pairing: bodyguard!natasha romanoff x black!fem!reader
warnings: dom tendencies. implied mommy issues. wlw smut. heed these warnings.
a/n: read it here on ao3. bodyguard au. spoiled rotten reader. a longish drabble for my nattie. enjoy. <3
It’s in Natasha’s nature to be dominant.
Her instinct to devour has been nicked at ever since you came bulldozing into her life.
Hired by your father to protect you from any harm, and watch over you as your own shadow. With all the harsh training Natasha endured, all the blood stains to survive —- babysitting you has proven harder than anything.
Yet, Natasha has found herself in a risky position.
Your warm skin under her bruising palm, and your soft muffled cries brings Natasha delight. Small sobs against the silk bed sheet. The fabric wrinkles and bunching between your curling fingers.
Her canines scrape against the brown welting purplish ass cheek, licking and nibbling. Her red painted fingernails digging and scratching, making more pinkish abrasions.
Natasha restrained herself as long as she could, but with how you flaunt yourself around, with an air of entitlement, it stirred a compulsive urge. It’s been boiling for so long.
That princess attitude, and the demanding need for attention. Asking Natasha to hold your bags, or your coffee.
One time, your bare legs were mid-air, asking Natasha what she thought of your new nail color, with only Nat firmly patting your legs away.
Natasha ignored your brattish antics, with only stern warnings for you to knock it off, but her snarled tone only spurred you on.
Till earlier tonight.
Huddled with her friends, all hired by your father as well, but Natasha was the one to solely protect you, due to her gender. Surrounded by rowdy friends who all shared life experiences—- Bucky, Steve, Sam and Clint.
All of them are hot, catching your eye whenever you see them nearby your father and his business partners. And as on cue, you sought out to push Natasha’s buttons, and try to get laid.
A night of late night beers, making crude jokes, and talking shit in the balcony, that was connected near the kitchens. With a flicker of her green eyes, Natasha caught you lingering around the kitchen with skimpy shorts showing your ass, and a tight crop top.
Low wolf whistles came from the guys, just as you hoped, whispering what a tight ass you had.
The rush of blood came to Natasha’s ears, as the guys joked around. Her knuckles clenched around the bottle’s neck. Steve passing by her didn’t go unnoticed nor was his imposing body towering over yours.
All mean names that came to Nat’s head, all daggered at you. Whore, and brat to name a few. A peculiar feeling of jealousy arose, but it was kept hidden by a cold resolve.
You knew Natasha was listening. To keep this little act going, you asked Steve to guess the color of your panties.
Natasha went frigid, her eyes void. Natasha’s fingers gripped the neck of the beer bottle harder, when Steve tried to peek inside your skirt, by his finger tugging at your belt buckle.
Her nerves snapped when she heard you whisper to him, you can’t cheat, with that annoying girlish giggle.
Natasha cut her night short with the guys, and next thing, she knew, she was dragging you away. Your whining only spurred her frustration.
Here now, making a mess out of you on your bed. Natasha’s fingers now knuckle deep inside you, as her wet tongue lapped at your puffy clit.
Natasha played your game, you sought her attention, and you got it. Knuckles deep inside you, pumping mercilessly. Soaking Nat’s fingers, as your welting slit slouches. Relentless, and mean, Natasha doesn’t stop. She has you shaking like a withering leaf.
Back arching, and your fingers wrinkling your sheets between your fingers.
There’s no mother in the picture. Natasha figured out your little mannerisms, that despite being a pain in her ass, you would cling onto her. Soft brown fingers would graze her leather jacket, or you would ask to brush Nat’s hair. Asking Natasha a million questions flying out the mouth.
In odd moments, your attitude would appear childlike, and clingy. Calling for Natasha just because you want her near you, asking mindless questions.
Your eyes are blurry with a sheen of unshed tears, cheek squished against the bedding. Incoherent muttering, begging for more. Sweat clings and glistens at your temple. Your heart is beating like a drum under your breast.
Natasha’s tongue glides from your velvety slit, to the flesh of your thigh, creating a trail of saliva staining your skin. She stops, and her hand cracks a smack on your ass—- a harsh sting reverberating through your skin. You slur a shout.
Natasha leans up, and grabs your waist. Maneuvering your entire bodice onto your back, as if you were a rag doll. Her hands lift your legs by the cusp of your knees, spreading yourself once more to her.
Her pink tongue peeks out of her mouth, kissing down to your belly, and slithers back down between your thighs. Natasha laps at your clit— throbbing against her tongue.
Nat halts for a moment, making you whine, your body is wound tight. “Hold.” Nat demands, making you grip one of your knees. Muscles burning, and the pleasure is too much to bear. Natasha takes two fingers into her mouth, soaking them between her tongue, and takes them out.
Without a word, Nat seethes her fingers inside of you, filling your aching hole. Your back arches again, as Nat fucks you with her hand. Pumping two fingers deep inside, she can feel your walls clenching tight. You can hear the wetness, it’s so erotic, and unashamed.
It feels right, as Nat’s flickering fingers mold perfectly inside of you, like she was meant to feel you from the inside out.
She nibbles your lips between her teeth, alternating between biting and suckling your clit. She’s been at it for an hour now, edging you to tears, only to stop just when you’re about to cum.
The pit in your belly is tightening, a tingling sensation that spreads throughout your body, making you curl your toes. Your hips thrust just slightly, desperating trying to reach that high.
Natasha’s lips are open-wide, suckling on your pulsating clit. Her tongue flickering mercilessly. Her mouth wet with your slick, unabashed moans slipping from your lips. Your head leaning against the mattress, your breasts heaving.
Natasha bites at your clit, making you shout and squirm. So close, a tidal wave of pleasure is flooding your body. Nat has an iron grip on your legs, restricting your hips from thrusting.
Nat’s tongue goes up and down from your wet lips, to your puckering hole. Messily suckling your essence, it felt heavenly. It’s all you ever wanted, to have her take you apart so dominantly. To finally have the mean sarcastic red-headed Russian—- this is better than all the gifts your father has showered you with.
You chant Nat’s name as a hymn, breaths choppy and short. Your hands fly to her red hair, holding onto her like a lift line. Your head lifts up, to see her green eyes staring back at you. Her whole mouth full of your cunt, hungrily eating you, it all makes your head feel hot, and your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
“Please— guh—” You speak through tear stained eyes, a sob caught in your throat, “Please…” a whisper now. “Nat, I need to cum.” Tilting your head down again, chin to chest, to gaze at Nat once more.
Natasha releases your clit, slowing down her fingers. “Hmm,” she hums, “Go ahead. Be good and cum for me.” Her sultry voice always lulls you, silky as a spider’s web. Her ivory fingers speed up again, splitting your welting cunt viciously.
It felt as if you were going blind. Every fiber of your being, in every inch of your muscles, pumping in every vein—- you felt the impending heat that Nat has restricted finally flood out of you.
You cum in Nat’s mouth with a shrill, your face wrinkling. Nat doesn’t let up, lapping at your clit as you come undone. What a sight. To see her favorite brat quivering underneath her.
Nat can get used to this.
Natasha takes her lips off of you, gently putting your legs down. From the tips of your toes to your waist, you can barely feel anything. Brown skin buzzing and vibrating heavily in your mound.
Nat leans up on her knees, and looks down at you, towering over your tired body. A small curl at her lips, proud of her work. She huffs at you, mockingly.
synopsis: your menstrual cycle always pushes you to pure hysterics, thankfully your entrusted doctor is always there for you.
pairing: dark!loki laufeyson x brown!reader
ao3 // victorian au
warnings: dubious consent (slight sexual grooming), vaginal fingering, oral, nefarious medical practice, motional grooming.
a/n: for @cake-writes . I love you so much. :) did you know that in the Victorian period, physicians would perform pelvic massages that involved clitoral stimulation with early electrical vibrators to cure hysteria? traditional pelvic massages had been conducted for thousand of years, until western technology caught up. Dr. Silver Tongue prefers the old fashioned methods, hehe. hope ya’ll enjoy, this has been a draft for over 2+ years!
Spilling ichor is a woman’s curse.
Even worse, the womb begins its horrors at the precipice of girlhood. The excruciating pain that follows in its wake, so intense it feels as if fingernails are clawing at uterine walls.
Screams and wails for God’s sweet mercy, for the pain to cease. Bodies shivering in sweats, left so fatigued that one will rot away in bed. Praying under your breath, begging to just die.
Fits of rage and delusions—- once, at the high of your agony, you thought demons were crawling through your pink wallpaper, ready to devour you. Riddled with anxiety—- paranoid of everything.
Girls call it hell. Doctors coined it hysteria.
It’s nearing noon. He’s late.
Rattles of wheezes knock against your cavity, eyes sheening wet, as your bodice sinks and molds against the mattress. Lazily picking at your reddish cuticles, and the scent of copper lingering in the air.
The compulsive urge to throttle your bodice up and down in possessed fashion against the bedding, to gnash at the air with your canines, and howl —- perhaps, your calls would beckon him.
Groans slip from your mouth, as your abdomen is throbbing and swollen. Counting sheep mindlessly, trying to inhale deeply the packaged herbs that were prescribed to you —- but nothing is working.
The moans become more undignified. Your face is scrunching up, with tears kissing your lashes.
Faint footsteps creaking against the wood flooring, and voice muffled—- a tired gasp of relief and want escapes you. Strained whines stretch and bubble at the pit of your throat, eyes hawking your door.
The knob turns and creaks open—- what a glorious sight, to be greeted by emerald hues, and that pretty smirk. Those lovely cheekbones, and smooth ivory skin.
The dull glow of the sun illuminates through the heavy stitched curtain, and through the bedroom, with pretty pink wallpaper—- but the light shines his eyes ever so gracefully. Angelic.
A courteous bow of his head, that black hat over-casting his brow; lean and stands tall in such poise. Followed by your father, imposing and watchful.
Both can see you are too weakened to speak pleasantries, but can only greet them with a small smile and lazy eyes. Your father nods and leaves you both alone, but you could have sworn for just a glance, your father’s eyes are sharp from the sliver of the door.
A click of the door, and the air shifts.
He’s smiling with a hum. Ever so the gentleman, he lifts his hat off. He puts his leather gladstone bag gently by the edge of the bed, sits his hat on the nightstand, and begins to unbutton his long coat.
Loki holds his coat by the collar, neatly folding and placing it over your velvet chair.
It’s a quiet routine.
To be honest, this is the highlight of your day. Life of a curious socialite, stuck in your overbearing parents’ manor, primed to be a proper young lady, and young eyes to see only through a theological veil.
Dr. Laufeyson is a kind, and gracious man.
He came into your life last year. The menstrual cycles have gotten worse, and it has begun to worry your parents. He was recommended by your neighbors, the Maximoffs.
He is quite different from any man you have met.
“Hello, my dearest.” His voice is liquid smooth. His hand captures yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. Mustering all the strength to speak, “Hello, doctor.” A bashful smile soon drops to a quivering frown.
A sharp pain that slices at your gut prevails.
Loki tauts sympathetically.
His slender fingers graze gently against your thighs, feathery touch. By the glide of his palms, he lifts your sheath. Cupping the meat of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs denting, already memorizing the sore points.
It’s an unspoken ritual.
How salacious to undress an untouched lady of society —- he barely takes his eyes off of yours. Heat radiates off of you in waves.
Shivers of shyness and an foreign need for want sweeps over the hills of your legs. It is wrong for a man to touch an unwed girl.
But he is a doctor, your doctor. He has to inspect your body. He has always assured you that his touch has always been for the good of your health.
Unusual methods Loki practices. Not like any doctor you had as a growing girl. Over the time, you have known Loki, he has bathed you, fed you, and massaged you all through the cycles. So intimate, yet not befitting of your unmarried status.
Any remnants of shame melts away as his bare palms begin to massage your thighs, maneuvering your legs to part. With an expert flick of the hem of your undergarments, dragging the now stained white fabric down, and off from your body.
A strong scent of blood fans the air, making you wince at the smell—- but Loki doesn’t deter. No sign of revulsion, you watch through your lashes—- he moves with a calm focus.
Loki’s presence has been comforting.
The way he speaks with such eloquence. Speaking to you as he would to an equal, rather at you. It’s natural to him to see you as you are, instead of a porcelain doll to be seen, not heard.
Conversations of shared love of literature, and the arts. His charming words bloom warmth inside you. He has a taste for histories, and has taught you the lessons he has learned back as a young man in university.
It is not for a girl to learn academic skills, for it is more important for boys to gain knowledge. But Loki told you many things—- and in return, you confined to him.
There were many occasions where Loki has found you forlorn. The root of your problem is your father, being overbearing, and callous. Either you weren’t being dutiful enough in your responsibilities, and pressuring the idea of marriage.
Loki would comfort you, tell you that a man should not speak so cruelly to his daughter. Private conversations that bordered on flirtatious tones—- how pretty you are, and that such a cherub face shouldn’t be dew with tears.
He is your only companion. You don’t encourage yourself to socialize in the circles your family frequent in, often seeking your solitude—- many high societal folks are too boring, and vain.
But Loki is colorful and adventurous. He speaks of wonder. He is not like any other man you had the displeasure of meeting —- boring sons of the men who work with your father. Stuffy and shallow men who only want a brood mare and a slave for a wife.
Loki excuses himself, as he walks to the wash stand perched near your vanity. Putting the stained underwear in the nearby basket. Rolling up his white sleeves up to his elbow joints, readying to fetch the wash basin and pitcher.
Loki’s fingers pat the smooth glide of the pitcher, humming contently—- the water is still warm. Quickly, and securely, he grabs the handle, begins to pour the lukewarm water into the basin.
The anticipation is intense. Breathing heavily now, a filthy part of you yearn for this touch. To feel his bare smooth fingers fondle with your mound, the sensation of his hands bathing your wet pubic hair, and his fingers slipping between your folds—-
The haze is ripped from you as he feels his knuckles caress your cheek. Shyly, you sink more into your chest, your lips purse into a coy smile. Loki towers over you as a gentle giant, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
In one hand, he puts the basin down on the nightstand, and on the other hand with a towel. Loki leans down, unraveling the towel, and maneuvering it underneath your bum.
The dull ache of him lifting you makes you whine. Loki shushes you, his thumbs stroking the path between your inner thighs and lower belly.
He turns to retrieve a clean rag and the soap.
Loki seats, dipping his palm in the water, twirling the red soap. Soap suds form and the scent of the carbolic solvent is heavenly.
His hand nears and the droplets rain on your abdomen, earning a sigh of relief from you. Rubbing the bar of soap in circular motions on your pubic bone, diving between your vaginal lips, soaping up your bush—- it was simply amazing.
Your head leans back into your pillow, practically moaning at the feeling—- at the feeling of his hand, and the sensation of being cleaned.
The dried crust of blood now being scrubbed away by the accompanying wet rag—- you didn’t even realize Loki moved to soak it, too immersed in the cleansing.
Completely lathery now, the towel underneath you sodden, and the water in the basin crimson. Loki puts the soap in the basin, it sinks.
The rag feels nice, soaked in warm water, washing away the excess of soap. Loki wrings the wet rag, the water dripping into the basin.
Washing away the soap from your mound, Loki’s thumb simultaneously stroking between your folds, ensuring there are no remnants of soap.
Cheekily, his fingertips slither more into your sopping hole. Tender and swollen, Loki’s two fingers flex slowly into your quim. Halting at the sound of a whine, but resumes when you mewl under your breath.
Loki muses to himself, delights that your whimpers are akin to a kitten. His fingers curl and bend as he sinks deeper inside you. Leisurely, his fingers twist— staining his fingers red.
“I do believe you are due for your massage.” Loki spoke with a silky husk. He spread his fingers, roving over your thighs, heavily petting you. A gasp leaves your mouth, as Loki’s fingers fuck you a little faster.
“Such tension.” Loki says with an empathetic smirk. You huff of breath, a strained moan. Smug satisfaction floods Loki, his smirk morphs to a pearly grin.
He playfully clicks his tongue, “She weeps on my fingers.” Loki can feel your essence dripping, coating his knuckles now. You’re panting into your pillow, as a thirsty stray, eyes pinched shut.
Your muscles are tightening around his fingers, sucking him inside, needing more. Curling at the soft spongy spot that sparks fluttery delight, jolting your head up, eyes moon-wide.
Chin to chest now, mouth gaped in a lazy O, unabashed wanton moans. Toes curling against the bed sheet, as fresh blood coats your thighs, and Loki’s thrusting hand.
Your hair clings to the beading sweat of your forehead, gripping the wrinkled sheets. Unabashedly, your hips thrust and follow Loki’s electric thrusting.
His fingers flee from your thigh to your bush, playfully his thumb and index split it open, as he slows down his fingers. His eyes never leave yours, as the pad of his thumb begins to play with your clit.
You nearly choke on your breath, you inhale so deeply, it feels like your belly caves against your ribs. Leisurely and purposefully, Loki does it slow, leaving you in desperation.
Whimpering for him to move in haste. Edging you just near the cliff, but not yet there. The sharp strain of your menstrual blurs with pleasure— so unladylike of you, to be as a starving animal, but it relieves you greatly.
You crave it, his touch, his scent—- you adore him. How lovingly his eyes bore into yours, as you lose yourself. The flesh of your thighs shiver, the knot in your belly tightening, making you whine.
“Yes, my sweetling.” Loki whispers, as your body twists, and your toes curl, “Release your pain.”
A flood of pleasure washes over your body. Your head tilts back as your mouth hangs open. Throat clenching but no sounds, just an airy gasp. Eyes pinching shut, and nose scrunching.
The euphoria of your orgasm is sensational—- you’re delirious with it. Chest heaving and hands clasping at the air, giggling with relief. Loki softly seethes his fingers from your moist cavern.
Wiping his finger clean with a towel, as your erratic breathing simmers down. He finds it amusing to see you flustered, he can see your bashfulness seep through—- down-casting your gaze, staring at your legs.
In a second, your eyes flutter upwards, to catch his penetrative stare. Loki’s hand dents into the bedding, right next to your forearm, more so trapping you.
His nose just hairs away from yours, his warm breath fanning your face. It only fuels you more.
“Faring well, darling?”
All you can do is nod, with a titter.
-
Placid ease settles over you. Comfortable and clean. Not yet in your undergarments, Loki says that it’s best to air you out, with your nightgown wrinkled at your midriff.
Loki rummages through his bag, searching through his medical equipment, to grasp the dark green bottle.
Loki grabs the bottle by its neck from his bag. Revealing brown printed lettering on crismon wrapping, Loki unplugs the cork. It catches your eye, it makes your nose scrunch.
Laudanum.
A very strong poison that your palate has not yet been fully accustomed to. Over the months, Loki has insisted that you drink this in small doses.
Very small doses.
Loki spills just a little more than a drop into the spoon. The reddish-brown liquid wafting by your nose, you groan childishly, but you make no fuss. Sweetly, he puts the spoon into the cave of your mouth, your lips wrinkling into a pout.
It’s so grotesquely bitter.
“I know,” he chuckles, “but now you can rest.” His words make the drink’s icky taste more appealing, for he does it to ensure you are content, and comfortable.
-
The laudanum has settled in your belly, and lulled you to a slumber. A cocktail of poppy, morphine and codeine. Administered for the most severe of pains.
Loki seats in silence, watching your chest fall to a steady rhythm of breath. He smiles. Loki muses to himself, you look like a sleeping beauty.
A smile forms at his mouth, relishing in the granted opportunity. His slender hands flex expertly, hovering over your belly, to your cotton-clad chest.
Loki twirls and unties the strings of your nightgown between his fingers. Revealing your bare chest, plump brown breasts display. He whispers marvelous under his breath. Tilting his head downwards, his teeth scrape your skin.
Every chance there is of you falling to a pacified sleep to the poison, Loki snatches the chance to taste you. His lips leave open-mouthed kisses, littering your breasts. Inhaling your essence as he ravages you. His warm wet tongue licks and twirls against your pebbling nipple.
His nose traces your skin down to your navel, to your abdomen, and finally to your lower pelvis. The scent of faint copper hits his nose, accompanied by the fresh scene of carbolic.
He doesn’t mind. Rather, Loki enjoys your blood connecting with his palate. Leaning more to your core, Loki’s pink tongue slithers out between his lips, and flicks at your clit.
His sculpted nose connects with your mound, his lips now suckle on the hood of your clit. Grazing his teeth ever so cheekily, earning a small wheezing pants.
You stir in your sleep, your body reacting to the pleasure he’s pulling from you —- as if he tugs on the silk rope, snagging the knot in your belly.
A savage urge overtakes him. Loki bites the supple brown flesh of your thigh—- nibbles melt to a few pecks, then back to devouring you.
Loki has plans. Too sweet and pure to let go of—- oh no, he yearns for you. The chase for you has heightened. Monthly visits can no longer sustain him.
Loki intends to ask your father for your hand in marriage. His income is more than satisfactory, able to provide you a life of comfortability, and passion. As a wolf who must tear apart his prey from the inside out, to ruin you— possessive over his prey.
None of his female patients have bewitched him. All were so eager for him to defile them, so haughty and pompous. Neither of them saw beyond his beauty.
But you, ever so sweet, only sought out a friend, and how easily you entrusted him. And Loki must enact his plan now. Last month, as he walked up the stairs to your room, he overheard your father discussing with your mother, over the prospect of marriage for you.
Loki has already purchased a ring, waiting in a velvet box.
He has already begun stripping the petals of your modesty. Small stepping stones to soon deflowering you completely. His cock swells at the mere thought.
Your velvety lips tug by the scrape of his canines. He moans a gust of hot breath, this sinful act causing your body to quiver unconsciously.
Loki’s pink tongue slurps your folds into his mouth, back to sucking on your clit. His lips are wet with your slick, and, menstrual, the corners of his mouth with splotches of red.
An impulsive urge vibrates from his knuckles to his fingertips.
Loki’s fingers itch with compulsion. Instead of sweetly plunging inside you—- oh, he thinks, an act done with gentility. But, I cannot awaken her from slumber. We have not yet reached this stage of our courting.
Traditionally, a doctor must massage his patient’s genitalia, not have his fingers explored, as he has done so freely. But, ever so naive and sweet, you do not know any better—- to you, Loki is simply doing his job.
A chaste darling, to approach you with the advance of tasting you, would have had you flying to your father. No—- he must break you down, piece by piece.
He stifles the thought, keeps his fingers at bay. Loki’s mouth keeps eating at your weeping welt, his warm tongue flickering against your sensitive clit. Unconsciously, your hips shutter gently against his mouth, spasming in your slumber.
Loki can taste your essence, moaning at your taste hitting his tongue. His eyes rolling in the back of his eyelids.
He turns his face a bit, still attached to your core, pecking small kisses on your inner thigh.
-
Loki dips his palm in the now chill bowl of water, snagging the sodden rag. Squeezing in his tight grip, water dripping, and splashing, a bit of soap is left.
Wiping away your essence, and ichor. Soothingly caressing your inner thighs with the rag, until all is gone. Loki puts the rag back, standing to his feet, as he goes to wash his mouth.
A simple routine where he finds peace. It’s a quiet shared between you two.
Patting dry his hands with a cotton white towel he found from one of the vanity’s drawers. Quietly and leisurely, Loki walks with a stride towards your bed. Standing over you, admiring his work.
A familiar routine: placing a rag inside your underwear, snuggling and cladding your mound, tying the strings to your nightgown, and pulling the rest of the fabric down your body.
Loki’s checks your pulse—- a perfect rhythm. Redressing himself, a swell of pride casts him. The sensation of your velvety core still dancing on his tongue. With a click of his bag, and flick of his coat buttons—- Loki begins his departure.
Softly closing your bedroom door, Loki walks down the stairs. His ears catch a few hushed words, one of them is marriage. No doubt, they were conversing about you.
As Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs, from his side-eye, he can see your father and mother waiting in the family’s living space.
“Ah, Dr. Laufeyson.” Your father stands from his chair with a weak grunt. A peculiar strain upon his face, he can’t meet Loki’s eyes.
“My apologies, but we cannot afford your services,” your father stammers at the sight of Loki’s pinched brow. “We had no other choice, as you know our daughter can be ill—” his panicked tone is interrupted.
Loki tilts his head, those green eyes ever so observant, a slick smirk curls. Savoring the sight of this man squirming.
“And how would you propose we solve this dilemma?”
“We can pay you in food, I can provide from my garden.” Your mother’s fragile voice pleads, standing to cling to her husband’s arm. Her fingers wrinkled his sleeve. Her eyes were blood-shot red. “You are a kind man, please understand.”
A memory of your bliss-stricken face flashes before his mind, and it provokes a breathy hum. An opportunity delivered to his feet by fate itself.
“Perhaps, I have a solution to satisfy both our needs.”
warnings: (not much) 18+ smut (oral, both receiving).
a/n: read it here on ao3! not much warnings, just quick smut. established relationship. a drabble for the spoiled prince. <3
Two hearts beating against skin, chest to chest.
The ruffling of a wrinkled white shirt, fingers slipping underneath the unbuttoned flaps, revealing his chest. Smooth, and pale — toned groves of muscle.
Finger-pads caressing with a feathery touch, earning a breathy gasp and a flinch. You cheekily graze his nipples, greedily savoring his skin.
Ivory palms flex open against the mesh stocking, hiking up to the latch—- a tingle in the wake of his brushing fingernails, birthing a shiver up your spine.
The squished body warmth marinating against the couch cushions and limbs beats in intoxicating waves. All you both feel is each other. An atmospheric cocoon, with bare legs intertwined.
Finally a moment alone, home at last. The evening sky is dim, with a vermillion glow shadowing the shared house.
The stress of a day’s work melts off both your muscles. The loving touches you provide is a soothing balm— euphoric tingles. He’s so happy to be here, to feel safe, and let go of his defensive shield. Loki never felt worthy of such devotion. To be tended to you, physically and emotionally.
But now, he has it. And it’s beautiful.
His pants and your skirt already tossed and scattered across the flooring forgotten. Your bundled top now rests under your breasts—- your tits now adorning love bites—- and Loki’s crisp white shirt now wrinkled — thanks to your eager fumbling paws.
The intimacy of privacy, to explore each other’s bodies. A space with no prying eyes.
Tracing his lips that are now smudged with a strawberry stain, mirroring your smeared rogue. Loki’s fingertip cheekily outline your canines in response— delicately toying with the mouth that just sucked him off the bone moments ago.
It was a sight to behold. A wild animal taking her claim over her prey—- pushed him against the couch, and pulled his pants off. It was sloppy, and messy. He shivered and wailed, as you deep-throated him completely. Licked and nibbled at his swollen sac, and left hickies down the path of his pelvic bone.
Hollowed cheeks suckled the tip as your hands firmly stroked his length. The way Loki’s hands gripped the edge of the couch, and your scalp—- reciting your name as a prayer. You couldn’t get enough of him. To feel the ridges of his veins against your tongue, the spit-filled gags, and bubbles.
He painted the cave of your mouth white, and flooded your throat with a strained cry.
Now, his mouth waters.
A silent dance of moving into a new position — soon, the underwear is moved to the side with a hasty grip, and his starved mouth begins to fest.
The hood of your clit trapped between his slick lips. His tongue alternates between sucking your wet folds, and your clenching hole.
The meat of your thighs quiver, your toes curling against his shoulder blades. He’s meticulous with his mouth— a true silver tongue. Slurping all of you, his chin now soaked. His digits soon make an appearance, slipping inside you with ease.
He curls hitting the sweet spot, making you squeal. It’s a frenzy upon your nerves. Your clit under attack as Loki pumps inside you with three fingers. Loki pulls high-pitched squeals from you, going faster.
The coil in your belly tightens, his head going side to side like a feral beast, grunting. To have you underneath him unravel delights him. Loki’s free hand grabs your frantic hips, pining you. He doesn’t stop suckling your clit, or his fingers, as the flood gates open, cumming so hard.
You slur a shout with tears kissing your lashes. Your shaky fingers fumbling in his inky hair, trying to ground yourself.
Your gasp turns into a stretched sigh, then to a soft giggle. Your arm draped over your face, as Loki began a trail of open-mouth kisses on your hip-bone. He exhales a chuckle, his warm air tickling you.
Loki travels up to your navel, his nose grazing your sternum, to your valley of your breasts. Quick pecks across your chest, and then a small leap to your throat. Loki’s lips latching onto you, and nibbling.
A fit of laughter fills the space, it's melodic and comfortable.
could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)
𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭
synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.
pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader
ao3 // modern au // 5k words.
warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.
a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3
“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”
The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.
“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”
A scoff escapes.
“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.
That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.
“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”
The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.
Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.
Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.
She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.
Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.
Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.
Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.
An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.
He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.
A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.
It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.
Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.
Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.
All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-
“What an incredible scent you have—-”
Oh God, no.
“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”
Fuck.
“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”
It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.
A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.
Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.
A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.
“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.
“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?
As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.
“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.
A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.
“Why?”
You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.
“They’re too easy to hunt?”
You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.
“They bore me.”
“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.
It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.
Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.
Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.
“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.
A pregnant pause.
That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.
“You like blondes.”
Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.
“Just one in particular.”
Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.
“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.
But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.
How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.
“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.
Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.
A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.
This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.
It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.
She isn’t normal.
Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.
So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.
But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.
None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.
Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.
Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’
Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.
“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.
Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.
You’re too drunk for this.
“This cat is too tired to entertain.”
“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.
An offense has been made.
“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”
The mask slips.
It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.
“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.
And now the mask has been dropped.
“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.
Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.
Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.
Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.
But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.
“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.
Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.
“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.
You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.
Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.
“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.
“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.
“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.
“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.
It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.
“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.
“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”
Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.
Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.
“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.
Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.
You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.
By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.
You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.
All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.
“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.
“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.
You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.
“Goodnight, Carol.”
Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.
-
The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.
The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.
The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.
“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”
Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.
Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.
Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.
“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”
Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.
Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.
Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.
“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.
Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.
“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.
Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.
“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.
“Let me see if she missed me.”
A string of no no no slip from you meekly.
One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.
As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.
Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.
A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.
A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.
“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”
“That’s when I was young and stupid.”
Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.
Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.
Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.
“It seems she missed me.”
All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.
All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.
Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.
Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.
“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.
“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.
“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.
Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.
“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.
“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”
“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”
Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.
“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.
Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.
Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.
A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.
Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.
Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.
Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.
You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.
Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.
You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.
Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.
Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.
Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.
Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.
Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.
Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.
A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.
Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.
A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.
Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.
“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”
Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.
“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.
“Then why do you make her cry?”
“What?”
“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.
“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”
Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.
Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.
“Don’t you want to be a family again?”
She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.
Damn her.
“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.
You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.
In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.
Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.
Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.
Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.
You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.
A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.
Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.
In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.
“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.
Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.
“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.
Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.
Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.
Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.
Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.
A pause.
It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.
You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.
-
Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.
Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?
A silent white flag has been waived.
A lonely dog always comes back.
Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.
The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.
No words are needed.
Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.
-
Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.
She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.
-
In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.
Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.
Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.
A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.
Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.
Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.
For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.
The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.
You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.
It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.
The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.
It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.
But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.
Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?
But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.
You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.
synopsis: a mission goes wrong, and all there is left is pain. but, there’s always light.
ao3
a/n: “You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead!” requested 8 from this dialogue prompt list, with Steve Rogers. sorry tumblr ate the inbox message.
warnings: mention of SA, ptsd, minor angst, recovery.
The ruins of ghosts’ past haunt you.
You were once as pure as a church, clean and holy —- now desolate, abandoned, and corrupted. Ruined. Broken pews where little children once bowed their little heads in prayer.
All these disregulated nerves alight with fire, and terror. Cautiously awaiting for the monsters to come out of the darkness, and finally devour the remaining carcass.
Five months ago.
Armed to the teeth with strapped weaponry, and confidence. An abandoned Hydra base left to rot in the middle of wilderness.
Cautious steps tread the corridors with precision, and stealth. As your husband was scouting the other end of the base, he entrusted you to be safe.
Found a laboratory, old vials of chemicals, and gasses. Dead silence hung over you as a wet blanket—- ears straining, faint footsteps near.
It was a blur.
All you can recall was the acidic scent of gas, shouting, a kick to your ribs, and your name being shouted through your comm.
His sweet voice bellowing, pleading for your life, sweet Steve. ‘You take me instead, do you hear me? Give her back and take me instead!’
Held onto those words wound tight, as if you could weave them between your fingers from it’s vibrations, pull the static itself and wear it as brass knuckles.
Endless days of pain, stripped of your sanity, stripped to the marrow of nothingness. Girlflesh licked and bit at, one eye swollen shut, and upper lip plumped to a ripe bruise.
Split knuckles, torn and raw. Calculated blows bled to feral clawing, and biting, punches earning cherry stained ivories. Pinned to the cold floor by your wrists, and ankles by filthy palms, multiple men snickering in German, as they hovered over you, thrusting as swine.
Locked away to rot, no sunlight, no fresh air, only the stale scent of your urine, and … other bodily fluids. Every few hours, another agent came, and beat your weakened state.
It was hell.
Time was nothing but imagination.
Until finally, yells and gunfire erupted from the outside. A man’s skull smashed against the door, bursting the metal door wide open.
Light surrounded his blonde tresses as a halo. Towering over you, with soft hands.
He gently held your body, causing you to shrill in agony. Steve silently cried over you, whispering ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ under his breath, pleading for forgiveness for every wail that seeped from you.
Steve held you all through the ride on the jet. Friday’s monitors checking over your vitals, and not even blinking away.
Once the doctors at the compound told him the extent of your injuries, and what was found inside of you. He nearly broke into a rampage that only settled with Bucky tackling him into a bear hug.
The mental scars weren’t healing. You felt pathetic, and weak. You never lost control.
Tiresome training that stretched itself through hours, day after day, demanding for the most brutal discipline from Natasha. Demanding for more and more, barely any water breaks—- for a moment to breathe.
Compulsive need to feel the pain, to bare your teeth in reaction, triggering fear which led to lashing out and screaming—- and a concerned Natasha.
Eventually, this habit led to a halt with a towering Natasha hissing, enough . Her green eyes lidded, with concern. Hands at the jut of her hips.
“Replacing the grief with aggression, isn’t going to fix it.”
“How would you know? You’re the world’s deadliest woman.” You snarked back, monotone and sarcastic.
A pregnant silence.
“I wasn’t always.”
Her tone is soft, and speaks with an unspoken feeling. You understood, but didn’t dare ask. Ending the conversation at that.
And it was never brought up again.
-
Sex only brought revulsion, not towards Steve. But towards yourself, all you saw was ugliness. A mere touch brought you back to that dark cell.
Vices became familiar habits again, smoking, and rarely eating.
Every-time he touched you, you cried. Bawled as a child, hysterically. Hyperventilating as all he can do is watch, and guide you through it, just like the therapist instructed.
Days not spent on training, are held up in your bedroom, blankly staring up at the ceiling, tailbone aching from oversleeping.
The waves of stress crash against the strong willed ship that is your marriage. Irritated to even talk, disconnected from everyone, every mirror has been smashed.
Now you lay here, in the dark.
From the corner of your oculus, faintly in the crevices of your mind, there is an inky black mass—— just staring, always near.
And yet, somehow, you’re convinced that it’s real, that you must respond to the plaguing thoughts; but the body doesn’t recognize false visions, only fear.
The bedroom door quietly opens. Taking most of the entrances' space, divine shoulders squared, and those knowing blue pools with murky green swirls.
Coiffed blonde hair, and tender blue eyes. A nose that rivals a roman god, a man that would be mounted in a church, the face of a saint.
Your saint.
Century old eyes that seen more than it can bear, ever so knowing. Perhaps, he heard your thoughts, and came to your aid.
His footsteps dull against the carpet, gently coming towards you. His hand hesitatingly stretches out, unaware if touch is right.
But you yearn for it, silently asking for comfort.
Gently his hand lays on your chest, circular rubs to soothe the haggard breathing. Shooing away the bad thoughts as a mother would.
“Deep breaths.” Steve says, “It’s okay.” Filling your chest with gusts of air, being guided by his voice, with the lulling twang of that Brooklyn accent.
You want to break through the fog. You yearn to heal these angry wounds.
Watery sigh escapes you, eyes never leaving the ceiling, and for a fleeting moment, you wish you died in the cell. Then maybe, you wouldn’t subject your husband—-
“Mama?”
—- and your daughter to your troubles.
A creek at the door is followed by small footsteps. Her small body shuffles and ruffles on the blanket at the edge of the bed, quickly lifted by Steve by her belly.
Steve gently shushes her, a reminder saying, ‘be careful, remember, mommy isn’t well’. Soft snuffles, and grunts follow with each tug of the blanket, and your legs as support.
Climbing over your body, your daughter’s little chubby hands dents onto the flesh of your body. Slowly the black mass evaporates, its suffocating presence dissipates into nothing.
As a fog clears from your mind, and a small smile forms at the corner of your mouth. Steve smiles a little, his hand caressing her little head.
“Mama, are you okay?” Her baby voice lulls you, and brings tears to your eyes. “Yeah,” your voice raspy, “Mama’s okay.” Nodding weakly.
What was it your therapist said, again?
‘There’s always light at the tunnel. You just have to find it.’
Her little cherub brown cheeks puffed, and plump. Ripe for kisses. Her little fingers toying with your face.
‘And if that light isn’t your husband,’
Your eyes gaze up at Steve, love emitting from his blue hues. Your weak hand shakingly moves to his cheek, he leans into your touch, closing his eyes.
‘Then I’m damn sure, it’s your little girl.’
Slowly, your eyes sheen wet at the brim, looking at such innocence. Untainted, and pure. Life doesn’t end, it just changes, like the seasons. Some good, and some bad.
‘You don’t have to heal today, and I don’t expect you to heal tomorrow. But remember what we have created. She’s so much more than us.’ Steve’s words from therapy ring in your mind.
It doesn’t end.
“I love you, mama.”
You inhale a watery breath, smiling from ear to ear. A relief curling in your chest.
synopsis: a trip back to the states, and old wounds are still healing.
pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!poc!reader
ao3 // mom au
a/n: minor angst, and just fluff. mom wanda and mom reader. a longish drabble I wrote a while back. <3 Lumi means “light of life” in Romanian. Have some ideas for lore for this, like on who is Lumi’s biological father, or the grief and recovery Wanda is experiencing with Vision’s and the boys’ death. Perhaps, the reincarnation of the twins. Already envisioning a part for white vision and Wanda. who knows. I’m just getting my feet wet again in writing. if anyone is interested, just pop in my inbox for requests or ideas! enjoy! <3
“It’s okay, I’ll go to Target.”
A beat of silence.
Her face is so hopeful, but you can feel it; Wanda’s a little unsure. Confined to the mountains of Slovakia, to go back to the Avenger’s compound, Wanda hasn’t been sociable outside of her own self-exile.
The old, familiar woman is returning, the one you met back many years ago. Not so grungy, but refined, and healed. Her roots finally grew out, natural dark chestnut making itself home once more upon her crown.
Your fingers weave in her waves, as hers play with the hem of your blouse, Wanda’s knuckles grazing against the skin of your swelled breast.
Bare with no bra, easier access for breastfeeding, and some fun fondling.
You walk quietly to Wanda, cupping the jut of her elbows, stroking her skin. Gently nodding, whispering ‘If only you’re okay.’ Wanda’s slender fingers encase your hips, a little wider now, more thicker in the thighs since birth.
This touch—- it’s healing as motherly, as a lover.
Wanda’s fingertips trace over healed eczema scars, and thin cuts. Kissing Wanda’s button nose, making it scrunch cutely.
Warm sunshine envelops the home, crisp upstate air bellows against the kitchen’s curtains.
Three years of isolation, and dealing with the shadows of her past, Wanda can finally say she’s happy. Sometimes, the past lingers nearby, it can never be buried, but it can be held with acceptance.
“Get back home, quick.”
-
Visiting the states feels a little eerie.
A sensation of bitterness and melancholy weighs on Wanda, as if she feels being ogled by the public. Many eyes peeled back, watching her every move. The last time Wanda was even here in America —— it didn’t end well.
This little trip back to the States was your idea, to see old friends, and get them acquainted with your new life. You wanted to show the first family you’ve had to see the new one you made.
Some days Wanda thinks she should’ve said no to this trip, but it’s too late now.
The drive to the store was easy, although there was a queasy itch in her throat. She wanted to evaporate into thin air to escape, but for once, Wanda wanted to feel normal in her own skin. At home, using her powers is a natural occurrence, but to do so outside?
She’s not ready.
Three years of healing —- but she’s just not quite there yet.
Wanda hooks the sweater hoodie over her head, discreetly blending in the public. Walking through the maze of the parking lot, with bags in tow. Wanda’s eyes gaze down at the plastic boxed toy peeking from the grocery bag.
A Bratz doll she found in the toy section. One with shiny crinkled waves in its hair, bell bottom jeans, long-sleeved shirt with flowers on it.
It reminded Wanda of you in a way, always dressed so colorful. She just thought it would be a nice addition to the ever growing mountain of dolls in Lumi’s playroom.
Deep in her mind, heading to the car on auto-pilot, but there’s a peculiar sense in the back of Wanda’s mind. Before she can turn around, a sneer calls out to her.
“What are you smiling about?”
Wanda turns, her smile faltering into a confused frown, “I’m sorry, what?” Turning around over her shoulder, she sees two strangers near her car.
“We saw you in the toy section,” a white aging woman stands stiffly, face burning hot red at the cheeks, a vein straining at her neck. Middle-aged woman with a few strands of gray in her hair, a little pudgy on her body.
“Going off to torment another child?”
The man that stands beside her is a familiar face, with a mustache and short brown hair. Realization dawns on her, Wanda knows him, he was one of the many faces back at Westview.
Guilt weighs heavy on her heart, leaning on her feet side by side, her tongue clashing against the cage of her teeth, trying to find the words to ease the anxious tension.
Before Wanda can apologize, the woman cuts her off. “Witch! Have you ever been arrested for what you have done?” Stomping her foot against the concrete floor, becoming unhinged at the very second.
“Hun, c’mon, let’s just go.” The man cowers behind her, trying to keep a lengthy distance between himself and Wanda. But the spiteful woman refuses to back down.
“My husband may be afraid of you, but I’m not.” She was about to come closer but her husband pulled her back. Both of them tussle with each other, as Wanda slowly steps away, and more closer to her car.
“She works with the Avengers, she’s never going to get arrested.”
“Horseshit! The kids back home are still terrified! I’m still terrified! I can still see her nightmares!”
The wife turns back to Wanda, finally escaping out of her husband’s grip, marching towards Wanda. Pointing viciously, charging with no thought in her mind, except to attack.
“I will call the authorities, you will pay for—”
Out of instinct, Wanda’s fingers react, cautiously defending her space—- crimson mist pooling from her palms. Both gasp in terror, leaning onto each other, nearly crumbling at the sight of raw power.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” the man tugs on his wife’s forearm, pulling her to his side, trying to get her away, “She’s going to kill us.” He speaks in a hasty hush.
Wanda’s face drops, her mouth agape into a frown, muttering no no no. Her powers dissipate back into her palms, shaking her head frantically.
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
“You already have!” The wife shrills, crudely pointing at Wanda, shaking and sobbing into her husband’s arms, finally leading her away, disappearing into the lot.
Wanda flinches, her nose scrunches up, trying to swallow her tears. With an awkward defeat to her step, Wanda mutely opens the door to the backseat, putting the bags down.
Just wanting to go back to the compound, and crawl into a hole.
-
The drive back home is becoming harder.
Sniffling, as hot tears escape and trail down her cheeks, pooling at her chin. Her fingers clinging onto the steering wheel, the threaded leather digging into her skin.
She couldn’t even properly swipe her key-card to enter the compound property, shakily fingers nearly punched the alarm system.
Murky thoughts intrude her mind, plaguing her logic, as if punishing herself for all she has done.
‘Why? Why should you be happy? Whenever someone else suffers because of you?’
Her breaths begin to become choppy, and short. Panic creeping slowly, her throat tightening. The cabin is closer now, just down the road.
‘My grief is no excuse.’
Wanda’s hands hastily rotate the wheel, pulling the car along a curve, into a quick park. With a harsh tug of the keys, snuffing the ignition—- the car quiets.
Her forehead meets the steering wheel, her fingers gripping the yolk till her knuckles turn hot white. Sniffling.
Wanda felt that she shouldn’t ever have the opportunity to be a mother all over again, after what happened at WestView, a surge of grief that ended up tormenting innocent children.
Her knees buckled, collapsing on the grass, still clutching the toy against her chest; dry-heaving sobs. Her bottom lip quivering, frustrated tears beaming, trying to hold the swirling crimson tendrils within.
“Mama!”
A click in her mind, snapping back into reality, breathing in a deep breath to calm down.
A little figure waddles out the house, dashing with a confused whine. Small arms wrap around Wanda’s neck, clinging tightly.
Hugging her little body against her chest, Wanda breathes in her scent of baby powder, and milk formula.
“Mama, you okay?” Her voice is soft, such a little baby, yet she seeks to protect. Wanda weakly nods, “Mama’s okay.” Kissing the slope of Lumi’s neck, earning a snuffled giggle.
Standing on edge at the doorway, worry shrouds your face, but once you see Wanda settling to a calm state, your body relaxes. Anxiously your fingertips fiddle against each other, but a swell of ease overwhelms you.
Wanda smiles, eyes closing, her face softening to a glow, with damp lashes, rocking her child back and forth.
