to produce this exact outcome, and the rule was you weren't supposed to do anything about it.
That was a bad rule.
A poorly constructed rule. An unreasonable one. You'd turned it over for a long time, the argument assembling itself with satisfying solidity, every point holding up under examination. She'd know, probably—that had been in the against column, and it had stayed there a while. Then your hand had moved anyway.
Just your hand slipping under the waistband of your panties, just your fingers finding your clit the way hers did—two fingers, slow circles, just enough pressure. You'd imagined her voice. Good girl. The way her eyes went when she had you exactly where she wanted you. The weight of her hands on your hips. You'd been quiet about it, face turned into her pillow, hips rocking up against your own fingers while you thought about her mouth and her hands and the low even certainty in her voice when she told you what to do. It hadn't taken long. You'd been wound up from just thinking about it, already wet before you'd started, and when you came it was perfect and you went slack almost immediately after, pleasantly boneless, the sheets smelling like her, and you went straight to sleep.
In the morning you'd felt completely fine about the whole thing.
You still felt fine about it.
It hadn't crossed your mind once today.
You weren't even thinking about it.
(-)
The door opened at half past two.
You heard her before you saw her: her keys, her footsteps, the familiar push of the door with her shoulder. You were off the couch before you'd thought about it, crossing the room just as she appeared in the doorway, bright-eyed despite the travel, her coat still on, her hair a little windswept, and holding—somewhat improbably, delightfully—a bundle of yellow tulips wrapped in brown paper.
She saw you and her whole face did something. Lit up, just like that. All the compound tiredness gone in an instant, replaced with something so plainly glad that it hit you somewhere in the ribs.
"Hi, darling—"
She barely got it out before you were in her arms, and she dropped her bag, catching you with her free arm, pulling you in close and pressing her face into your hair and holding on. You could swear you felt the warmth of her right through the coat. The tulips brushed your shoulder. You didn't care. You pressed closer.
"Hi," you said, muffled in her shoulder. "Hi, hi, hi."
She laughed—a real one, surprised out of her, bright and warm. "I missed you so much." She pressed her lips to the side of your head. "So much. Were you good for me?"
"I was so good," you said, with complete conviction.
"Yeah?" She pulled back just enough to look at your face, cupping your cheek in her free hand, her thumb brushing across it. Checking on you, the way she always checked when she'd been away—making sure all of you was still there and accounted for. Her eyes were warm and fond. "Good girl."
She kissed you once, soft and sure, and then produced the tulips with a little flourish.
"I found them on the way out," she said. "The woman at the market had them. I thought of you immediately." She held them out, watching your face. "Yellow. I knew you'd want the yellow ones."
"Wanda." You took them, holding them with both hands. They were very yellow. Yellow like summer, your favorite color. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted you to have something nice." She smiled, unwinding her scarf and dropping it on the couch. "Thank you for eating dinner last night. Did you sleep alright?"
"The pasta was good," you said, carrying the tulips toward the kitchen. "And yes, slept great, actually." You were already hunting for a vase under the sink, entirely unbothered. "Really well."
"Oh, I'm so glad." She followed you in, leaning against the doorway, watching you move around her kitchen with that soft expression that meant she was happy. "You do sometimes have trouble when I'm not there. What made the difference, do you think?"
She asked it lightly. Casually. Just a woman happy to be home asking after her girl.
But she was also watching you with those eyes. And Wanda's eyes, when she was curious about something, had a quality you might have clocked if you'd been paying attention.
You were not paying attention.
You ran water into the vase. "I don't know, I was pretty tired I guess—" You shrugged, trimming the stems with the kitchen scissors, perfectly comfortable. "Well." A small laugh. "You know how it is. An orgasm always makes me sleep better."
The kitchen was very quiet.
You set the scissors down.
The word orgasm hung in the air above the tulips and you watched it float there and something in the back of your brain, the part that had been quietly filing information all day, chose this exact moment to speak up.
Oh, that part said. You're fucked.
You turned around very slowly.
Wanda was leaning against the doorway with her arms folded and her head tilted at a small angle and the expression on her face was…not angry. That was what made it worse. It was warm. It was fond, even. It was the patient, settled look of a woman who had just received information she'd been fairly sure she was going to receive and was now deciding what to do with it in a very calm and organized way.
"Funny," she said. "I don't remember giving you permission for that. In fact, I seem to recall specifically telling you not to."
"I—" You opened your mouth. Closed it. The argument that had felt very solid at eleven-thirty last night was nowhere to be found. "It was just—it wasn't a big deal, I just—"
"Baby." Her voice was gentle. That was almost worse than if it hadn't been. "Come here."
Your feet moved before your brain weighed in on the matter. You crossed the kitchen and she opened her arms and you went into them, which was both deeply comforting and deeply incriminating.
Her chin rested on top of your head.
"Tell me what happened," she said.
"I couldn't sleep," you said, into her chest.
"Mm."
"And I was thinking about you."
"Of course you were."
"And it seemed like—I mean, it wasn't a big deal, it was just—" You could feel yourself listing, looking for the argument. "It seemed unreasonable, honestly, like how was I supposed to—"
"Unreasonable," Wanda said, with a quality in her voice that was not quite amusement but lived in the same neighborhood.
"I'm just saying—"
"You're saying that Mommy's rule was unreasonable."
The word hit you low and warm and scattered the rest of your sentence completely. "...I was trying to make a point."
"I know you were." She pressed her lips to your hair and held them there. "And the point is noted." A pause. "You still broke the rule."
You had nothing to say to that. It was true. You had, in fact, broken the rule, and you had done it with full knowledge that it was a rule, and the argument about reasonableness was falling apart on contact with Wanda's arms around you and her voice in your hair.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly.
"I know, sweetheart." She rubbed a slow circle on your back. "I'm going to take care of it."
She said it the way she said most things—warmly, simply, with the easy certainty of someone who had already decided and was just letting you know. Not a threat. Information.
Your stomach did something. You pressed your face a little more firmly into her chest.
"Okay," you said.
"Good girl." She kissed your hair once more and then stepped back, her hands on your shoulders, looking at you. Her eyes were soft and dark and certain. "Go to the bedroom. Take your clothes off and wait for me. I'll be right there."
(-)
She gave you enough time to do as she'd said and then a few minutes more, which had its own weight—being sent somewhere to wait, the room quiet around you, nothing to do but sit with the awareness of what was coming. You'd folded your clothes on the chair the way she liked, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. The afternoon light came through the curtains in long pale stripes. You'd listened to Wanda moving around in the other room, the kitchen tap, her quiet footsteps in the hall, and felt every second of the waiting.
She wasn't rushing. She never rushed. Wanda had a sense of time entirely her own, and she spent it exactly as she intended, and when she decided it was time to come to you she would come to you and not before. Knowing that, lying there, made the waiting feel very long.
You heard her steps in the hall. The door opened.
She'd taken her coat off. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she looked completely at ease. She took in the sight of you on the bed, undressed and waiting and probably looking a little undone already from just the anticipation, and something in her expression settled with satisfaction. Not unkindly. Just pleased with what she found.
She sat on the edge of the bed beside you and looked at you in the pale afternoon light, taking her time about it. You looked back.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," you said, softer than you'd managed in the kitchen.
She reached out and pushed a piece of hair back from your face, two fingers gentle along your hairline, and then her hand trailed down your cheek, your jaw, the side of your throat. Light and deliberate. She rested her fingertips at your collarbone like she was taking a reading of something.
She was in no hurry at all.
"Tell me what you did," she said. "Exactly."
Your face went warm. "Wanda—"
"Mommy," she corrected, gentle as anything, her voice almost a song.
"...Mommy." The word settled something and disrupted something else simultaneously, the way it always did. "I just…touched myself. Before I went to sleep."
"Where?" Her fingers traced a slow line down your sternum.
"You know where."
She looked at you with patient, limitless calm.
"My clit," you said.
"Mm." Her hand moved lower, resting flat on your stomach. Warm and still. "Did you rub it? Slow circles?"
"Yes."
"And it felt good."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"You thought about me."
"Yes."
"Good." Something in her expression settled with quiet satisfaction. "You should always be thinking about me." She pressed her palm flat and firm against you through your underwear—one deliberate moment of pressure—and you exhaled all at once. Then she withdrew it entirely. "Roll over for me, baby."
"What—"
"On your stomach," she said, the same tone she'd used for everything: warm, even, not leaving room for negotiation.
You rolled over.
Her hand came to rest at the small of your back, warm and easy, and you felt her shift her weight on the bed. Her palm moved slowly down over the curve of your ass.
"Mommy—"
"How many times?" she asked. “How many times did you cum?”
"Once," you said into the pillow.
"Once." No urgency in her voice. Just consideration. "Fifteen, then. Count for me, sweetheart."
"Fifteen—"
The first landed before you'd finished the word. Clean and sharp, and you gasped into the pillow, gripping the sheets. Her palm followed immediately—warm, slow circles over the spot, easing it. Sting and then soothe, and the contrast alone made your breath stutter.
"One," she said for you, gently. "Good girl."
She went slow. The second came after a long pause, the same spot, and you pressed your face harder into the pillow. The third landed lower and you exhaled in a rush. Her palm came back each time, rubbing warmth into the sting—patient, rhythmic, never skipping that moment of softness between strikes.
"Good girl," she murmured. "Stay still for Mommy."
By five your breathing had changed, gone shallow and uneven, your whole body trying to process the alternating sharpness and soothe. By ten your hips were pressing down into the mattress, some confused animal instinct pushing you toward the bed, chasing and bracing at once. She noticed. She always noticed. The eleventh landed on the crease where your thigh met your ass and you cried out louder than you'd intended, hands fisting hard in the sheets.
"That's it," she said, warm and even. "You're doing so well, darling."
By twelve you were shaking. By fifteen your whole ass was flushed with heat and your face was wet and you felt scraped open and deeply, entirely hers.
Her palm settled there, just resting, warm over the heat of it.
"Good girl," she said, softer. "So good. Fifteen."
She gave you a moment. Just her hand on you, grounding.
Then she moved, not away from you but up the bed, settling beside you. Her hand found yours in the sheets and loosened your grip from the fabric, gently, and drew your fingers up. She held your hand between both of hers for a moment, rubbing warmth back into where you'd been clutching, and then she brought two of her own fingers to your lips.
"Open for me," she said. Easy. Like it was the most natural thing.
She pressed her fingers in past your lips, settling on your tongue, and the immediate impulse was to close around them, which you did. The weight of them there, warm and familiar, the faint salt of her skin, did something to the noise inside your head that nothing else had. You'd been clenched up through all of it, holding yourself together through each strike, and the simple act of having something to close around, something of hers to hold, loosened something at the center of you. Your shoulders dropped. Your jaw softened. You felt a long breath move through your whole body and out.
She didn't move her fingers. She just let them rest there on your tongue, watching your face with that quiet, focused attention she gave to things she was tending to carefully.
"There you are," she murmured. Her other hand moved to your hair, pushing it back from your face, and her thumb traced a slow line along your temple. "That's it, sweetheart. Just breathe."
You breathed around her fingers. In through your nose, slow and even, out again. The room settled around you by degrees—the pale afternoon light coming through the curtains, the familiar weight of the mattress beneath you, the warmth of her beside you. You could feel her watching you come back to yourself, feel the way she clocked each small shift: the unclenching of your hands, the easing of your jaw, the moment your eyes focused on her face properly instead of just the middle distance.
She curved her fingers slightly, just a gentle press against your tongue, and you closed tighter around them without thinking.
"Good girl," she said softly, to that. Like you'd done something right. Like that instinct was something she was glad to have confirmed.
Her thumb kept its slow arc along your temple. She wasn't in any hurry. She'd told you she had all afternoon and she'd clearly meant it, because she sat with you like this, her fingers on your tongue and her eyes on your face, until the last of the tension had moved out of your shoulders and you were just lying there, held open and quiet, looking up at her.
She read it when it happened—you could see it in the small shift of her expression, something clicking into place. She drew her fingers free slowly, dragging them gentle across your lower lip as they went, and her thumb swept your mouth once before her hand moved back to your shoulder.
"Good girl," she said again. "Up on your knees for me."
You got your knees under you, shaky, and she moved with you, keeping her hand at your back. She reached around and pulled your underwear down and off, and then her palm was there, bare skin against bare skin, cupped between your thighs, and the sound you made was something you'd be embarrassed by later.
"Ten more," she said. "Here."
You barely had time to process what here meant before she was repositioning herself behind you—one hand at your hip, tilting you, adjusting the angle with the same calm attention she gave everything. The understanding arrived a half-second later and sent heat flooding through you before anything had even happened. Like this. Open like this. The vulnerability of the position had your hands clenching again on instinct, your face dropping forward, and you made yourself breathe.
Then the first landed. It was a light, sharp smack directly against your clit, and you jolted forward. Her free hand steadied you at the hip immediately, firm and sure, keeping you right where she needed you. Her palm pressed flat against you in the same soothing motion, softer here, more careful, and the pressure of her whole hand cupped against you between smacks was…something you couldn’t put into words.
"One," she said. Still that same warm, even voice. "You're okay. I've got you."
These were different. Lighter than the ones before, precise in a way that made your breath go ragged, and between each one she pressed her palm flat against the heat of you, and the relief of that pressure made you want to press back into her hand, which you did, twice, and she let you. Just held you there for a beat, her palm against you, warm and still, before the next landed.
You were making sounds into the pillow. You couldn't stop.
"You're such a good girl," she murmured, working her way through them. "Taking your punishment so beautifully. Look at you."
By ten you were trembling, slick against her palm, and something between crying and desperate, your hips rocking back toward her hand between each smack because your body had completely stopped caring about the difference between punishment pain and pleasure pain.
Her palm pressed flat against your cunt and stayed there.
"Ten," she said. "All done, my love. All done."
She kept her hand there, warm and still, and rubbed slow circles with her thumb, and you breathed.
"Roll over for me, darling," she said.
You did—slowly, your whole body still humming—and she was there, leaning over you, one hand braced beside your head, her hair loose around her face. She looked down at you with those warm eyes. You felt undone in the best possible way, and you’d never complain.
She looked at you like you were something she was very pleased with. Took a moment just to do it.
Then she settled beside you and her hand moved between your thighs again.
"This is what you did?" Her fingers found your clit and pressed, just a slow circle, barely-there, and you arched immediately. "Rubbed right here?"
"Yes—"
"With one finger? Or—" she adjusted— "like this?"
"Like that, please—"
"Mm." The motion stayed light. Maddeningly light. "And you thought about me."
"Yes, Mommy."
"What did you think about?" The circles continued, slow and steady, just enough to feel but not enough to build. Keeping you right at the edge of something without letting it become anything.
"Your hands," you managed. "Your—the way you—"
"The way I touch you," she finished for you.
"Yes."
"Like this?"
"More than this—"
"I know." She didn't increase the pressure. "But you didn't have permission for this, and you did it anyway." A pause. "So right now you get what I decide to give you."
You made a sound that was not a word.
"Is that fair, baby?" she asked. "Or is it unreasonable?"
"It's fair, Mommy," you said, and meant it completely.
She kept the circles going—slow, steady, unwavering, the same pace and pressure and nothing more, no matter how your hips rolled up toward her or your thighs trembled trying to close around her hand. She let you move. She just didn't give you anything extra for it. Your body was chasing something she was deliberately withholding, and she watched you do it with that warm settled expression, completely at ease, like she had all afternoon and intended to spend it exactly like this.
"Mommy—"
"Not yet," she said. Warm. Immovable.
"Please—"
"Not yet, baby." The circles continued. Her eyes stayed on your face.
You could feel it building anyway, despite the lightness of it—your body wound up from the anticipation and the spanking and the long teasing press of her hand through your underwear before any of this had started. The heat gathered low, slow and inevitable, and your hands fisted in the sheets and your back arched and she was right there, right there—
"Mommy—"
"I know," she said, and she lifted her hand away.
Completely. Gone.
The sound you made was embarrassing and you were past caring.
"Wanda—"
"Mommy," she sang, just like before, like you'd mispronounced something minor.
"Mommy—" Your hips were still working against nothing, chasing the shape of something that wasn't there anymore. Your thighs were shaking. "Please, please, I need—"
"Shh, I know what you need." She moved her hand to your stomach, flat and warm, pressing down. Grounding you. "My sweet girl. You're going to get everything you need. I promise you." She smoothed her palm in a slow circle. "When Mommy says."
You tried to breathe normally. You failed.
"You're okay," she said, watching you. "You're doing so well."
You didn't feel like you were doing well. You felt strung out, desperate, and entirely at her mercy, which you were, and she was well aware of that fact. She kept her hand on your stomach until the worst of it passed and your hips had stilled and you were just lying there trembling faintly, looking up at her.
She looked back, patient and showing no signs of moving faster.
"Again?" you asked, your voice coming out very small.
"Again," she confirmed.
Her hand drifted back down.
The second time she took longer. The same light circles against your clit at first but she varied them now, the pressure shifting, the pace changing, sometimes a slow drag of her fingertip and sometimes a tight circle right where you needed it and then veering off at the last second. Your body was trying to chase it and she was always a half-step ahead. She watched your face the whole time with that focused, private expression she had when she was doing something she found deeply satisfying, and you were already so sensitive from the first round that every change of pressure registered twice as much.
You found her wrist with your hand. Not to stop her. Just to have something. She let you hold on.
"You're being so good right now," she murmured, low and close. The circles tightened fractionally. Your breath hitched. "Such a good girl for Mommy. Even after what you did." Her thumb moved and you arched. "You're taking it so beautifully, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry," you said again, and it was different from the kitchen apology and different even from the first one. Realer. Lower. "I should have waited."
"You should have," she agreed, gentle. "But you're making up for it now." She leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your temple, and her hand kept moving, and you felt the warmth of her lips and the pressure of her fingers simultaneously and made a sound that came from somewhere deep. "That's my good girl."
The edge came back steep, the way it came back the second time when your body had already been there once and remembered the way. Your grip on her wrist tightened and your hips rolled and your back lifted and the heat was cresting, cresting—
She stopped.
"No—"
"Shh." Both her hands now, one flat on your stomach and one on your hip, holding you. Grounding you. "Breathe for me."
You breathed. Barely.
"Good," she said. "Good girl. I've got you."
Her hand on your stomach made slow circles. The same patient motion, but soothing now, just warmth. You came down by increments, shaking and frustrated, and she watched you do it with that steady warm expression.
"That's two," she said.
You were shaking. Your hands loose in the sheets now, not gripping, just resting there because you'd run out of the energy to hold on to anything. Your thighs were trembling and your whole body was strung out and wound so tight you felt fragile with it. All the while, she was right there looking at you with those eyes the color of moss and all the patience in the world.
"Wanda," you said, your voice was entirely wrecked. "Mommy. Please. I'll be so good, I promise, I should have waited, I know I should have waited, I'm sorry, please just—"
"Hey." Her hand came to your face, cupping your cheek. Her thumb swept across your cheekbone once, slow. "There she is."
You turned your face into her palm.
There was a pause. She looked at you—really looked, the way she did when she was deciding something—and her expression shifted, the patient amusement easing into something a little softer, a little more open. The part of her that was just Wanda, looking at you, glad you were hers. Her thumb moved again across your cheek, and she exhaled slowly, like something had settled.
"There's my good girl," she said, soft. "You've been so good."
"Please," you said, smaller. Just that.
"I know." She kissed your temple. Rested her lips there. "I've got you. Mommy's got you."
Her hand moved back between your thighs and this time she didn't tease. The same motion but with real intent behind it now, real pressure, and you cried out immediately from the sensitivity of it and she made a soothing sound and didn't let up. The buildup was fast. You were so far gone, wound up from two full rounds of edging, every nerve ending straining, and she worked you steadily and kept murmuring to you, low and close.
"That's it, darling," she murmured, right against your hair. "Good girl. Give it to Mommy."
"Mommy—"
"I know." Her voice was steady and warm and completely certain. "I've got you. You're safe. Come on, sweetheart—let go for me. Cum for Mommy, sweet girl.”
Your long-awaited orgasm broke over you in a long cresting wave, bigger than either of the edges had promised, and you cried out without anything left to moderate it, both hands locked around her wrist while everything rearranged. She kept the motion going through all of it, her fingers steady and unwavering, reading every tremor and staying with you through each one until you were pulling at her wrist from oversensitivity. Only then she slowed, gradual and careful, and finally stopped.
Her hand moved to your inner thigh. Just resting there, warm and still.
The room came back in pieces.
The pale stripes of light through the curtains. The familiar smell of the sheets, of her, of home. The sound of your own breathing, ragged and slow and trying to even itself out.
You were completely dissolved. Unmade. Every muscle had surrendered and you lay there loose and scattered and felt the afterglow move through you outward from the center, slow as a tide going out, warm all the way to your fingertips.
Wanda's hand moved. Long slow strokes up your side, hip to ribs and back, perfect and steady, just keeping contact, just letting you know she was there and wasn't going anywhere.
"There you are," she said, soft. "My darling girl."
The words landed somewhere they always landed. Deep, in a part of you that had always craved them.
"I know, baby." The strokes continued. Her other hand rested flat on your stomach. "You're alright. Just breathe. I've got you."
You breathed. The room continued to reassemble itself around you. You became gradually aware of more things: the texture of the sheets, the weight of the light, the warmth of Wanda's hands still moving on you, patient as she always was.
She gave you time like that—just her hands and her voice saying quiet things, holding you in place in the gentlest possible way while you came back to yourself. Then she shifted, settling back against the headboard, and drew you in close.
She arranged you against her with the ease of knowing you completely, one arm coming around your shoulders, your cheek coming to rest against her chest, and she held you there while your breathing slowed. You could hear her heartbeat under your ear. It was steady. It was the steadiest thing in the room.
"Hi," she said, softer than she'd said anything.
You made a small sound. Present. Accounted for.
She pressed a kiss to the top of your head and held her lips there. Her hand moved in slow strokes up your arm, shoulder to elbow and back, and for a while that was all—just her heartbeat, and her hand, and the amber light pressing in through the curtains, and the room settling around you like something that had been waiting to do it.
Then she shifted slightly, her free hand moving to the hem of her shirt. She drew it up and off in one easy motion, dropping it somewhere behind her, and then her hand came back to cradle the back of your head—palm warm, fingers curved—and she guided you, gently and without words, drawing you in closer, down against the soft warmth of her breast.
Your mouth found her nipple and closed around it, and something in your whole body simply exhaled.
It wasn't anything like what had been happening for the last hour. It was the opposite of that—the complete absence of striving, of chasing, of being held just at the edge of something. Here there was nothing to chase. Here there was just the soft weight of her against your lips, the give of her skin, the slow warmth of her hand at the back of your head keeping you exactly where she'd put you.
You stayed very still at first. Just rested. Just breathed through your nose, in and out, your whole body sinking deeper into the mattress with each exhale.
She made a small sound above you. Soft. The sound of someone settling into something, the same exhale you'd heard from her when she'd first gotten home and pressed her face into your hair. Like she'd been holding something through all of it too and had finally set it down.
"There she is," she murmured, her hand moving in your hair now, slow passes from your forehead back. "There's my sweet girl."
You pressed closer, and she let you, her arm tightening fractionally around your shoulders. Her nipple was soft against your tongue and you weren't doing anything particular with it—just holding her there, just present, just the warmth and the closeness and the steady rhythm of her breathing above you.
"You did so well," she said, low and close. "All of it. I know it was hard."
You made a small sound against her.
"I know," she said, like that had been a complete sentence, which maybe it had. Her fingers moved through your hair in that slow rhythm, the thing she did when she was tending to you, and each pass felt like it was drawing something down through your body and out, something tight and held that didn't have a name. "You took everything so beautifully."
The light coming through the curtains had shifted while you weren't paying attention, going from pale afternoon to the warmer amber of later afternoon, long and golden and slow. You were aware of it in a distant way. You were more aware of her—the soft weight of her breast against your mouth, the warmth of her hand moving in your hair, the sound of her voice talking to you quietly about nothing and everything, the particular quality of being held by someone who had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else.
"I missed you," she whispered, just for your ears. "Every minute I was gone. I kept thinking about you."
A small sound from you, believing her completely.
"The compound was fine," she said, easy. "But I wanted to be home. I wanted to be right here." Her arm drew you closer, her lips pressing again to the top of your head. "With my good girl."
You felt yourself getting heavier. The kind of heaviness that came from everything finally letting go at once. Your jaw had gone slack. Your hand rested against her ribs without any tension in it. The amber light moved slow across the ceiling.
"The tulips," you managed, from somewhere far down. The word barely made it out.
A smile moved through her, warm and private. You felt it more than heard it. "Mm. For you, my baby. Just for you. I knew you'd like the yellow ones."
A small approving sound from you, against her skin.
"I know," she said fondly. "I know you."
Her fingers moved in your hair—slow passes from your forehead back, the same even rhythm, the thing she did when you were drifting. You felt yourself going heavier with each one. Pleasantly, completely heavy.
"Sleep," she murmured. "You're exhausted, sweetheart. Let go."
You wanted to say something. Something about the tulips, or about the rule, or about how you understood now, how you really did—but it dissolved before you could find it, and anyway Wanda knew. She always knew the things you couldn't manage to say.
"I'm right here," she said. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
Her lips in your hair. Her arm around you. Her hand moving slow, forehead to back, forehead to back. The soft warmth of her against your mouth. Her heartbeat steady under your ear.
"I’m home," she said, softer still. "And you're mine. We're here. And everything is exactly right."
She said those words—everything is exactly right—and you were done, all the way under, falling easy into the amber quiet with her voice somewhere above you saying soft things you were already too far down to catch the words of.
A/N: been too busy with final exams and projects to finish any longer fic :/ so here’s this! Big thank you to @introverted-author for introducing the concept of an ejaculating strap to me 🤗 Also the quality isn’t something I’m very happy with, but it’s literally all I have right now because my gosh college is going to kill me
Strap-on sex, ejaculating strap, degradation, fake cum, Natasha’s on the phone and you’re getting railed (also it’s in present tense because it was originally a snapshot and I couldn’t stop)
18+ NSFW oneshot | 1k words
The glass your face is pressed against is cold, but that’s the last thing on your mind.
You know the door is unlocked. Anyone could walk in. And anyone on the top level of the building next to Natasha’s could get a view of exactly what she’s doing to you.
Her hands are over yours on the glass—fingers laced through yours, pinning them exactly where she put them. Her blazer is still on. Her collar is still straight. Her phone is pressed between her ear and her shoulder, her voice flat and professional somewhere above your head, talking to someone who has no idea.
She hasn’t slowed down once.
She’s still at the pace she set when she walked you into the glass and it is relentless—hard, deep strokes that drive you into the window with every thrust, your palms squeaking against the glass, your breath fogging it in short sharp bursts that clear and fog and clear again. The strap bottoms out and you feel it in your stomach. The sound that leaves you is immediate, and she speaks another sentence into the phone without missing a beat.
Like you aren’t even there. Like she isn’t absolutely wrecking you against her own window in broad daylight.
“Fogging it all up,” she murmurs into the gap between sentences, dropping her voice low, lips brushing your ear. “Look at the mess you’re making.” She drives forward hard and your forehead hits the glass. “Can barely see the city.”
Then she’s back on the phone.
The building across is level with the window. Anyone standing at those offices could look over right now and see the shape of you pressed against the glass, face flushed, hands pinned, getting absolutely railed by a woman who is simultaneously discussing quarterly projections. You become aware of this with vivid clarity every time she thrusts forward.
“Pretty little slut,” she says, between sentences, lips at your neck. “Taking it so well while I’m busy.” Her hips slam forward, making you choke on a sound, and she speaks into the phone again, unhurried and unbothered, her free hand coming up to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.
You are soaking. You’ve been that way since before she touched you, since her assistant called you up and you knew—you always know—that she needed you for something other than paperwork. The sounds your body is making around the strap are obscene in the quiet office, wet and audible with every thrust. She doesn’t try to cover them, speaking into the phone right over the top of them like they aren’t happening.
“Dripping down my thighs,” she murmurs between sentences, voice dropping again. “Soaking through the harness. Making a mess of my trousers while I’m trying to work.” A hard thrust. Your nails scratch at the glass.
“Pathetic,” she breathes against your neck, and it lands warm, lands like something she loves about you.
She drives into you harder and you bite down on your lip, pressing your forehead into the glass and breathing through your nose to try to stay quiet. You fail, a moan scraping out of you that she covers by speaking louder into the phone for exactly one sentence before dropping back down.
Her mouth finds your neck. A real kiss—her lips resting against your pulse point for a moment that has nothing to do with the power and everything to do with what lives underneath all of it. You feel her exhale against your skin.
“So good for me,” she murmurs there, soft and private. “Always so good.”
Then she’s back on the phone.
She keeps going. Relentless, switching between sentences into the phone and words against your skin without seam, her hips driving you into the glass over and over.
Your thighs are shaking. Your whole body is shaking.
“Ms. Romanoff—” It comes out broken, barely a word. “Please—I can’t—”
She hangs up and tosses the phone onto her desk. Both hands slam flat over yours on the glass and she drives into you without restraint now—no call to manage, nothing to moderate around—and the sounds that fill the office are both of yours, her breath rough at your ear and your voice completely gone. She fucks you into the glass until your vision whites out at the edges and your whole body seizes.
“Come on,” she growls against your ear. “Give it to me. Now.”
You cum so hard your knees buckle. She holds you up with the grip of her hands over yours and keeps driving through every second of it, working you through every wave until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and your hands are trying to pull away from the glass. She pins them there and keeps going for three more strokes just because she can.
Then she stills, and you feel the release. The warmth floods into you thick and sudden all at once. You feel every pulse of it. You feel it when she pulls back slowly—the slick drag, the sting of the stretch—and feel the warmth immediately begin slipping out of you, trailing down your inner thigh, warm against cool skin in the air conditioned office.
Natasha stays behind you, reaching down and pulling the back of your underwear open with two fingers, holding the waistband away from your skin, and she watches the last of the fake cum drip out of her strap and over the curve of your ass and down into the fabric. She says nothing. Her thumb traces your waistband, like she’s admiring her work.
“Mine,” she says quietly.
She releases the waistband, and it snaps back. Her palm comes down on your ass just once and she smooths the fabric flat against you.
She steps back and straightens her cuffs, composed in approximately four seconds.
“I have a meeting in five minutes.” She’s already at her desk. “Go.”
You peel yourself off the glass on legs that are not reliable, making your way to the door. Your hand finds the handle, and her voice stops you.
“Leave the underwear on.”
You swallow, feeling the fabric stick to you because of the fake cum, a feeling that is close to uncomfortable but the overwhelming desire the thought of it brings to you is enough to offset that. You hear Natasha sit down at her desk, and you catch a glimpse of her smirk.
Two people, a trailer in Norway, and a guessing game.
SFW | 888 words
ao3
The sound of cicadas and the sheets rustling were what you heard as you roused from the light sleep that had come over you.
“There you are,” Natasha whispered, the smile evident in just the sound of her voice. Her finger was still tracing shapes on your bare back, which is what she’d been doing for an hour now.
Under the night sky of Norway, tucked away in the trailer that was now home to the both of you, you couldn’t help but smile as well, your eyes blinking closed again.
“M’sorry,” you said, shifting your forearms underneath your cheek. Natasha leaned over you again, lips brushing your shoulder blades.
“Don’t apologize,” she replied. Her hair, still slightly damp from the shower she’d taken after you shared a dinner of some cereal she’d found at a market, brushed over your skin and caused you to shiver slightly. Natasha chuckled softly. “I’ll take you falling asleep as a compliment. Now, get back to guessing.”
You smiled into the skin of your arm, rolling your eyes. Her finger resumed tracing a shape, and you tried to make out what she was drawing.
“A knife,” you guessed half-heartedly, sleep starting to pull at you again.
“Oh, come on,” Natasha scoffed without heat in it, pressing a little harder with her fingernail into your side. “You can do better than that. Focus.”
She traced the shape again, and it took a good amount of mental strength to not drift off.
“I don’t know, Natasha,” you said, voice slurring ever so slightly.
“Yes, you do.” Natasha grinned, taking in the sight of your sleepy self for a moment before tracing the shape again. This time, you recognized it as an “I”.
“Are you spelling somethin’?” You asked, lifting your heavy head.
“Maybe,” Natasha replied, pushing your head back down. She kissed the spot on your back where she’d drawn the letter, lips lingering for a moment. “Next one. Pay attention.”
You sighed, settling once again. The trailer was warm—Natasha had made it a priority to keep it as warm as possible after you shivered that first night. Sleep called to you, an invisible pull to a darkness you knew would be safe with Natasha there with you.
Natasha’s finger moved over your skin, and this time you were able to make the shape out easily: a heart.
"If you're writing 'I love your tits' again," you said, voice going sweet and musical, "I'm going to kick you out."
Natasha snorted, kissing your back again before nuzzling your spine with her nose.
“That was one time,” she said, “and it was a true statement.” Her lips curved against your skin. “But no. One more word.”
You didn’t quite believe her—this was Natasha, and you knew her well—but you didn’t argue and focused back into the shape tracing.
Her finger moved, slow and deliberate, like an artist painting a masterpiece.
When the last word became clear to you, you laughed, reaching back to pat her thigh as a signal to get off over you. She did, and you rolled over, looking up at her as she settled on her hands and knees over you.
Your eyes traced her face, just as they had done for months now. In the light provided by the string of twinkling fairy lights you insisted on putting up over the bed in the trailer, she looked…at ease. No longer paranoid. Not scared, which you knew she had been when she’d first dragged you to Norway and feared both for your safety and that you would no longer be happy with her. Her eyes, the color of sage, met yours and you both smiled.
“I love you too,” you whispered, reaching up to trace the line of her jaw with your thumb. She leaned into the touch, much like the black cat that often showed up at the trailer and Natasha always pretended to not care about before feeding it.
“I love you more,” she whispered back. She opened her eyes, which had closed, and leaned in to kiss you. Your lips met softly, unhurried and warm.
“I love you most,” you said when the kiss broke, her face just centimeters from yours. She smirked, pinching your side and tickling you slightly, just enough to hear that giggle of yours she always loved to hear.
“I love you more than that,” she said, rolling over onto her side and pulling you as close as possible. “And that’s the end of the conversation.”
You had half a mind to keep arguing, but you knew you’d never win. And, quite unfairly, she had started to run her finger down the bridge of your nose, and you felt sleep call once more. Your eyes immediately fluttered, a slow breath leaving you.
The trailer settled into quiet around you. Outside, the cicadas kept on. You were almost gone.
Just before you drifted off for the final time, you heard her voice in your ear.
"Пусть кровь студеет в жилах...” Let the blood run cold in my veins.
Her hand brushed through your hair.
"…но в сердце не скудеет нежность моя к тебе.” But let my tenderness to you not weaken in my heart.
She kissed your ear, a brush of her lips that was hardly there.
"Последняя любовь." My last love.
a/n: i love "Natasha's Lullaby" (Lorne Balfe). that's where the russian words come from, i hope they're translated correctly.
I'm sick. I want soft Natasha.
I'm sorry if this isn't up to par with my usual stuff. The brain fog is really making things hard, but I wanted to write this idea out.
Wanda's never had an orgasm with a partner before. Natasha makes it her personal mission to change that. Repeatedly. With her mouth.
A/N: Yes, I am late to the party on the song "Lunch". I don't listen to Billie Eilish that often lol, but this song inspired me. Also, this is for my girlies who don't get off on just penetration. It's completely normal and I hope this oneshot helps you see that (and everyone should get someone like Natasha).
18+, NSFW oneshot | 9.1k words
ao3
The thing was, Wanda had never actually had an orgasm during sex.
Not with anyone, ever. She'd gotten extremely good at faking it. The right sounds at the right times, the theatrical back arch, the breathy "oh god yes" that men seemed to eat up without question. It had become second nature, automatic, just another part of the performance that sex apparently required.
She could get herself off perfectly fine when she was alone. Had a whole routine figured out, knew exactly what angle worked, exactly how much pressure she needed on her clit, exactly what rhythm would get her there. But with a partner? It just...never happened. And after years of trying and failing, she'd made her peace with it. Sort of. Sex was still intimate and nice even if she didn't finish, right? That's what she'd told herself, anyway.
But then she'd started dating Natasha Romanoff, and every single assumption she'd made about her own body was about to be systematically destroyed.
They'd been together for three months. Three months of increasingly heated makeout sessions that left them both breathless, wandering hands that tested boundaries, sexual tension so thick it was genuinely affecting their performance on missions. But they'd been taking it slow, both wanting to get it right, wanting to build something real before jumping into bed together.
Tonight was the night they'd finally decided to stop waiting.
Natasha's apartment was dimly lit, candles flickering on the nightstand because apparently Natasha Romanoff was secretly a romantic despite her tough exterior. They'd had dinner, shared a bottle of wine, conversation that had gradually shifted from talking to kissing to stumbling toward the bedroom with urgent, seeking hands and hearts pounding so hard they could probably hear each other's.
"You sure about this?" Natasha asked between increasingly desperate kisses, her hands already working on the buttons of Wanda's shirt with practiced efficiency. "We can wait if you're not ready. I don't want to rush you."
"I'm sure," Wanda said, and she meant it completely. She wanted this. Wanted Natasha. Had been thinking about almost nothing else for weeks. "I want you. I've wanted you."
"Good. Because I've been absolutely dying to get my hands on you." Natasha pulled off Wanda's shirt, tossing it somewhere neither of them cared about, and immediately moved to her bra with the kind of focus that suggested she'd been planning this. "You're so beautiful. Have I mentioned that recently?"
"Once or twice," Wanda managed breathlessly, working on Natasha's clothes in return, fingers slightly clumsy with anticipation.
They stripped each other with surprising efficiency, years of tactical training apparently translated well to removing clothing quickly, and then they were on the bed, completely naked and pressed together, and Wanda's brain short-circuited slightly because Natasha was gorgeous. All lean, defined muscle and pale skin and sharp angles, and those eyes looking at her like she was the only thing that existed in the entire universe.
"Hi," Natasha said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind Wanda's ear with unexpected tenderness.
"Hi," Wanda echoed, suddenly nervous in a way she hadn't anticipated.
"You okay? We can stop if—"
"No. No stopping. I definitely want this." Wanda pulled her into a kiss to prove it, deep and thorough and full of intent that left no room for doubt.
Natasha responded enthusiastically, rolling them so Wanda was on her back, settling her weight between her legs in a way that made Wanda's breath catch. "Tell me what you like. What feels good for you."
"I—" Wanda hesitated, genuinely unsure how to answer when it came to sex with another person. "Just... whatever you want to do is fine."
"That's not what I asked." Natasha looked at her seriously, propping herself up on her elbows. "I want to know what you like. What makes you feel good. What gets you off."
"Honestly? I don't really know. No one's ever really asked before." The admission made her feel slightly pathetic, but it was true.
Something shifted in Natasha's expression—understanding mixed with determination and what looked like genuine anger on Wanda's behalf. "Okay. Then we'll figure it out together. But you tell me if something doesn't feel good, alright? This is about both of us, not just me."
"Okay," Wanda agreed, warmth spreading through her chest at the genuine care in Natasha's voice.
Natasha kissed her again, then started working her way down Wanda's body with clear intent. Lips and tongue and occasionally teeth on her neck, her collarbones, the curve of her breasts. Wanda gasped and arched into the sensation, her hands finding Natasha's hair and holding on.
"You're so responsive," Natasha murmured against her skin between kisses. "I love that. Love these sounds you're making."
She spent what felt like an eternity on Wanda's breasts, kissing and licking and sucking until Wanda was squirming beneath her, making sounds she didn't entirely recognize as her own. Then Natasha continued her descent, kissing down her stomach, her hip bones, the sensitive inside of her thigh in a way that made Wanda's breath stutter.
"I'm going to use the strap," Natasha said, pulling back to grab the harness from her nightstand drawer. "If that's okay with you. But we can use something else if you'd prefer, or nothing at all."
"No, that's—that's good. I want that."
Natasha secured the harness with quick, practiced movements, the dark purple dildo jutting out from her hips. It was a good size, not intimidatingly large but substantial enough to definitely feel. Natasha settled back between Wanda's spread legs, running her hands up and down her thighs in a way that was probably meant to be soothing but just made Wanda more aware of every nerve ending.
"You're already so wet," Natasha observed, her fingers sliding through Wanda's arousal with clear appreciation. "This okay? Me touching you like this?"
"Yes—god yes—more—"
Natasha worked her with her fingers for several minutes, building her up steadily, and Wanda found herself responding genuinely to this part—her hips rolling up to meet Natasha's hand, actual pleasure building instead of the usual vague sense of going through motions. But then Natasha was positioning the dildo at her entrance, and Wanda felt her body automatically start to tense despite her best efforts.
"Relax," Natasha said gently, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her hip. "I've got you. We'll go slow."
She pushed in carefully, watching Wanda's face the entire time, and Wanda focused on breathing, on consciously relaxing muscles that wanted to clench, on trying to enjoy this. It didn't hurt—Natasha was careful and gentle and made absolutely sure she was ready—but it also didn't feel particularly amazing. It was just...fine. Pleasant in a distant sort of way but not earth-shattering.
Natasha started moving, her hips rolling in a steady, controlled rhythm, and Wanda made the sounds she thought she should make. The sounds that had always seemed to work before. Gasped and moaned and said "yes" at what felt like appropriate intervals based on years of practice. It was the performance she'd perfected, the role she knew how to play without thinking.
"You feel so good," Natasha said, her pace gradually increasing. "So perfect around me."
Wanda arched her back the way she'd learned men seemed to like, let her breathing get ragged and uneven the way that had always seemed to convince previous partners she was enjoying herself. And when Natasha's movements became more urgent, more focused, clearly building toward something, Wanda did what she'd always done. She faked it.
She let her whole body go tnse and rigid, let out what she hoped was a convincing cry of pleasure, let herself collapse back against the pillows like she was completely spent and satisfied. It was so automatic, so unconscious, so deeply ingrained after years of performances that she didn't even consciously think about doing it before it happened.
But the moment she opened her eyes and saw Natasha's face, she knew immediately that she'd made a terrible mistake.
Natasha had gone completely still, the dildo still inside her but not moving, and she was staring at Wanda with an expression that was equal parts disbelief and amusement and something that might have been disappointment.
"Did you just—" Natasha started slowly. "Did you seriously just fake an orgasm? Right now? With me?"
Wanda's stomach dropped straight through the floor. "I—what? No, I didn't—"
"Wanda." Natasha pulled out carefully and removed the harness, setting it aside before turning back to her with one eyebrow raised in a way that said she wasn't buying any bullshit. "I'm a highly trained spy. I've spent literal years learning to read micro-expressions, physical responses, involuntary muscle movements. There is absolutely no way you thought that would actually work on me."
"I wasn't—I didn't mean to—" Wanda felt her face burning with mortification. "It's just—it's kind of second nature? I didn't even consciously think about it before doing it."
"Second nature," Natasha repeated slowly, her expression shifting. "Meaning you've been faking orgasms regularly enough that it's become completely automatic. An unconscious response."
"Not with you! This was our first time, I would never intentionally—" Wanda cut herself off, realizing how that sounded. "I mean, yes, I've faked it before. With other people. Lots of times. But I didn't mean to with you, it just... happened without thinking."
Natasha was quiet for a long moment, studying her with those sharp eyes that saw everything. Then her expression softened into something gentler. "You've never actually had an orgasm during sex with someone else, have you?"
"I can get myself off perfectly fine when I'm alone," Wanda said defensively, not wanting Natasha to think she was completely broken. "It's just with a partner, it never really... happens. And guys never seemed to notice or care as long as I acted like I was having a good time, so I just—"
"Of course they didn't notice. Most men are absolutely terrible at sex and have massively inflated egos about their supposed abilities." Natasha moved closer, her hand finding Wanda's and threading their fingers together. "But I'm not a man. And I definitely care. Why didn't you tell me you weren't actually enjoying it?"
"I was enjoying it! It felt nice, it was intimate, I liked being with you—"
"But you didn't cum."
"No," Wanda admitted quietly, unable to meet her eyes. "But that's okay. That's normal for me. I wasn't expecting to."
"Well." Natasha's expression shifted into something determined and almost predatory that made Wanda's stomach flip in an entirely different way. "Mission objective crystal clear."
"What?"
Natasha was already moving with purpose, already settling back between Wanda's legs with clear intent, already pushing her thighs apart with firm, confident hands that brooked no argument.
"Wait, what are you—"
"I'm going to make you cum," Natasha said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "With my mouth. Right now. And you're not going to fake it this time because I'll absolutely know if you do. Understood?"
"Natasha, you don't have to—I already said it's fine—"
"It's not fine. You deserve to actually enjoy sex with your partner. You deserve to finish. You deserve to feel good." Natasha looked up at her with dark, intent eyes that made Wanda shiver. "And I'm going to show you exactly what you've been missing all these years. Now stop arguing and let me work."
Before Wanda could form any kind of protest, Natasha's mouth was on her, and whatever words she'd been about to say died completely in her throat.
Oh.
Oh.
This was…completely, entirely different from anything she'd experienced before with anyone. Natasha's tongue was warm and wet and absolutely perfect, licking through her folds with clear, deliberate purpose, finding spots that made Wanda gasp and jerk involuntarily. Finding spots she didn't even know existed.
"That's better," Natasha murmured against her, pulling back just slightly. "Those are real sounds you're making now. Not performing for me."
Wanda couldn't even be embarrassed about it because Natasha's tongue had found her clit and was circling it with absolutely devastating precision, and her brain had completely shut down except for the part frantically trying to process how unbelievably good this felt.
"Oh my god," Wanda breathed, her hands flying to Natasha's hair without any conscious thought, gripping tightly. "That's—fuck—"
Natasha hummed approvingly against her, the vibration making Wanda's hips jerk up involuntarily. She worked steadily, patiently, using her tongue to explore and map every single sensitive spot with the kind of attention to detail that suggested she was cataloging information for future use. And unlike the handful of times men had attempted this (usually half-heartedly and with the general energy of someone completing an unpleasant obligation), Natasha seemed to be genuinely, actively enjoying herself—making small satisfied sounds against Wanda's skin, her hands gripping Wanda's thighs possessively, her entire focus narrowed down to this one specific task.
"You taste incredible," Natasha said, pulling back just enough to speak clearly before diving back in. "I could genuinely do this for hours and be completely satisfied."
"Hours?" Wanda managed to gasp out.
"Hours." Natasha's tongue returned, licking a long, deliberate stripe up through her folds that made Wanda's vision white out briefly. "But let's start with making you cum once. We can work our way up to marathon sessions later."
She focused specifically on Wanda's clit then, tongue circling and flicking with perfect, consistent pressure, occasionally sucking it gently into her mouth in a way that made Wanda genuinely see stars behind her closed eyelids. And Wanda found herself responding in ways she never had before with a partner—her hips rolling up desperately to meet Natasha's mouth, her thighs trembling uncontrollably on either side of Natasha's head, genuine pleasure building rapidly in her core instead of the usual vague sense of pleasant friction.
"Oh god—Natasha—I think—" Wanda couldn't finish the sentence because she'd never actually been here before with someone else, never felt this particular overwhelming sensation building, never been this close to—
"Let go," Natasha said firmly against her, her hands gripping Wanda's hips to hold her steady. "Stop overthinking it. I've got you. Just let it happen."
And somehow, impossibly, Wanda did.
Her orgasm hit her like a physical wave—completely different from the ones she'd given herself alone in her room, more intense, more overwhelming, more consuming, rolling through her entire body in pulses that seemed to go on forever. She cried out, a genuine and uncontrolled sound of pure pleasure she'd never made during sex before in her life, her back arching completely off the bed, her hands pulling desperately at Natasha's hair hard enough to probably hurt, her thighs clamping involuntarily around Natasha's head.
Natasha worked her through every second of it, her tongue never stopping, movements gentling gradually as the pleasure peaked and started to ebb, helping her come down slowly and carefully. When Wanda finally relaxed completely, gasping and trembling and utterly wrecked, Natasha pressed soft, tender kisses to her inner thighs before crawling up her body.
"That," Natasha said with clear satisfaction, "was a real orgasm. Significant difference from what you were trying to sell me earlier."
Wanda could only stare at her, completely speechless, her brain still trying desperately to reboot from what had just happened.
"You okay?" Natasha asked, genuine concern replacing the smugness when Wanda didn't immediately respond. "That wasn't too much, was it? Too intense?"
"I—" Wanda finally found her voice, though it came out rough and slightly wrecked. "I've never—that's never happened before. With someone else. With a partner. I didn't even know it could feel like that."
"It can. It absolutely should. Every single time." Natasha kissed her softly, and Wanda could taste herself on her lips. "You deserve to feel good during sex, Wanda. You deserve to finish. You deserve a partner who actually cares about your pleasure. And I'm going to make absolutely sure that happens from now on."
"You don't have to make it sound like an obligation—"
"It's not an obligation. I want to." Natasha pulled her closer, settling beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist. "Trust me, I really, genuinely want to. That was incredible for me too. I loved every single second of it."
"Really?" Wanda couldn't quite believe that.
"Really. Your taste, your sounds, the way you responded, the way you completely let go at the end—all of it." Natasha smiled, and it was warm and genuine. "I meant what I said about hours. I would happily spend entire afternoons between your legs if you'd let me. It's not a chore or something I'm doing to be nice. It's something I actively, enthusiastically want to do."
"That's—" Wanda didn't know what to say to that. "Most people don't actually enjoy giving oral. They just do it because they feel like they have to."
"Most people are doing it wrong, then." Natasha kissed her again, slower this time. "I love it. I genuinely, truly love eating you out. The intimacy, the control, the way I can make you feel, the taste—everything about it. It's a privilege."
Wanda felt unexpected tears prick at her eyes. She'd spent so many years thinking she was just fundamentally broken somehow, that she wasn't capable of enjoying sex the way other people seemed to, that orgasms with a partner just weren't in the cards for her. But Natasha had just proven that completely, entirely wrong in the span of maybe twenty minutes.
"Thank you," Wanda said softly, her voice catching slightly.
"Don't thank me for giving you orgasms," Natasha said firmly, settling beside her and pulling her close. "That should be the absolute bare minimum in any sexual relationship. But you're welcome anyway."
They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, Wanda still processing everything that had just happened, still trying to reconcile years of mediocre, unsatisfying sex with what Natasha had just shown her was actually possible.
"Hey," Natasha said after several quiet minutes. "Just so you know, we don't have to use the strap if you don't want to. If it doesn't feel good for you, we can stick to other things. I'm more than happy to just use my mouth every single time."
"I did enjoy the strap," Wanda said honestly, thinking back. "It just wasn't enough on its own to get me there. But combined with what you just did..." She trailed off, thinking. "Maybe if we tried it differently? Or added other things? Experimented more?"
"We can definitely experiment. Figure out what works specifically for your body. But there's absolutely no pressure." Natasha kissed her temple gently. "I meant what I said. I could genuinely spend hours eating you out and be completely satisfied with our sex life. That alone is amazing sex for me."
"I want to return the favor," Wanda said suddenly. "For you. Make you feel good too. That was so completely one-sided."
"Trust me, I got plenty out of that. But yes, we can absolutely take turns making each other feel good." Natasha's hand trailed down Wanda's side. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that making you cum is not a chore or an obligation or something I'm doing to be nice. It's something I actively, genuinely want to do. Frequently and enthusiastically."
"How frequently?"
"Every day if you'd let me. Multiple times a day, honestly. Right now again if you're up for it."
"Right now?" Wanda looked at her in genuine disbelief.
"I told you. I love eating you out. I could happily do it all day and never get bored." Natasha's hand started trailing deliberately down Wanda's stomach. "Want me to prove it?"
And because Wanda was apparently completely incapable of saying no to experiencing more of what she'd just felt for the first time in her life, she found herself nodding almost immediately. "Yes. God, yes please."
"Good girl," Natasha said with a grin that was absolutely wicked, and then she was moving back between Wanda's legs with clear purpose.
And Wanda discovered that night that she could, in fact, have multiple orgasms in one session when the right person was doing the right things with genuine skill and enthusiasm.
It was an extremely educational evening.
(-)
Wanda woke up in Natasha's bed feeling thoroughly satisfied and slightly sore in places she'd never been sore before. Natasha was already awake beside her, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other traced absent patterns on Wanda's bare shoulder.
"Morning," Natasha said when she noticed Wanda stirring. "How are you feeling?"
"Good. Really good." Wanda stretched carefully, wincing slightly at the pull of well-used muscles. "A little sore but in a really good way."
"We definitely overdid it last night." But Natasha didn't sound even remotely apologetic about it.
They'd gone for round two after their initial conversation. And then round three when Wanda had insisted on reciprocating. And then round four. And by the time Wanda had finally called it quits around two in the morning, she'd had six orgasms and Natasha had looked like she'd personally won the lottery.
"I regret absolutely nothing," Wanda said, cuddling closer and burying her face in Natasha's neck.
"Good. Me neither." Natasha set down her phone and rolled to face her properly. "Want breakfast? I can make us something. Or we can order in if you prefer."
"You're offering to cook? This relationship is full of surprises."
"I have many hidden talents you haven't discovered yet."
"I'm beginning to realize that."
They ended up ordering in—bagels from the place down the street that Natasha swore by—and eating in bed like people who had absolutely nowhere to be on a Saturday morning and were determined to take full advantage of it. It was comfortable and easy and domestic, and Wanda found herself thinking that this was exactly what she'd been missing in every previous relationship. This comfortable intimacy, this genuine care for her pleasure as an equal priority, this sense that they were actual partners in every possible sense.
But as the day went on and she eventually headed back to her own apartment to get clean clothes and handle some errands, a small worry started creeping in around the edges of her contentment.
What if last night had been a special one-time thing? What if Natasha had just been trying to prove a point, to show her what she'd been missing all these years, but didn't actually want to do that every single time they had sex? What if she'd been exaggerating about loving it just to make Wanda feel better, and would expect her to be satisfied with just the strap or hands or other things from now on?
Wanda knew logically that she was probably overthinking it. Natasha had been extremely clear and emphatic about her enthusiasm. But years and years of mediocre sexual experiences had taught Wanda not to get her hopes up too much, not to expect good things to continue indefinitely, not to assume that initial effort would translate into consistent reality.
She didn't bring it up to Natasha though. Didn't want to seem needy or demanding or like she was pressuring Natasha into something she didn't actually want to do. So she just...waited. Wondered. She tried not to obsess over whether last night would become their new normal or if it had been a special exception that wouldn't be repeated.
Natasha, being a highly trained spy who could read people like they were open books written in large font, absolutely knew exactly what Wanda was thinking and worrying about.
She just didn't say anything yet. She had plans to demonstrate rather than explain.
Three days after that first night, Wanda came over to Natasha's apartment after a long day of training and meetings. She'd texted that she was on her way up the stairs, and Natasha had responded with a simple "door's unlocked, come in."
Wanda climbed the stairs to Natasha's floor slowly, her legs slightly tired from an intensive training session with Steve, fishing her keys out of her bag while mentally debating whether she had the energy to cook or if they should just order food. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, opening her mouth to suggest food options.
"Hey, I was thinking we could order—"
She stopped mid-sentence, the words dying completely in her throat.
Because Natasha was in the kitchen, and she was already pulling out a chair from the dining table, positioning it with clear, deliberate intent. And as Wanda watched in growing realization, Natasha reached up and pulled her hair back into a quick, efficient ponytail, securing it with a hair tie from her wrist with practiced movements.
So now, she's comin' up the stairs, so I'm pullin' up a chair, and I'm puttin' up my hair.
"Hi," Natasha said casually, like this was completely normal Tuesday evening behavior. "How was your day?"
"It was—wait, what are you doing?"
"Setting up." Natasha patted the edge of the table invitingly. "Come here. Sit right here."
"On the table?"
"On the table." Natasha's eyes were already dark with intent that made Wanda's stomach flip. "Unless you'd rather eat actual dinner first? I can wait if you're hungry."
"I—" Wanda's brain was struggling to catch up with what was clearly happening. "You want to—right now? I literally just walked in the door."
"I've been thinking about this since you texted that you were coming over. So yes, right now." Natasha moved closer with purpose, taking Wanda's bag and setting it carefully aside. "Now get over here and sit on this table so I can eat you out while you tell me about your day."
"That's—you can't possibly be serious."
"Completely serious." Natasha was already reaching for the button of Wanda's jeans, popping it open with practiced efficiency. "Come on. Don't make me wait when I've been thinking about this."
Wanda found herself obeying almost automatically, letting Natasha guide her to the table, helping her hop up so she was sitting on the edge. Natasha pulled off her sneakers efficiently, then her jeans and underwear in quick, purposeful movements that suggested she'd thought through the logistics.
"There we go," Natasha said with clear satisfaction, spreading Wanda's legs and pulling the chair up between them so she was at the perfect height. "Absolutely perfect."
"This is completely insane," Wanda said, but she was already breathing faster, already feeling heat pool between her legs.
"This is efficient multitasking." Natasha settled into the chair, her mouth now level with exactly where she wanted it to be, her hands gripping Wanda's thighs. "Now tell me about your day. I want to hear everything."
"You want me to talk? While you're—"
"Yes. I want to hear about your day. I'm genuinely interested in what you did." Natasha's breath was hot against Wanda's inner thigh. "I'm also going to make you feel incredible while you talk. So start talking."
Before Wanda could form any kind of protest or argument, Natasha's tongue made contact, and Wanda's planned response dissolved instantly into a gasp.
"Day," Natasha prompted against her, not pulling back. "Tell me about it."
"I—fuck—I had a meeting with Tony about the new security protocols—oh my god—" Wanda's words stuttered and broke apart as Natasha's tongue found her clit with unerring accuracy.
"Mmm," Natasha hummed encouragingly, the vibration making Wanda's hips jerk. "What about the protocols? Were they any good?"
"He wants to—fuck—wants to implement biometric scanning for level four clearance, and I don’t even know what that—oh—" Wanda's head fell back as Natasha increased the pressure of her tongue deliberately. "How am I supposed to have a conversation while you're—"
"Multitask," Natasha said simply, pulling back just enough to speak clearly before diving back in with renewed focus.
Wanda tried. She genuinely tried her absolute best to tell Natasha about her day—about the tedious meeting with Tony that had run an hour over schedule, about the brutal training session with Steve that had left her legs shaking, about the mountain of paperwork she'd been drowning in all afternoon—but Natasha's tongue made forming coherent sentences functionally impossible.
"And then—oh god—then Yelena showed up completely out of nowhere and—fuck—Natasha—"
"Mmm?" Natasha's hands tightened on her thighs possessively, pulling her even closer to the edge of the table, adjusting the angle to give herself even better access.
"I can't—I can't think properly when you—" Wanda's hands found Natasha's hair, gripping tightly enough to probably hurt. "That feels so ridiculously good—"
Natasha worked her with clear, dedicated focus, her tongue moving in patterns that suggested she'd been paying very close attention to what had worked best last time, what had made Wanda gasp versus what had made her moan. And unlike their first time when she'd been gentle and exploratory, this time Natasha seemed more confident, more assured, more like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and exactly how to completely destroy Wanda's ability to function.
"Keep talking," Natasha said, pulling back briefly to catch her breath. "What did Yelena want?"
"She—oh fuck—she wanted to know if I'd seen you lately—right there, god—because apparently you've been completely ignoring her texts for days—"
"Been busy," Natasha said against her with zero remorse, and Wanda could actually feel her smiling.
"Busy planning this ambush, apparently—oh my god—"
Natasha hummed in acknowledgment, the vibration making Wanda's hips jerk involuntarily upward, seeking more contact. Her tongue circled Wanda's clit with increasing speed and pressure, building her up steadily and relentlessly, and Wanda completely abandoned any remaining attempt at coherent conversation in favor of just holding on desperately and trying not to fall off the table.
"That's it," Natasha murmured approvingly. "Stop trying to talk and just feel it. Just let yourself feel good."
Wanda did exactly that, her head falling back, her thighs trembling uncontrollably on either side of Natasha's head, her whole body tensing as pleasure built rapidly. The orgasm approached faster than the first time had, probably because her body was still learning that this was allowed now, that this was real, that she didn't have to fake or perform or pretend.
"I'm—oh fuck—Natasha, I'm close—"
"Let go," Natasha said firmly, her tongue increasing its pace. "Cum for me right now."
Wanda came with a sharp, broken cry, her whole body seizing, her hands pulling desperately at Natasha's hair, her thighs clamping around Natasha's head hard enough that Natasha probably couldn't breathe properly. The pleasure rolled through her in intense waves, and Natasha worked her through every single second with patient, perfect movements of her tongue.
When Wanda finally relaxed, gasping and trembling, Natasha pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh before looking up at her with a satisfied, slightly smug grin.
"So," Natasha said conversationally, like she hadn't just made Wanda completely fall apart. "Sushi for dinner?"
(-)
A week and a half later, Wanda was having an objectively terrible day.
Not a catastrophic, world-ending disaster. Just one of those days where absolutely everything was slightly off, slightly wrong, slightly more difficult and frustrating than it had any right to be. A mission had gone sideways in the worst possible way (no one was seriously hurt, thankfully, but the target had escaped and taken valuable intel with them), paperwork had somehow multiplied exponentially on her desk, she'd spilled her entire coffee down the front of her favorite shirt, and to top it all off, she'd gotten into a pointless argument with Tony about mission protocols that had left her feeling drained and irritable (when did they not).
By the time she finally made it back to her apartment that evening, she was exhausted and frustrated and wanted nothing more than to take a long shower and sleep for approximately twelve straight hours.
She was halfway through fumbling with her keys when her phone buzzed insistently with a text from Natasha.
Natasha: Come over.
Wanda: I'm exhausted. Rain check?
Natasha: Come over. I'll take care of you.
Wanda: Nat, I really just want to crash and sleep.
Natasha: Trust me. Come over. Please.
Wanda sighed heavily, but something in Natasha's tone—even transmitted through text—made her pause and reconsider. She locked her door again without going inside and headed to Natasha's apartment building instead, too tired to even properly question the decision.
When she arrived and let herself in with the key Natasha had given her two weeks ago, she found the lights dimmed low and soft music playing from the speakers. Natasha appeared from the bedroom almost immediately, already moving toward her with purpose.
"Hey," Natasha said softly, pulling her into a tight hug before Wanda could even speak. "Rough day?"
"How did you know?"
"Steve mentioned the mission went completely sideways. Figured you might be feeling it." Natasha pulled back just enough to look at her properly, studying her face with those sharp, observant eyes. "I ran you a shower. It's ready right now whenever you want it."
"You ran me a shower?"
"Mhm. Hot water, that lavender soap you like that I definitely didn't steal from your apartment specifically to keep here for you. There are clean clothes on the counter for you to change into after." Natasha guided her gently toward the bathroom. "Go. Take your time. Take as long as you need. I'll be right here when you're done."
I'll run a shower for you like you want. Clothes on the counter for you, try 'em on.
Wanda felt unexpected tears prick sharply at her eyes. No one had ever just...taken care of her like this before. Without asking for anything in return, without making a huge production of it, without expecting praise or gratitude, just quietly and efficiently making things better because they wanted to.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice threatening to crack.
"Don't thank me yet. Go shower. You'll feel better."
Wanda did exactly that, letting the hot water wash away the accumulated stress and frustration of the entire terrible day, using the familiar soap that smelled like home and comfort. When she finally emerged, wrapped in one of Natasha's oversized towels, she found the clothes Natasha had mentioned laid out carefully—soft sleep shorts and one of Natasha's hoodies, the oversized grey one that Wanda had commented on liking several weeks ago.
She changed into them quickly, immediately feeling more human and less like a disaster, and padded back out to the living room on bare feet.
Natasha was waiting on the couch, and when she saw Wanda, her expression softened noticeably. "Better?"
"Much better. Significantly more human." Wanda moved toward her gratefully. "Thank you for this. I didn't even realize how much I needed it until just now."
"Come here," Natasha said, opening her arms invitingly.
Wanda settled beside her on the couch, expecting to just cuddle quietly and maybe watch something mindless and comforting on TV. But Natasha's hands were already moving with clear intent, already sliding under the hem of her borrowed hoodie.
"Nat—"
"Let me take care of you," Natasha said softly, her voice gentle but brooking no argument. "Let me make you feel good. You had a terrible day. Let me fix that."
"You already did. The shower, the clothes, just being here—"
"That was step one." Natasha was already pulling the hoodie up and carefully off. "This is step two. The important part."
"I'm not—I'm really exhausted, I genuinely don't know if I have the energy—"
"Then just lie back and let me do absolutely all the work." Natasha guided her to lie down along the length of the couch, settling between her legs with practiced ease. "You don't have to do anything at all except feel good. That's it. That's your only job right now."
If I'm allowed, I'll help you take 'em off.
Before Wanda could formulate any further protest, Natasha was pulling off the sleep shorts, and all thoughts of being too tired disappeared almost instantly.
This time felt different from the previous times. Softer, slower, more tender and deliberate. Natasha wasn't rushing, wasn't trying to prove any kind of point or demonstrate her skills. Just working Wanda over with patient, dedicated care, clearly focused entirely on making Wanda feel cherished and looked after and loved.
"You're so beautiful," Natasha murmured against her between long, slow licks. "So absolutely perfect. Just relax completely and let me make you feel good, baby."
Wanda let her head fall back against the couch cushions, her hands finding Natasha's hair—hair that was already pulled carefully back out of the way, because apparently Natasha had planned this entire thing in advance. Her body responded despite her bone-deep exhaustion, pleasure building slowly but inevitably under Natasha's patient attention.
"That's it," Natasha encouraged warmly. "Just relax into it. Let everything else go. Let me take care of you properly."
Natasha's tongue moved in slow, deliberate, almost lazy circles, never rushing or pushing, just building her up gradually with patient precision and clear dedication. And Wanda found herself completely relaxing into the sensation, letting go of all the accumulated stress and frustration and exhaustion of the day, letting Natasha's focused attention replace everything negative with steadily building pleasure.
"I want to mark you," Natasha said suddenly, pulling back just slightly. "Can I do that?"
"Mark me?" Wanda's brain was already too pleasantly fuzzy to fully process the question.
"Here." Natasha's teeth grazed Wanda's inner thigh lightly, almost teasingly. "I want to leave marks on you. Bite marks. Bruises. So you remember this tomorrow. Remember me. Remember that you're cared for and loved."
"Yes," Wanda breathed without hesitation. "Yes, please, do it."
Natasha's teeth sank firmly into the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, not hard enough to truly hurt or break skin but definitely firm enough to leave a clear, visible mark. Wanda gasped sharply, her hips jerking involuntarily, and Natasha immediately soothed the spot with her tongue before moving to a different location and doing it again with the same deliberate pressure.
She worked her way methodically up one thigh, leaving a trail of bite marks and rapidly darkening spots that would definitely become proper bruises by tomorrow morning. Then she switched to the other thigh with clear intent, marking Wanda systematically and possessively, claiming her in a way that made Wanda's head spin and her arousal spike dramatically.
"Everyone's going to see these," Wanda gasped, suddenly realizing the implications.
"Good," Natasha said firmly against her skin, her voice holding a possessive edge that sent shivers down Wanda's spine. "Let them see. Let every single person know that you're taken care of. That you're mine. That someone loves you enough to mark you like this."
The raw possessiveness in Natasha's voice combined with another firm bite to her inner thigh sent a sharp spike of intense arousal straight through Wanda's entire system. By the time Natasha finally returned her full attention to Wanda's clit, Wanda was already teetering on the edge—completely overwhelmed by the combination of physical sensation and emotional weight and the sheer care being demonstrated.
"I've got you," Natasha said with absolute certainty, her tongue returning to its steady, perfect rhythm. "Let go completely. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Wanda came with a broken, almost sobbing sound, tears suddenly streaming down her face—not from pain or sadness but from completely overwhelming emotion and relief and the feeling of being genuinely cared for. Natasha worked her through it with infinite gentleness, her tongue never stopping until Wanda was entirely spent and shaking.
When she finally came down fully, Natasha immediately crawled up her body and pulled her into a tight, secure embrace.
"Hey," Natasha said softly, carefully wiping away Wanda's tears with her thumbs. "You okay?”
"No. It was absolutely perfect. I just—" Wanda couldn't quite find adequate words. "Thank you. For taking care of me like this. For this. For everything."
"Always," Natasha promised, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead. "Bad day, good day, mediocre day, any day at all. I'm here. And I'm always more than happy to make you feel good however I can."
(-)
Two and a half weeks later, Wanda was getting ready in Natasha's bathroom for a team gathering, taking photos of her outfit in the full-length mirror. They were supposed to meet everyone for drinks at some trendy bar Tony had discovered in about an hour, and Wanda had found this absolutely perfect dress that made her feel confident and attractive and powerful.
She snapped several photos—checking different angles carefully, making sure her hair looked right, adjusting the dress slightly to sit better on her hips. Her skin looked genuinely good today, clear and practically glowing, probably because Natasha had been making sure she actually took proper care of herself instead of just surviving on coffee and accumulated stress.
She's takin' pictures in the mirror, oh my God, her skin's so clear.
"You look absolutely incredible," Natasha said from the doorway, and Wanda jumped slightly—she genuinely hadn't heard her approach at all.
"Thanks. I'm almost ready, just need to finish my makeup and—"
"Bring that over here," Natasha said, her voice dropping into that particular tone that made Wanda's stomach flip and heat pool instantly between her legs.
Tell her, "Bring that over here."
"Nat, we have to leave in like forty minutes or we'll be late."
"Then we'd better get started immediately." Natasha was already moving purposefully to the bed, sitting on the edge and looking at Wanda with dark, hungry, intent eyes that promised absolutely nothing good. "Come here right now."
"You cannot possibly be serious. We have actual plans with actual people."
"We have plenty of time." Natasha patted her thighs invitingly. "Now come here and sit."
You need a seat? I'll volunteer.
"On your lap?" Wanda felt heat pool rapidly in her belly despite her half-hearted protests about timing.
"Not on my lap." Natasha laid back on the bed deliberately, making her intentions crystal clear and utterly unmistakable. "On my face."
"Natasha—"
"Please." And there was something about the way Natasha said it—not demanding or commanding, but genuinely asking, clearly wanting this desperately—that made Wanda's resistance crumble instantly into dust. "I've been thinking about this literally all day. Let me taste you. Please."
"We're going to be extremely late," Wanda said, but she was already moving toward the bed without conscious decision, already reaching for the zipper of her dress.
"Completely worth it." Natasha helped her out of the dress with careful, practiced movements, setting it aside on a chair so it wouldn't wrinkle or get damaged. "Now lose the underwear and get up here immediately."
Wanda obeyed without further protest, stripping off her underwear and climbing onto the bed with slightly shaking hands. She positioned herself carefully over Natasha's face, her thighs on either side of her head, still somewhat hesitant about actually putting her full weight down despite having done this before.
"Lower," Natasha commanded firmly, her hands gripping Wanda's hips and pulling her down without mercy. "I said sit, not hover. I want to feel your full weight. I want you to use me."
"I'm going to suffocate you—"
"What an absolutely perfect way to go." Natasha pulled her down even more insistently, and then her tongue made immediate contact, and Wanda's protests died completely and instantly.
Now she's smilin' ear to ear.
"Oh fuck," Wanda gasped, her hands flying to the headboard for desperately needed balance and stability.
Natasha hummed contentedly beneath her, clearly completely unbothered by Wanda's weight pressing down, her tongue already working with enthusiastic, dedicated purpose. And the angle—god, the angle was absolutely perfect. Deeper than usual, more intense, more overwhelming, more consuming.
"Nat—this is—oh my god—"
She's the headlights, I'm the deer.
Natasha's hands gripped her hips firmly and possessively, holding her exactly where she wanted her, actively guiding her to roll her hips slightly, to grind down, to take exactly what she needed without hesitation. And Wanda found herself doing exactly that, grinding down on Natasha's face with increasing desperation and abandon, chasing the rapidly building pleasure, losing herself completely in the sensation.
"You feel so perfect like this," Natasha managed to say between licks, her voice muffled but clear with satisfaction. "So absolutely perfect. Don't stop. Take what you need from me."
"Can't—I'm gonna—fuck—" Wanda was already so close, the combination of the position and Natasha's skilled tongue and the sheer overwhelming intimacy of it all pushing her toward the edge at genuinely alarming speed.
"Then cum," Natasha said firmly, her tongue increasing its pace. "Cum on my face. I want to taste every drop."
That direct command was all it took. Wanda came with a sharp, broken cry, her whole body shaking violently, her thighs clamping involuntarily around Natasha's head hard enough to definitely restrict breathing, her hands white-knuckled on the headboard. The orgasm was intense—more intense than usual, something about the position and the vulnerability making everything feel impossibly heightened and raw.
When she finally came down enough to think again, gasping desperately, she immediately tried to lift off and give Natasha room to breathe properly.
"Where do you think you're going?" Natasha's hands held her firmly and immovably in place. "I'm nowhere near done yet."
"Nat, we need to actually get ready—"
"We have time." Natasha's tongue returned immediately, gentler now but no less determined or focused. "Give me one more. Just one more."
"I can't—I literally just—"
"You can." Natasha's voice was muffled but absolutely certain. "And you will. Now stop arguing and let me work."
Wanda wanted to protest properly that they were absolutely, definitely going to be late, that the entire team was waiting for them, that they couldn't just abandon their plans last minute. But Natasha's tongue was doing absolutely sinful, devastating things to her oversensitive clit, and her body was already responding eagerly despite having just finished, and all her protests died before they could fully form into actual words.
"That's better," Natasha said approvingly against her. "Just relax completely and let me take care of you."
She worked Wanda with infinite patience and clear dedication, building her back up slowly and carefully, taking her time deliberately. And Wanda found herself completely lost in it again—the overwhelming feeling of Natasha's mouth, the profound intimacy of the position, the way Natasha's hands held her so possessively and securely.
"You're so beautiful like this," Natasha murmured against her between licks. "Above me. Taking what you need. Using my mouth for your pleasure. I love it. I love seeing you let go completely like this."
"I'm—oh god—I'm getting close again—" Wanda could barely form the words coherently, too overwhelmed by sensation and emotion.
"I know. I can feel it building. Your thighs are shaking. Your clit is so sensitive right now. You're about to cum all over my face again." Natasha's tongue increased its pace deliberately. "Do it. Cum for me again right now."
Wanda's second orgasm crashed through her even harder than the first somehow, and she actually had to physically muffle her cry against her own arm to avoid being embarrassingly loud. Her whole body trembled violently, and Natasha held her steady and secure through all of it, tongue working her through every single wave until she was completely spent and boneless.
When she finally managed to lift off and collapse beside Natasha on the bed, she was gasping raggedly and shaking and absolutely wrecked in the best possible way.
"Okay," Wanda managed eventually. "That was—you're—we're definitely extremely late now."
"Completely worth it." Natasha was grinning widely, her face obviously wet, and she didn't seem remotely concerned about it or the time. "That was absolutely incredible. You're incredible."
"You're genuinely insane."
"You love it." Natasha kissed her deeply, and Wanda could taste herself mixed with Natasha's enthusiasm. "Now come on. Let's actually get ready properly. Though you're definitely going to need to redo your makeup situation."
"Because you made me cry from cumming so hard?"
"Exactly." Natasha looked far too pleased with herself about that fact. "But hey, your skin still looks absolutely amazing."
(-)
A month and a half into regularly, enthusiastically eating Wanda out at literally every opportunity that presented itself, Natasha realized something profound.
She was completely, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Wanda Maximoff.
It wasn't a sudden revelation that hit her like lightning. It had been building steadily for months—through their early dates and getting-to-know-you conversations, through learning each other's habits and preferences, through that first transformative night when Natasha had made Wanda cum for the first time ever with a partner and seen her face light up with genuine, unguarded pleasure and wonder. But now, after over a month of consistently making Wanda fall apart on her tongue multiple times a week, it had solidified into absolute, unshakeable certainty.
Wanda was it for her. The one. The person she wanted to spend the rest of her entire life with.
And she needed to tell her immediately.
I know it's just a hunch, but she might be the one.
(It wasn't a hunch at all. Natasha was completely, entirely certain. But the sentiment stood regardless.)
She'd been planning it carefully all day—how to tell Wanda, what exactly to say, how to make the moment special and memorable. But when Wanda showed up at her apartment that evening, smiling and beautiful and completely unaware of the emotional confession Natasha was frantically preparing, all those carefully constructed plans went directly out the window.
"Hey," Wanda said, kissing her softly and sweetly. "How was your day?"
"Good. Significantly better now that you're here." Natasha pulled her inside, closing and locking the door behind them. "I need to tell you something important."
"That sounds potentially ominous. Should I be worried?"
"No. The complete opposite actually." Natasha took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm in love with you."
Wanda froze instantly, her eyes going wide with shock. "You're—what?"
"I'm in love with you," Natasha repeated, more firmly and confidently this time. "I have been for a while now, but I needed to actually tell you. I love you, Wanda. You're it for me. The one I want to spend my entire life with. The person I want to wake up next to every single morning and go to sleep beside every single night. I love you completely."
"Nat—" Wanda's eyes were rapidly filling with tears. "I love you too. God, I love you so much. I've been wanting to say it for weeks but I was genuinely scared it was too soon—"
"It's not too soon at all." Natasha pulled her into a deep kiss. "It's exactly the right time. I love you."
"I love you," Wanda said back firmly, and then they were both crying and laughing and kissing simultaneously, and Natasha felt like her chest might actually burst from overwhelming happiness.
"Come to bed," Natasha said when they finally broke apart. "Let me show you exactly how much I love you."
"Is that a euphemism for going down on me again?"
"Obviously. What else would it possibly be?"
"You're absolutely ridiculous." But Wanda was already pulling off her shirt, already moving eagerly toward the bedroom. "But I love you anyway."
"Because of it," Natasha corrected, following her with clear intent. "You love me because I'm completely obsessed with eating you out."
"That's definitely a significant part of it." Wanda climbed onto the bed, already completely naked, already spreading her legs invitingly. "Now prove it. Show me how much you love me."
"With absolute pleasure."
Natasha settled between Wanda's thighs—her absolute favorite place in the entire world—and got to dedicated work.
This time felt different somehow. Slower, more tender, more focused on showing rather than telling. Natasha took her time deliberately, using her tongue to map every single inch of Wanda with renewed attention, to memorize every sound she made, to prove with actions what words could never fully express adequately.
I could eat that girl for lunch, she dances on my tongue.
"I love you," Natasha murmured against her between long, slow licks. "Love your taste. Love your sounds. Love the way you respond to me. Love absolutely everything about you."
"I love you too," Wanda gasped, her hands tangling in Natasha's hair. "Love the way you make me feel. Love how much you genuinely want this. Love you so much."
Natasha worked her with dedicated, focused attention, building her up slowly and patiently, showing her with every stroke of her tongue exactly how much she was loved, how cherished she was, how absolutely perfect she was in every way.
"You're the one," Natasha said, pulling back just enough to speak clearly and deliberately. "I know it with absolute certainty. You're the one I want forever."
But she might be the one.
"Forever," Wanda echoed breathlessly. "I want that too. Want you forever."
"Then let me love you forever." Natasha's tongue returned with renewed purpose and dedication. "Starting right now."
She brought Wanda to the edge slowly, carefully, patiently, and when she finally let her tip over, it was with those three words repeated like a mantra: "I love you, I love you, I love you."
Wanda came with tears streaming down her face, gasping out Natasha's name mixed with repeated "I love you"s, and Natasha had never felt more complete, more whole, more certain of anything in her entire life.
After, when they were tangled together in bed, both still catching their breath, Wanda spoke quietly.
"You know what's genuinely funny?"
"What?"
"I spent so many years thinking I just wasn't built properly for good sex. That I was fundamentally broken somehow. That orgasms during sex with someone else just weren't possible for my body." Wanda turned to look at her directly. "And then you came along and proved me completely, entirely wrong. You made me realize that I wasn't broken at all—I just hadnt found the right person yet. Someone who actually cared about my pleasure as much as their own. Someone who genuinely loved making me feel good."
"It's not a chore or obligation," Natasha said seriously. "I know I joke constantly about being obsessed, but I genuinely mean it. I truly love eating you out. It's not something I do because I feel like I have to or because it's expected in a relationship. I do it because I actively want to. Because it brings me genuine pleasure and satisfaction to make you feel good."
"I know. I can tell every single time." Wanda smiled warmly. "That's what makes it so amazing. Knowing that you're not just doing it for me. That you're genuinely enjoying it too. That it's something we both want."
"I am. Trust me, I absolutely am." Natasha kissed her softly and tenderly. "And I plan to keep doing it for the rest of our lives, if you'll let me."
"Forever," Wanda agreed firmly. "You can eat me out forever."
"Best commitment I've ever made."
Extra A/N: I wrote so many christmas oneshots that it was hard to get out of that mindset. We're back to fucking any day of the year now (yay!)
