yelenaslore

[yelenaslore]

MILE HIGH CLUB

summary — after a week away with natasha, she’d thought you’d be pliant and soft on the flight home, but you’ve had other plans in mind since she first booked the trip last year

warning(s) — established relationship, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, domestic dominance, spanking, public play, elements of exhibitionism, public humiliation, panty handoff mid-flight, bratting, verbal warning, hair pulling, teasing, degradation, mention of praise kink, pet names, bladder control, light piss kink, fingering, orgasm denial, hickies, mention of oral fixation, neck kisses, mile high club, punishment, whining, cuddling, mention of headspace, crying, packing, strap-on, condescending tone, ¿maybe one small instance of attempted gaslighting?, cockwarming mention, dirty talk, elements of aftercare, mean dom natasha, men/minors dni

authors note — the title does in fact say it all, my horny friends.

Natasha’s palm is clammy, but it clamps tightly around your hand as bright lighting casts white refractions on speckled tile floors beneath your mismatched shoes only tied together by brand. Designed this way only to conceal the unavoidable stains and scuffs that would accumulate through the decades as millions pushed and shoved their way to undisclosed and ever changing destinations, Natasha continues to remain your anchor as she guides you through the terminal with one hand on your shared carry-on and the other on you. 

“Let me take it.” You argue, cheeks puffed out, grip loose and passive around her palm as you make little effort to keep up with her broad steps on the speckled tiles. Notably, you never made a move to interlock your fingers with Natasha’s when she first grabbed your hand after security and pulled you to the left when you’d attempted to stomp right, and she’s stubbornly allowing you to continue asserting your personal autonomy and remain connected as little as possible, despite the fact that you have no idea where you’re going and she doesn’t think you’ve been in a clear state since you first rolled out of bed to pee at barely three. 

“No.” She answers simply, sharply. You’re already functioning on time you don’t have, and it’s truly no fault of either of yours that there was a twelve car pile-up on I-405, but she’s not in the mood to dilly dally with you in the middle of LAX no matter where fault lies, and you’ve already pushed every button she has today. “Hurry up.” She directs instead, and it’s the final push that has your skin prickling just from contact with her.

You don’t know what your problem is. You want her. In every sense of the word, but you’ve done nothing all morning besides attempt to work your way under her skin and sink your claws into her exposed, probably pulsating, nerves. It’s the gruesome imagery that severs your ability to maintain any physical connection, because truly what the fuck is wrong with you right now, and with as much briskness as you can muster, you pull your hand away from hers and cross your arms over your chest. 

“Do not do this right now.” Natasha’s voice cuts through to you clearly in the overstimulating crowd of voices, beeping, and squeaking wheels that either need to be tossed away entirely or shown a serious amount of WD-40. It’s clear, sharp, an undeniable warning that attempts to scorn your skin and have you back peddling into submission, but it only irritates you further as you curl your fingers around your biceps and pointedly stalk ahead of her. “I’m serious, now is not the time.” 

You think she groans behind you, but it could’ve just been one of the few other hundred thousand people around you, all rushing around in their own journeys, but still padding down against the same speckled tiles. Your breathing hitches when an arm snakes around your waist, surprise claiming your feelings for a handful of seconds before you recognized the heavy weight of her hand on your hip, fingers curled into the waistband of your sweat shorts folded down twice around your waist — still too big despite the amendments and drawstring; still perfect for her to curl her fingers into with just enough space for her knuckle to dig into the meat of your hip.

“You’re going to have to let me do something! You can’t open the boarding passes with a fucking death grip on my shorts and the damn carry-on!” You seeth, blinded with frustration, and overstimulation, and the all encompassing need to just be in her. In her skin, her clothes, her pussy. Any way you can manage it. 

It happens before you can even process her fingers leaving your waistband, but before you turn the corner, terminal B clearly and proudly in sight with a stampede of passengers already lined up at the wing and check desk, her palm, open and flat, claps against the globe of your ass barely concealed by the black shorts that slowly ride up your thighs and fall down your waist with every step. She overcompensates for the thick fabric, and in the seconds that follow the spreading sting, you know she’d reeled her hand back far for that one, and at least three people had seen the full encounter, let alone the tail end that echoed through the room that somehow felt eerily quiet now.

Your cheeks flame with heat you’re not sure she can even see on your skin, but you feel it fully as it burns down your body in a fast pursuit to claim you. To say you hadn’t been expecting that was an understatement, and you’re so thrown off that when you glance down at your converse quickly padding across the speckled tile floors, finally keeping an equal pace with Natasha, the brown and gold specks look different somehow. 

Her hand falls on your waist again, heavy and possessive, but you don’t attempt to shove her away again as she pulls you in close to her side and continues to drag the carry-on along with one hand, her fingers straining just to maintain the unequally dispersed weight inside. “Knock it off. Understand me?” 

“Mmm.” It’s a simple whine, a petulant response that boils her blood and you know it, but you don’t give her any time to further scold you on your lack of manners and serious attitude problem. Instead, your eyes scan the terminal and the surrounding booths and carved out entrances, an illuminated sign displaying a single woman’s silhouette beside a water fountain with an automatic spout. “I have to pee. Do you want me to fill your water?” It’s a soft question, a sweet one too. Your aim isn’t to cover up the hours of poking and prodding, but a sudden reprieve washes over you as the reality of your cross country flight settles in. You should’ve thought about that hours ago. Natasha knows she did. 

“Did I ask about either of those things?” She scoffs, continuing to drag you toward the sea of people ever so slowly becoming a single file line as more passengers travel through the tunnel toward the plane, filing into seats you hope aren’t directly next to yours. 

Your cheeks flame again, hot and tingling with flustered humiliation as your eyes flicker down to the floor where yellow converse still stomp over speckled tile. Your hand curls into the hemline of her top, tight and possessive as your knuckles twinge pale. “Oh.” You whisper, confronted with the crudeness of her control that you’d allowed yourself to so easily forget you gave over to her blindly and willingly. It’s not often she extends her reign like this; nitpicks the miniscule details of your routine, but evidently you’ve pushed her beyond the point of refined control. diving headfirst into a sea of strict actions and hard to earn permission. “No.” 

Natasha makes a sound high in her throat, something similar to a scoff or maybe a groan, you’re not entirely sure what the origins of the sound were, only that it rattled her chest and you realize just how tightly flush against her side you are when it vibrates your bones tantalizingly. “No, who?” Her fingers pinch the flesh of your hip, right above where the strings of your thong roll together from the constant friction of your thighs padding and stomping through the Los Angeles airport. 

“No, Daddy.” Your head shakes, sweeps from left to right. You’re sure you look the perfect image of a scolded child with your shoulders pulled up to your studded earlobes and your eyes downcast and twitchy as they anticipate Natasha’s order to direct your focus on her; just her, only her. 

“Look at me.” You’d been expecting it, but you still find hesitation slows your reaction time as you pull your eyes off the speckled tiles, trace her sweatpants and her baggy hoodie, over her jaw that’s tense and locked with not only frustration, but genuine annoyance. She’s annoyed at the situation. At the traffic that pushed your arrival time back two hours. At the fact that you’d missed early boarding because of it. At the fact that you just cannot seem to fall in line and help yourself just once. 

“Hi.” You whisper softly, captivated by the green of her eyes that seems to glow beneath the bright, unforgiving lighting that subsequently highlights every tired pore on her face. She hadn’t looked so worn down yesterday when you’d been sprawled out on a boat, but travel unveils the worst sides of yourselves. 

Natasha’s eyes soften for only a moment, her jaw loosening as she levels her stare on your own eyes, drinking you in and forcing herself to take a deep breath now that all she has to focus on is you. “Hi, baby girl.” She greets you back, only because she feels rude when she doesn’t, not because your momentary lapse of soft, delicate submission gets you off her list and into good graces. “You’re going to hold it until I say that you can go. You’re going to turn your damn ears on and listen to me like a big girl, or I swear, malysh, your ass will be over my knee the second we get home tonight. Little girls that listen to their Daddy’s get treated nicely, do I need to remind you that girls who act like brats get treated as such?” 

Truthfully, you wouldn’t really mind being reminded all that much of where misbehaving gets you, but there’s a difference in her punishments when she’s aiming to torment and get even, and just correcting behaviors that she expects from you regardless. Right now, having your ass turned red doesn’t sound like the most horrible outcome for an entire day, but you know that by the time the plane touches down in Jersey, you’re more than likely not going to want anything more than to fall into the car beside her and listen to the engine burn gas as she presses the pedal into the floor and shreds rubber to get back to Manhattan in record time. You know that unless you safeword, nothing will get you out of a fate she seals verbally, so you choose this moment to reclaim all the self preservation skills she’s pawned off on you for circumstances outside of her control, and nod your head breathlessly as your mind wanders to the ebbing sting dissipating from your left asscheck. “Okay Daddy.” You whisper, eyes glassy, lost somewhere in space that only she can reach out to and grab. She makes no effort to meet you halfway though, her jaw locking once again like you’ve missed something vital. 

“I’ll listen to you and stop being a brat, Daddy.” She settles, grabbing onto your elbow and dragging you toward the end of the line where an elderly man wheels along an army green tote bag that must’ve been from a stint in the Army, but has evidently been turned in a bag of all trades as his wrinkled sausage fingers dig between the midway open zipper to retrieve a charging cord and a chain that you think keeps a house key from slipping to the depth of the carry-on. “Say it.” 

You’ve been told all your life that your lashes are envious, and sometimes you feel like they’re luxuriously long when you layer just the right amount of mascara over them ahead of a night out, but when you’re most aware of their length is in moments like this, when your eyelids bat so dreamily up at Natasha that you can feel the tips of your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones and then your brow bone when you finally regain focus on her stare. “I’ll listen to you and stop being a brat, Daddy.” You whisper, beneath a trance that is purely just her and the easy way she somehow commands your entire body even when you don’t want to lean into it. 

Natasha hums, half-satisfied. She knows you better than you know yourself at this point, and it’s something that she holds onto with so much pride and passion. She’s subdued you now, gotten you twisted up into her spell and pliant beneath her wing like a baby bird, but she knows that you’re coming undone at the very core of your being whether you realize it or not. She’s given you a lot this week. Orgasms, denials, extravagant scenes that really just riled the both of you up more than it helped anything, but there hasn't been the stability you both had created at home without even realizing. You’re going to push her again, because she’s let you get away with far too much this week, and every time she’s really been at her wits ready to snap and remind you of your place, someone has interrupted and yet another thing got swept under the rug — something that never normally happened, but was now just second nature. She needs this just as much as you do, but the difference is she’s in control. Not you. The difference is she knows everything, and all you know is half of what she tells you because your brain can’t process it fast enough to get it all in a cohesive string.

“All you need is for someone to tell you what to do and you get all dumb, huh?” She laughs softly, beneath her breath but not nearly quite enough to avoid the old man ahead of you hearing it. His shoulders square, somewhat defensively, and you think his chin cranes as if he’s assessing the situation from his peripheral, but Natasha shoots him a glare before you can burrow into her chest and sink in shame that does successfully subdue you for the rest of the night, effectively ending any and all attempt at confrontation on his behalf. “That’s all it takes to empty out that little brain? That’s right baby, focus on me. Just on me. Only ever me.”

As it turns out, Natasha couldn’t balance the carry-on, your waist, and the boarding passes while maintaining a steady pace through the gate like everyone else had, but without missing a beat she’d turned her attention on you, told you to ‘stay still’, and scanned both electronic passes with a smug, dominating smile to the desk attendant and a scowl of perfectionism toward you over her shoulder when she let the brisk flushness fall off of her shoulders. She’d never admit that the slight trip up had knocked her confidence a little, and she was beyond grateful that you were in no state of mind to pick up on how her cheeks flushed the slightest shade of pink as she overplayed the interaction in her head.

”What row?” You question, stumbling down the path toward the plane without much intention other than to find your seats and sink into the cheap blue cushions that pad plastic prisons armed with floating devices and breathing masks. Sometimes it's a comforting thought to dwell on the safety features wired into the basic makeup of an airplane, other times it feels like escaping certain death when the plane does touch down in one piece. 

“Nobody fucking told you to start walking again, first of all.” Natasha huffs breath her breath, taking two large steps to catch up with you and relink her arm around your waist as she steels you closer to the center of the platform, mildly concerned about the diseases you’d contract if you tumbled into the thick plastic walls like you’d been looking like you were going to. You’re too dazed to flush at her easy dominance, too strung out to really harp on how simply she’s taking control of even the most mundane elements of your activities. “Second of all, I’ll worry about what row we’re in. All you have to do is stay nice and pretty at my side and keep your hands to yourself.” Her tone tightens at the tail end, her fingers grabbing at your wrist and pulling it in sharply when she catches your fingers sneaking out to run along the wall in her peripheral. 

Your lips downturn at the specific mention of your wandering hands, your eyes flickering down to look at how her fingers still hold your wrist tightly, not willing to let go until its no longer possible to walk side-by-side like this. She guides you through the hallway strongly, like an unwavering anchor in a still sea, but you’re a buoy, constantly bobbing, constantly fighting waves, constantly on the verge of drowning as water engulfs you for seconds that tick by longer and longer until it feels like there isn’t any air left in your lungs and all you can do is act with impulses you don’t think about nearly enough. 

You struggle against her when the plane comes into view, wrestling your hand out of her grip only to tap the side of the plane with a pleased smile and wait patiently for her to do the same and step ahead of you down the single file row where the pilot and three stewardesses great you with wide, seemingly commercial smiles that you wonder if they bought specifically for this position; this lifestyle. One of them eyes Natasha up a little too long, sweeping her gaze across your girlfriend's tousled and beach waved hair that falls over her shoulders and covers the strings of her grey hoodie that have been bitten to shreds by you over the course of your relationship. You don’t know why she won’t just throw it away and get a new one, and she doesn’t know why you continue to ask her questions she thinks the answers are silly to.

Natasha huffs softly in response to the blatant staring by the flight attendant. She doesn’t take much consideration for it, rather shuffling ahead of you to keep moving down the row with effectiveness that hopefully contributes to the plane pulling off the runway at the right time, despite all of the chaos you’d already ensued. She reaches back for your hand, and softly, you allow your fingers to lace for the first time that day as she drags you past first class into business, only smiling down at somebody when they do it first, and only ever making eye contact when she has no choice; when her hand is forced. It’s not a far walk to your seats, but every row from the front of the plane to Aisle G is speckled with people that had managed to arrive on time, and glare up at you with dead expressions as if your sole entrance onto the plane was the reason they hadn’t blasted off into the sky yet. 

“Window seat.” She ducks her head down, cranes her body into yours just enough for her chest to brush your shoulder, pert nipples concealed by thick fabric suddenly hard and pebbled against your already buzzing skin, overstimulated from sensations and sounds you can’t avoid at all. Her words are stone, they cut through you with effectiveness that has your knees crumbling. You’re more than thankful nobody’s claimed the aisle seat yet, leaving you no body to awkwardly stumble over top of. Your knees are not steady enough to survive that kind of close quarter gymnastics, and generally you’re just not quite sure Natasha’s even bendy enough to succeed at all. It’s still cramped, nonetheless, and your cheeks are puffed in annoyance once again by the time you plop down into the seat and cross your arms over your chest, fingertips digging into the skin of your biceps. ”Buckle.” Natasha adds next, still in the aisle, preparing to place the carry-on in the overhead bin once the man to her immediate left gets his in securely. 

The gentle prompting like you’re nothing more than a child on this trip with her has your cheeks flushing pink visibly now, no longer able to hide the humiliation and warmth that wraps around your spin tightly, unwilling to let go. She hadn’t treated you like this when you’d first begun your vacation, there weren't directions, or controlled behaviors to adhere to. You’ve been tired since you woke up the first time, exhausted from the very inside of your body and overstimulated simply by the continuous lack of familiarity. It’s not your fault. Natasha’s built security into your routines so perfectly. She’s broken you down and fit you right into the palm of her hand so elaborately over the years that you need it now just to regulate your emotions, even when you don’t realize what it is you’re actually craving in the moment; without her guidance to get to the root of it all, it’s her that’s the answer. 

A soft whine falls off your lips when you clasp the buckle together over your belly, the metal jaws pressing just right against your abdomen to remind you of your full bladder. Her words wash over you again, ‘You’re going to hold it until I say that you can go’. She has complete control over you. You gave it to her years ago. Your cunt clenched around nothing, desperation filling your bones with something petulant and pitiful as your panties dampen with an onslaught of arousal that drips out of you tantalizingly. 

“What’s the matter, malen’kaya shlyushka (little slut)?” If Natasha caught the whine from the aisle, you don’t want to consider who else had heard it. You sink further down into your seat, fingers working frantically to loosen the buckle and alíviate some of the pressure that both torments you and excites you. If anyone knows Russian within a three row span, there’s a definitive certainty that both heard and understood Natasha clear as day. Another whine falls off of your lips, this time genuinely saddened and submissive as your fingers still on the metal jaws of the buckle and instead seek comfort in the dainty chain around your neck, a single pendant handing just above the swell of your breasts, but quickly finds a place between your lips as your allow paralysis to captivate you beneath her strong stare for a handful of seconds. 

Natasha easily takes up the entirety of the middle seat, and without much of a fight you let her take the armrest that separates the two of you, leaning most of her weight onto it as she crams her body into the limited space that's left once she gets the backpack beneath the chair ahead of her feet. The buckle is still uncomfortable around your belly, and it’s made worse when she huffs in false concern and reaches down to tighten it more, until you’re squirming and your tongue presses into the harsh edge of the pendant between your lips to distract from the desperate need to pee. 

“No, thank you.” You whine, attempting to win some kind of sympathy from her as you bat her fingers away from the buckle when they attempt to wiggle between your skin and the slowly warming metal, evidently intent to push you to the very edge before the wheels even retract. 

“Can you hold it?” Natasha asks, only taking her hand away from your waist to fasten her own seatbelt and readjust the way her toes were twisted beneath the bulky backpack. 

“I don’t want to hold it.” You whine, soft and petulantly as you lean further into the window, seeking out the chilled cold of hard textured plastic against an inch of exposed skin. The material of the seat is cold against the backs of your thighs, and no matter how you shift nothing warms it up any faster. 

Natasha scoffs, her eyes blazing with frustration as she works a piece of gum between her tense jaw. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to hold it. I asked if you could. This is not the place to prove how messy I can make you, moya lyubov.” At this point, you’re certain that everyone on the plane is clued into the conversation happening between you, but when a middle aged woman sits down in the aisle seat, smiling pleasantly, entirely oblivious, something inside you snaps like a twig on an overpopulated path, trampled over and forgotten about as you dive into Natasha’s shoulder, aiming to hide every inch of yourself in her warmth. 

A hand, her hand, tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, just intimate enough to look passionate, comforting, to the people behind you, but her knuckles lock in a way that’s anything but soothing. Your sharp intake of air is muffled by the fabric of her hoodie before the leverage of her fingers pulling at your scalp creates enough distance for her to lower her face to yours, her forehead resting against yours, her eyes looking into yours, only focusing on the swirl of colors she’s been trying to memorize for years. “You don’t get to hide after being a brat.” She seethes, beyond annoyed that you thought she’d allow you to find solitude in her body when you hadn’t listened to a single thing she’d asked of you all morning. “Can you hold it, or are you going to have an accident like a little baby? My little baby.” 

She knows what she’s doing, but you don’t have the sense to fight the alluring comfort of her complete dominance. “I can hold it.” You whisper, finally finding your voice, still staring deep into her eyes trying to block out everything else around you. 

“Mmm. Good.” She hums, and it’s so close to what you want to hear, but it fails to miss the mark at the last second, and your heart sinks at the prolonged absence of praise that follows your path through the day. She’s usually overly affectionate, not always with her actions, but usually with her words. Even after all these years, you forget how easily she’s willing to take praise from you just to lay the foundation of her expectations. “Let me know if that changes.” 

You frown when she pulls away, suddenly cold without her heavy touch on your skin. A year ago, when she’d first booked this trip out to California to visit with Yelena at her fashion university, you’d concocted all kinds of scenarios that could unfold between the East coast and the West. You’d fucked Natasha a lot of places, but never an airplane, and it enrages you to know that she’s shared the experience with somebody else. What pisses you off even more is that there’s a strap on beneath the loose fabric of her sweatpants, you know because you watched her settle the harness of her hips in the bathroom before you left the hotel, and not once has she allowed you to feel it, touch it, kiss it, take it. You made this bed, but you don’t want to lay in it. 

You can’t listen to the flight attendant when she comes to the center of the row and begins to go over the exit strategies and safety protocols at length. Your head is fuzzy, filled with static blackness that you can’t really see through at all, but distinct shadows are still recognizable when you focus hard enough on them. At one point, your hand dropped into Natasha’s lap during the speil, entirely unconscious and innocent, born from only a desire to feel her comfort for its purest affection, but she removed it with a pointed huff seconds later, before you could even begin to venture toward her core, or the thigh where you can just hardly see the tip bulging against the material. 

You sat like that for three hours. With your hands in your lap, your face pressed up against the side of the plane as your eyes traced the clouds and ebbing sunlight that vanished slowly as the afternoon carried on. At one point, the flight attendant had come by with snacks. Biscoff cookies in a neat little red wrapper, and soda that fizzled in the clear plastic cup and taunted you without even taking a sip. 

Eventually, it got to a point where you couldn’t sit still. Your foot had been tapping against the floor for ten minutes before even that wasn’t enough to take your mind off of the need pooling in your belly or the desperation to pee slowly driving you crazy and turning your veins to electrified live wires that fizzle with energy you can’t escape. The cookie had crumbled on your fingertips, and as you sweep your thumb over your pointer finger for the third time, still feeling the coarse granules on your skin, you can’t take it anymore. Something has to give before you explode. 

“Where are you going?” Natasha strains to question you quietly when your fingers pry apart the buckle still tightly around your waist, despite the fact that hers had been unclasped and dangling over the edge of the seat since the seatbelt light had flickered dim after takeoff. Her fingers hook around your wrist, keeping you pinned to the seat as she leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Daddy’s slut gonna have an accident? Or did she just forget that she’s lost the privilege to choose when she goes potty?” 

Every ounce of peace that you’d found since she’d scolded you in the terminal dissipates in an instant, tension bubbling beneath your skin as you rip your wrist away from her touch and glare back at her sharply. “I need to wash my fucking hands.” You seethe, quiet enough for only her to hear, but loud enough, unfortunately, for her to hear. 

Natasha’s jaw clicks, and you know that if you were anywhere else, your ass would be fire hydrant red without care for whoever was around to witness the scene. She grinds her teeth together, fingers curling into the arm rest as she nods. “Still not done, huh?” 

You’re smart enough not to respond, but not smart enough to stay seated or ask her nicely to relieve your bladder. That’s what she’s waiting for. For you to ask nicely. She’d like an apology too, maybe even some begging, but all she’s really holding out for is a white flag being waved from the shorelines. “Excuse me.” You whisper sweetly to the woman beside Natasha, half hovering over your girlfriend as you wiggle out of the row. She smiles kindly, though tiredly, and moves her legs out of the way for you to pass by. 

The toe of Natasha’s shoe taps your ankle. A final warning to think about your actions that you allow to roll right off your shoulders. The afternoon is slowly passing you by, and it's not late, but the clouds are thick, and even though most windows between row G and the bathroom are open, there’s a particular darkness that seeps in. 

You hadn’t been too unbearably cold. The seat beneath your thighs never warmed up, and without Natasha you felt chilly from the inside out, but once you stepped into the bathroom goosebumps prickled your skin thickly. Everything around you felt off, slightly dystopian even. The rounded edges on all of the appliances, the greyscale aesthetic of the room, the constant whirling of engines and wind. You were floating. Lost in the endless stimulation that isn’t even the stimulation you need. 

You do wash your hands. Twice because the first time didn’t feel sufficient enough after a full morning touching just about anything and everything a few million people had also touched as well. You didn’t pee, even though just looking down at the toilet had your thighs pressing together and a sweat breaking out across your forehead as you tried to focus on the original task at hand; the thing you’d been planning and mulling over for twelve months before Natasha had gone and messed up every plan you had simply by being herself in a way you’d failed to predict at the time. 

Your panties are damp, and admittedly not your most attractive pair, but Natasha loves how easily your arousal shows against the baby blue material, so you’d packed them anyway. They slip down your thighs easily, crumbling onto the floor for only a second before you step out entirely and pick them up between slightly damp fingers, droplets of persistent water still falling from your knuckles every couple seconds if you’re still for long enough. 

Your shorts are baggy enough to conceal the bulge of delicate cotton fabric when you shove it into your pocket in a ball, but you still take a moment to fix your appearance in the mirror as best you can. You flatten out the sleeves of your crewneck, pull your shorts up just the slightest bit higher in an attempt to wipe away the trail of glimmering wetness on your inner thigh. 

It could’ve been two minutes, or it could’ve been ten. Time hasn’t felt like anything substantial since you climbed into the Uber with half open eyes and a deep pout, but it’s especially twisted now as all sense of light is blocked out; not a single window in the bathroom offering additional light. 

It couldn’t have been too long. Nobody glanced up at you in concern or knowing pity like they’d concluded the worst from your escape, and Natasha didn’t seem to appear all that untrustworthy in your actions either, nodding in satisfaction as you stumbled down the aisle like she could tell you’d listened to her. She probably could tell. Without the baby blue panties doing its best to conceal moisture, every brush of your thighs as you take a step jolts through your core, and it prickles the sensation of desperation already all consuming within you. 

You scoot past the woman again. This time she looks half asleep, her head tilted toward the right as she uses her shoulder as leverage. She doesn’t seem to mind your passing, or shuffling her feet when it becomes evident somehow there’s even less room to pass then their was the first time, but your belly still burns with anxiety that’s multiplied by the sinking floaty feeling in your head Natasha just won’t seem to help you with. It’s entirely lost on you that she’s waiting for an apology. That at the very least, she’d be willing to be your anchor if you just said you were sorry. 

You can’t fight the magnetic attraction to her body when you sink down into the seat again. Your head falls onto her shoulder, your hand into her lap while one remains in yours. For the first time, Natasha doesn’t fight it, but she makes no effort to loop her arm around you and pull you closer. 

It’s ten minutes of silence and your body seeking warmth before the woman in the aisle seat lulls off, her wrinkly arms crossed over her shoulder somehow uncomfortably, but she’s managing just fine as lips part just an inch with a deep breath. It’s in that moment that the panties in your pocket feel like they’re burning a hole through the thick material, and you fish them out with emboldened fingertips that drop them into her lap brazenly — for anyone to see if they’re paying enough attention. 

The baby blue color has lost its softness as arousal dampened the material, and as Natasha glances down, assesses what’s in her lap and subsequently what’s not on you, her jaw clenches so tightly you fear it may just break or lock like that indefinitely. 

“Do you fucking understand that you are playing with fire right now? Fire, baby girl.” She asks, her voice low, threatening. Your eyes are an endless galaxy as they float around her face, down her neck, her torso, until they reach the waistband of her sweatpants. You can’t help it. You’re not listening to her and she knows it. She’s accepted that you’re so far gone into your head you don’t even know how to get yourself out of trouble, but when your hand grabs onto the strap and gives it a testing jerk until the harness rocks into her clit and shoots pleasure through her spine that’s been electrified since last night, she can’t keep her own impulses under control anymore. 

“Daddy.” There’s a whine in your voice, an undercurrent of need that cannot be quenched with warnings or petty humiliation that barely strikes your skin. Your eyes hold a million uncharted constellations, sparkling and glimmering just out of reach as Natasha removes your hand from her lap and drops it back into yours. 

She thinks you’re pacified for a moment, competent enough to recognize the clear threat of following her unspoken directions right now, but when she reaches to pocket the panties, because begging discovered like this is not how she wants to spend her day, you lean in close again, insatiable and needy as you coil clammy knuckles into her hair and attach your lips to her neck, flicking your tongue against the textured skin slightly salty from the Burbank air. Natasha stumbles for a moment. Her eyes close. 

“What the fucks gotten into you?” She seethes, coming to her senses when your kiss becomes a bruising suck, tight pressure shocking her system enough to have every dominating impulse fighting for a chance to break free all at once. “Daddy lets petty shit slide for a week and now you don’t know how to behave at all? Was the freedom too much for you, baby? Is it all Daddy’s fault that her little girl is acting like a slutty little brat right now?” 

The tables without warning turning startled you completely, combined with the way she moves to grip your left thigh, prying it away from your right until her fingers find a place between the apex of your thighs, teasing the existing trail of wetness that slickens skin, teasing your lips that she pulls apart with two fingertips, allowing your pebbled, aching, needy clit to pulse unprotected along the seam line of the sweatshorts. 

“Couldn’t even behave like a good girl, so now Daddy has to punish you right here.” Natasha scoffs, and without warning a single digit claims your entrance, making room for its existence with or without permission. Your walls, already sensitive, already clenched so impossibly tightly to distract from the sharp sensation of fullness in your bladder that has your toes curling past the border of pain and pleasure. “Who’s in charge here, malysh?”

Her fingers, thick, skilled, typically impossibly quick moving within your walls, remain still as she levels her eyes with yours, entirely unmoving, unblinking, waiting for your response. When you don’t answer fast enough, trying oh so hard to clear your mind enough to find an answer, not a plea, on your tongue, Natasha gets impatient. You’ve been beneath her skin all day. But you’ve also been beneath her skin on and off all week. She’s been as patient as she can be with you, but you’ve pushed her too far, she doesn’t care to be nice anymore. 

“Who. Is. In. Charge?” She reiterates, and each pointed word is matched with her finger curling so perfectly against your g-spot, working against you in a way she knows is cruel because it’s everything you can’t stop your body from reacting to. She thinks you’ve forgotten just how well she knows your body and how to use it against you when it counts. 

“You, D-Daddy.” Your breath shakes, soft and wobbly as your glassy eyes begin to blink up at her, closing for a moment before they reopen even more dazed than the last time. Natasha hums, satisfied but not impressed, and slips another finger into your entrance. It fits beside the first snugly, almost too snugly for you to handle, but she makes you take it with a hand on your belly that hips your hips down on the seat and your belly filled with thick, heavy pressure that glitters like a firework in your vision. 

When her thumb falls over top of your clit, her fingers fucked so deeply into your core that the heel of her palm cups you tightly, and her thumb slips beneath skin to rub tight, fast circles along the your most sensitive part right now. Her fingers don’t slow down in your core, and it’s not enough to satisfy the wild sensations beneath your fingertips, but it’s enough to have your eyes rolling into the back of your head with intense pleasure you can’t delay, or withhold, or even begin to know how to control without her help. 

“You’re getting so tight around my fingers, baby girl. You’re not close yet, are you? But, I haven’t even really touched you yet. Haven’t even let you sit your pretty pussy on my strap and be all nice and full and warm for a while. But, if you’re close, and you can’t hold it, I guess we can be all done now. My love, doesn’t even need to be fucked anyway, right? She’s not my good girl, right now. She’s bratty, and whiny, and really getting on Daddy’s last nerve, and she just doesn’t seem to get that. It’s hard for her, I know. I know it is. That little brain has had to focus on so so much this week. But, Daddy’s been telling you to let go. To trust her. So do that for me, angel. Let go for, Daddy. Let’s be all done.” Natasha’s fingers and thumb don’t relent, and it quickly becomes impossible to do anything other than follow her directions even when you don’t want to. You don’t want to be all done. You don’t want to be a brat anymore. You don’t want it. It’s taken you this long to be affected by her pointed avoidance of calling you her good girl, but now that it’s scorned your skin, implanted itself in your memory, it’s all that consumes you and your belly fills with stones that sink quick and heavy to your feet. 

“Oh, are you going to cum? Gonna cum around my fingers like a little slut that just couldn’t wait until we even got to the car? Daddy’s fucked you in the car, sweet girl. You know how good it is. But you just couldn’t wait, huh? That needy pussy’s been trying to get you in trouble all morning and it finally broke you. That’s okay, baby. It’s not your job to worry about that cunt. Daddy knows what she needs. I know what you need.” Your brain turned off a long while ago and Natasha can tell, but she doesn’t comment on it, because you need this. You’ve been fighting this headspace all week and she doesn’t know why. Even in your isolated moments of protected peace in a lavish little hotel room that doesn’t even come close to the comfort of your Manhattan apartment, you hadn’t let her really be Daddy. You both need this. 

When your eyes squeeze shut, head thrown back against the headrest. Your lips are closed tightly, a habit Natasha’s spent years breaking but appreciates quite heavily in situations like this, when you’re already barely concealed due to sunlight slipping in from the clouds over top of the east coast, and anyone who really wants to know what’s happening can easily figure it out. Your walls flutter around her knuckles, pulling her in, trying to keep her there. She’s stronger, and her fingers leave your cunt before the end of the orgasm call even call over you, and your hips attempt to search for pleasure she’s taken away, but fall short when her hands keep you still, her eyes a blazing warning. 

When your eyes open, a single tear falls down your cheek, almost cinematic as it drips down your chin and splashes onto Natasha’s hands on your hips. “P-Please.” You whisper, voice shaky, desperate. Natasha’s missed this too much to ruin it, so she shakes her head, wipes her fingers on your shorts with disinterest, and pulls you into her chest because she knows that at the very least you need something grounding before you spiral even more than you already have when you’d thought she wasn’t paying attention. 

“Did you really think I was going to let you cum, moya lyubov?” Natasha frowns, dropping her forehead against yours as she leans down to kiss your lips softly, just enough to ease some of the worry in your belly. “Ten minutes, and then you’re going to go pee before we land. Got it?” 

“Mhmm. Got it, Daddy.” You whine, voice soft, sleepy. Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tell you there’s only half an hour left of the flight, or that your night is a long ways from over once you get home, but she lets you bask in the comfort right now, trying to worm your way back into her good graces to acquire a good girl at the very least. 

“Thank you, baby girl. Those listening ears on and working now?” She checks to assure, even though she knows you’ll listen to anything she tells you to do right now so long as she accepts that you’re going to whine about it first without intention to really say no at all. You nod against her chest, eyes closed, fingers with fistfuls of her hoodie between them. “That’s what I thought.” She hums, and you don’t even have the energy to roll your eyes or huff at her smugness, content to just exist against her chest for a while.

[yelenaslore]

AMERICAN HONEY

summary — there’s a wild wild whisper blowing in the wind, and it wraps around you tightly in the form sunshine and strong hands.

warning(s) — established relationships, polyamorous relationship, married wandanat, dom/sub dynamics, bdsm dynamics, daddy kink, mommy kink, butt plugs, slight anal play, public play, exhibition kink, exposed positions, verbal humiliation, light dumbification, degradation, pool party, bathing suits (wink wink bikinis), pussy inspection, praise, hair pulling, prolonged edging, begging, crying, ruined orgasms, fingering, teasing, alcohol consumption, smoking, whining, threat of pussy spanking, kitchen sex, kitchen counters, face grabbing, name calling, mention of subspace, elements of aftercare, fluff if you squint?, truly just depraved 4th of july smut, men/minors dni

authors note — i wrote this in between a million different activities, high noons, and cart hits… so please forgive me for being late, im just a girl trying her best under hard circumstances. this was almost named courtesy of the red, white, and blue… btw

Sunlight gleams down upon already sparkling water, rippled currents in the pool blown wild by the sweet whisper of wind that sneaks into the open landscape backyard. Not many trees conceal the happenings of your residence, nor does the white picket fence that only comes up to Natasha’s waist, but there’s an unspoken solitude regardless — a safety when they’re around. 

Your unwavering trust in them is sensational — one of a kind most certainly, if you ask them at least. It’s evident now, as the breeze swings through the backyard and creates ripples in the west traveling current, and Natasha drags an eight-foot spa skimmer along the surface. She’s creating tension and simultaneously breaking it. She knows that too. 

The classic blue-and-white gingham pattern sitting over your shoulders is timeless, a staple piece for a holiday so proudly rooted in historical achievements. That’s not the reason you chose it though. The pattern reminds you of picnic blankets and comfort; Wanda’s comfort. She’d been in your mind when you purchased it. You’d considered her opinion when you’d noticed the triangular top and tie-side bottoms emphasized by a ruffled trim that would undeniably catch her attention. Wanda had been your thought three weeks ago, but Natasha takes up your brain now. 

The breeze is warm, twinged with a feels like temperature of 91°f, but it feels cold as it blows against vulnerable inches of soft, glistening skin. Natasha notices the involuntary shimmy from across the pool, and her eyes sweep over the gleam on your skin with captivation. A smirk crawls onto her lips. It’s smooth, simple, discreet enough to leave you unsure if it happened at all. 

“Cold, baby?” Her voice carries over the pool with the breeze, and it hits you with a force that has your hips rocking in desperation you can’t hide. You should be embarrassed, humiliated that you’d ever let yourself be pinned to this situation, but they’ve had you like this for hours now, and you’re beyond the point of really giving a damn. Still, your cheeks flame at Natasha’s supposed indifference. Scratch that, just her indifference. Natasha doesn’t feel bad for you. She loves you, she wants the world for you by her fingertips and only hers, but you made your bed, and she’s always been keen on natural order. 

A whine pulls up from somewhere deep and soft in your belly. Your hips rock, searching for pressure, pleasure, anything. All you manage to accomplish she pressing the plug deeper into your ass, the flared base stretching deep within a hole they’re still waiting patiently to fuck. Natasha’s going to be first. Wanda’s already given her that promise for when the time comes. The fleeting thought doesn’t help your flustered and highly strung state, but somehow you find a response. Simple words. “I don’t know.” There’s a whine in your tone, a tremble of petulance that comes with your utmost submission. It’s walls crumbling down, thought slipping away, replaced with natural impulse. 

“You don’t know?” Natasha huffs when the spa skimmer passes through a single handful of leaves, blown over the fence from Agatha’s yard where Rio tends to flagpole cherry blossoms — the only reason you know specifically because Agatha makes sure to correct everyone on Rio’s behalf. She’s barely even paying attention to you right now, huffing beneath her breath as she slams the skimmer into the grass, and it drives you further up the wall of desperation. 

“No?” It’s a question pointed at her when it shouldn’t be. It’s your body, not hers, she has no way of knowing what you perceive as cold if you don’t communicate as such, but you find yourself asking her anyways, and Natasha finds it cute; amongst other things. 

“Don’t know much of anything right now, do you? Too hard to think with your cunt on display for me?” She doesn’t yell the words, but they’re definitely not a whisper either, and your cheeks flame with heat as the breeze seems to project her tone through the yard. You wonder if Agatha heard, if it carried over distinctly enough for her to really pick up on it. Natasha’s probably wondering the same, though nowhere near as muted with nerves. 

“Yes, Daddy.” A hushed whisper, involuntary and soft. You’re exactly where she wants you, but she can’t help but want to push a little harder, keep you here a little longer. Nobody’s set to start arriving for another three hours, so she has at least two to break you down however she pleases. “Please.” 

“Please what, malysh (baby)? Please touch you, please make it feel better, please come over there and spank my pussy because I know I told you to keep your legs fucking spread, so why are they closing?” Natasha’s glare hardens, deep and cold as she narrows her gaze and wills her eyebrows together until they’re scrunched and misshapen. It was an unconscious thing, but still shame pools in your belly and heat flames in your core as you peel your thighs open, further this time, and give her access to all of you. 

The matching gingham bottoms, adorned with a band of ruffles along the top that sits right at your navel tightly, is discarded on the lounge chair to your immediate right — already wet, but not from the pool. Natasha had directed you to take them off twenty minutes after you’d joined her out in the sun, sent away by Wanda who needed to shower without your needy wandering hands, and they’d remained there dutifully for what you suspect is going on an hour. 

The chair is becoming damp beneath you, slick with arousal that drips out of your wanting entrance teased and taunted relentlessly by the fullness in your ass that’s incessant and unmoving, so insufferably understimulating. Natasha can see the pearls of need glimmering on your lips, and your thighs, not just sweat that lights you up with glittering sparkles and radiant beams. Need for her is what unmakes you, and it feels heavenly to have that reassurance in just the way you let it happen like this at all.

“Go find, Mommy.” She directs, pulling her attention away from your cunt, letting it drift to your eyes, and the way you stare at her lazily, drunkenly, blissfully and submissively. So many words to describe the stars in your eyes as the words register in your head, but there’s not enough time in the day for Natasha to prattle off every synonym. 

“What?” You stutter, harping on the simplicity of her statement because certainly she’s not sending you away right now, not like this. When you’re ready and willing to eat out of the palm of her hand and she hasn’t even done anything more than push that plug into your ass bent over the bathroom countertop. 

“Is that head too fuzzy?” Natasha scoffs, shaking her head. Her hair is twinged with strawberry highlights from the sun, a soft shade of golden pink that feels neatly on with the darker auburn curls that frame her face wildly. “I said, go find Mommy.” 

A rebuttal is on the tip of your tongue. A strong-willed declaration that you hate the idea of leaving her and will not be doing anything of the sort of your own volition, but then her eyebrow raises at you challengingly from across the pool, and the butterflies already in your belly are plunged into boiling oil until that flutter and flap about uncontrollably. 

“Bottoms on first, dorogoy.” Natasha smirks when she notices the faint twitch of your muscles beneath your skin — intention budding to the surface, mere seconds away from leaving you exposed to whoever in Westview glances over the picket fence paces away. A scarlet hue twinges your cheeks, and Natasha laughs sweetly as she shakes her head and watches you dress with anxious movements and mousy fingers. “So eager you were gonna prance right through the yard all exposed? By all means, baby, I love seeing that cute little plug, but that’s a little desperate, no? Even for my little slut?” She’s baiting you, teasing you because she can, and it works wonders against you as your skin flushes pink.

“Daddy.” There’s a sickening whine in your tone as it floats with the breeze toward Natasha, a desperate plea for her to do something, anything, clear as day beneath your single utterance of her title — the very one she’d initially had to break you down and coax you sweetly to use. You’ve come a long way since then. They’ve corrupted you in unspeakable ways since the very first night you spent together in the business district of Manhattan. “Please.”

“Inside, dorogoy. Now.” Natasha knows what you want even when you don’t. She won’t deny that you want to cum. She’s known you’ve wanted to be brought over the edge of a blissful orgasm since seven am that morning, but she knows what you want even more that you just can’t see beneath all of that fuzziness in your head. You want to cum, but you want to be broken down and used between them both even more. Your fingers twitch, your knees lock, you're desperate for relief, but even more so for their unwavering control that’s been interlocked with aspects of your relationship from the jump. 

Natasha’s not looking for an answer from you, she’s looking for obedience. The blue-and-white gingham bottoms feel light on your hips, the dangling ties tickle your thighs with every gust of wind that blows past. “Okay.” You concede softly, breath only a whisper as it fights against the changing breeze that throws the submission right back in your face like a brick wall. 

Natasha doesn’t say anything. She just watched how you prance like a baby deer on new legs through the yard because every little step spreads pleasure through your ever slowly frying nerves. It’s a slow process, a tedious game. They have you in a good place, all sweet and pliant, but they could have you somewhere deeper, darker with warmth that feels cold when they leave for too long. She doesn’t say anything, but you hear the aluminum rustling behind you when you reach for the handle on the sliding glass door and strain your eyes for Wanda’s silhouette in the kitchen. 

She brought a High Noon outside with her before you joined. Grapefruit flavor because it’s the one inclusion in the variety pack that you and Wanda turn your nose up at entirely. The watermelon ones, with the green detailing on the front, are reserved solely for you, and the pineapple Wanda. It’s a system that established itself around the third Fourth of July you spent together, and it crushes you like an elephant now as you spare one glance over your shoulder and watch Natasha lift her chin to chase a sip of the fizzling vodka seltzer. 

You think she knows you’re looking at her, lingering by the door with your glassy eyes set solely on her, but she never turns her head to find out. She takes a sip, then two, and then she reaches for the spa skimmer and returns to her task of scooping out leaves that haven’t even fallen into the water yet. She’s meticulous, sometimes annoyingly so, but you know her skin crawls when people come over and mess with her things, so you let her have the one element of control she can grasp with white knuckles unapologetically. 

“Find Mommy.” You remind yourself softly as your attention turns back to the door. You find her easily now that you’re really looking for her. She’s standing by the sink, her back to the living room, face to the window that overlooks the garden she’s packed full of blueberries and roses. The glare from unforgiving sunlight beats down on your back and the door, twinging her slightly yellow and darkening the specifics of her movements, but it allows enough insight for your belly to grow anxious with a desperation for proximity immediately. Your bones feel cold without hands touching your skin, even when sunshine crisps you beyond golden quickly. 

Cold air hits you in the face in an unforeseen ambush that you truthfully should’ve anticipated, and the sound of the door gliding against the track pulls Wanda’s attention to you just as a shiver runs up your already sensitive spine. She looks like she’s about to greet you, coo about the adorable way your muscles twitch when you’re cold, but then her eyes lock onto the ruffles laying over your navel and the swell of your breasts, and she can’t seem to find any words on her tongue at all. 

Your hands curl into tight fists at your sides, stunned to stillness by the drastic change in temperature, her undivided attention on your body, and the fact that she’s standing here in only a bikini that accentuates every curve she’s worked devotedly to maintain. 

You’d known she was going on-the-nose patriotic for a while, but you’d never specifically sought out her choice of bathing suit when you’d been purposefully hiding yours in Natasha’s bottom drawer like a mischievous child. You don’t think she’d intentionally gone to the same lengths of secrecy, but it dawns on you slowly that she’d also probably avoided showing you beforehand with intention. 

“Well hello, devochka (baby girl).” She coos when she gets it together, voice sweet, sickeningly so. Her head cranes just slightly to the left, and the way her hair falls away from her shoulder provides the perfect glimpse at red and white striped straps dangling daintily down the center of her spine, two perfectly formed bunny ears catching your attention from just below her earlobes. “Look at you! Did you get that suit just for me? For Mommy?” 

Natasha doesn’t show you an inch of sunshine until you’ve earned her gentle warmth, but Wanda smothers you in it deep until you can’t even seem to think for yourself without her prompting. She misses no beat even now, her tone sweet like honey, her words curled with such invitation it lures you forward without command. 

“Yes.” You answer, because you know she wants one. You can still think semi-clearly enough to fall in line with the expectations they’ve painstakingly engraved into your subconscious. Your eyes, already glassy from Natasha’s unmaking, already wide with need and desperation, somehow intensify as you drown in Wanda’s appearance. 

You can tell what she’d been doing before you came inside. The counters are clean, the sink dry of any water spots or dishes. But she stands by the sink, on hand on the countertop, the other on her hip. Her chest is angled out toward you, just slightly, just enough to really be able to tell that the cups of her bathing suit are mismatched, mimicking the American flag in a way that doesn’t scream anything overtly annoying or untrue about herself and her views. It’s tasteful, classic, and alluring as you analyze the seemingly crinkled ribbed texture of the two piece. 

“Oh, my good girl.” Wanda preens, humming in satisfaction that you’d only been able to anxiously anticipate seeing for yourself — a fate you chose admittedly, but that’s besides the point. “Come here, come closer. Let me really see it.” She directs, sweet and comforting, her hands coming up to her sides to draw you into her embrace. 

It feels like a waddle as you pad across the kitchen tiles in a pair of flip flops that’s sole purpose is to save the soles of your feet from the blistering concrete out back. Every step jostles the plug in your ass, sparking pleasure that taunts you relentlessly. You’re full, you haven’t forgotten, you can’t forget, but not full in the way you need, not stimulated in the way you’ve been trying to grab onto and secure all morning. Your knees are week, your core throbbing and slickened with arousal that continues to pool out of you at their prolonged nonchalance, and you’re certain that Wanda’s memorizing this wild picture of you to draw inspiration from later on when she has all the time in the world to do this slowly and meticulously. 

“There you are. Come on, come sit.” Wanda smiles sweetly, she holds onto your hips and without any warning lifts you up onto the countertops that are cold to the touch from the stream of air blowing down on them as relentlessly as the sunlight on beige concrete. You shiver again, goosebumps prickling your skin, but it's another sensation that trips you up too. 

The lounge chairs out back are threaded with a flexible net, one that shapes to your body even just a little bit. You hadn’t realized how forgiving that flexibility had been on the plug, but now that her hands hold your hips firmly against the counter, driving the plug further into your ass — deeper — you can’t avoid the pleasure and the devastating disappointment of your cunt remaining empty. 

“Did you have fun out there? You put on quite the show for Daddy. Who taught you those things, devochka)? To sit with your pretty pussy on display for anyone to see and touch. That’s so naughty. Not for little girls who listen to their Mommy’s.” Wanda tsks, and your belly drops with a feeling you can’t name in this haze. Your eyes glisten, tears stinging your waterline as your bottom lip pouts at her sweetly. Oh, how she loves to see you cry for her. “You listen to your Mommy, don’t you, milaya devochka (sweet girl)?”

“Yes.” Your head bobs unconsciously, the answer falling off your tongue before you can even process what she’s asked. You’re already proving your point, her point. Wanda smiles in satisfaction, an amused hum falling into the air around you as she tangles her curious fingertips into the strings at your hips.

“Lift your hips for me, baby. Mommy just wants to check something really quick.” Wanda directs gently, but there’s no room to argue with the tone she sets, especially not as it wraps around you tightly and turns all that remains of your proud independence into pitiful codependency that lingers for hours. It doesn’t occur to you that floaty and clingy is how they want you, but it’s the honest truth. The strings come undone with one testing pull, and in seconds Wanda taps the inner section of your thigh with enough intention to sting, and has them off and in the air before you can even blink dazedly. “Oh my, did Daddy let you take a dip in the pool?” She asks, and your eyebrows furrow innocently. 

“No, Mommy.” Your head shakes, strands of hair that escape your cowboy boot shaped claw clip tickling the nape of your neck and your cheeks as the motion swings them easily in the manufactured breeze. 

“Then why are they all wet, my love? Certainly it’s not all because of that little cunt.” Wanda frowns, tracing her manicured nail over the patch of wetness that’s not entirely visible through the waterproof material, but is still easily identifiable when fingertips graze the sodden garments. Your cheeks flame, and while your thighs had never truly been spread to acclimate the presence of her between them fully, they squeeze tighter shut with her condescending attention on your aching core. “Oh, but that’s what it is, isn’t it, my good girl? You’re just too needy, you can’t even help it — can’t even go one morning without needing somebody to make it all better for you. That little cunt just always wants some attention, doesn’t it?” She’s overwhelming you with questions she doesn’t really want answers to, but she likes to see you squirm at the imagery she lays brazenly at your feet without pity. She might be burning alive without her tongue between your thighs, lapping up any evidence of your arousal, but she’d happily burn with the knowledge that she’s dragging you down with her just because she can; because you let it happen. 

“Yes, Mommy.” You squeak, voice high, officially floaty as it takes on a pitch Wanda hadn’t thought possible before she met you. Her eyes are wild with lust and affection, wild passionate affection that can’t be stifled or diluted by decades of learned self control. She’s a tamed beast, a trusted shot in a war, but sometimes she breaks free of the chains she made for herself to preserve her fragile heart, and when it’s let out on you, there’s no coming back from the heaven she creates out of syllabus and taunting curls. 

“Does it hurt, baby? Is it achey?” Wanda crones, her eyebrows pulled taut with faux sympathy, but even with the knowledge of experience, you can’t see past her sweet questions and gentle movements despite the crudeness of her commentary. 

“Yes.” You whisper, head bobbing. Your eyes trace her face. Her eyes, her freckled cheeks, her nose. The trail across her jawline, the sharp cut of her cheekbones. Her hair falls over her shoulders, not untamed, but rather unconfined; free. 

“Look at me, malysh.” Soft, hard, firm. She cuts through the air and the fog of your mind with one clear order, and when you find her eyes again, deep green and glowing beneath the yellow lighting Natasha’s been itching to switch out for LED, they’re so much darker then you remember, pupils blown wide with lust and glittering refractions of light dusted across the enter dazzling orb. “Open your legs.” 

Your thighs fall open instantly, and your core that’s no longer concealed by the gingham pattern of your bottoms is exposed to her without a barrier now. Your clit pulses at the exposure to cold air, hard and pebbled from tension that nobody’s been kind enough to relieve. Your entrances clenches and unclenches, no rhythm, no reason, just begs whimsically for something to probe it unkindly and brutally. Your lips are puffy, swollen and red. How much of the glow comes from unforgiving sunlight or arousal Wanda’s uncertain, but for the moment she’s captivated by the effortless beauty of your pussy as it begs her for anything. 

“Oh, so eager already?” Wanda groans, before her attention is pulled to your clot when it throbs unabashedly at her condensation. Your cheeks can go flush, your brain can go fuzzy, but your pussy is the biggest tell of them all. “Aw, that must feel so icky, princess. Yeah?” 

“Mommy!” Your feet kick against the countertops petulantly, a whine pulling from somewhere in your belly that’s only explored when they can get you there; here. Wanda’s eyes harden, her jaw clicks at the audacity you somehow still have even halfway to the moon and out of touch with everything else. 

“We do not kick.” She scolds, sharp and clear, and your throat bobs with a thickness that somehow even burns in your eyes. “Now be quiet and let me check. God only knows what your Daddy did while I wasn’t watching you both.” Wanda rolls her eyes, and before you can even really process what she says, her fingers pull your lips apart, exposing your clit and clenching hole. It’s another level of exposed, a deeper shudder of pleasure that runs up your spine and shakes you just enough to shift pressure on the plug. “God, look at this pussy. So pretty, baby girl. Remind me, whose pussy is it again?” 

It takes a second, more like three, for you to find an answer in your head as her fingers continue to simply hold your pussy open for her eyes to marvel at, but eventually you do, leaning closer to her unconsciously as your eyelids bat heavily. “Yours.”

“And what’s my name, baby?” She hums, half satisfied but wanting more. She always wants more, she’s as insatiable as you, though neither one of you can compete with Natasha. 

“M-Mommy!” You gasp when her fingers brush your clit, just once, just hard enough to really feel how pebbled and click your pulsing bud is with arousal right now, before anyone really even touched you. A whine of disappointment falls off your lips when she doesn’t make a move to repeat the action. 

“Yes, milaya devochka?” She smirks smugly, and it’s a miracle that your muscles don’t move on their own accord and thrash against the countertop in petulant frustration that’s been building for hours on end now. One push too far and you fall down a spiral they need undivided attention to pull you out of, but if you continue to glide just right, they know there’s heaven in your future — all of your futures. 

A strangled whine falls off of your lips, your hands reaching out to grapple at the strings of her bikini. You know Natasha’s planning on wearing a white top and black athletic shorts that she has no reason to take off before she jumps into the pool, but it won’t be as captivating as how Wanda looks right now. 

“I wonder how desperate this pussy is for me. If I just press right here… yeah, just like this, oh fuck, baby. Not even pushing into you and this tight little cunt is just beginning for more.” Wanda moans beneath her breath, her eyes closing tightly for only a second before they focus on your core again. “Let’s see what happens if I do…this.” She questions, and then she eases that one single digit into your entrance and nothing else matters anymore.

A high pitched whine escapes you, and despite the stillness that follows her quick intrusion, the complete fullness that finally settles something in your bones sparks you into all encompassing pleasure quickly. Your hips don’t rock on their own accord, they’re infuriatingly still despite the pleasure blooming in your core halfway, and Wanda knows that you won’t be able to move until something lightens up, but you don’t want that either. You want whatever she gives you, whatever gets you there. 

“So responsive for me, baby.” She teases when you gasp again, and when her finger curls, pointedly and with clear intent against that spongy part of your walls that’s buried just perfectly behind your clout, it’s all over for you as your forehead drops to her shoulder and you gasp out ragged breaths. “Oh, does my pussy like that? Do you like it when I finger you here? On the counter, with your legs all nice and spread open. Fucking hell, you’re close already? Just from this?” Wanda groans, her eyes screwing closed, concealing the aroused amazement that floats in her eyes as she feels your walls contract around her finger tightly. Just the one, she hasn’t offered any more. 

“Please!” It’s the only thing you’ve managed to say, to bring yourself to ask in minutes, and Wanda feels so smug to know that in darkness, the one grain of light you found was the expectation to ask before you cum. She knows you’re not really asking though. You’re telling her you’re cumming, falling over the edge into her single finger that doesn’t even fuck you, just curls up and against your g-spot every few seconds without rhyme or reason. This was never about fucking you. She’d never told you that, nor led you to believe it. But what your mind made up on its own was none of her concern when she’s told you time and time again to let her do the thinking. “Nu uh! No! No! Please!”

Wanda’s fingers pull away from your cunt quickly, just as she felt your walls tightly so impossibly around her knuckle that even she knew any second longer and you would’ve fallen over the blissful edge into paradise. Instead, her palm slaps against your core, still exposed despite how your thighs tremble hanging off the edge of the countertop. Wanda coos, she grabs your ankles between delicate fingers, guiding your legs up until your chin rests on your knees and the soles of your feet are firmly against the marble, your core still open and exposed to her eyes, but the slight cant of your body now leaning to engage more core support opens up an entrance that Natasha’s left untouched since the early morning. 

Wanda doesn’t even address the ruined orgasm, but she watched how your cunt pulses and clenches with need and desperation. She groans when a single tear falls down your cheek, your bottom lip bitten and a picture of desperation. Your clit pulses with the beat of your heart, and despite the heavy feeling in your bones and the way this position has you still, your hips try to chase the sting of her palm slapping against you mercilessly. 

“Daddy picked such a pretty plug for you, malysh.” Wanda coos, her manicured fingers tapping against the jeweled plug in your ass, adding to the sensitivity that bites at your exposed nerves and core. Your hips try to jump, but they can’t with the way your hands hold your ankles tightly, having taken Wanda’s place with quiet submission. You know what she wants, and sometimes you give it to her without question. “But it’s time for it to come out now. We’re all done playing.” Wanda tells you firmly, the boundary now drawn clear, but you still whine in defeat as excitement bubbles in your belly and becomes twinged with anxiousness at the prospect of going all day unsatisfied. You need her, all of her, and she’s only giving you what she wants. 

“Please! Please, I don’t want to be all done!” It’s almost a wail, definitely a whiny plea, but it’s silenced by fingers grabbing at your cheeks until your lips pucker like a fish. Wanda’s hold is unrelenting, tight and dominating. She’s all done toying with your body so boldly, but her control hasn’t wavered for even a second. 

“We are all done. I’m going to take the plug out of your ass, and then we’re going to put another layer of sunscreen on before Maria and Yelena get here. Do I make myself clear?” She let’s go of your face only so that you can nod freely, your hand coming up to rub away the itch on your face from where the tear had slowly fallen with cinematic timing. “Words.” 

“Yes, Mommy.” You whine, and she allows it, only because you look so sweet fucked out and scolded on the counter, a puddle beneath you that you either have noticed, or aren’t aware enough to be embarrassed about. Satisfied with your answer, Wanda pulls you off the counter and spins you around under the edge of the marble digs into your belly, right above where the ruffled fabric lays against your navel. 

“Relax for me baby. Take a big deep breath in.” Wanda’s fingers find your clit at the same time as the other hand fings the base of the plug, and as you breathe in through your nose, she rubs tight loose circles around your still throbbing bud and works the plug out without teasing. She wasn’t kidding. You’re all done playing. But it still disappoints you that she didn’t at least try and drag it out any longer. “Good girl. Good job. Now, put your bottoms back on and wait for me.”

“Why do I have to wait?” You pout, wanting only to be wrapped up tightly in her embrace at the very least if she wasn’t going to work you through a mind blowing orgasm. The only thought on your mind is her, her and Natasha, but the redhead is still locked away outside, still treating the pool and skimming the water and putting off getting dressed because that’s the very last thing she has control of before chaos ensues for hours. You think that vaguely, but it doesn’t hold much weight. Nothing outside of earning her praise and her attention holds any weight to you. 

“Because, you made a mess on my countertops after I just cleaned them.” Wanda scoffs, and your cheeks flame, and you whispered a muted ‘Oh’ because what do you even say to that, and she smiles mischievously over her shoulder as she drags a paper towel over the mess and then reaches for the all purpose cleaner that smells like lemons and vanilla all at once. “Yeah, oh.” She giggles before she throws the paper towel away and turns her attention back to you, sighing softly when she sees you’ve made no effort to reclaim the still untied bottoms on the ground and redress yourself despite the time ticking by faster and faster.

“You feeling okay? Just a little floaty? A little needy?” Wanda asks, assuring that you know she already knows where your head is at, but wanting to make sure nothing else had breached the surface of your little paradise found in her arms as she wraps you up tight in her embrace, forgiving eye contact for only this moment as you snuggle in deep and use her for all the warmth and comfort that she packs in her body. 

“Okay. Just wanna be close.” You muse, eyes closing, but you’ve never known Wanda or Natasha to let you rest after a session, and without fail she tugs your head and begins guiding you down the hallway to the bathroom, directing you to pee while she sifts through the sunscreen in the cabinet until she finds the one specifically for you. 

It doesn’t dawn on any of you until hours later that the plug was left in the kitchen, right in plain sight on the countertop, but you’re eternally thankful to Maria who moved it without question after noticing, and only brought it up to Natasha with smugness three times throughout the night.

[yelenaslore]

Dolls Are For Playing With

WandaNat x Female Reader

Summary: You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha? Is that what we call her now?”

Content: 🔞 Fluff, light angst, praise and degradation, mommy kink, Dom/sub, enchanted strap, dumbification, Natasha is "Auntie Tasha" during playtime, mild age play if you squint, aftercare

Word Count: 5,856 Also available on [AO3]

Part 3 of "Her Lovely Shadow" series

Ever since the two of you settled in Sleepy Hollow, Wanda began hosting get togethers for her female friends, most of them people you at least knew in passing, and all of them rendering you helplessly outnumbered by a pack of dommes who loved nothing more than flustering you with playful banter.

More often than not, those evenings left you feeling small and pliant, and Wanda didn’t discourage you from feeling that way, at least when it was appropriate. She made sure you knew it wasn’t to be expected of you just because you were, for the most part, a submissive. Your boundaries were paramount. But if you happened to feel softer and quieter around those friends that wasn’t anything to feel guilty about.

It took a while to get used to others playfully teasing and cooing over you like an adorable treat, so at odds with your own self-image no matter how beloved Wanda made you feel. Now, you looked forward to seeing them, happy to soak up the attention.

Pepper was almost always the first to show up, elegant, put together, and relieved to truly relax for once. She was the most like Wanda with you, sweet and doting, but always conscientious about touch and what you were comfortable with.

Next was usually Natasha, confident and casual, already familiar. She was comfortable, safe, and yet a source of increasingly confused feelings, the one Wanda gave the most slack when it came to you.

Maria tended to arrive with or just after Natasha. Quieter than the others, she seemed to take the most joy in catching you unawares with a sly comment.

Carol was always last, making up for any tardiness with a platter of baklava after learning it was your favourite. She would wink as she handed it over, like she was sharing a secret with you.

Despite the collective teasing it often brought, you enjoyed the gatherings not only because the company was great, but because the atmosphere of understanding and acceptance put you at total ease. No one batted an eye if you felt the need to snuggle in Wanda’s lap, and if they did comment it was out of affection, sending your Mommy knowing smiles or cooing over your clinginess.

For the most part, it didn’t go further than teasing remarks. If it did, Wanda wasn’t above getting territorial, touching you with deliberate, bruising purpose that left your knees weak and your cunt dripping, all the while her eyes were fixed on the offending individual. You flushed red whenever it happened, yet you couldn’t help but feel giddy over it, and there were never any hard feelings when all was said and done. It was just easy , and while you’d grown comfortable with all of them you were especially fond of Natasha.

Natasha who happened to be the exception to that territorial response, who could get away with familiar touches, hugs, and even a cuddle if Wanda was dealing with something in the kitchen.

It occurred to you that perhaps, at some point along the way, certain wires had gotten crossed in your brain, and the moment it occurred to you was during a particularly frustrating session in the gym.

The problem started when you shared feelings of discontent with your fighting techniques one evening. The last mission had seen you forced into a close quarters brawl and though you survived it wasn’t without significant bruising both to your body and your pride.

Wanda had smoothed her hand across your brow, tucking some loose hair behind your ear.

“Oh, dorogaya (darling), you know Natasha would help if you only asked her. She hated seeing you like that as much as I did.”

The suggestion was so simple you felt a little embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner.

Truthfully, the thought had occurred to you, swiftly shanked and stuffed in a closet by the aforementioned bruised pride. But Wanda was right, for all her worry and fussing on the way home, Natasha was eerily quiet, checking you for breaks with the utmost care, her gentleness catching you off-guard.

Of course, when you approached her Natasha was more than happy to help work on your weak areas and you trusted her. She was a teammate and a friend, it just made sense to feel comfortable around her, defer to her superior rank and knowledge, follow her lead—it’s what you did on missions when paired and it’s what you did in training.

Embarrassing was the only word for it as you hit the mats with a damp thud, your legs swept out from under you in a move you should have seen coming.

With an annoyed huff, you sat on your knees, hands clenched in your lap as you replayed the last few seconds in your mind and immediately noted at least three things you’d done wrong.

“That’s alright,” said Natasha, a little breathless. “Take a minute to breathe.”

She was so certain, standing over you in the same tight fitting gym clothes as you with every perfectly sculpted muscle glistening in sweat and looking so much more at ease, so much more capable .

Your stomach curdled with something sour.

The voice of your old ‘instructor’ back in Hydra flitted through your mind, as harsh and unforgiving as his boot on your neck, berating your mistakes, your shortcomings, how pathetic and embarrassing you were for not meeting their standards.

With no small amount of effort, you pushed the memory down.

”I’m not getting this,” you sighed, picking at the hem of your shorts. 

Natasha shook her head. “You know improvement doesn’t happen overnight,” she said, measured and understanding. “It takes time, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost.)“

The moniker was meant to soothe, to mollify, yet it only highlighted how useless you were being.

How pathetic, to need such coddling over a mistake you shouldn’t have made to begin with.

Worthless .

Bitterly, you muttered, “and I am a waste of yours.”

Warm fingers lifted your chin, holding you like steel wrapped in velvet, immovable and gentle at the same time, and found yourself staring up at Natasha with a look you had never seen on her face before.

Her jaw was tight, the line of her lips flat and humourless and her eyes were sharp and bright, piercing like a scalpel poised against the jugular.

It made your spine straighten.

She searched your eyes, letting you sit in the sudden heaviness wrapping around you. “No,” she said, low and firm. “No, you aren’t. I never want to hear you say that again, do you understand me?”

The words caught in your throat.

It wasn’t suffocating, the weight, rather it felt grounding, like being held from all angles, fixed to this point in time and space. Everything else fell out of focus, leaving only the warmth where her fingers held your chin and the intensity of her eyes.

Natasha’s brows raised. “I said, do you understand me?” She repeated, still in that hard, quiet tone of voice that should have made you cower if not for the obvious tenderness behind it.

Swallowing thickly, you wet your lips and answered her with a soft, “yes.”

When she continued to stare, you spoke again, louder. “Yes, I understand.”

Natasha searched your eyes again, scrutinising, looking for a sign you didn’t mean it. You did, you didn’t want to upset her, and on some level you knew what you said was both unwarranted and cruel.

Finally, Natasha relaxed and the piercing steel of her eyes softened. She brushed her thumb across your chin, a small gesture of affection. ”You’ll get it right, it just takes time. Now, are you going to behave?”

With a hasty nod, you tried to hold on to some kind of coherent thought and Natasha pulled you to your feet. The rest of the session passed in a mild haze you didn’t fully shake off until you hit the showers, and Natasha was never far, only leaving you to your own devices once she was sure you’d had something to eat and drink.

She squeezed your shoulder, smiling apologetically as she encouraged you to head home. “You did good today.”

You murmured a thank you and watched her leave, the lingering warmth of her touch curling in your chest.

---

Upon returning home, Wanda seemed more attentive than usual, like she expected to find you out of sorts.

Sitting down with you at the kitchen island with a fresh pot of tea, she laid her hand over yours, brushing her thumb across your knuckles.

“How was your session with Natasha?” she asked gently.

Her eyes were warm and soft, yet intense in a way that made you want to melt into her presence.

“It was…good,” you said, a little lost. “Nat was good with me. Patient.”

Wanda hummed encouragingly.

Taking a breath, you tried to articulate yourself better. “I got frustrated with myself and she corrected me,” you said, meeting Wanda’s understanding stare. “She was gentle. Held my chin and told me to stop beating myself up.”

She tilted her head slightly, stroking the back of your hand in slow circles. “And were you okay with that, malysh (baby)?”

Rather than rush to answer, you took a moment to consider how the interaction had made you feel. Not negatively, you knew that much, quite the opposite and that brought with it a wealth of other feelings.

Taking a breath, you nodded. “Yes. I felt safe.”

Wanda smiled, eyes sparkling with pride as you gave yourself space to think it through. “I’m glad you felt safe, thank you for telling me.”

You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha ? Is that what we call her now?”

Blushing, you looked away and started chewing your lip.

Wanda lifted her hand to your jaw, thumb brushing across your chin. “Tch, none of that,” she chided gently. “Look at me.”

You met her gaze without hesitation, making her smile, a little smug. “Tasha is very pretty, isn’t she, dolly?” Wanda teased, adoring the way you squirmed.

Helplessly, you nodded.

Wanda grinned like a fox who’d caught the hens. “How would you feel if she could see what a good little toy you are for me?”

The thought was like a pulse through your body, making your heart jump and an ache settle between your shifting thighs.

A tiny whine escaped your throat.

Chuckling, Wanda slid from her chair to move closer, pressing light kisses across your brow, your cheeks, your nose. “Words, baby,” she urged quietly, “how does that thought make you feel ?”

You wet your lips, trying to filter out the fuzz rapidly building between your thoughts. “Excited,” you whispered. “Nervous. Shy. Wet.”

Wanda leaned back enough to meet your hazy stare, her expression softening. “Then we should talk about this when you’re feeling a little more grounded,” she said, cupping your face with a care meant for spun glass. “What do you need from me, sweetheart?”

Feeling a little restless, you bunched your hands in the soft fabric of her blouse. “Jammies in the den?”

She laughed softly, kissing your hairline. “And all the cuddles you could ever need, malyshka (little one .)”

---

You did talk about it, of course, thoroughly, and you knew Wanda discreetly discussed the matter with Natasha.

That didn’t make you any less nervous the next time Wanda hosted, welcoming everyone in for a night of movies, wine, and decadent snacks.

While the den was a preferred location, it was small and cosy, and the living room was much more practical for an entire group to comfortably fit, not that it stopped Wanda from trapping you between her and Natasha. You half expected to be teased within an inch of your life only for Natasha to flash you a soft smile and Wanda to casually lay her arm around your shoulders, both actions anchoring you to the immovable fact that you were genuinely cherished.

After that, the rest of the night was easy as you relaxed, snuggling between them, enjoying the atmosphere as jokes and commentary flew at the film's expense.

Eventually, the evening wound down and as guests began to leave you took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, saying your goodbyes as you passed.

The cold water on your face was a relief, bringing back some clarity for the conversation you knew was going to happen.

Wanda had already spoken to Natasha separately. Doubtless, Natasha would be the last to leave tonight.

If she left at all.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach.

Taking a grounding breath, you finished drying your hands and stepped out into the hall.

You found them in the kitchen, standing close enough that they looked positively conspiratorial , like they were scheming together, and that thought sent a heady shiver down your spine.

Wanda spotted you first and made a ‘come hither’ gesture, her smile so disarming that you almost forgot your nerves.

“There you are,” she murmured. She slid an arm around your waist and kissed your brow. “It’s time for that talk, malysh (baby.) ”

You glanced up at Natasha to see a gentle look on her face you’d never seen before, open and warm in a way that immediately put you at ease, soothing the butterflies in your stomach.

“Okay,” you said.

Leading you into the den, Wanda sat down and pulled you into her lap so you were sitting sideways, easily able to see Natasha at the other end of the corner couch and allow Wanda to stroke your back.

“Firstly,” Natasha started, “thank you for trusting me, both of you.”

You nodded, as did Wanda, and she continued, “secondly, I want to be clear that whatever way this goes, it’ll be done at the pace you’re comfortable with. And, if you decide this isn’t what you want, there will be absolutely no awkwardness or hard feelings. Your comfort is paramount.”

A small smile turned your lips. “Thank you, Tasha.”

Her brows raised ever so slightly at the name, and she smiled.

Wanda smirked, brushing some hair behind your ear. “Now is that the name you want to use?” she teased.

You shivered, shyly ducking your head. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you mumbled, heart pounding against your ribs.

Wanda gently forced your head up. “It’s rude not to look at someone when you address them,” she whispered, her warmth breath on your neck making you twitch.

The heat in your belly was warm and thick like honey as you raised your eyes to look at Natasha properly again. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you said without looking away, loud enough to be heard clearly.

Natasha didn’t look surprised in the slightest, the smile on her face shifting to a playful smirk. “Of course, kukolka (little doll) ,” she purred, a hint of condescension dripping into her raspy voice, “Mommy’s polite little girl, hmm?”

Swallowing thickly, you tried to keep your thoughts somewhat coherent and looked at Wanda.

She tilted her head at your imploring expression. “What is it, malyshka (little one )?” she asked warmly, running her finger down the bridge of your nose in a gesture that immediately soothed you.

Gathering yourself, you glanced across at Natasha. “Can Auntie Tasha stay tonight?”

Wanda and Natasha shared a look, before Wanda asked, “would you like that?”

You looked at her and nodded firmly, feeling a little bolder. “Yes, Mommy,” you said, and turned your head to give Natasha your best doe eyes, “I want her to see you fuck me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Wanda or Natasha you weren’t sure but it was probably both of them, the tension in the room suddenly feeling like the jaws of a beartrap about to snap shut, and you were quite happily poking the trigger, willing it to close on you.

Natasha’s eyes darkened, locked onto yours with a hunger you hadn’t seen before.

Warm lips brushed your throat. You shivered, clutching at Wanda tighter, your hips jolted in search of friction. The tingling between your thighs had become a persistent ache.

Pulling herself away from your neck, Wanda asked, “boundaries, malysh (baby.) Do you only want Natasha to watch us?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Wanda rubbed at the small of your back. “I know you have an idea in that adorable little head of yours,” she said encouragingly. “Let us hear it.”

You hurried to speak before your nerves could get the better of you. “I want Auntie Tasha to warm me up before I ride you, Mommy. Want to kiss her while you fuck me.”

Heat burned its way up your neck as the words escaped. “W-would you like that?” you asked quickly.

Wanda hummed with satisfaction. “Oh, I would, dolly , I would,” she husked.

Natasha leaned forward on her knees, her dark eyes more intense than ever. “Dirty girl,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and ravenous, “I would love that.”

Carefully grabbing your chin, Wanda brought your eyes back to her. “You remember what to do if you want to slow down or stop?”

Nodding, you answered firmly, “traffic lights, and my safeword is Basilisk.”

It was a word you could never forget and even saying it now made your shoulders tense, bringing a shot of clarity to your thoughts. The codename Hydra used for you when you were still just a weapon, an experiment. No one but the people involved in your rescue had that information, the public knew you by the alias ‘Revenant,’ so this was the only time you would hear it. Cold, startling, and immediately anchoring.

Wanda’s expression softened, like she was looking at something impossibly delicate, held you like something delicate, and kissed the tip of your nose. “Thank you, dorogaya (darling).”

A warm feeling fluttered through your chest, light and soothing, easing the tension in your shoulders. You pressed close, kissing Wanda properly, sliding your hands up her neck and into her hair, sliding your tongue between her lips and drawing a low moan from her.

After a moment, Wanda broke the kiss and smirked. “Now, now, dolly,” she said, “you wanted Auntie Tasha to get you ready for me didn’t you?”

Blushing, you looked over at Natasha, who was now reclining, watching the two of you with a mix of amusement and desire.

She lifted her chin with a smirk and made a ‘come hither’ motion. “Come here, printsessa (princess.) ”

The command hooked somewhere low in your stomach, Natasha’s voice low and coaxing, like honeyed smoke, and you easily got up from Wanda’s lap to stand in front of Natasha, unsure if she wanted you in hers or standing.

Natasha held out her hand like she was offering to help a princess down from the carriage.

Taking her hand, you sank down and straddled her. It wasn’t a new experience to be so close after training and fighting alongside her, that wasn’t what made your heart flutter, it was the way her eyes dropped to your lips.

Her hands slid confidently up your thighs and pulled you closer by the hips, slipping over your waist, the dip of your spine—the firm pressure of Natasha’s hand on the back of your neck almost made you go limp. Instead you leaned in and kissed her, grasping at her leather jacket.

Natasha kissed you at an indulgent, unhurried pace, taking the time to savour this new experience. She slowly kneaded at the back of your neck, helping you relax against her.

You couldn’t help your soft moan at her touch and the moment it escaped her tongue slipped between your lips, the silky sweep of it sending your thoughts into a tailspin.

Just as you began to need air, she pulled back, briefly catching your bottom lip between her teeth. She dragged them down the line of your jaw, nibbling and kissing her way to your throat.

You whined, sliding your hands into her hair so you could pull her against you.

She nearly growled, making you tremble. “Oh, I would mark you, kotenok (kitten,)” she sighed, “but your Mommy would be very upset with me. You don’t want that do you?”

Looking over your shoulder, you were met by the sight of Wanda casually lounging in lingerie, faint red wisps lingering around her body, and your cunt throbbed. The lingerie was sheer and silky, the black material stark against her pale skin, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the scarlet strap-on jutting between her thighs that almost seemed to pulse with its own unearthly light–you knew immediately what she’d done.

Gracefully, she rose from her place on the couch and leaned over you, trapping you between their bodies as she pulled Natasha into a fiery kiss.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from their lips, watching Wanda plunder Natasha’s mouth with such ease that you briefly imagined Natasha on her knees for your Mommy. Wanda casually resting a hand on Natasha’s throat only reinforced that particular little fantasy.

Pulling away, Wanda smiled down at Natasha, who looked more than happy with her position. “You are both very overdressed,” Wanda husked, “shall we change that?”

You and Natasha hurried to agree, and in a sweeping rush of red energy both of you were rendered naked.

A shiver of delight ran through you feeling Wanda pressed against your bare back and Natasha’s breasts against your own, your thoughts scattering as they caught up with the sight of her naked body beneath you.

You whimpered, squirming between them. “Please,” you begged, “need you both.”

Natasha chuckled softly. “It’s okay, kukolka (little doll) . Mommy will take care of you soon,” she soothed, slowly moving her hands down your body, teasing your breasts and rubbing your nipples in slow circles with her thumbs. “We just have to make sure you’re ready for her don’t we?”

Nodding helplessly, you whimpered and moaned as Natasha pinched your nipples hard enough to make your spine straighten. One hand she returned to your neck for stability, the other slid further down, skating across the lithe muscles of your stomach and finally meeting the soaking heat between your thighs.

Her fingers slipped through your folds, gathering your wetness and rubbing it over your throbbing clit. “Oh, your little dolly is very needy, Wands,” Natasha crooned. “Her pussy is just begging for Mommy’s cock.”

The words made you flush all over again and you whined, hips rocking in search of more relief.

Natasha grinned, pressing harder on your clit in slow, rough circles that made you tremble between them, arousal starting to drip down your thighs.

Wanda’s hands moved down your shoulders and the slope of your back, nails dragging against your skin just hard enough to raise red lines in their wake. You relaxed at the warmth of her palms sliding into place around your waist, holding you steady just as Natasha leaned in to kiss you again.

With the two of them on you you couldn’t decide where to focus your attention, pulled between the newness of Natasha and the comforting familiarity of Wanda, it was making your head spin. Not that you could do anything about it—you didn’t want to.

Something big and firm pressed between your thighs, making you squeak and cling to Natasha. You canted your hips and felt a pleasurable rush down your spine when Wanda chuckled darkly, murmuring praise you heard as intent more than words, your thoughts becoming loose and soupy.

Wanda slowly rocked her hips, grinding the strap against your slick cunt, the ridges catching against your swollen clit and making you moan into Natasha’s mouth.

Breaking off, Natasha trailed kisses down your jaw and softly bit at your ear. “Hold still, kotenok (kitten) ,” she said, sliding a hand into your hair and gripping just hard enough to keep you in place as she lavished your tender neck with attention.

You trembled but did as you were told, trying not to squirm and buck and whine for them to fuck you already. You knew if you were good you’d get what you needed, and you so desperately wanted to be good for them, even if it meant fighting your own body so you didn’t try to take Wanda’s strap before she decided to give it to you.

Wanda laughed, leaning close so her lips were next to your ear. “You’re trying so hard, dolly,” she teased, all faux sympathy, “what a good little slut you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. Your thoughts were so easy for her to hear in this state, but you trusted her completely, you knew you were safe, so all you had for her was love.

With a telling softness, Wanda kissed your temple. “I love you too , ” she whispered.

Straightening up, Wanda slid her hands down to your hips, kneading appreciatively at the swell of your ass before she carefully guided the strap to your dripping entrance. It slipped in easily, stretching you open in one long, slow push that left you trembling in Natasha’s lap, whimpering when Wanda finally bottomed out.

Natasha smirked at the slack look of pleasure on your face. “Oh, does that feel good, printsessa (princess) ?” she purred, lazily toying with your clit.

You could barely find the words to answer her and Wanda didn’t give you the chance, withdrawing only to thrust back inside hard enough to force a keen from your lips.

Her pace was steady and forceful, your eyes beginning to roll back each time she plunged into you, hitting a spot that had you clenching hard around her. Wanda growled at the sensation, pulling you back to meet her thrusts, the smack of skin on skin easily filling the small space of the den.

At a tug on your hair you refocused to find Natasha staring at you mesmerised, a lazy smile on her face. “Is Mommy making you feel good?” she teased, sweet and condescending at the same time. In a clearer headspace you might have assumed Wanda told her what effect that tone had on you, as it was all you could do was nod dumbly, whimpering and moaning as Wanda fucked every last thought out of your head.

Natasha chuckled. “Are you gonna cum on Mommy’s cock like a good little slut?”

The tightening in your belly certainly said so, but you knew better than that, quickly babbling, “please may I cum? Mommy, can I cum, please, please, please?”

Wanda dug her nails into your hips. You could hear the smirk in her voice when she said, “I don’t know, dolly. What does Auntie Tasha think?”

Desperately, you wrapped your arms around Natasha’s shoulders, doing your best to focus and look at her pleadingly.

Natasha cupped your face in her hands, staring at you like an intricate treasure she could spend hours appreciating.

The tension in your belly was only getting worse. “Please, Auntie Tasha,” you begged, “please may I cum?”

She pretended to think about it, watching every little twitch and shudder as you got closer to falling apart between them despite your best efforts to hold on. “Of course you can, kukolka (little doll),” she purred, “give me a show.”

And you did, babbling your ‘thank yous,’ your eyes rolling back, your spine arching, and the tension in your belly finally snapping, rippling through your body from head and curling toes like fire in your veins. Wetness gushed around the stretch of Wanda’s cock, your walls milking her length and making her groan, her hips stuttering against you.

Growling, Wanda fucked you harder, prolonging your orgasm while she chased her own, hissing what a filthy girl you were, so desperate for Mommy to fill you.

Natasha echoed the sentiment, “the little whore wants to feel Mommy’s cum dripping out of her needy cunt, doesn’t she?”

You keened, unable to find the words, clutching Natasha’s shoulders like an anchor in a storm.

Finally, Wanda bottomed out with a snarl, rocking into your ass as her cock throbbed inside you, spilling silken heat against your fluttering walls until it started to leak, glassy and shimmering.

You had a moment to breathe, sagging against Natasha who stroked up and down your back, kissing the top of your head soothingly. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart, printsessa (princess) ,” she murmured.

Wanda gently pulled out, rubbing your hips when you whimpered at the emptiness. “You did so well, malysh (baby).”

A single coherent thought passed through your head and you grabbed it immediately, looking over your shoulder at Wanda. “Mommy, can Auntie Tasha fill me too?” you asked, far too innocently for what you were saying.

Both women inhaled at that, a beat of silence passing between them.

Natasha raised a brow at Wanda, silently deferring to her, and Wanda smirked. “Of course she can, sweet girl,” she said.

They easily manoeuvred you between them, Wanda reclining in the corner of the couch with her thighs spread and you nestled between them, her hand in your hair as she brought your mouth to her cock.

She smiled sweetly at you, “you made such a mess of Mommy, malyshka (little one), it’s only right that you clean up after yourself.”

You were more than happy to open your mouth for her, letting her slide her cock passed your lips and set the pace as you diligently licked and sucked all traces of yourself from the warm silicone.

Wanda lifted her free hand, scarlet energy snaking across her fingers.

Behind you, there was a brief flash of red and your heart jumped, moaning around Wanda with excitement.

She chuckled, staring down at you with adoration and just a hint of sadism in her eyes. “Yes, dolly,” she said, adjusting her grip on your hair. “Auntie Tasha is going to fuck your needy little cunt now.”

The head of Natasha’s strap found your entrance, soaked and still dripping with the syrupy magic Wanda left behind. She found no resistance when she started to push, slipping inside you so easily that she bottomed out in one swooping motion.

Both of you groaned and some distant corner of your mind wondered if this was the first time Natasha got to feel it, but now wasn’t the time for thoughts, quite the opposite.

With your hips raised and a cushion placed beneath them, you relaxed completely with Wanda’s hand in your hair and Natasha’s on your waist, both of them moving you as they wished, using your body for their pleasure.

Wet, muffled noises escaped you as she guided your head up and down her cock, sucking at the tip and rubbing your tongue against the underside when she had you all the way down. All the while she cooed at you, equal parts mocking and sweet, “aw, is dolly’s head all fuzzy?”

Words were impossible so you hummed in agreement, staring up at her with glazed, adoring eyes.

Natasha growled a quiet curse in Russian, thrusting with a steady, pounding rhythm that had the heat in your belly stoked higher and higher. Even with the new sensation, she was careful, methodical, paying attention to every shift of your body, any cues from Wanda that this was too much, only getting rougher when you canted your hips so she could fuck you harder.

Wanda smiled darkly, giving your hair a light tug and sending a tremble through your body. “Are you just a mindless little slut for us?” she teased.

You moaned loudly at that, sucking harder on her cock and making her breath hitch.

Panting slightly, Wanda held your head still and began rocking up into your mouth. “She’s such a pretty toy, isn’t she, Nat?” she hissed, her lips curling in a satisfied sneer, her eyes glowing with a faint red light you wanted to lose yourself in.

Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist, leaning down until she was flush against your back as she drove her hips into you. “ Prekrasnaya printsessa ,” she said raggedly, “ ty sozdana dlya nas (beautiful princess, you are made for us.)”

Whoever came first it didn’t really matter, one set off another, and another. All you knew or felt was a bone melting heat rushing through your body, happily swallowing what Wanda gave you, feeling Natasha throb inside you and fill your cunt with more pearlescent cum. Every nerve felt electrified and you shuddered between them, loose-limbed and hazy without a single clear thought passing through your mind.

When it finally calmed, you went slack, utterly worn out.

If they spoke you didn’t notice, all you really paid attention to were the gentle touches, the soft, soothing tone they spoke with to you as they gently extricate themselves from your body and began to take care of it. Soft, slender fingers stroked through your hair, and firm, calloused hands slowly rubbed up and down your back.

The second pair of hands withdrew when you responded to a question with a hum, recognising the intent rather than the words themselves.

A warm damp cloth began to wipe the sweat from your skin and you whined when you were encouraged to roll onto your back, clinging to Wanda whose lap you were in.

She leaned down until her hair fell in a red curtain around your faces, touching her nose to yours. “You did so well for us, sweetheart,” she said warmly, “you were perfect.”

You jumped slightly when you felt the cloth gently clean the slick mess between your thighs, whimpering from the sensitivity.

Wanda hushed you softly, kissing your brow. “It’s okay, malysh (baby) , just Tasha taking care of you just like I do.”

You blinked sleepily, looking down to see Natasha doing exactly that. When your eyes met she smiled so kindly it made your heart flutter, her stare utterly disarming like she was looking at a tired kitten.

Natasha set the cloth aside and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your stomach. “All done, malen’kiy prizrak (little  ghost) ,” she said fondly.

Lifting your arms, you made grabby motions at her, prompting her to glance at Wanda who just grinned. “I should have warned you,” she said with no trace of apology, “aftercare cuddles are mandatory.”

Natasha rolled her eyes with a laugh. “Alright, just let me grab us some water and snacks first,” she said, smiling down at you, “can you be a good girl and wait a little longer for me?”

You pouted but let your arms drop, grumpily twisting to hide your face in Wanda’s stomach. “Okay,” you mumbled.

Natasha got up on slightly unsteady legs and disappeared to the kitchen.

Glancing up at Wanda, you found her watching you with amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Did you have fun, malyshka (little one)? ”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes! Did you, Mommy? Did Tasha?"

She smiled, scrunching her nose at you as she leaned down to kiss your brow again. “I did, malysh (baby)," she said, "and why don't you ask her when she comes back? But I think you know the answer already."

[yelenaslore]

IMAGINE PART I: “Hearts in Permanent Ink” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Training Class (Security & Zip-Line Safety).

[10:43 AM – Some random safety training room in West L.A.]

It’s always cold in rooms like this. Fluorescent lights, plastic chairs, windows that look like they haven’t been cleaned since Bush was president. There’s a projector up front that whirs like it’s struggling to keep breathing, and a tall, sunburned guy named Greg is lecturing about carabiner strength like it’s the next national emergency.

You're sitting near the back—by design. Reneé insisted on it.

She’s slouched so far down in her seat, one more inch and she’ll fall into a full nap. Her legs are spread like she owns the space. Your leg brushes hers every few minutes, and neither of you adjusts.

You're trying to focus. Genuinely. Something about safety ratios, shock absorption, locking mechanisms—stuff that matters if you're ever going to be thrown on a zip-line set for that ridiculous survival-themed interview shoot her team signed you both up for.

Reneé, on the other hand, is not focused.

She’s been uncapping and recapping the same pen for fifteen minutes. The second you rolled up your hoodie sleeve—too warm in the stuffy room—her eyes lit up like she'd found a blank page she could vandalize.

"You're warm," she mumbled like it was a fact only she was entitled to know.

You didn’t answer.

Now she’s leaning her elbow on your thigh like it belongs there, and you’re her personal art project.

She’s been drawing hearts on your forearm for ten minutes straight.

Not just a few. Dozens. Tiny, inked ones—some hollow, some filled in, some skewed like she didn’t care about symmetry. They trail from your wrist to your elbow and now up your bicep. One loops around a faded birthmark. Another overlaps a tiny scar you got years ago and never talked about.

It should tickle. It should distract you.

But mostly, it just feels… intimate. Casual in a way that only happens when it’s not casual at all.

You glance sideways.

Her face is twisted in concentration, tongue peeking out slightly between her lips. Like she’s trying to tattoo you with her attention span.

"You’re not listening at all," you whisper, amused.

She doesn’t even look up. "You are. One of us has to keep us alive when this thing snaps mid-air."

Your chest shakes with a silent laugh.

Then you hear the soft shutter click of her phone camera.

She’s filming.

You glance down—her phone angled just right to capture her hand drawing another heart on your skin, the gentle curve of your shoulder in frame, your matching bracelets glinting faintly in the light.

“You’re filming this?” you ask, half-laughing, half-warning.

“Obviously,” she mutters, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My fans are starving. Give them something to chew on.”

Your stomach twists—giddy and nervous.

She taps the screen. A Weeknd song filters through her speaker for half a second before she mutes it again. You catch just enough to recognize the beat: “Die for You.”

Your eyes flicker.

“Really?” you whisper.

She just smirks. “What? It’s romantic.”

"That's not romantic. That's explicit."

Reneé shrugs, all teeth and nerves. Then, with fake innocence: “It’s not my fault if they read too much into it.”

She presses ‘Post.’

[11:06 AM – Still in class, but your pulse is no longer regulated]

The comment section explodes before the safety instructor even makes it halfway through the evacuation slide.

@/rappswife: “the WEEKND??? bestie be serious rn” @/reneesstrap: “THOSE ARE NOT FRIEND HEARTS. THOSE ARE LOVER HEARTS.” @/babygirlfan98: “she said DIE FOR YOU and filmed her arm tats like she ain't in love HELP” @/ziplinerush: “imagine ur crush drawing on your arm while pretending you’re just friends. I’d combust.” @/lovetruther: “Babe it's supposed to be the other way around 😭 she's the one who should die for ✨Reneé Rapp✨”

You can’t look away.

Reneé’s still lounging next to you like nothing happened. But she knows what she did. Her leg nudges yours, teasing. Her pen pauses near your shoulder.

"I’m out of space,” she murmurs.

“There’s a whole other arm.”

“I like this one better.”

“Why?”

She glances up. Her voice lowers.

“Because this one’s already mine.”

Your breath catches.

It’s one of those moments where time sharpens. Where something flips inside you, and your body realizes what your heart’s been pretending not to know.

This isn't platonic.

None of this has ever been platonic.

You pull your arm away slightly. Not because you want her to stop—but because you're scared of what happens if she doesn’t.

"Reneé..." you start, quiet.

She tilts her head. “Too much?”

You swallow. “It’s just—”

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not—”

“You are.” She grins. “It’s cute.”

You shake your head and turn back toward the screen. But the lecture has gone silent in your brain. There are only two things you can hear now: her breath next to yours and that muted loop of Die for You playing in your skull like a confession.

[12:15 PM – Outside the training center, waiting for the rideshare]

You’re both sitting on the curb now. The class ended. Greg handed out reflective vests “for practice” and you crumpled yours into a ball, unconcerned.

Reneé’s phone is buzzing nonstop in her lap. She turns the screen toward you.

“Do I delete it?”

You glance at the video again. Your forearm. Her pen. The hearts. The song. The caption:

“to be loved by a patient and calm bestie 💘” audio: The Weeknd – Die for You

It doesn’t look like a joke. It doesn’t even look casual.

It looks like something you’d post about someone you’re in love with and too scared to say it out loud.

You meet her eyes.

“No,” you say softly. “Keep it up.”

She blinks. A pause.

You add, “Let them keep guessing.”

Her breath catches. “They’re not guessing anymore.”

You grin. “Yeah. That’s the fun part.”

Reneé watches you for a second longer like she’s trying to memorize the moment you stopped pretending.

Her fingers find your hand.

She doesn’t lace them.

Just rests them there, quiet and sure.

The fans are right. They always have been.

[yelenaslore]

SINFULLY

summary — it’s been a tantalizing exchange of passion and tension for seven days. they’ve pushed you to the edge, forced you to the cliffs peak, but in a moment of weakness, you become the problem in need of solving, and it only spirals from there

warning(s) — porn with plot, established relationships, threesome, dom/sub, bdsm elements, age gap relationships, professor maximoff, personal trainer natasha, beefy!natasha, innocent!reader, brat taming, choking, pussy inspection, punishment, daddy kink, professor kink, faux pity, manhandling, pussy spanking (w/ rings), spanking, edging, verbal humiliation, light anal play, plugs, ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionism, threats of bondage, vibrators, dildo, mean dom wanda, crying, begging, dirty talk, name calling, praise kink, subdrop, anxiety, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — i definitely missed some tags but i think you get the hint that this is absolute filth regardless of if i mention anything else. enjoy ;)

“Sorry.” You apologized when your phone pinged with a message from your girlfriend. The one with fiery red hair that encapsulates the effects of her unrelenting passion; not the one with blonde hair that falls around her shoulders in a choppy cut she did herself two weeks ago. Your eyes glance down at the screen, not needing to guess what Wanda had found to warrant texting you so randomly in the middle of the afternoon.

You’d been waging an internal bid since that morning, when you’d enveloped her waist in a tight possessive claim and rested your head on her shoulder beneath her craned head so sweetly she didn’t notice your hand dipping into her pocket and discarding the yellow panties she’s picked out for you that morning, wondering if she’d notice then, or in the car, or in the middle of a lecture with students around to watch her flush and darken with lust. Natasha hadn’t noticed then either, and she’d been standing at the front door, already halfway outside with a thermos of coffee and a yoga mat under her bulging bicep as she waited. She dropped Wanda off at campus on Fridays. You should know. The first time you’d established that the cute girl you were seeing at the gym was your college professor's girlfriend, was on the street corner at 7th and Park on your way to a Spanish lecture. Natasha had all the windows down, but the roof still protected her sports car from seasonal rain, and her hair had been red at the time, peeking out through the windows as the wind blew. She was wild, reckless. Wanda was never that. Wanda had sat in the passenger side of the car with her hair pulled back in a bun. You’d known it was her because her side profile is haunting, encapsulating, delicious. You see her on campus, from down the hall, around the corner, across the parking lots. It’s not a big school, not by any metrics, but its big enough to never have her classes. It’s big enough for you to have swallowed the guilt of fucking a professor to allow you to boldness to leave your panties in her pocket before a lecture.

“Are you okay?” Kate frowns, glancing at you from across the table. You're in the library, a free period granted by your American History professor who actually has a brain on his shoulders and recognizes that sometimes students just need structured time to get their assignments done, or at least started. Your paper is filled with notes scribbled in purple ink, and the document you have opened on your laptop is highlighted with that dusty pink color that’s third from the bottom on the color gradient in Google Docs. Even with the lack of panties between your legs, the wetness you can’t deny dripping onto your denim shorts that feel like a nightmare against your sensitive clit when you twinge just slightly in your seat, you’ve been productive enough to make Wanda proud if she asks how you day at school went. ”You’ve been kind of quiet today.” Kate frowns, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to find an answer beneath the surface of your features. It’s not something that she can directly name. You’ve laughed at all of her jokes, smiled and teased her all like normal, but there's something that hangs over you that she knows isn’t right. “Oh god, is Wanda sexting you?”

Your face flushes. You’re suddenly aware that you’re not empty, not entirely at least. Your core clenches, slick walls pleading for friction, but your ass is full. It clamps down hard on the flared base of a silicone plug Natasha worked into your ass before she’d peeled herself out of bed to take a shower. It’s not one of the bigger ones, not one of the red princess plugs that came in a set of five that Wanda seldomly pulls out for intense scenes you’ve already discussed at length. It’s small, insignificant enough to be worn daily without much interference. It’s more a reminder of control than an interference, but right now it sparks every nerve in your belly and reminds you that you’ve been wanting for days. Four days.

Four days ago, on Monday, Natasha had pinned you up against the wall and touched you for the last time. She’d dipped her fingers beneath your denim shorts because it had been warm enough to bare your legs for her to ogle, and she’d worked you up on her fingers until arousal was dripping down her knuckles. She’d pulled away before you could cum. That was the third time she’d done that. The edging started Saturday night. For no reason. Wanda had come home from a pilates class at Natasha’s gym, which ironically was never run by Natasha but instead of best employee Pepper, who is actually named Virginia, and had taken you on the couch without even consulting Natasha who’d watched from the door frame with yearning eyes. She said nothing when she fucked your cunt with her tongue, her nose inhaling your scent as it bounced against your clit clumsily, and then she’d stopped and walked away like nothing happened, going into the kitchen to finish up dinner that Natash had thoughtfully already started. It hasn't ended since. It happens like this sometimes. It’s days of edging and denial until eventually Wanda explodes, but it’s never been like this before. It’s never reached the seventh day and still nobody’s let you cum. It’s thrilling. You think. Kate’s question catches you off guard. You’re emboldened by their experience, you allow them to corrupt you however they want, but in the absence of their dominating presence, you're just the innocent girl they plucked up off the streets.

“No!” You snatch your phone off the table like if it sits there any longer, Kate might develop a sixth sense for deception and absorb all the contents of your text chain with Wanda. You’d die if that happened. You have a hard enough time telling them what you want in explicit enough details to satisfy their vulgar desires, you wouldn’t be able to look at the Kate the same if she knew what the text said.

You decided to be a whore today, huh?

It’s simple but chilling. Eight words have unraveled you entirely, but you still have twenty minutes before you can sneak away to your car and drive back to Natasha’s house. It’s not their house, despite having been together for six years. Natasha had told the story as such — one day Wanda came over to spend the night and she never went home, the end. Legend has it, the redhead has a highrise apartment somewhere upstate, but she’s never ventured there with you in tow, and you’ve never seen a picture to prove it either. It’s basically your house now too though. Like Wanda, one day you’d gone over to spend the night, and then you’d never returned back to your dorm where Kate basks in the glory of single living. You think she’s pushed your beds together at this point and made a Queen for herself out of the two Twin XL’s, but you haven’t been back to check on the state of your belongings to know.

“She’s just telling me that Natasha wants meatballs for dinner, so she’ll send me money to get something on the way home.” You shrug, and it feels bad to lie, it makes your belly burn with guilt you don’t typically feel so intensely, but with your period four days off from ruining your entire month, you don’t dwell on the intensity of tears thrusting to prick your eyes and you deceive Kate for no reason. There’s no reason to lie, but you find yourself doing it anyway. There was no reason to leave your panties in Wanda’s pocket and risk her job, but you did it anyway. You’re impulsive without them guidinging you. It’s been months since you’ve been distanced enough to remember that.

“I wish Yelena would sugar mommy me.” Kate sulks, and you make a face as if to say they’re not even together, but Kate pointedly avoids glancing into your eyes to find the unspoken taunt. “Who sugar mommy’s you more? Natasha or Wanda?” She questions, and amusement fills your cheeks with hot air as you close your laptop and throw your highlighters and pens back into your pencil case, aiming to start wrapping this conversation up so that you can get home once your phone pings with the end of the allotted essay period.

“Well, Natasha owns her own business and Wanda’s a teacher so…” You break down the logistics of their finances, because it feels imperative that you remind Kate that regardless of anything else, Natasha still trumps both you and Wanda with inconce rates. Kate should know that though, she’s been obsessed with Natasha’s younger sister since your freshman year, and Yelena’s only finally giving her enough attention for lunch dates to be delusionally morphed into plans of marriage. You’re going to hate the day she learns Yelena’s asexual, and she has a better chance of fucking a fire hydrant than the blonde.

“She’s a professor!” Kate interjects, and your eyes roll. “They get paid more, and it’s hotter.” She’s had the hots for Wanda since she took Slavic Languages last semester on a whim after failing Spanish for the second time. You’ve only ever heard impeccable things about Wanda’s reserve when she’s giving a lecture, so even though your blood boils every time you remember other girls think about Wanda the way only you get to have her, you never can say you blame her for fantasizing about the lengths the redhead goes to romantically.

“Neither one of them really sugar mommy me.” You shrug, finding your voice again after Kate. You hope she doesn’t notice how your hips shift against the leather cushion beneath your awkwardly distributed weight, but you don’t think you’re entirely subtle as you attempt to alleviate pressure on the plug. Thankfully, you’re entirely certain Kate doesn’t even know the first signs to look for. She talks a big game, but you’re certain her last kiss was some douche bag at NYU before she was expelled. “I mean, I guess Wanda pays for dinner when we go out, but other than that it's pretty even.” Your words are a breathless huff when you move and the cushion expands without your pressing weight, and presses against the plug when you least expect it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kate frowns, once again drawn to how something just isn’t completely right with you. It comes in waves, and it makes her uncomfortable for a reason she doesn’t know. You don’t even notice the way she shifts like she wants to retreat to basic elementary school survival skills and go find a trusted adult to confide in. You’d find it funny that sexual tension makes her uncomfortable, especially because all she does is yearn after Yelena Belova and some girl in her chemistry class named Maia, but it doesn’t even crash upon the surface of your mental shorelines. You’re so far from what's actually happening she could call you out on your horny bullshit right now and you wouldn’t know she saw through you.

You’re not great at being deceptive, in fact you’re pointedly bad at selling a lie even when you believe it fully, but something keeps you on your toes now, something like Natasha’s quick wit and self-preservation skills finally rubbing off on you. You find something in your head that’s not entirely a lie, and it falls off your lips before you can consider the implications of this potentially backfiring on you later on. It’s not a big deal, she’s not going to care that you’re horny because you’re in a lovely, healthy relationship where you try new things, but you’re making it a big deal and you don’t know why. ”Yeah, I just remembered I left the Zyrtec in Wanda’s trunk.”

“Oh, you’re still dealing with those allergies?” Kate frowns, and you deflate in immediate relief that you’ve managed to salvage the conversation and her worries all in one go. You let her guide the conversation from there, because you’re not sure you can focus on much of anything outside from how your clit graces against the inseam of your shorts when you cross one thigh over the other and shift your weight until your thighs become one. It’s humiliating. You’re humiliating yourself without their influence. Your cheeks burn. How have you fallen so far? How did you get to this point? If Natasha were beside you, you know she’d be grinning like a devil watching you squirm. If Wanda were here, you know she’d scold you for being so naughty in public, for being so needy that you can’t even sit still like a good girl while your friend tries to talk to you. They’ve ruined you.

Kate walks you to your car despite trying to part ways at the door. She’s kind as she tells you about all the events coming up on campus that you’re certainly going to avoid going to at all costs, but she tells you any way so that you feel included. It wouldn’t have bothered you any other day, but you’re certain that the crotch of your shorts is a shade of blue darker than the rest of the denim material, and you can’t face the realization of her knowing you’re so honry yoru thighs are slick with arousal and it’s your fault. You can’t help but think that you should’ve never left those panties in her bag, because now your thighs glimmer beneath the sunshine of June, and your arsenal that slips down your thighs in tantalizing beads are like high beams for anyone to lock in on at their own will. You’d never know if someone stole a glance from across the parking lot, if they took that image home with them and got off on it in secret, or if they didn’t even wait, just slipped into their office and worked it out then and there. You hate that Wanda’s convinced you that’s a hot possibility. You hate that it only makes the coil in your belly grow more and more until you’re clenching your fingers into fists and forcing back tears as Kate drags out her goodbye at the driver's side door of your little car with hardly any life left in it.

The commute back to Natasha’s has never felt so bumpy, and you’re ashamed that by the time you pull into the driveway, you’ve broken out into a hot flash that turns your cheeks cherry red and threatens to push you over the edge into a touchless orgasm that shatters you completely. The plug in your ass has nearly been pushed out twice, but the force of your ass meeting the seat as you bump against the unevenly paved highway forces it back into place. It’s never been a distraction like this, but your senses have also never been on overdrive like this away from your bed or the exotic spots chosen by your girlfriends with caution. It feels like there are fireworks before your fingernails, burrowed deep into your cuticles and unwilling to move. There’s an agonizing pressure in your belly that is enough to riddle you with tears and hiccuping sobs. You’re desperate, on the verge of an orgasm from roadside construction instead of your girlfriends, but just like they’d been doing to your body all week, the drive home ends before you reach your peak, and for the millionth time, you're edged and left stranded in the middle of blinding electricity and somebody forgot to flip the breaker.

Wanda isn’t home yet. She should be, but she’s not. A part of you is worried that she got fired, That she pulled the panties out at the wrong place, or at the wrong time, but she’d never texted you again, and you have the slightest hope that if she were facing unemployment she’d at least give you a heads up. When you’d slipped the panties into her pocket, you’d wanted someone to see them, but that thought swallows you up and echoes in the back of your head now like a demon willing you down a tainted path. It’s too late now. You’re already down it.

Natasha is home though, and the light gleams through the window and tells you she’s waiting in the living room. Maybe she’s not waiting though. She might just be watching TV, she might not even know that its one o’clock and you’re never home any later than one-thirty. You push through the front door like it weighs a million pounds, and there’s not one second to consider if Natasha knows what happened today or not. The minute you glance at her all comfortable on the couch, her biceps bulging as she crosses her arms over her belly and hides the handfuls of skin on her hips from you, you know that she knows, and she knows that you know that she knows. It makes your head swim. You want her with a burning passion.

“Oh, you’re home?” She asks, already rising from the couch though her tone feigned disinterest. You swallow thickly, shrinking beneath her stare. It feels so hot, so heavy. She’s unmaking you entirely, and yet she doesn’t seem to give a fuck whether you’re coming or going or somewhere in the middle. Her eyes sweep over your frame, and you know she’s reading every miniscule emotion portrayed across your demeanor, so you try your best to appear unassume, innocent, even if your belly churns knowing evidence of your disobedience stains your car seats now and your inner thighs. Your denim shorts feel heavy around your waist, the center weighed down by arousal that continues to collect. It’s uncountable, sticky. There’s no hiding the difference in hue anymore, sodden denim exposing your desires.

“I’m home.” You whisper, your throat bobbing as you swallow dryly. It doesn’t help anything. Your head is no clearer and you find your words no easier, but you force yourself to swallow again and hope that this time it helps. Natasha quirks an eyebrow, and the uninterested reserve drops entirely as her green-blue stare — you can never decide which color she wears more authentically — darkens into mystical lust that almost resembles charred ashes.

“Were you proud of yourself?” Natasha backs you up against the door. She’s not a tall woman, she’s only a handful of inches taller than you depending on what kind of shoe you’re wearing, but you feel impossibly small beneath her right now as your back meets the hard wood of the door and one of her buff arms comes up to frame the side of your face. It slams against the wood at first, hard, aggressive, aimed to startle you, and then it slides so slowly you think she may be tracking a fly, before it settles on your cheek with a burning weight that has you itching for more. It doesn’t last there for long. Natasha’s never been a woman skilled with stillness. She’s always moving, always finding ways to keep herself busy, so it doesn’t surprise you that she can’t even keep her palm on your cheek for long enough to capture your attention the way she wants. Instead, she trails it down to your throat, and you know then that you’re entirely screwed. She squeezes, not tight, but firm, and your eyes become wide as your reel beneath the easy dominance. “Were you proud of yourself when you snuck those pretty panties into Wanda’s jacket? I bet you wanted everyone to see them, huh? You probably couldn’t help but think about them falling out onto the floor during her lecture, or maybe you thought she’d find them during her meeting. Yeah? While she was sitting right next to Eleanor Bishop talking about you, and your major, and the future of your program.” Your belly is suddenly filled with a weight you know is guilt, and Natasha can see that. She’d aimed to let the reality of your decisions wash over you, and only when she’s satisfied that you’ve sat with the realization long enough does she lean in to kiss you and simultaneously work the button of your shorts open with the hand that's not around your neck.

“I didn’t think-“ When she pulls away from the bruising kiss that makes your head spin and the coil in your belly threaten to wind up again, you desperately try to find confirmation on your tongue that will assure her you’d never wanted anything to happen to Wanda outside of a little frustration. Even then, you weren’t sure what your aim had been this morning. Maybe it was to get her back. To make sure she knows how much this is killing you. Maybe you’d just wanted the attention. You don't know.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it, moya lyubov? You don’t think. You just let this cunt tell you what to do, even if it gets you in trouble. I bet she’s wet, huh? Oh yeah.” Natasha groans when she cups your core through the denim shorts, not even having to attempt to prod at your entrance through the thick layers, she can feel the moisture and heat radiating onto her calloused skin just from the possessive grip she’s initiated. “You’re always wet, always so easy to fuck. It doesn’t take much does it? I bet that plugs been driving you crazy all day, and you thought you were gonna be a brat and outsmart Wanda, but I bet not having any panties on only made it worse, huh, princess? I bet you’ve been wet since you left. Did you break my rule, baby? Did you touch this cunt without permission?”

A gasp falls off of your lips when Natasha cups your core harder, grinding the heel of her palm into your clit just hard enough to move the inseam of your shorts with it, forcing pleasure on you thats too rough and too intense all at once. Tears prick your eyes, but there’s still a question to be answered, and you’re not gone enough to have forgotten that if nothing else, she expects you to find an answer for her. “N-No!” You wail, frustration bubbling up inside of you when the pressure ebbs into nothing and your clit is left unsatisfied again. “I didn’t!”

Natasha’s tuts, clicking her tongue against her front teeth as she cranes her head at you sympathetically. The hand around your throat eventually trails away, cupping your face and then wiping the tears off your cheeks. “See, I don’t believe you, detka. I’m gonna have to check for myself. Open your legs wider.” She removes her hand from between your legs all together, tapping your hip in warning as she gives you space to comply with her request. When you just stand there, floundering for something to grasp onto and pull you through the dark waters with, Natasha huffs. “Open your legs wider. Now.”

You do as she asks, because it’s only natural that you do. You had half a mind this morning to do that exact opposite of what they asked, and yesterday, you’d pointedly avoiding doing what Wanda asked until there was no other choice but to comply or stand beneath her disappointed glare from across the kitchen, but that wingless push of confidence has evaded you now. It’s nowhere to be found even when you try to find the courage to stand up to her in your fingertips.

Your zipper doesn’t stand a chance against the force of her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties until he bypasses your clit and france’s her fingers along your labia. There’s a distinguished squelching sound that meets the air when she dips just one knuckle into your entrance, filling you up for the very first time since Monday afternoon, and you gasp with so much relief that you don’t even recognize the sinister smirk on her lips as she reads your expression like a book she’s memorized dutifully.

“You’re so wet.” She comments, “Are you sure you didn’t touch yourself?” She knows you didn’t. The way you contract against her fingers as she eases another one into your walls and spreads you out like she’s preparing for a game of rock paper scissors tells her that you’ve not had an ounce of real pleasure since the last time she’d allowed it. She thinks it was two days ago. You’re unaware that she’s seemingly lost in a haze of days and mundane adult routine.

“I didn’t! I didn’t! Daddy, please!” You gasp, your back arching off the door when her fingers scrape along your walls. She makes an interested sound high in her throat, like she’s surprised to find that your sensitive there, and does it again, this time with full intention to overwhelm you with pleasure.

”Oh, are you sensitive right there, detka? Is that your spot?” She coos, and it feels so wrong so be treated like this by her. Natasha isn’t soft, but she’s not cruel, and right now she’s wearing Wanda’s condescension with her blonde hair that tickles your cheek when she drops her forehead against yours. “I didn’t know.” She pouts, and you wonder why for a second, but then it makes perfect sense when she pulls her fingers away and you’re left clenching around nothingness. She’s apologizing for giving you pleasure with nothing else. She’s pretending to care that she’s just wound you up for the hundredth time this week and left you high and dry in the middle of a puddle with wild electricity sparking in the close distance.

A broken sob leaves your lips and your hips chase her fingers but its useless. Natasha doesn;t care that you're desperate, she doesn’t care that nobody’s fucked you good in days, it’s not about that right now. You lost the right to her sympathy when you decided to be a brat. Again. She remembers the last time you were in this position. She remembers leaves changing colors and apple cider always being in the fridge because you love it more than apple juice in the middle of October, and she remembers how your ass had gleamed red for days after Wanda bent you over the island because you just wouldn’t watch your mouth and mind your damn manners. It’s been a while since either one of them had dished out a punishment that actually forces you to think about your actions. It’s been a while since either of them have really fallen hard on their swords as dominic acts and truly sacrificed you to the wolves of letting go.

Natasha will never apologize for loving you to deeply to keep her roles separate. She will never apologize for loving you so much, she gives into your pouting face and crying eyes when you just need her more than anything else in the world. Wanda won’t either, and she’s notorious the hardest nut amongst you to crack. None of you care that your dynamics have been muddled with pathetically sweet domesticity and romance for months at this point, but its beginning to catch up with all of you now. You have all of these limits beneath your belts, all of these wild impulses that you only ever indulge in with each other, these kinks and desires are derived from real trauma, and real connection, and real willingness to be the most unapologetic version of yourself no matter how socially unacceptable, and she’s allowed all of you to forget that the beauty of building a dynamic outside of romance is the freedom to hold grudges and correct behavior. She won’t give in so easily anymore, because before you, she never would’ve allowed anything less than perfect obedience and that had been the one thing that lured you back to her workout classes.

“Please, Daddy!” You beg, and Natasha can’t help but smile at how desperate you sound for her already. She’s barely touched you, and she knows that's your problem,that the root of your begging is the pointed lack of attention her and Wanda have been giving you since Wednesday night in her head, but there's nothing you can do about it right now when she has the cards and its her body that pins you to the door and keeps you immobile beneath her.

“Turn around.” She muses without interest for your tears, she’s already wiped them away once, it wouldn’t be the first time she told you to strop cry before she deems it acceptable. Your cheeks always flame when she does that, like its your fault that she’s unmade you to the point of tears.

“No.” You choke on a desperate cry, reaching out to attempt to tangle your fingers into her hair, but she intercepts before you can succeed, and her grip on your wrists is strong as she pins your hands above your head and glares deep within your eyes like she can see every part of your soul and the privilege doesn’t astonish her. It does astonish her. She can’t believe that you;ve given all of yourself to her like this, but who would she be if she allowed you to read the gratitude rolling off of her so easily? “No, I want to touch you!” You cry out, trying to fight her, trying to convince her to let you win. Natasha knows you well. She knows when you’re being bratty, and she knows when you’re just so overwhelmed with pleasure and emotion that you just don’t even process what they’re saying to you. Sometimes she thinks you make up conversations in your head, but she knows that you’re just drunk on sensations they’re withholding and your body is desperately trying to make up for the lack of stimulation however it can. You’re somewhere in the middle right now. It’s not bratty defiance that keeps you and her in a standstill, wasting precious minutes before Wanda gets home, but its not entirely blind submission either. Your trying to keep yourself above the tide, key word is trying, because you’re failing faster than you even register, and Natasha knows if she plays her cards right you’ll be putty before Wanda even gets in the door. You’ll have no idea whats in stores or you then, and she knows you need that. You need to be caught off guard. You need to be grounded, and humbled, and reminded of your place beneath them. “I want to touch you, Daddy!”

“Daddy gets to decide when you’ve earned the privilege to touch me, and you haven’t yet, little girl, so turn around and stop whining before I give you a reason to stick that lip out at me.” The threat hangs in the air before you and it paints your face white with shock as your eyes meet hers with crystals of tears brimming in your waterline. You don’t have to think about complying on your own regard, because Natasha tugs you how she wants you against the door and doesn’t think twice before pushing your shorts down your legs once your cheek is flush with the wood she’d once thought about painting green after moving in.

You gasp when her hands brace against the globes of your ass, not making any pointed moves, but you know what she’s aiming for when she pulls your cheeks apart and allows cold air to assault your dripping, glimmering core. A whine escapes your lips when she drags a finger down the crack of your ass to your entrance, collecting wetness of the pads of her fingers that she then spreads around your puckered hole that holds tight to the princess plug keeping you open. She circles the jeweled base of the plug with disinterest almost, never grabbing at it, never pushing at it, she just circles it to remind you that it's there, that she’s the one who placed it there and gave you firm orders to keep it where it was until she took it out. At least you’d listened to her. She’d know if you didn’t. You can’t get the plugs in yourself, and it enrages you to no end when she’s away on a business trip and Wanda has no desire to pull them out of the closet where you keep all of the toys you cycle through routinely and healthily. This is Natasha’s fortier, it's one of the only things that she can give you that you haven’t learned how to give yourself. She hopes you never get comfortable enough with the plugs to put them in yourself. She hopes you always gasp and squirm like it's the first time anything has ever breached your puckered hole when she bends you over to do it herself from time to time. It’s intoxicating. you’re intoxicating.

The jewel is a baby pink color, shaped like a heart, but what matters most is the shade that you’d never thought specifically about until Natasha leaned in close to kiss you with lips glittering in arousal to tell that it matches the pink of your cunt after Wanda fucks you raw with the strap and she gets to lick you clean. You’ve never been able to keep your composure around baby pink since then. You still can’t now just imagine the sight she’s seeing as she spreads you open for her and fiddles with you however she pleases.

“How did it feel? Wearing this pretty plug to class today?” Natasha asks, leaning in to let her lips trail along the clammy skin of your neck that only aquires a thicker sheen the longer you stand without any airflow on parts of your body that matter. It’s hotter than hell in the house, or at least it feels that way to you, but the air that continuously brushes against your core is cold and unwelcoming.

”We had a study period in the- in the library.” You gasp when Natasha grabs the base of the plug and turns it clockwise just slightly, enough to let your ass feel the stretch of the plug as sit spins within you. The pleasure is intense, but only because anything would be enough to push you over the edge right now. “I— Daddy, please.” You beg when she presses the plug deeper into you once, and then twice, and then it seems like shes setting a tempo as she taps her fingers against the jewel.

“Keep telling me about your day.” Natasha directs, unbothered by your frustration and arousal, unaffected by the fact that she knows it's hard for you to think straight with her hands holding you apart like you’re some object to ogle, not even considering your prolonged frustration and desire. “Be a good girl for me.”

“I couldn’t sit still.” You whisper and your cheeks flame with embarrassment that you know she enjoys every second of. “Gave Wands m-my panties and was so sticky, Daddy! Please, it hurts. It was dripping all down my legs, and I just hope Kate didn’t see. Please Daddy, I need you.”

“Oh, so now you gave Wanda your panties. Spinning the narrative, are you?” Natasha quirks and eyebrow, and she pulls your gaze back to look at her with a tight grip on your hair. You whine, wince, your entire body tenses and becomes a light with electric sensitivity that has you gasping and moaning and writhing against the door with no reprieve. She slams you back against the door, her tongue clicking against her teeth as she reminds you to stay still, to be good for her, you’re not being good right now.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, dropping your face against the front door again when she lets go of your hair and instead grabs the base of the plug and plucks it free from the confines of your ass without any chance to adapt to the stretch or subsequent emptiness.

”You don’t know anything, because all you are is a slut for Daddy to play with.” She sighs against the shell of your ear like this isn’t a new development for her, and your chest burns with shame as you moan and thrash.

“No, please! I want it back, please Daddy. Please, I want it back. I want to feel good. Please, please. I want to feel good, I want you to make me feel good.” You're a mess of tears and pleas when it finally dawns on you that your ass spasms and clenches around nothing — that the only consistent pleasure you’ve found all day, for the first time in a week, has now been ripped away without so much as a soft, fake apology.

“Shh, come away from the door.” She guides you away softly, affectionately — the gentlest she’s addressed you since you first stepped inside the house. You think it’s because she’s giving in, letting you win, getting ready to led you to the couch or the bed nad make up for seven days without relief, but instead she forces you to stand still beside the front window where Wanda’s somehow appeared despite Natasha’s car still being in the driveway beside yours. She didn’t pull you away from the door to cut you a break, or even pretend to feel pity for your tears and quivering lip, but only so that Wanda could come inside and destroy you in her own way. “Hi, my love.” Natasha smiles brightly when Wanda steps inside the house, her hair glowing with the radiance of summer sunrays brightening her naturally vibrant waves. She drops her briefcase by the door, and you notice for the first time that she brought the meeting bag with her, not the bag she brings that had daisies on it and is filled with extra handouts she expects her students to have lost between their last meeting. You hadn’t noticed that this morning. You’d been too consumed with need that was left untouched.

“Hi.” Wanda smiles, drawing Natasha in for a warm kiss that makes you wonder if she’s still frustrated and mad about your disobedience and boldness. It’s evident that she’s still mad when she doesn’t glance in your direction, instead keeping her eyes on Natasha as both of them pretend like you’re not within ear shot. Wanda fishes the panties out of her pocket, and your cheeks burn as she holds them up to the light for Natasha to see clearly as well. “Ten minutes in these and they’re ruined.” She hums, and you whine like you’re incapable of formulating any kind of response or rebuttal. It’s futile, they're not talking to you, or even paying you any ounce of attention, but you still feel the need to interject because you just haven’ t learned that they’re not going to cave yet. That’s their fault, but you’ll learn.

“She was humping my fingers like a bitch before. I’d say she only made it worse for herself. The little exhibitionist was hoping that people would see her. Was hoping someone would notice that she’s dripping down her thighs like a slut. Couldn’t even behave herself and sit still in the library with Kate, apparently she was all over the damn seat trying to rub one out.” The words are vulgar and they cut against your sharply, enough to have you shaking on your feet by the television, hardly even aware of the face that your ass and your hips are in perfect sight for anyone outside to see.

“Oh yeah?” Wanda quirks an eyebrow, and it takes you a minute to realize she’s addressing you. There isn't an ounce of warmth in her tone as she crosses her arms and unmakes you with a cold sweep of her crystal eyes across your half naked frame, but she’s not looking at you like she hates you either. It’s sheer dominance and lust that overcomes her now, and it's a combination you’ve never seen so deadly and aimed solely at you. Natasha's been on her shit like like this before, but never you, never their good girl, their angel who has only ever seen herself over their knee for punishment four times in an entire years long relationship. Someone should be picking up on the signs, but nobody is. Not you, not Natasha, not Wanda. “Come here.” Wanda arches a finger when she realizes that you’re directly in front of the window and don’t even seem to register it. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve toyed with the idea of giving the neighbors a show, but even with the cold reserve she’s giving you, untempted by her love to go easy on you, it unsettles her to take your vulnerability for granted in any way, especially like this. If you seemed to realize you were giving anybody a show, if it seemed like showing off was an underlying current in the scene, maybe she would’ve left you there for a while after realizing, but she can’t stomach to do that now. She’s mean, she’s cruel, but she’s not a monster and there’s still boundaries to her wild fantasies that unmake you from the very inside out.

You only come close enough for her hands to reach you if they try, but she doesn’t invite you any closer when you stop to look at her uncertainty, so you take her silence as rejection and continue to stand on your own — cold, but so uncomfortably hot. “Is Daddy telling the truth? Were you acting like a slut in the library? Hoping anyone could see how wet you were?” She taunts, and the words creep up your veins until they reach the middle of your belly where pleasure and frustration and emotions you’re too hazy to name take over entirely.

“No!” You plead with her to believe you, because it had never been your intention to be anything but good for them in the library, but you just couldn't help yourself when your clit caught on the inseam of your jeans or you shifted just right on the chair, and you’d hoped Natasha would see the honor and integrity in your coming clean, but instead she’d weaponized it into this. You were in enough trouble without her meddling, and it turns your lips downwards, but you never have any leeway to say that it’s more than just the teasing that’s weighing you down, so Wanda never stops to consider your pout or sparkling eyes.

“So now Daddy’s a liar?” She digs deeper; sinks her claws into you unrelentlessly without even touching you at all. She doesn’t need to touch you to own you. You’re beneath the wings of her control so beautifully right now she almost hates to be so cruel. Almost. It’s a fleeting moment of hesitation that allows you to think you’ve found reprieve from punishment for a moment, but then she remembers that this is what she really loves when you peel her layers back like an onion, and just like an onion she makes you cry but you keep coming back for more because it adds something, it spices things up, it makes dishes complete and she completes you. And for a moment you think that maybe she’ll bend, that maybe she’ll wind you up with this teasing and condescension and then she’ll let you down soft, let it all be some elaborate mind fuck that renders you a blob beneath their touch, but then she sets her gaze on the staircase beneath your body, and her jaw is locked so tensely you think she might chip a molar. “You’re digging yourself a deeper hole the more you open that mouth, so why don’t you keep it closed and go wait for me upstairs. I want you naked and on the bed waiting by the time we get up there.”

“But I want—“ You’re ready to tell her exactly what you want. It takes a lot to get you to this point of open communication. You’re their shy girl, their innocent angel that still blushes when it comes to asking for sexual acts from your girlfriends, but they have you wanting enough to throw caution to the wind and scream to the entire town that you’re a whore; their whore. You haven’t been broken down entirely, but you’re so close to the edge of fuzzy bliss that you have no morals to stand firm on. You’re malleable in their hands, and they know how to make you into exactly what they want.

“I didn’t ask what you wanted. I gave you a direction, and I expect you to follow it. Am I clear?” Wanda takes a step toward you. Just one. She’s taller than Natasha. You know this, and you love this, but sometimes you forget that she’s only a couple inches away from reaching six foot, and she towers over you with a completion and complex you can’t even begin to mimic to even unsuspecting strangers. She’s alluring. That’s the simplest way to put it, and she unmakes you even further as she sizes you up and makes you feel small like you’re nothing to her. It’s been a while since you’ve fallen so heavily into these roles. It’s been a while. It’s an echo in your head, a warning to tread carefully, but you don’t see it as anything more than a reason to fight harder, claim victory and finally find release in your center.

Your head bobs — just once. It feels so simple to think about motions as numbers right now. One pass of Wanda’s eyes over your exposed thighs and hips. Two taps of Natasha’s heel on the hardwood as she waits for you to comply with the direction you’ve been given. Four seconds before you realize that Wanda’s waiting for words, and that you still haven’t moved even with your nonverbal acceptance. “Yes.” You whisper when you find the words on your tongue, and you think that it’s going to satisfy Wanda, that maybe she might praise you for finally finding the right choice to make, but instead she clicks her tongue against her teeth, and she cranes her head to the side, and her eyes squint as you like you’ve just done the worst thing you could do; not try at all.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve played like this, but I didn’t think my angel was dumb enough to forget such a simple rule. Are you dumb, princess? Or are you just too needy to think straight?” Wanda sneers, and your face flushes with heat that makes your belly twist with something sickeningly sweet. It’s all encapsulating. You can feel it in your toes, and your gallbladder, and your left lung all the way into the very back section of your brain that probably does something really important and specific. You don’t know. It doesn't matter. The sky could be green and chickens could be flying, and still all that would matter to you would be Wanda and Natasha.

“Not dumb.” Your voice is breathy, soft enough to be delicate and breakable. Wanda knows you, she knows what you can take, and so she lets her eyes sweep across your body until they meet your eyes, and when she finds nothing but bubbling tension beneath your surface, she hardens her glare and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing her tits farther into your line of vision. She’s wearing a generic t-shirt, but she’s dressed it up with a pair of black slacks, kitten heels, and a blazer that you think she’s probably only worn for the commute there and back. Her bra is black, the thin strap sticks out from the collar of her shirt when she moves her arms, and the cups push her full breasts up even further. It's almost considered sinful by your standards, and that's a hard metric to meet, but Wanda does it without breaking a sweat.

“Then address me properly.” She settles you, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of this corner you’ve backed yourself into, so without any other choice, you submit to what she wants of you, and with that last ounce of control out of your grasp, your brain goes fuzzy around the edges until you’re taking the stairs one at a time at a pace that's almost robotic, but Wanda and Natasha are tuned in enough to know that you just can’t move any faster without your thighs creating friction that gets you in even more trouble. They laugh as you retreat, and the sounds of their echoing amusement following you into the dark, empty and cold master bedroom leaves a chill in your bones that you're not sure is ever going to warm again.

“Yes, Professor.” Your words echo in Wanda’s head even after you’ve disappeared into the bedroom. She assumes you’re doing what she asked, getting further undressed and settling into the bed with full intentions of being good for her, but she gives you time to marinate regardless. She kicks off her heels, kisses Natasha twice, three times, four times, until they’re backed up against the wall ripping off layers until it's bras and panties on both of them and t-shirts scattered on the floor beneath slacks and leggings. They don’t go any farther. As mean as they’ve been, as cruel as they still plan to be, it feels premature to go any farther when you’re waiting upstairs and Wanda hasn’t touched you since Sunday.

She thinks that Natasha took care of you. She was under the impression that you’d been given as many orgasms as you were allowed by Natasha while she was at work, handling end of year papers and exams that she just couldn’t focus on in her office at home. Her absence at home had been planned for weeks, she’d forearnderd you the day before she packed up all her favorite red pens and headed for the office that the next couple of days were going to be long without her home, but you had persevered and she had thought that your lack of whining over text meant that Natasha had satisfied you. Natasha just couldn’t keep the days straight without Wanda home to be nagging in her ear about recycling day and bulk collection day and how Pepper always goes to Yoga on Thursdays so she needs to stop counting on her to get finances in for the pilates class at her gym. She hadn’t realized that the last time she touched you was cruel and unsatisfying and four days ago, she has no reason to dwell on the specifics and she doesn’t even now. Not when Wanda breathes against her lips that she’s so happy its Friday, that she’s so relieved the semester ends next week and exams are two weeks afterward. It’s a small tidbit left undiscovered in a glass bottle on the coast. Her eye hasn’t caught the sparkling reflection of sunbeams bouncing off like warning signs.

Natasha enters the bedroom first. She glances at you, and she almost smiles when she finds you on the center of the bed, naked like Wanda asked, but holding a yellow throw blanket over your body as you shiver in direct line of the air conditioner that points toward the bed. She pads over to the thermostat without saying a word, turning the air off entirely though she knows that’s a dangerous game to play for later on when you’re all hot and sweaty and too tired to peel your bodies out of bed and deal with numbers and math and perfect temperature debates that never get settled but instead mulled over with compromises and grumbles of annoyed and reluctant compliance. For right now, she’s okay to sacrifice future comfort for present comfort, but there’s hardly enough time to take note of her wordless gesture because Wanda comes stalking in after her, and she pushes the door closed with enough force to have the sound reverberating through the bedroom. You flinch, grab the blanket a little bit tighter, and for a moment Natasha frowns, narrowing her eyes, trying desperately to see if there’s something beneath the surface that she’s missing, but your eyes are blown with lust, and you crane your body towards Wanda’s with a yearning desire that is so automatic you don’t even seem to realize you’re closing the gap between your bodies until the mattress dips beneath your ebbing weight and you nearly topple off of the bed.

“Drop the blanket and come here. Edge of the bed.” She clicks her tongue, her fingers too. It’s degrading. It makes your belly do flips and your eyes glaze over. “Spread your legs. Wider. Wider. Stop trying to hide from me.” She growls and the first touch of her skin against you is harsh and cruel and demanding as she spreads your thighs wider and opens up your cunt completely. Arousal drips from your entrance onto the bed sheets, pearls of glittering desperation unable to be hidden between your thighs any longer, and now that the moonlight shines upon those inches of skin too, evidence of lust is painted against your skin and it looks like it’s been that way for hours with the way your skin is red and raw with moisture. It’s pathetic, and it’s so unbelievably hot that Wanda isn’t even embarrassed to moan wantingly.

”She’s dripping.” Wanda hums, glancing over her shoulder to look at Natasha who hasn’t taken her eyes off of you yet, though she isn’t intent on unmaking your inner emotions anymore, but rather watching as Wanda sinks a finger between your thighs, spreads your labia, and prods your weeping hole with a featherlight touch only long enough to collect a bead of arousal on her fingertip and hold it up to the light. She pinches her fingers together, rubs the moisturized pads together until they’re both effectively lathered in slick, and then she pulls her fingers apart like they’re a sizzling mozzarella, and the pull of arousal following both of her fingertips makes your cheeks flame worse than any cheese pull ever has. You whine. It’s desperate, and wanting, and so small, but it only fuels Wanda further. She needs to feel you now. She needs to have her way with you for the first time since Sunday and remind you that you’re hers until the word goes up in flames. “You’re so sweet, princess. I could just eat you, but I won’t. No, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet. Right now, I’m going to spank that pretty pussy raw, and then I think I’m going to fuck Natasha, and you’re going to watch it happen, and you’re not going to get more than I give you, and you’re not going to break me down, and you’re not going to complain. Do you understand me, detka? This is your only warning.”

You don’t have the words to answer her, so instead your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and for the very first time her lips curve into a smile and she nods like you’ve done something right. “Can’t find your voice? Too dumbed down to think straight?” She sneers, and her eyes are filled with something that you can’t decipher. Natasha knows its pride. She can practically see it dripping off of Wanda as she basks in your obedience even after deliberate disobedience for days on end. Again, neither of them realize that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve found peace with their touch. Again, neither of them realize that they’ve failed to communicate with each other and in turn left you stranded out in a sea you don’t know how to navigate on your own.

Neither of them realize you are giving them exactly what they want right now because it’s the only thing you can think to do to get any ounce of attention anymore.

Your fingers tap against your thigh again. Two times. Wanda nods acceptingly. “Good girl using your signals.” The praise washes over you like a blanket, and if you’d forgotten how you got into this mess at all, you remember now with every sense you have left in your head. The praise is warm, like sunshine or cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven and homemade in the dead of autumn. It wraps around your bones first, just hot enough to warm them for a moment before the feeling travels and it drowns your sensitive little heart in lightness that can only mean good things. It’s a momentary encouragement, but it’s enough to get you further into the scene at least. “Show me what stop is.”

Your fingers tap against your thigh twice, and then you stop, and then they tap three more times. Wanda doesn’t acknowledge you at first, so you repeat the action, and this time she nods with satisfaction that you remember. She doesn’t offer you any ounce of praise again, instead she just sinks behind you on the bed and wraps her arms around your waist until you’re flush against her chest and even more spread out than you were before.

There isn’t a warning before her hand comes down on your core with full force, her palm open, aiming to hit all of your sensitive parts with cruelty. It only takes one hit for you to realize that she wore rings today; more than just the promise ring Natasha had gifted the both of you on your respective one year anniversaries. The sting of metal is conflicting. It’s cold, sharp, what you imagine a venomous snake bite to feel like in the wild when it catches you by surprise and flashes through your veins with lighting speed. It’s a quick sensation, but it lingers on your labia and your clit and your weeping cole that caught the brunt of the friction from her palm that’s always rough with dryness.

Your hips jerk upwards, they chase her palm because the sensation is sharp, and it's painful, but as it ebbs away, it’s so sweetly pleasurable that your core jolts with burning desire to find more, to drown in it until there’s nothing left to feel or process besides euphoria. Wanda doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that your hips jerk, and she wasn’t expecting them to. She doesn’t like that you’re still finding ways to misbehave even beneath her touch.

“Stay still.” She warns, her teeth nipping at your earlobe sharply. It stings, and she never soothes the ache with her tongue, and you whine so earnestly that Natasha almost feels bad, because she’s mean, but not as mean as Wanda, but she doesn’t feel bad enough to save you, and so nobody tends to the ache in your ear, or the pinch in your cunt when another slap doesn’t land in quick succession like you’d hoped. “Can’t even take a punishment. It’s like you’ve forgotten everything I taught you. Did you forget, detka? Do we need to start from the beginning? Reintroduce everything? Do you want to go back to only getting Daddy’s fingers because your tight little cunt can’t handle the strap?”

Your head shakes frantically, and you must look absolutely wild beneath the light that spills in from outside. The city is bright, shiny, dazzling, but Wanda Maximoff is a burning star and Natasha Romanoff is the very universe she explodes in and lights up with brightness that’s too hot to touch let alone look at nad see the full picture without being blinded and breathless and useless and you’re spiraling, you’re spiraling so far down into darkness that your train of thought abandons you and in the very moment that you lose all sense of where you are, drowning the scent ofWanda, and your arousal, and Natasha pacing across the room, apologetic but not enough to intervene, another slap lands between your legs and you howl with pain that becomes licks of tantalizing pleasure you can’t get enough of. You manage to stay still this time though. You don’t jerk, don’t chase her palm. You tense, you tighten, you bite down on your bottom lip until you almost taste copper, but you never move a single muscle.

Another slap comes down, and then another. She didn’t ask you to count them, so you lose count after the sixth. There must’ve been a nineteenth, because that number always makes Natasha laugh, and through thick tears in your eyes you registered her shoulders jostling from across the room before she’d turned away from the sight of you so completely unmade against Wanda’s chest to rummage through the closet. It weighs on you that she doesn’t even stick around to watch you be taunted and pulled apart so slowly and cruelly, it burns in your belly like shame, and for the first time you gasp in pain that has no pleasure, but before you can spiral, grasp onto sensations that have always been beneath the surface, that have fueled your every action since Wednesday afternoon, your brought back beneath the current of lust and willingness to do whatever the the hell they want when a slap comes down on your pussy that perfectly hits your clit. You're close. So close. Wanda knows. Of course she knows.

“Little sluts gonna cum from getting her cunt spanked!” Wanda calls out to Natasha, and your face burns with humiliation when you hear the thick laughter rumble from the closet. She slaps your core again, directly against your clit again, and that’s enough to have you dangling over the edge. You’ll take this orgasm. This orgasm that's going to be painful not just right now, but tomorrow morning when there's no pleasure left and only swollen lips and bruised skin, but for right now you’re willing to take it because it's the only thing they’ve given you outside of half asleep cuddles since Monday.

A gasp falls off of your lips when Wanda’s hand slaps against your clit again, but not with the same cruel pressure. It’s light. Deliberate. Your hips attempt to follow her palm when she retreats, her skin sparkling with slick, but she’s faster than you now, more coherent and intune with her body and its functions. She holds your hips down, forces your thighs wide. Your orgasm crashes over you and then it's gone, ebbing away into waves of pleasure that never dwindle, but never quite crash against the surface either. You’re sobbing, a mess of snot and tears, but no words escape you, and your fingers never tap your thighs, and your hands desperately shoot to Wanda’s wrists and try to pull them back to your core that weeps and drips lips a faucet or a widow, you’re not sure which one it is at this point — an inconvenience or a tragedy.

“Oh, you didn’t think I was just going to let you enjoy that orgasm, did you?” Wanda frowns, cupping your cheeks and bringing her thumbs against the damp skin, clearing away tears that are like diamonds on your flush skin. “Silly girl, you didn’t even ask for permission.” She clicks her tongue, and your brain is too fuzzy to comprehend that she’s blaming you for the ruined orgasm. She’d expected you to ask permission when she knew from the start that you couldn’t vocalize your wants even if you tried. It’s a thick blanket of something uncomfortable that smothers you when you realize that it had been a trap from the very beginning. You can’t handle another trap, another bout of teasing and creautly, but Wanda still has half of a plan to hatch, and you know she’s not going to stop unless you call it completely, but no part of you has the cognition to do that right now. Your brain is muddled, your thoughts aren’t your own, and the only thing you can process is them. Professor and Daddy. Professor and Daddy. Professor. Daddy. You need them. You need them fully and spiritually. You need them sinfully.

“Get on your belly.” Wanda moves away from you until her feet are on the floor and it's just you in the bed that feels too big for just your body. You do as she asks, even if you barely comprehend the task, and let your weight sink into the mattress as you finally lay down. It dawns on you now how tired you are, but Wanda can’t see your face, and Natasha watches your hands closely, but they never tap at your thighs in any fashion. You’ve always spoken up when something was too much. You’ve always used your signals when you were too deep into subspace to drop. She trusts you, and you’re showing clear trust in them, so they keep going, their reserves don’t break, and nobody sheds an ounce of pity as you whine and drip onto the comforter beneath your knees that Wanda props up like you’re just a doll for her to manipulate.

Somebody settles something between your legs, and only when your knees are guided back down and your hips are repositioned do you realize that it's the vibrator Wanda apparently bought three weeks after meeting Natasha. It’s big, and bulky, and you think superpowered though you have no proof, and when somebody flicks it on, you’re not sure who, it nearly sends you flying over the edge before somebody taps the button once, twice, three times and changes the setting to a low pulse that fades and goes at an uneven and deeply unsatisfying rhythm that you think must’ve been invented by a clueless man with no hobbies in life.

“You move a single muscle and I tie you up, understand?” Wanda waits for your fingers to tap against your thigh, even when it takes a full minute for you to process that she asked you a question at all. You tap twice, a silent confirmation of your understanding and acceptance, and so nobody thinks twice before they move on, Natasha pouncing on Wanda and stripping her out of her bra and underwear whilst Wanda does the same with her. They work in tandem. They always have. Wanda moves one way, Natasha moves the other. Even when Natasha’s searching for something dominating in Wanda, allowing her softer edges to shine through, they still move in harmony like its a practiced dance they’re showing you and ever so slowly teaching you. Even though you can’t see them, your face still buried in the blankets as your hips fight to remain still, you can imagine that they’re not moving with any less harmony and unity right now than any other moment you’ve witnessed them in. It makes everything ten times harder to handle, but when you finally do glance to the side, needing air that wasn’t restricted by the fabric that genuinely attempts to smother you in plain sight, you erupt into a whole new world of isolation when you watch Wanda hammer a dildo into Natasha’s cunt while the blonde’s fingers are burrowed between her legs, aiming to pull a quick and harsh orgasm from the redhead who doesn’t seem to have any complaints about not wasting time.

“Please!” It’s the first time you’ve spoken in a while, and your throat is scratchy and dry as evidence. You sound utterly pathetic, you look even worse, but there’s something soft about you as you fight to keep your head held up, twitching and jerking and so utterly helpless but in full control of your body. It’s addicting, alluring, intoxicating. It fuels Wanda on, but she doesn’t say a word, just rubs her thumb harder against Natasha’s clit and works the dildo faster, rougher, angling up to hit that spongy part in her walls that makes her head spin.

You can hear the vulgar squelches of their cunts as they work each other to orgasm, but you can’t distinguish which incessant squeak is Natasha’s and which is Wanda’s. They’re both moving too fast, with rhythmic paces that appear chaotic and unorganized to you right now. The soft tufts of hair between Natasha’s legs are red, ginger really, and they curl just slightly when she lets the bush grow out in the winter, but for summertime, her bikini line is cleanly waxed and her mound is adorned in only short strands of coarse hair that Wanda finds intoxicating to run her fingers over in the middle of the night aimlessly.

You’re still watching them when Wanda leans forward and captures Natasha in a kiss that looks bruising and rough and all encompassing, and your reserve breaks entirely when you watch them both come undone in climaxes that look satisfying and rewarding and soft as their fingers move slower and their wrists snap softly and they work each other through the height of blinding pleasure sweetly and tenderly — everything that you want, that you’ve been denied. It’s like they don’t care about you anymore. Do they not care about you anymore?

Suddenly it's hard to breathe, and even though Wanda never followed through on that threat of tying you down, you feel like your limbs are shackled to the bedpost and even though every nerve screams with oversensitivity from sensations you haven’t even been awarded yet, you can’t seem to move away from the vibrator that still torments your clit.

Natasha catches it first, the way you break,the way your knees lose their tension and your elbows unlock and your head drops against the bed like you just can’t bear the weight, and its confirmation that you’ve been off all along that has her rushing to your aid on the bed and quickly pulling the vibrator out from between your legs. “Hi, my love.” Her words are soft, sweet, so gentle you don’t recognize them and you continue to sob, gasping for breath, clawing at your throat, looking at her like you can’t even see her, twitching beneath her hands like you can’t feel them at all.

Natasha pulls you up into her lap, and apologizes when your clit catches on her thigh and pleasure shots through you so intensely that it hurts and you cry harder, coughing, spluttering, probably covering her with splatters of saliva but she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t close her eyes and try to avoid the spray of your unruly emotions. She just lets you feel, and she lets herself feel, and she grounds herself in this moment because how did she not see it before? You’re never bratty. You’re never blindly disobedience nor are you rash or sexually impatient enough to do something as bold as slip Wanda your panties.

“It’s Friday.” Natasha blanches, her eyes trailing toward Wanda. She doesn’t let go of your cheeks, but she recognizes that you can’t hear her right now, that over the blood rushing in your ears and the sensitivity in your core not just from arousal but from Wanda’s unrelenting spanks too, you can’t even begin to process anything she’s saying. “I… I knew it was Friday, because I drove you to work, but I was convinced it was Wednesday because Pepper rescheduled the newsletter. Fuck.” Natasha pales, but Wanda’s still confused. Wanda still doesn’t know that you haven’t been properly touched in a week, or shown any kind of affection really, and so while she has sympathy and concern for your state, and her heart aches wondering where she went wrong, she’s not picking up on what Natasha’s trying to get across to her.

“What?” Wanda stalks closer. She’s unbalanced, slightly wobbly, but she doesn’t let it bother her anymore than she can control. You’re her entire priority, her entire world, and Natahsa’s scaring her immensely the longer she dances around the truth in burning shame and personal disappointment.

“I.. the last time I touched her was Monday. Did you let her cum at all?” She whispers and Wanda’s face pales, it’s her turn to realize that they’ve neglected you for days after scenes that warranted aftercare all on their own, let alone when they were strung together so closely and pointedly. She’d wanted to drive you crazy, she’d wanted to fuel you up, but then life had gotten busy, and it’s no excuse, but she’d forgotten all about your sexual escapades because it was just easy to move on with you. You take what life throws at you, and you always do it with a smile on your face — even when it’s breaking you apart.

“No.” Wanda shakes her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder and tickles her cheek as it sways and shifts with the motion of her head. “No, I told you to let her cum. I thought you did. Oh, my baby.” Wanda frowns, rushing the bed with a desperate urge to feel you and protect you. She can see it now, what she couldn't before, or perhaps didn’t want to. The blind devotion, the emotional withdrawal, the attitude and bratting. All the signs were there in theory, but you were just too damn good and appealing to their every desire. You were too damn good at sacrificing yourself for them even when the entire premise of your relationship is to do exactly the opposite. “It’s all done, moya lyubov. All done. Come back to me.”

It doesn’t happen right away. Not for a couple of minutes. But, eventually you begin to recognize hands on your cheeks, and you recognize hands on your lower back and thighs. Wanda touches you everywhere; wherever you can reach. Natasha stays in one place, she never moves, never even brushes her thumbs against your cheeks to clear your tears, she just holds your cheeks and keeps your eyes on hers even when Wanda moves around in your perphieral vision.

The ginger appears entirely calm, cool, and collected in your peripheral and hazed sense of cognition, she always appears so perfectly put together, but you know that she’s not somewhere deep inside of you. That small voice of reason doesn’t find a way out in this moment, instead, you drown in the promise that Wanda knows what to do, that Natasha won’t let you fall, and that they’re the only things that exist in this entire world even if they’re mean. that’s all you can think. Mean, mean, mean. You’ve stopped crying, but then your bottom lip begins to tremble again, and Natasha makes quick work of shaking her head and guiding you back to calm collectedness.

“Can I ask you a question, honey bee?” Natasha whispers, scared to hurt you, to scare you, to break you anymore than you already has. She recalls how you’d flinched when Wanda slammed the door unnecessarily and her heart clenches. She should’ve stopped the scene then. She should’ve trusted her gut in that single moment and stopped before it got to this point. Before it broke you so sinfully. She may like to see you cry, but she hates when it’s because she’s hurt you, failed to see you fully like she promised she always would. She loves when you tremble, when you twitch and jerk beneath her, but not when it’s from anxiety, when it’s because you’re so on edge and wound up that you don’t even know how to regulate your own emotions without her full guidance and attention on you. Wanda fares no better, but she can handle the mistake with grace because she has to, but Natahsa’s one tear away from joining you in your deep pit of darkness — dom drop. Wanda’s about to be playing a dangerous game if she doesn’t get the both of you under wraps before chaos really ensues.

“Natalia.” Wanda cuts in, and your eyes shot to her in alarm, a whine falling off your lips at her harsh tone. Wanda melts beneath your attention, scooping you up into her arms and leaving Natasha alone on the bed and still half dressed. “Idi, perevedi dukh i prinesi yey stakan vody. Tebe nuzhno uspokoit'sya, poka ya ne poteryal i tebya, ladno? (Go take a breath, and get her a glass of water. You need to calm down before I lose you too, alright?)” Wanda lets the words fall out naturally, like it takes no effort to switch back to Sokovian Russian and dance with Natasha intimately and personally. It dazzles you, it’s the first true glimpse at relief you’ve felt, and Wanda’s not lost on how you always seem to fold whenever her native tongue or accent comes out. You’re worse when its Natasha, and there’s evidence in your reaction as you whine and melt into Natasha like you’re just a little kitten desperate for warmth.

“I’ll be right back, printsessa.” She whispers, and her words are husked with a twinge of Russian that drives you absolutely crazy and clears the fog in your head just a little bit, but not enough to earn your voice back or pull away from Wanda’s chest at all. You nod, blink slowly, and grab at Wanda’s bra strap desperately until your knuckles are white and there’s no chance she can leave.

“I’m sorry we didn’t realize sooner, angel.” Wanda whispers once Natasha is out of earshot. Natasha may not be an outwardly emotional person most times. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen her cry, but you’ve learned that she’s more sensitive to failure and human mistake than Wanda is. If you were any clearer headed, you would’ve recognized that she’s beating herself up over this, but you don’t, so instead you just accept Wanda’s apology and believe her when she follows up with a whisper of, “It’ll never happen again.”

When Natasha comes back, she’s carrying two glasses of water and a protein bar that she only makes you eat when you don’t have enough energy to fight her because you hate the chalky taste. She feels like an asshole for bringing it to you now, but she always worries about you eating enough, call it a Russian stereotype, and she definitely would have brought Wanda one if she thought the ginger would’ve humored her for a second and even grabbed the bar when she handed it over. You weren’t as tuned into your surroundings, your cheek flush against Wanda’s chest as you cuddle as close as you can into her, desperately leeching her warmth. That’s another sign she missed, or maybe wanted to ignore. You’re always hot, their little furnace, but the second she’d come up to you shivering and hiding beneath the yellow blanket, she should’ve known something was wrong. She can’t change it now, and she can tell that Wanda’s already amended all that she can when you’re still so floaty, so she doesn’t waste time on another apology when you’re only half awake as it is, mindlessly chomping your teeth together because she’d fed you a bite of the protein bar when your eyes were closed.

“Off.” The first word off off of your lips is a breathy plead for more contact with Wanda, and she doesn’t hesitate for a second before she’s reaching behind her and unclasping her bra with one hand, freeing her breast for you to cuddle into all while Natasha merely admires the sight like she’s never seen it before. Not Wanda’s breasts, although she does spare a couple of seconds to admire them, but just how tender you are with them, how you let yourself be loved and comforted even when they caused it. She doesn’t deserve you, but she cherishes that you picked her regardless of her worth.

“Take a sip of water.” Wanda coaches when Natasha raises the glass to your lips but you refuse to drink, keeping your lips firmly pressed together and your hands on her breasts, squeezing, touching, just trying to feel as much as she’ll let you. She shifts when your weight becomes too much for her thighs, pins and needles shooting through her limbs, and you gasp when your clit catches on her thigh, and you're reminded of the sensitivity that is simultaneously blinding need. “Nu uh, not tonight, my love. Tomorrow I’ll make it all better, but we’re all done tonight. You were so good for me, so good, but it’s time to rest, so have a sip of water, and then were going to lay down and rest our eyes. We’ve had a long week, huh? You just need some cuddles and sleep to make it all better. I know. I know everything, baby girl. You never have to think when I’m here, so just stop, okay? No more thoughts, take a sip of water.” Wanda pauses, waits for you to comply, and when you do, greedily gulping down half of the glass when you realize how thirsty you are, she smiles. “Good girl. Such a good girl, my perfect girl. My best girl. That’s it, one more and then we’re going to lay down.”

You push Natahsa’s hand away after the last sip you take, feeling full and probably very buoyant fi you tried to go for a swim out back, but you don’t even think to move when you realize you have to pee, or that Wanda and Natasha haven't peed yet despite always going after a scene. You don’t have the entry to remind them, and Wanda, the stickler of the two, doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t say anything that doesn’t need to be said. She guides you down into a laying position, soft and slow, cautious of the sensitivity in your head after so much crying. It makes you dizzy regardless, and you whine into her chest as she shifts and gets you comfortable.

“Shh, I know. I know. You’ve had such a long day, my brave girl. It’s all over now. All you need to do is close your eyes.” Wanda’s fingers tickle your back, gentle patterns that mean nothing but hold the potential of everything luring you to sleep until you jolt with sudden anxiety, reaching out for Natasha who seems too far away and too clothed.

“Off.” You huff again, and she laughs, but this time not like she did before, when it was cruel and mean and uncomfortable to handle and stand beneath without wilting. It’s soft now, charming, that laugh that fills you with light and love and energy, but there’s no energy right now. You’re tired, burnt out. You settle equally into her chest and Wanda’s when she takes her bra off, throwing it onto the floor to be added into the laundry later on along with your clothes and hers and Wanda’s that are still downstairs in the living room in a heap.

When your eyes finally close, and you fall asleep, you don’t wake up until one o’clock the next afternoon, but Wanda and Natasha are still beside you, wrapped up in bedsheets and t-shirts that drown them and conceal their chests from sunlight. For the night though, their skin is yours to feel fully beneath every inch of your body, because it had been far too long since they gave into this instinctive pleasure that keeps you all going. Never again would they let a week pass without prioritizing this — you. You’re everything to them, and Wanda tells Natasha as much before her eyes close, sleep winning the battle as you breathe deeply and evenly between them.

[yelenaslore]

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[yelenaslore]

LEAVE ME ALONE

summary — to the majority of essex, leighton murray is an unapproachable bitch. to you, she’s the only person in a crowded room.

warning(s) — friends with benefits, mutual feelings, alludes to pining/yearning, sorority events, college, slight dom/sub dynamics, dom leighton murray, closeted leighton murray, sneaking away, light banter, biting, hickies, possessive leighton, mean leighton, kissing, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, 69ing, fingering (r!receiving), degradation, punishment aspects, nipple stimulation, forced orgasm, mutual orgasm, overstimulation, porn with plot, aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note — inspired by leave me alone, very specifically ‘line my lips just to match my nipples’… enjoy some babie leighton smut

“No way Leighton Murray actually showed up.” A strawberry blonde in a pink dress chirped at your side, her eyes wide as they took in the sight of Essex College’s very own blonde bombshell stepping past the threshold of the sliding glass doors. The incandescent sunlight cascaded down on her platinum locks with such lightness that it gleamed almost like a halo from a distance. Her ever sharp brown eyes were dangerous as they searched the yard, unmaking anyone she spent more than five seconds analyzing with her lips pulled taut into a neutral expression of indifference.

“Come on, she’s not that bad.” You interject weakly, your head lulling to the side until your gaze can find the girls scrutinizing eyes. You don’t know why you’re so quick to defend Leighton — who’s pointedly avoided glancing in your direction — but you do, and it leaves a bad taste in the pledges mouth.

Her eyes haven’t wandered to the details of your dress. They’re pretty, you’ll admit it, but they haven’t found the gold membership badge pinned to your sweetheart neckline, accented with a classy string of pearls. She’s unaware of your role in the sorority, entirely focused on Leighton. It doesn’t pain you in the slightest to scratch her name off the mental list of pledges you’ve memorized in preparation for this event.

“She’s practically Godzilla.” The girl — Kaylee Towers, a freshman pledge with a stellar recommendation list — said in response, still oblivious to how she was talking herself out of any chance of making it into Kappa. “If Godzilla had pretty blonde hair, I mean.”

“Complementing her kind of negates the entire point of sulking over her presence, doesn’t it?” You raised a single questioning eyebrow, further craning your body toward Kaylee. The shift in stance had pointed your chest in her direction, and when her eyes trailed down to the neckline of your pink dress, a gleam of satisfaction sparked in your settled gaze when she paled.

“I-I wasn’t—“ It was entirely discomforting to watch her flounder beside you on the grass; never the type to gravel in somebody else’s misfortunes even if embarrassment was warranted.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to stand beneath the weight of pointless backtracking for long, being called away toward the stairs leading up to the deck by your fellow sorer and Kappa’s esteemed, motivated president. Leighton wasn’t at the top anymore, no longer glancing down at the mingling bodies and warm smiles of performative friendliness scattered around the backyard as you took them slowly, with a slight swing in your hips that was probably unnecessary.

You hadn’t been paying attention to the music that was playing in the background. It was soft but just loud enough to provide a safety net in moments where conversation dwindled. When it cut out abruptly, and Madison clapped her hands together three times, every single set of eyes on the premise was on you — all except one chilling pair.

Leighton hovered in the back corner. The baby blue blazer draped around her shoulders brought out the clarity in her complexion. Leighton didn’t have perfect skin. She’d never attended class sporting pimple patches as evidence of any hormonal breakouts, but there are times when you look at her, and you can see the texture in her skin. Her pores look blurred from where you stand, nerves bubbling with familiar attentiveness. She’s not looking at anything in particular, you trace her gaze to the side of the house where a white fence is overgrown with rose vines.

“Hello! Welcome to Kappa — where sisterhood is sparkly, sacred, and so much more than just matching sweatshirts, okay?” Madison began spiritedly, and while the painstakingly curated hook had the designated effect on the majority of pledges, Leighton wasn’t captivated by the stereotypical cutesy inflection. You’d suggested that Madison refine the speech, that maybe it was time to down back how much they really leaned into the whole shtick of it all. The corners of your lips twitch at Leighton’s cold indifference. She’s the only one you’re looking for. “I’m Madison Hart, Kappa’s president! Now, before I get too carried away bragging about how amazing this year is going to be — and trust me, it is — for those of you who make it through initiation, at least.” Madison giggled. I’d like to introduce you to Y/N Y/L/N. Unfortunately, our Vice President couldn’t be here with us today, but Y/N is our absolutely amazing treasure, and she was willing to come in her place. She keeps our books tighter than last year’s formal dresses and yes, she did get a five in AP Calc.” Madison smiled, but your face flamed with heat. You hadn’t known she was going to include that. It wasn’t mentioned any of the seven times she made you listen to this while over the course of the last week.

Out of the corner of your eye, because it was impossible not to be drawn to Leighton when the pastel blue of her blazer stuck out amongst the crowd of whites and bubblegum pinks starkly, you could see her lips quirk upwards, but her eyes never lingered toward Madison’s voice for even a second. It bothered you, but you don’t know why. This is typical Leighton behavior.

“To all our pledges, I cannot wait to get to know each and every one of you…assuming you survive the next two weeks. I’m kidding! Kind of. Anyways, get ready for glitter, giggles, and growth, because you’re not just joining a sorority— you’re joining the sorority!” There’s such a stark difference between someone like you and someone like Madison, but you don’t have the attention span to consider where the vault line rests. “Now, before I let you all get back to mingling, Y/N has a few things to say!”

You smiled softly, waving your hand at the crowd. Your eyes pass over Leighton again, unconsciously, you don’t even mean to, but it pangs your heart slightly to realize she’s still absorbed in the rose petals on her right.

“Hi everyone! I’m seriously so excited to see all of your faces. It makes all the spreadsheet stress and hours on Excel worth it.” Your lips curve into a gentle grin, one that conveys just how serious you take this event. “I’m incredibly lucky to be serving as treasurer for the second year with Kappa. Now, I know money talk isn’t exactly the glamorous part of sorority life, but I promise— it’s what keeps this all running. My role is to make sure that we can take quality sisterhood retreats as well as maintain our traditional events. Kappa has been a delightful presence in my life, and I aim to provide the same experiences for you and our chapter again this year.” You pause for a moment, letting your eyes sweep over the faces in the crowd.

A few of the girls you recognize from a handful of random classes, but nobody sticks out like Leighton does. Your eyes land on her again, and this time she’s looking directly at you. Her stare is chilling, but not in a way that turns you cold and hollow. She fills you with warmth and butterflies; you know she’d hate that if you ever told her.

When Leighton realizes that you haven’t paused to give the crowd a chance to absorb the information you’d just projected with ease, her blonde brow raises questioningly; challengingly. You swallow thickly, a lump bobbing in your throat when your mouth is suddenly dry in an instant.

If Leighton notices the effects of her wordless gesture over you, there’s no indication in her stone features that command you keep going at all odds. “So, to our new baby Kappas; you are so welcome here. If you ever need anything — help with dues, advice, or just someone to sit with during a movie night — I’m your girl. This house isn’t just about the events or the merchandise. It’s about real connection, and I cannot wait to see how each and every one of you shine in your own way. Some of you might not be with us at the end of these two weeks, but even your consideration at all is enough for Kappa to welcome you anytime in the future. Welcome home, and please, enjoy the refreshments. There’s more inside if it gets too warm out here.”

Madison waved her hands encouragingly, and the music started playing again. You barely had a chance to step off the stairs before conversation swept you up, carrying you through the backyard in a loop until you ended up in the living room with a bottle of water and three girls surrounding you cheerfully. You didn’t know how it was accomplished; how one person finished with you and another swept you up in a second like they’d been waiting in line for a turn.

Leighton somehow evaded you during the entire ordeal. One minute she’d still been standing beside the gate in the corner, and the next she’d been nowhere in sight. You’d be lying if you denied that your heart had sank to your belly thinking she’d left without saying anything, but quickly was that thought buried. You hadn’t let yourself dwell on the thought of her, but then it genuinely had fallen away from your mind, and all that consumed you was getting to know these pledges so when she did cross your gaze again, the breath was stolen from your lungs.

Somehow, there was an angel looking out for you in that single moment. As Leighton crossed your path, her head inclining toward the stairs that she knew led to your bedroom, the three pledges in front of you glanced at the television screen that Madison had set to project a clock. They excused themselves politely, like the majority of the other pledges had done, and you’d taken advantage of the three seconds of isolation you found in that moment to escape upstairs to find Leighton.

It didn’t take much scrounging to find. All of your bedroom doors had been tightly closed in preparation of having a few hundred people swarming the backyard and downstairs living areas, but now yours was cracked, a faint glow stretching out into the hallway. Leighton adored the gold wire lamp shaped like a star on your nightstand. It doesn’t shock you to find it on when you push the door open enough to slip inside.

“You came.” You smiled tenderly, your features melting as you took in the sight of Leighton in your bedroom, dressed up for an event that was so entirely you, and so distinctly not her. Leighton is silly, and soft, and incredibly stubborn, and sure she’s a legacy socialite who belongs at this function more than you do, but it’s not her. Leighton is sneaky hookups in the pouring rain. She’s black eyeliner and lip liner that matches the darker hue around her nipple when they peddle so prettily beneath your fingers. Leighton is tight cuddling in bed, and only socks in the dorm hallway not slippers, never slippers. Leighton Murray doesn’t own a pair of slippers and she hasn;t since she was six. You don’t know how you know that, or if Leighton even realizes you remember her telling you one time and one time only.

Leighton shrugged, her fingers toying with the shade over your lamp. Her chronic nonchalance unsettles you deeply, even after all this time fooling around in the dark. “I wanted to see what it was all about.”

“You’re sure that’s all you came for?” Your lips pull taunt; considering. You know her better than that, you know that she didn’t drag her ass to this sorority house just to watch you from a distance for hours. She’d done a lot of things for you, but wasting her time is not something you’d ever ask. Your intentions were clear when you’d asked her over, but you’d expected her later on, halfway through, or even not at all. But here she was, dressed to impress, standing in your bedroom, flush from the heat of the sun on her skin for hours with no true purpose.

Leightons fingers curl around the threaded chord beneath the lampshade and in a second your bedroom is drenched in darkness, the blinds closed, blocking out the still bright abyss of blue beyond the window. “No.” She answers and your core clenches at her sultry tone, dampness pooling in your panties as she stalks forward with seduction in her every soft footstep.

“Oh?” You lead, and Leighton scoffs as she closes the gap between your bodies, her hands settling heavily on your hips, attempting to claim you with just a simple touch. Her possession is addicting. When she’s not around, the weight of her hands on your hips, on your waist, on your inner thighs, and your neck… it lives in your memory, replays in your head. Leighton knows that. She can tell just by looking at you right now that you’ll still be thinking of this moment later — this simple moment before she’s even done anything to your body.

“Do you know how hot you look in this dress?” Leighton groans, dragging her teeth down your neck when she cranes her head to fall into the pocket of darkness between your jaw and shoulder. Your hair tickles her cheek as she sucks a purple bruise into the crevice of your neck, and the hairs on the back of your neck prickle in response to the sensation as you sigh contentedly. “So fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” You whisper, your eyes fluttering closed as your head lulled sideways in submission, providing more surface area for Leightons lips to taste in her descent. She kisses down the sweetheart neckline of the pink dress, and her lips are moist, soft, even the nude lipstick she wears feels like velvet as she drags it across your skin tantalizingly.

“Yeah.” Leighton confirmed as she pulled away, a lustful haze over her eyes as her blown pupils corrupted her brown stare until glittering black stared back at you. “But I need you to take it off. Right now. If you think I didn’t see you shaking your ass when you climbed those stairs, you’re fucking delusional.” The heat of her accusation leaves goosebumps on your skin, and you shudder as you comply.

“I know you saw me.” You whispered as you spun around, sweeping your hair to one side of your neck in favor of exposing the hidden zipper in the back. Madison had needed to help you get into it in the first place, but Leightons fingers felt better at the nape of your neck, toying with the clasp of your necklace.

“Pearls are a girl's best friend, you know.” Leighton murmured against your skin, stepping closer until the soft fabric of her blazer brushed against your exposed shoulders. A tremble jostled your frame, weakening your knees.

Your eyebrows furrowed through the haze of your arousal, your head craning just slightly to steal a glance at Leighton over your shoulder. “I thought that was diamonds.” You panted breathlessly, your eyes fixed on her lips, unable to envision anything other than her pert nipples.

”Not when I’m the one playing with them.” Leighton husked and your eyes fluttered shut, your head falling backwards onto her shoulder as you breathed heavily, your body alight with heat. It was a slight shock when the zipper began to glide down your spine, Leighton deciding to finally begin undressing you when you’d least expected it. “I’ll save that for another time.” Leighton smirked as she stepped away from your body, letting her nimble fingers guide the straps of your dress away from your shoulders until nothing was keeping the fabric on your body.

It pooled around your ankles in loose crumbles and Leighton helped you step out of it with a hand in yours that eagerly led you toward the bed in the center of the room, unable to hold herself back anymore when it had been hours upon hours of being on her best behavior, something that Leighotn’s admittedly not very good at. She knows how to make up for it though.

She spins you around with ease, trapping you against her chest until she can walk the both of you back into the bed, falling on top of your frame with a graceful ease. The second your body meets the mattress she’s grabbing your wrists and guiding them over your head, holding them down whilst her lips press into yours. The weight of her on top of you, fully clothed while the only garment you still sport is your lace panties that are undeniably sodden through completely.

Her kiss is enough to break you beneath her hands, every thought leaving your brain until all you can consider is that everything with Leighton feels perfectly right and earned. Her fingers slide away from your wrists when she gathers that you’re not going to be moving without her consent anytime soon, a dazzling smirk on her features as she pulls away from the bruising kiss you’d shared to instead press her fingertips into your clit above your panties.

“Fuck, you’re so god damn wet.” Leighton cursed, easing her fingers into small tight circles that were annoyingly soft against your core. She grinned when you huffed probing your entrance when your eyes screwed shut in frustration. “Does this get you off? Getting fucked like a slut while your sisters are still downstairs entertaining pledges?”

“Does this get you off? Fucking a girl with people downstairs? None of them aware of the fact that the Leighton Murray is a lesbian.” Your eyes burn with fire, passion, desire. They snap open at her teasing, her practiced degrading that incorporates the slightest illusion of voyeurism. Your rebuttal is a low blow, one that you’d typically refrain from letting past your lips, but you have no control over what you’re saying, and you know that it’ll piss her off enough to actually get working on your body that’s eager to be completely unmade and re-written by her touch.

Leighton knows that you’d never rush her out of the closet. She knows that you have no desire to make things public, not when you’d rather keep any and all relationships a few hundred feet away from the girls you share a house with. You adore them, but any conversation regarding romance doesn’t end for at least three hours on a good day and selfishly you want to keep Leighton all to yourself.

“You’ll say anything to get fucked, won’t you?” Leighton groans before she smashes her lips against yours again, all while easing your panties to the side and sinking two fingers into your walls. The whine that falls off of your lips is entirely pathetic, and it fuels Leightons ego as she doubles her efforts to a quick climax. She knows you hate when she forces it out of you, when she takes advantage of how well she knows your body and works you up fast and quick. “When are you going to learn?” She pouts condescendingly, her lips downturns into a pout that is so painfully sweet it makes your eyes glimmer with tears because you know how insincere it is. Leighton lives for these moments when you give her exactly what she claims she doesn’t want, though both of you know deflection is her default.

“Fuck!” You whine, fists grabbing handfuls of the pastel yellow sheets beneath your body. You wriggle beneath her, fighting to escape the intense pleasure she unleashes on your cunt as her thumb rubs over your clit harshly. It’s only a minute longer before you explode around her fingers with spasming walls. “Fuck, fuck!” You clasp a hand over your mouth, paranoid about how loud you let yourself be when people are around. You might make quips and digs about the risky situations you get yourselves into, but neither one of you wants to face the music if anyone comes knocking.

Leighton doesn’t make any effort to overstimulate you, which immediately relaxes you on the bed as you pant for breath with flushed cheeks. She strips out of her pantsuit at the edges of your bed, looming over your sprawled out frame with confidence and conviction that reminds you how much power she holds over you. Maybe there's not much that separates you and Leighton besides a few points on your GPA’s,

“God, I want you to eat my pussy.” She groans as she takes in the sight to your body, her hands bracing on your hips as she lies ned forward. “But first, we need to take these off of you.” She notes, and you lift your hips cooperatively for her, shivering when cold air blows against your warm core. Your hips jump and Leighton smirks, her hands trailing up until they find your breasts, rolling your nipples between her fingertips.

Your own eyes glance at her exposed body. Her nipples are pebbled already, a nude turned pinky color rimmed with a darker toned neutral, and the insides of her thighs gleam with arousal that’s wept from her entrance, ruined her panties, and begun to drip down the insides of her thighs when she pressed her legs together. Her composure is better than yours, but not even Leighton can resist the feelings you spark over her body without even trying.

She crawls over your body seductively, her damp thighs dragging along the curves of your waist, You huff in stifled amusement when she turns around over your face, her cunt hovering over your mouth, her ass attempting sight above your eyes, Your hands held her thighs, pulling her down onto your face without her compliance. Leighton said nothing about your eagerness, too consumed with the broad strokes of pleasure your tongue pulled from her core abruptly.

“Fuck.” She breathed as she fell forward, sinking down father and farther until her head was between your thighs, her hands prying your thighs open until she could plunge her tongue into your entrance where her fingers had just been, easing you through the brief moment of overstimulation when her tongue flicked your sensitive clit for the first time. “You’re still so wet.” Her words reverberate through your clit, and your head spins at the sensations shooting through your body.

Your own tongue laps at her core, at her clit specifically before it sinks to her entrance, dipping in until the tangy nectar she drips coats your tongue in thickness that’s not easily dissolved. You don’t care, lapping and slurping at her with frivolous motions that become uncoordinated the farther she works you up with her own tongue between your thighs.

Leighton pulls away from your pussy when your tongue plunges against her g-spot, pressing into the spongy part of her walls with strained efforts to even reach that far at all. “Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.” She groans before she dives back in, taking one a single deep breath before she’s attacking you with ambition she somehow didn’t possess before and you didn’t think it possible now.

“Cum with me, cum with me.” She pants against your core, her nails digging into your thighs as her hips jerk across your face, seeking even more pleasure from you though you don’t complain, you’d never complain about having her thighs wrapped around her head and her warm core on your tongue heavily and fully. ”Come on, baby, come with me.”

It doesn’t take much encouragement, or really any at all; Leighton’s tongue is more than enough of a motivator for you as it licks a broad stripe from your weeping, clenching, quivering entrance to your sensitive clit before she creates a suction around your engorged bundle of nerves and sucks deeply, sending stars shooting through your vision. Your nails dig into her thighs the same way hers dig into yours, and your hips are wide on the mattress as they squirm and attempt to hump, though the weight of her on top of you prevents your body from being able to do much without her permission.

You work Leighton through her orgasm as she works you through yours, trailing kisses down your thighs when she leaves your clit alone for the night decisively. You don’t take the same initiative, licking soft stripes and strokes across her thighs until they gleam with evidence of your saliva instead of her arousal.

Leighton slides off of you after a moment, her chest rising and falling heavily as she settles into the pillows beside you. Once upon a time, she’d adamantly rejected staying the night with you after, but the sun has fallen behind trees now, and neither one of you are keen on another round, but she doesn’t make any indication of getting up to crawl back to her down. Instead, she reaches beneath her body and grabs the corner of your comforter, pulling it around her body with enough maneuvering to have you huffing and doing the same, figuring if one of you is going to be comfortable it should at least be you in your own bed.

“You’re staying?” You ask with heavy eyelids. You’ve been going nonstop lately trying to see this event through, but now that it is over, just another fond memory to look back on in a couple of years down the road, you’re burnt out and exhausted.

“Mhm. That okay?” Leighton always looked so insecure when you caught her in moments like this, and it makes your heart ache, because someone so talented and sweet and deserving of good things in life should be the last person constantly torn apart with worry that she’s not enough.

“Yeah.” You answer, because you would’ve never dreamed of saying no to begin with, but it feels too daunting to tell her that, so you don’t, and Leighton might never know you were thinking it at all. ”You should pee. I should pee.”

You roll over onto Leighton’s chest, your head burrowed against her breaths comfortably as you sigh dramatically. “We could always just stay here and take our chances with a UTI.”

”Chlamydia scared me into safe sex habits. Get up.” She settles you with a stern glare, even though you look so precious draped across her chest, and you find yourself complying with a dramatic sigh.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t know sleeping with women could still lead to STDs.” You scoffed softly, clambering out of bed with her, your hand finding hers instinctively. If Leighton thought anything of your clinginess, she didn’t say anything as she led you to the ensuite bathroom you’d been lucky enough to claim.

“I adamantly denied being a lesbian until I met you, and then I spiraled for two months until I finally had the balls to go up to you at that party. I mean, it was probably only a month and two weeks, but I had to wait for the Chlamydia to clear up.” She mutters, and you wonder if anybody would even believe you if you went and ran your mouth on campus about Leighton Murray’s sex live and sexuality, it certainly clashed with her reputation on campus, but it just made perfect sense to you. Everything about her makes perfect sense to you.

”Yes, thank you for that.” You mused sarcastically, shivering as you sat down on the toilet, cursing yourself for not at least grabbing a change of clothes from the dresser when you’d stumbled past it. “It’s freezing in here.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just always cold after.” Leighton rolled her eyes, and you pouted petulantly at her. When you’d first met, she never would batted an eye at whether you were cold or not after she’d just entirely recreated your definition of euphoria, but then you’d softened her heart, and now she can’t help but think of all the little things that make you who you are.

“Stop knowing things about me.” You smile softly, and Leighton smirks as she switches places with you on the toilet, something that makes you giggle with a domestic warmth before you retreat to the sink, pumping two handfuls of coconut scented soap into your palm. ”Do you want sweats or shorts?”

“Panties.” Leighton answered and you rolled your eyes but nodded, turning toward the bedroom to grab the clothes that she’d requested for the night ahead of the both of you.

[yelenaslore]

boot-riding and just being mean with renee rapp? her being a top would be perfect too if possible <3

Request: yes Title: Pity Fuck Pairing: Reneé Rapp X Reader Genre: Smut CW/TW: Dom!reneé, sub!reader, masochistic reader, degradation kink, boot riding, reader gets slapped across the face, Summary: Reader is ovulating and reneé decides to relief them, but only on her terms.

You always hated the way it felt to be ovulating. For a solid week all you could think of was sex. It wasn't even liek you meant to. Your whole body pleaded for it, to a point where you could honestly look borderline addicted to it. Your drive went up tenfold of what it was, and let's be honest it's not like you were a prude during the rest of the month either. But right now, you were a sorry mess. In the car with your girlfriend while the chauffer drove you both home. you'd begged her for so much, promising all kinds of things for a sliver of a chance like you were a damn politician. ''God, you're pathetic." She spat out, the words coming across harshly. But it was all agreed upon. She'd never cross the line of what you could handle. "can't even keep your trap shut for five damn minutes? are you seriously that much of a whore?" You whined, trying to straddle her thigh to get some relief by grinding down, only to have her remove you forcefully from her lap and slap your face. "Ah ah ah-ah. i never said you could touch me. Fucking dumb slut... you're so desperate your brain stopped working?" Reneé growled and your thighs squeezed shut, using your own bod to form a bit of friction to relief yourself but it was far from enough... "I- i've- i've been good... please... mommy" you whimpered, through teary eyes as a bodily response to having your face struck so abruptly. "God- mommy needs a break." She rolled her eyes at your needy whines, you were so persistent, and she found it amusing but she also knew that sometimes you needed her to be rough and manhandle you like you were nothing to her. ''I b-behaved- mommy- i.. i d-deserve a r-reward?" You tried pleading, trying to change tactics from demanding to bargaining. She suddenly shoved you from the backseat to the car floor in front of her, your knees hitting the carpet hard enough you knew you'd get friction burns but right about now you could not care less about it. "Lick my boot." She commanded, er tone leaving no space for discussions. It wasn't a request and you knew it. This was particularly humiliating.. but god... if it was what you needed to do for her to let you get some relief you would do it in a heartbeat You held her feet, raising her boot up to your face, and kissed the leather before starting to lick it clean... Your free hand went to your pussy rubbing your clit. Reneé took notice of it and pushed you against the back of the front seat immobilizing you and stunning you a bit. When you understood why she did it you stopped touching yourself with a sound of protest and went back to running your tongue along the authentic leather of her platform boots. Once she was satisfied she lowered her boots down to between your legs rubbing them against your pussy taking advantage of your mini-skirt. "You were so damn desperate, where did all that bravado go huh? You're so ridiculous, i honestly feel sorry for you." You whimpered, rolling your hips against her boot. "I'm gonna let you ride my boots. But just because really, you're a trainwreck. It's your pity fuck, and that's as best as you're getting from me until we get home. Am i being clear, pet?" You nodded, and began to thrust your hips, sliding and grinding down on the tip of her boot, finding the friction of the leather on your dripping wet cunt to be a much needed relief.

Your spit that had cleaned the boot served as further lubrication, and after a bit you were really bouncing up and down on the boot, seeking as much friction as you could get. "I'm- i'm gonna- c-can i-" You whined, only for her to force your chin down making your mouth open wide. Before you could finish your sentence a huge glob of spit landed on the back of your throat silencing you as you swallowed it. You didn't need to think. She nodded and pressed her boot a bit more against you helping you through the motions until your pleasure bubble burst making you bite your own hand to cover your moans. At this point you were sure that the chauffer was getting paid extra to deal with this kind of nonsense and not tell anyone. "That's my pretty little slut. You looked so rpetty fucked out like that, on your knees like the filthy little bitch you are. Now can you finally shut up? We're almost home." Reneé stated and raised one eyebrow, holding your chin to force you to glance at her. You swallowed dryly and sighed, nodding and then resting your head on her thighs until you both got home... Safe to say... the rest of the night was similar. And you sure as all hell were not about to complain.

[yelenaslore]

Requestion: Renee x Reader where Reader, Renee’s gf, finally gets to see Renee play Regina on broadway for the first time. Reader thinks it’s the hottest thing ever and Renee notices after the show. She’s all smug and teasing about it, being a bit mean to Reader in a playful way. Smut in the dressing room ensues

Embodiment of Mean Girls

|| Reneé Rapp x fem!reader

|| Warnings; smut, degrading, reader called slut/whore, Reneé using reader, knee riding, fingering, dom Reneé sub reader, control kink, mommy kink, mentions of praising kink, choking kink, mentions of being used/treaded like a toy, Reneé slaps reader a few times, orgasms, soft Reneé at the end for after care, public ish sex

|| Summary; when reader watches Reneé as Regina George for the first time, she's turned on... to say the least.

Requests closed!

Started; December 4th

Finished; December 8th

~~~

Broadway. Your girlfriend, Reneé Rapp, was a broadway star. Sometimes you still struggled to wrap your head around that. When she first told you she was Regina George, you thought she was messing with you. Like, okay Reneé where's the camera? Kind of joke. Only she was completely serious. You were floored. How could your silly, chaotic girl be Regina George? The embodiment of mean girls? It didn't make sense to you.

Until you saw her preform for the first time and oh my God. Your life was changed. Like, seriously. Changed. From one performance. Your eyes had been on her the entire time, watching her every movement. Hanging to her every word, every song. She was incredible. And so... so damn hot. If you weren't already gay, well. You definitely were now. She would have been your awakening. You couldn't wait to get to her after the show.

When you do finally get to see her, Reneé's in her dressing room. Scrolling through her phone. Just taking a moment to collect herself after the adrenaline rush of being on stage. As the door opened, she glanced at you with a smile. It didn't take Reneé long at all to see the way you were looking at her. There was lust and desire in your eyes, which amused the star.

She stood from her chair, setting her phone on the desk and walking over to you. Hands resting to your shoulders with a grin," hey, baby. You doing okay?" Reneé couldn't help but tease. Her tone whenever she called you 'baby'... well, it only made your desire for her worse. You gave her a nod in response and brought her flush against you. Kissing her deep. A small moan left Reneé and her lips danced with yours in perfect rhythm. God, she couldn't get enough of you either. Her hands cupped your cheeks, trying to deepen the kiss impossibly further.

All you could do was moan and let her take control. There were few times where you submitted to Reneé, because Reneé usually liked you having the control. But having just played someone with a very dominant personality on stage, it's clear it hasn't fully gotten out of her system yet.

The kiss broke and you brought Reneé to the chair. You took a seat, then looked up at her with a grin," degrade me?" You requested. Which caught Reneé off guard for a moment. It wasn't usually something you asked her to do. She knew you had a praising kink, but she never considered that you might also have a degrading kink.

"You want to be mommy's slut?" She replied, her hand going to your throat. Straddling herself in your lap. All you could do was nod and whimper for her, begging her to do more. To use you, make her your personal toy. It happened before you even realized what was going on; Reneé's other hand slapped you across the face. Her hand on your throat growing tighter.

A gasp left you, squirming in the seat. Reneé's eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation or unwanting. When all she found was desire, she continued," you liked that, didn't you? Such a filthy little slut.." She slapped you again. Grinding her clit down against your knee. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless moan. Needing her to touch you in your core. The more she seemed to refuse, tease you, edge you. The stronger the need for it came. Until you were begging under her.

"Neé-" you'd started to say, only to be met with another slap and sharp eyes. Looking at you expectantly. Like you'd done something wrong. Your mind was too foggy to catch onto what she was saying. Hinting at. It wasn't until she spoke did you understand.

"What's my name?" Reneé asked, your whole body shuddered. Trying to avoid her eyes. Looking at literally anything else in the room, even taking the time to read some of the show posters on the dressing room wall. When she noticed your eyes wandering, she forced your attention back to her with a bruising kiss. And when your eyes opened again, Reneé looked into them," well?"

"Mommy," you murmured. Reneé seemed satisfied. She used your knee until she came. Taking her damn sweet time. Messing with you. Prolonging your turn for as long as she could. Until she finally caved and gave you the touch you wanted. Your eyes rolled back, head slumping against the back rest of the chair as Reneé fingered you.

"Such a good little whore, aren't you?" Reneé smirked, trailing bruising kisses along your neck," keep your moans quiet, baby. Wouldn't want the stage crew to hear, would you? Unless you're into that kind of thing.. maybe you're more of a slut than I thought," Reneé continued her tease. Loving the way it seemed to take effect on you. How you just melted into her.

It wasn't long after until you were cumming onto her fingers. Making a mess she knew they would have to clean up, not wanting someone to realize what they did in here. But for now, her focus was on you. Easing you down from your orgasm. Relaxing your breathing. Encouraging you through your breaths. A complete 180 from how she was behaving only moments before.

Reneé helped you drink some water from the bottle she had after her show. You didn't care that it was hers, after all. It wasn't the first time the two of you shared liquids. Pulling away when you were done, Reneé sat herself in your lap. Examining your cheeks, making sure you were okay from when she'd slapped you. She didn't want to have caused actual harm to you.

"I'm okay," you assured her. Taking a breath between your words. Her eyes locked to yours and Reneé relaxed.

"You sure, baby?" When you nodded, she didn't press further about it. But did still keep an eye on you.

Just in case.

[yelenaslore]

Sweetness

WARNINGS: discussion of smut, aftercare, hella teasing from both — A/N? - 1.8k words + gn!reader !! ⯌ summary: when reneé's partner needs aftercare, she's more than willing to take care of them; however, shenanigans will always ensue.

She could do this all day, but you weren't sure if you could.

"Come on, baby," She crooned in your ear, her ring-clad fingers running over the soft skin of your thighs. "You're doing so well. Give me another one," Her breath fanned against your neck as she hummed in your ear, her tone both hot and cold.

Her touch left a trail of goosebumps where they followed, and you almost gave in—if it weren't for the way you were trembling from your previous orgasms, you would have.

You whimpered softly, craving more, but you knew that you were at your limit. "I-I can't," You whined, your eyes pleading. When she realized that you meant it, her hand stopped where it was and she gently squeezed your thigh reassuringly, her chin coming to rest on your shoulder. "That's okay, love. We don't have to do anything if you don't want to," She cooed. "I stop when you do, okay? Always."

A sigh of relief parted your lips as she pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder, moving her arms to wrap around your waist from behind. "I'm sorry, Reneé," You uttered shakily, still trying to come down from your last release. She whispered in your ear softly as she moved to bury her face in your neck. "No, don't be, love. It's okay if you're tired, I understand," She breathed. You smiled at her level of compassion, and you felt your body sink into her warmth as she breathed in your scent.

The two of you stayed there for a while as you settled down, your eyes fluttering as you leaned back into her embrace. After a bit, Reneé spoke up, though her voice didn't interrupt the peace—it just re-instated it and reassured you. "Let's get you cleaned up and taken care of, hm?" She suggested, to which you nodded and sighed. "Good. Bathtime for my precious baby!"

Reneé slid off the bed and offered her hand to you. "I don't wanna get up," You groaned playfully, reaching out to take her hand so she could pull you up. She chuckled and quirked a brow. "Baby, I can't pull you up just by your hand. You have to give me some leeway," She tutted, but you didn't do anything to help as you giggled. "I don't feel like it, Nae," You whined. She playfully rolled her eyes. "Then I may as well carry you."

"Please?" You begged with your best puppy-dog eyes.

"You're lucky you're cute," She bit with a teasing tone.

She let go of your hand and bent down to get a decent grip on you, lifting you in her arms before carrying you to the bathroom, bridal-style. You both giggled softly, and she gently helped you sit down on the edge of the bath tub, which was cold against your bare skin.

"I'll start the water," She hummed, reaching over to mess with the faucets until you heard the sound of the water running. Reneé tilted her head to you with a soft smile before offering the bottle of bath bubbles to you, saying, "Bubbles?" You nodded quickly with a giggle of excitement. "Duh, what's a bath without them?"

Before you knew it, the sound of the water stopped and the tub was filled with warm water and bubbles. Reneé quickly undressed and pulled her hair back into a claw clip, taking your hand once you were done. "Ready?" She hummed; quickly, you nodded, and she helped you into the bath.

Knowing you two, you spent most of the time goofing off than actually relaxing—she tried to style your hair with the bubbles and you ended up looking like Santa Clause; you took a chance to splash water on her, to which she responded with a bigger wave and water ended up all over the edge of the tub and the floor (if you must know, she won). You two didn't get out until the water started getting cold and Reneé started complaining about it—then, you two turned on the shower to bathe each other and got out.

"Baby, quit eating all of the fucking fruit!" Reneé hissed, swatting your hand away from the basket of strawberries. You whined and glared at her, rolling your eyes defiantly. "It's just strawberries, Nae," You bit, reaching to grab one, only for her to bat your hand away before getting back to picking out the best-looking ones. "Y/N, if you keep eating them, there won't be any left for the fruit salad," She shot back. You held her stare for a few moments and she quirked a brow, daring you to try again. You sighed and gave up, rolling your eyes and taking a walk around the island. "Fine, but only because I want to!"

Reneé chuckled softly, "You only want to because I said so."

"No, I only want to because I want it to be perfect," You lied. She rolled her eyes, giggling softly. "You're so cute when you lie."

You watched as she picked the berries out, her mind running like clockwork as she thought of what to put in the salad; there were a lot of things about Reneé, but one thing you knew was that she made an amazing fruit salad. Even though you offered to help, she insisted that you didn't ... something about 'taking care of you' or whatever, but you couldn't deny that it genuinely made your heart melt a little bit.

So, you mostly watched in awe. For a second, Reneé turned her back to go get more fruit—when you saw your chance to snag a few strawberries, you tried to take it.

Keyword: tried.

"I dare you—you aren't slick, baby," Reneé hissed, causing you to stop in your tracks and groan; you don't know how the fuck she saw you with her head still in the fridge.

"Pleaaase?" You whined, frowning slightly. She pulled her head from the fridge and looked at you, a look of defeat on her pretty face. "Fine, but only a few."

You took a little less than a handful before scurrying back over to the island, watching her continue to work. You kept trying to help, which led to her allowing you to cut the fruit, but then she made you keep watching.

Unfortunately for her, it didn't take long for you to get bored—when you got bored, you got mischievous. It was a valid response, of course.

While Reneé began to mix the large bowl of fruit up, you came up behind her and snaked your arms around her waist. "Hey, babe," She chuckled softly, continuing to mix. You rested your chin on her shoulder and watched as she worked, your breath hot against her neck. "Hey," You purred. With that tone, she immediately knew that you were up to something. "Not now, baby. Don't even think about it," She warned playfully. She continued to mix the fruit together, fixated on her task; she looked so cute when she was focused—her eyes squinted a bit, and her lips were pursed together.

"Or what, angel?" You cooed, beginning to press soft kisses to the side of her neck. She hissed softly but tilted her head slightly, giving you more access. "I'm warning you, Y/N/N. Don't start something you can't finish," She warned. You rolled your eyes and tightened your grip on her waist, letting your kisses get a bit rougher as your tongue darted out every-now-and-then. She sighed softly and hummed, stopping her movements as she seemed to debate how to react.

Suddenly, before you could respond, she dropped the spoon in the bowl and pulled you in for a kiss. You yelped in surprise before melting into it, your hand resting on the small of her back while hers grasped your jaw. She pulled back abruptly, slightly out of breath. You went to pull her closer, but she pulled away with a smirk on her face. "It's too bad I'm busy," She chastised playfully. You frowned, eyes narrowing. "Go sit at the island, I'm almost done."

"Fine," You whined, spinning on your heels only to feel a sharp slap on your ass. You yelped sharply, turning to see Reneé with the goofiest, yet most smug smirk on her face. "That's for not listening," She teased before getting back to the counter. You mumbled and walked back to the island, sitting on one of the chairs.

At this point, Reneé was basically done—she was just spooning your fruit salad into the bowl and drizzling honey on it. And God, did it look beautiful, and so did the woman that made it. It literally looked like heaven in a bowl; it was a mixture of fruits, such as pineapple, strawberries, blueberries, kiwi, and more sitting on top of Greek yogurt—then, she topped it with a bit of honey and granola.

"You can pick up your jaw," She chuckled. "I know it looks good, but you might want to try it, first."

You grabbed your bowl and ran back over to the island, sitting down and immediately getting into it. Reneé giggled as she walked over and watched you practically inhale it, to which she tapped you gently and reminded you to slow down. "Damn, I'm glad it's good—but you should probably savor it."

Your girlfriend took a seat beside you, not quite digging in, yet—she connected her phone to the speaker and started playing Chappell Roan, the first song being Pink Pony Club.

While you ate and paced yourself, you and Reneé started talking about random shit—work, music, and what TV show to binge-watch together next. Once you finished, you washed the dishes for her; while you did, she came up behind you and gripped your hips, pressing herself against you. "How was it?" She hummed. You chuckled softly, finishing up the last dish and shutting off the faucet. "It was great, and super sweet," You responded as you dried your hands off. You turned so that you'd be face to face, your smirk wide. "But I think you'd be even better."

Reneé clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and leaned against you, pushing you back against the counter. "I thought you were tired?" She mused. You quickly responded. "Oh, I am," You smirked. "But that doesn't mean I can't take care of you now."

"I like the sound of that, baby," Reneé cooed sultrily before leaning forward, and you quickly cupped her cheek to pull her in for a kiss; as your lips met, her lips felt like fireworks against yours, and you could taste the sweetness of the honey on them. You traced her bottom lip with your tongue until she granted you access—your tongues wrestled for dominance, but this time, she let you win quickly. You spun her around so that she'd be pressed against the counter, ravaging and claiming her mouth as the kiss grew hotter; it was more passionate, more impatient.

After all, your girlfriend did deserve some appreciation after taking care of you all day.

[yelenaslore]

Fuck My Life (FML)

WARNINGS: mutual pining, caretaker!reneé, sick!reader — A/N? - 1.3k words + gn!reader, college!au !! ... towa bird reference(s) if u squint ⯌ summary: while reneé's best friend might be sick, she'll never be afraid to comfort and take care of her.

Believe it or not, today was supposed to be a good day.

The first thing to hit you when you woke up was a wave of nausea; then came the pounding headache, the aching of your muscles, and the urge to throw yourself off a cliff. Your stomach twisted and knotted in ungodly ways, which immediately pulled your aching limbs back into bed. You groaned, seeking comfort in curling against the havoc of blankets.

You took a moment to recover from the nausea, pinching the bridge of your nose. When you tried moving again, your limbs felt like they were on fire and your head felt like it might fall off your shoulders. Fine; you really were sick.

To be fair, you hadn’t felt this way in a while; you barely got sick, so it felt unfair to complain. And as much as you tried to peel yourself out of bed, your body ached when you tried to move. The thought of pushing through a day of classes or potentially getting others sick didn't help, either. You ran out of medicine from the last time you got sick, and you would've asked your dormmate and best friend, Reneé, to go get some for you, but just your luck; she left for class early this morning.

You stayed curled up in bed for a while. You knew you needed to check your temperature, take medicine, all of that good shit—but it was hard not to get demotivated by the cruelty of having to activate over 200 muscles just to get out of bed. Eventually, you managed to grab your phone and clamber out of bed, despite tripping over god knows what, and stumbled to the kitchen.

You fumbled with the thermometer for a good six seconds, then your eyes widened when your temperature read 102.7°. Where the fuck did the fever come from? Did it literally pop up overnight? Whatever, you’d just have to do what you could to break it.

Shuffling through the cabinet, you realized that it hadn’t been restocked since the last time you were sick; this had to be the devil’s timing. To no one's surprise, it wasn't long before Reneé started blowing up your phone.

nae baby, where are you? you haven't shown up to class. is everything okay? n/n i'm fine, i think i'm js sick is all

nae did u take any meds?

n/n we’re out lmao

nae omw.

You threw your phone on the counter and put your face in your hands. You would’ve told Reneé that it was fine, especially since you didn’t know if you were contagious, but your head throbbed like it was going to burst, and your stomach felt like it was being clawed from the inside—not to mention that Reneé was the most stubborn and determined person on Earth. Plus, the comfort of your best friend would help. It always did.

Begrudgingly, you gathered the motivation to walk back to your room and flop down on the mattress, burying your face in your pillow.

It didn’t take long for Reneé to get back to the dorm; she snagged some Tylenol and Ibuprofen from the CVS down the street and quickly let herself in. She refused to take any chances when it came to you.

“N/N?” She called out, walking around the suite. When she didn’t hear a response, she went to your room, which explained everything pretty well. You’d fallen asleep in a span of five minutes. She swore you could fall asleep within seconds.

Reneé sat on the edge of your bed and gently shook you awake. You lifted your head and sighed, cracking a smile when you realized she was there. “Hey, baby,” Reneé hummed as she looked down at you. “How are you feeling?”

“Hey, Nae. I feel shitty,” You giggled. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, clutching your stomach as it twisted. “I feel like the devil is tossing a salad in my stomach, and my brain feels like it’s literally on fire. That’s so cute, right?” You scoffed playfully. Reneé chuckled and rolled her eyes as she brought a hand to your forehead. You felt your heart flutter but pushed the feeling down and focused on getting better. She was just checking on you, that was it—and from the look on Reneé’s face, you didn’t need a thermometer to know you were burning up.

The blonde opened the Ibuprofen and handed you a few pills, along with the bottle of water on your dresser.

“What was your temp?” Reneé asked, concern etched on her face. You downed the pills before answering. “102.7 or some shit,” You sighed. Her brows raised in alarm. “Okay … did you eat?” You shook your head. “No, I don’t want to get sick.”

Reneé asked a few more questions, most of your answers being no because, well, you were sick. She went to the kitchen shuffled through the pantry to make chicken noodle soup for you. At first, you dreaded the idea of eating in fear of throwing up, but you did it anyway; it was amazing, to say the least.

“That’s why we listen to me,” Reneé teased.

You weren’t surprised when Reneé told you she was staying. Honestly, you appreciated it. You loved how caring and protective she was toward you, how she’d give up everything to be by your side. Just being with Reneé made you feel better, even if you physically felt like you’d been hit by a bus twelve times over.

The two of you curled up in bed and picked a random movie to watch together—Jennifer’s Body, to be exact.

Her warmth was the most comforting thing. You snuggled against her, resting your head on her shoulder and tangling your legs together. The contact made your brain feel fuzzy, but in a good way … in a soft, relieving way. You weren’t sure you’d ever loved anyone like you loved Reneé.

“Jennifer is so hot,” You murmured with a giggle, plenty loud enough for Reneé to hear. She quirked her brow gripped your chin, tilting her head down at you. “Oh, is she?” She hummed teasingly. You held eye contact for a few seconds that felt like centuries; her emerald green eyes, filled with flecks of olive and gray, were beyond mesmerizing. Like a dozen galaxies packed into one beautiful universe.

Your heart thudded at an ungodly speed before you responded. “Fine, I’m sorry,” You scoffed, leaning against her. Reneé smirked and chuckled smugly, releasing your chin to pat your head. “That's what I thought, baby,” She teased, biting her lip as she turned back to the screen.

It took everything in you to pretend like that didn’t make your stomach flutter. It was all friendly, and you knew that. You just loved and appreciated Reneé, really; that was all.

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep—though Reneé was surprised you lasted as long as you did. She looked down at you, a soft smile curling her lips. You looked so peaceful, so content; she’d kiss you if you weren’t sick.

The feel of your warmth against hers and the way you buried your head in her neck made her own eyes heavy. Reneé tightened her grip around your waist, rested her chin on your head, and let the movie blur into the background. She'd never been happier to have you in her life, and she was glad she could help. She hated when you weren't happy and felt like this.

In a few minutes, she was asleep against you, breathing soft as snow while her chest rose and fell. You both wished you could stay like this forever, tangled in each other's limbs and warmth. You were convinced being sick had never felt so good.

[yelenaslore]

☆ㅤ ㅤ RENEÉVERSE. ㅤㅤ /reh-nay • vurs/ ㅤㅤ in which i write for a 5'8 blonde lesbian with a massive rack and really small waist.

Fuck My Life! (FML) My Love Sweetness Exhausted

Warmth Put On a Show Pathetic Bet My Bitch Regret⁰¹ Passionate Distracted⁰¹ Designer Heels Filthy

Lover's Quarrel I'm (Not) Fine! Breathe For Me Angelic Distance

[yelenaslore]

designer heels , r. rapp

WARNINGS ; smut, dom!top!reneé, sub!bottom!reader, boot-riding but with heels — A/N? ; gn!reader + 2.0k words, reneé is mean as fuck = a lot of degradation ... enjoy!! ⯌ summary ; after days of teasing and denying her partner, reneé offers them a chance to earn the privilege.

YOUR CHIN RESTED on the edge of the bed as your blown pupils looked up at Reneé, her hands softly tangled in your hair as she looked down at you—her skin glistened and expression was fixed, and mockingly sympathetic. Like she hadn't just fucked herself in front of you and made you watch without being allowed to touch. Pushing you onto the floor when you whined about it too much, causing mild friction burns on your knees—but when she came to ruffle her hands in your hair, you forgot to care. You melted for her and hummed, leaning back into her touch as her narrowed gaze sharpened and her grip tightened. Desperate for even a sliver of permission, the only thing accompanying you two being oversized shirts and underwear.

"Look at you, baby," Reneé cooed, her tone dripping with faux-affection. "So desperate for me, aren't you?" You whined and nodded, feeling her gently tug on your scalp. A slight smirk graced her pretty lips as she hummed. "That's too bad, isn't it? You don't think you've earned anything, do you?"

You whined again, this time out of desperation. "Please," You whimpered. "I'll be good, please."

Reneé rolled her eyes with a sigh, tugging at your hair a bit more roughly. "You said that last time," She tsked. "You were doing so well, too. Where'd my good girl go?" You felt her grip in your hair tighten, her gaze sharper and more domineering.

You didn't know what to do or say—you were submitting to her, and still, she refused you. You swallowed and sighed, your gaze never leaving her. "Anything, Nae. I'll do an—"

"The fuck did you just call me?" She spat as her hand shot out to grab your chin, the points of her nails digging into your jaw—her tone never loud, but pointed and dangerous. You shrank beneath her and whimpered, sputtering to correct yourself. "I—fuck, I'm sorry, ma'am," You croaked, but her grip didn't let up. Her smirk widened and she tsked, shaking her head. "God, you just never learn, do you?" She scoffed before promptly spitting against your lips. "You want to fuck me, baby? In your dreams—touching me is a privilege you haven't earned. Got it?"

Your heart thudded in your chest and your body throbbed with need—hot, desperate need for her. Reneé had been teasing you for days yet haven't let you do anything—it got to a point where you physically couldn't take it anymore. You needed her, and you had to resist every urge to beg more to avoid punishment, your breathing quick-paced and your pupils dilated. Maybe it was her messy hair or the sweat clinging to her skin—or, maybe just the fact that she'd fucked herself in front of you and made you watch after days of teasing. Fuck, this wasn't unfair.

"… Yes, ma'am," You whispered weakly, melting into her merciless grip on your jaw. Her smirk cocked up as she saw you whine in defeat, her eyes slightly hooded and narrowed down at you—a glare that made your stomach twist in desperation. She stared in silence for a moment before breaking it with a breathy sigh, leaning her face a bit closer to yours. "You're gonna make it up to me, baby. Get my heels," She commanded, tilting her head with a wide smirk as her breath fanned across your lips. Obediently, you swallowed and stood up and went to the closet—getting the black heels she had on earlier when you two went out for promo. You didn't know what the fuck she was planning, but if it actually involved you, it was promising enough.

You spun around, and there she was—perched on the edge of the bed and feet planted in where your spot was supposed to be. Her expression was the same—smug and bitchy, lips contorted into a wide smirk of glory. She'd gotten you like this with a snap of her fingers.

She flung her hair over her shoulder and tilted her head a bit, her emerald gaze fixating on you. "Help me put them on," She purred lowly and authoritatively—her finger pointed sharply to the ground, almost as if to remind you of your place. You nodded and went over, kneeling before her and carefully sliding the heels on, her smirk widening above you before you felt a sharp stinging sensation in your scalp—before you could even process or think, her lips were on yours.

Not a soft, tender kiss—rough and messy, her tongue quickly being shoved into your mouth as you immediately melted into the kiss; no thinking, just feeling—craving from you both. You moaned softly and tilted your head to deepen it, only for her to pull away breathlessly and lick a strip up your lips before leaning back. Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed and, fuck, you needed her so badly.

You both panted until she suddenly grabbed your jaw, bringing your faces close together—her eyes brimmed with lust. You melted into her palm, which she chuffed at. "God, you're so fucking desperate," She scoffed. "You really want to earn it that badly, hm?"

You whimpered and nodded, to which Reneé squeezed your jaw painfully. "Words," She growled. "Yes, please," You whined with wide, desperate eyes. Oh, this was going to be fun.

"Fine," She shrugged. "Then ride my heel."

Eyes shot open in surprise, your stomach getting hot at the thought as you took your lip between your teeth—you should've known it'd be a fucking humiliation ritual. Your gaze never left her, checking to see if she was serious or just fucking with you—from you could tell, she meant it.

Reneé caught the cue and tilted her head. "I wasn't asking, baby. If you want anything from me, then ride my fucking heel."

You swallowed nervously, but regardless, you didn't hesitate. You scooted awkwardly on your knees until you hovered over her boot before properly mounting it, humming in satisfaction as the coolness of it met your soaked, clothed cunt. God, you weren't going to last. You bit your lip and looked up at the blonde, who smirked and whispered. "Go ahead, baby."

You froze for a moment before swallowing and obeying, slowly grinding against the tip of the heel—gasping softly at the feeling of the perfect friction; God, you needed more, and you'd take it. You increased your pace a bit but avoided going too fast—you had to warm yourself up and drag it out as much as possible; you were trying to please Reneé, after all.

"Look at you," She cooed, her head tilted down at you as you rolled your hips against the heel. "Trying to get off on my heel, hm? I didn't know you were that desperate," She scoffed. "Attention-whore, much?"

You whimpered in response. Reneé's smirk widened as she clocked your whining pants and increased pace, humming in satisfaction. "What, you like that? Being called an eager-to-please bitch?" She laughed cruelly, and you visibly shrank beneath her as you sped up. "Of course you do, baby—it's all you're good for, anyway."

God, she was so mean—it'd be a problem if your head wasn't spinning because of it and if you weren't actively humping her heel because she told you to. Your skin was flushed in embarrassment and arousal and your eyes were dialated, looking up at her as she talked down on you. Her smirk was cocky and her tone was bitchy and cruel—and her eyes was sharp as she watched. Watching her desperate bitch get off on her heel, of all things.

"Tell me why you're stuck doing this," She spat, running her tongue over swollen lips. Good God—you didn't answer. Instead, you swallowed and increased your pace, gasping softly—fuck, it felt so good.

A sharp slap landed across your face, and while you didn't stop, your pace stuttered a bit as your hand came up to soothe your cheek; before you could, Reneé's hand grabbed your wrist and squeezed it. "Don't you dare," She scoffed. "You earned that—now, answer the fucking question. Why are you humping my heel like the pathetic bitch you are?"

"S—Sorry, ma'am," You stumbled over your words. "Because I didn't listen," You whimpered.

"Yeah? And what did you do?"

"I … begged—after you told me to stop."

"Yeah—you wanted attention so badly, baby, so you've got it," She scoffed, releasing your wrist, which you let fall to your side—you were busy, anyway. "And we both know you fucking love it, bitch."

Fuck—it felt so good; the perfect friction against your pussy, the way she was talking to you, the humiliation—shit, you couldn't do it anymore. You were sick of being paitent—it all made you even more whiny and desperate, and if Reneé wanted a show, she'd get it.

Hips rolled faster to the point where your whines turned to moans, your head hanging as your mind became overtaken with lust—little thought, all feeling; feeling the delicious friction against your weeping cunt, feeling the sweat beginning to seep from your pores, feeling your stomach heat up and your brain turn off from how fucking good it felt. You even took it a step further—your hands came under your oversized shirt to grope your tits, pitchy moans passing your lips as you pinched and twisted at your nipples. And the way she looked down on you? Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Reneé watched in awe as you grinded against her boot, her eyes blown as you got carried away—the way your head hung and your moans bounced off the walls; it almost made her forget what this was all for. She tsked and her hand shot to grab your jaw.

"Did I say you could touch yourself like that?" She scoffed, emerald eyes narrowed and caught between feigned anger and raw arousal. You gasped and shook your head. "I'm sorry, but please?" You whined, continuing to grope your tits. "Whatever, slut—go ahead and prove to me how pathetic you really are."

She released your chin and you rested it on her knee, eyes fluttering as your pace quickened—fuck, you felt it—your muscles tensing and the hot feeling in your stomach. "Close," You choked out, your moans getting pitchy and heady. Reneé chuckled and let her hands tangle in your hair softly, watching with amusement and pure lust. "Aw, you're close?" She cooed, running her fingers through your damp hair. "What, you wanna cum on my heel? Make a mess because you're so desperate?" She scoffed. You whined and nodded, trying to answer but your only response was a pitchy moan.

"My poor bitch," Reneé crooned mockingly. "So close yet so fucking far—you know you can't cum without permission, slut." You whined and shook your head, speeding up and trying to gather whatever was left of your thoughts. "Please," You choked out. "Please, Mommy—"

"Fuck," She muttered, her eyes darkening. Seeing you like this—panting, desperate, and humiliated—and still loving it—drove her batshit, especially after you said that. "God, you're so easy," Your girlfriend scoffed, trying to keep her composure. Her pretty lips parted as she leaned down to mimic your moans in your ear, only serving to further humiliate and arouse you—you sped up, and fuck, no—you couldn't anymore.

"Mommy, please," You choked. She pretended to hum in thought before responding, "No, baby—I'm not sure you deserve it," She hummed. "Maybe if you tell me who you belong to—"

"Fuck, Reneé—I belong to you, just p-please!" You whined, feeling like you were about to explode from pleasure. Reneé tilted her head and hummed in thought, and—

You didn't mean to, fuck. It all hit you like a freight train—her words, the way she looked at you, the fact that you were humping her fucking heel—you came, throatily moaning her name as you fucked yourself against the heel through it, the white-hot sensation making you brain-dumb as all you could do is feel. Your eyes rolled and your body shook in pleasure, your moans melting into slurred whines. You fucked yourself until you couldn't anymore, collapsing against Reneé's leg with a whimper. Fuck.

You panted as a blissful smile graced your lips—before you could settle, though, you yelped as Reneé's hand tangled in your hair and pulled, hard.

Fuck.

You came without permission.

[yelenaslore]

WHEN SHE LOVED ME

summary — yelena has evaded the subject of natasha’s death for years, but eventually it catches up to her (and you)

warning(s) — platonic relationship, aroace yelena, thunderbolts* spoilers, the red room, mention of past child abuse/neglect/starvation, blood and injury, past chemical subjugation, ohio mission mention, alludes to a history of depression, abandonment issues, mention of ‘graduation ceremony’, suffocation, memories/flashbacks (iykyk), the blip mentioned, vormir mentioned, natasha’s still dead, black widow movie mention, grief/mourning, trauma and trauma responses, slight panic attack, crying on the streets of new york, angst, hurt/comfort, humor at the end (thanks bob), mentor natasha romanoff

authors note — heavily inspired by “i lost my sister again, but forever” so definitely do with that as you will !!

In a single moment, the world stops spinning around you. It seems like the entire planet has halted on its axis; suspended itself at an angle in space that makes your core ache with the effort to keep your body upright on the sidewalk. In the Red Room, when Dreykov would pretend to know the pain of his widows, he’d always mention how the heart beat picks up in moments of true fear. He was a smart man, an aggravatingly brilliant one really, but it was that small little quip that he’d throw around in smugness that opened your eyes to another truth, one he didn’t want anyone to see — General Dreykov was an idiot.

He was an idiot when he paired you with Natasha Romanoff through your first rotation in the Room. Three years younger than Yelena, Natasha was eight years older than you at the time and the perfect model of a Widow for anyone up and coming; but especially you. You, the girl who had stolen a fragment of Dreykov’s eye, the very first one to accomplish such a task since the day she’d been taken fourteen years ago.

Her lashings were the ones to scar your back for the very first time. It was her hands that made you bleed by a force that wasn’t purely accidental for the very first time. General Dreykov was a brilliant, idiotic, sickeningly twisted man that spent the first six years of captivity mending the brains of his victims, not breaking them. It’s light therapy, stimulation therapy, the same Russian and American movies to drill the hardest dialects and accents into the minds of his promising youth. Nobody had ever hurt you before that day. They hadn’t been kind. The Madams and the handlers hadn’t always fed you or taught you how to brush your own hair kindly. But nobody had ever made you bleed. Natasha Romanoff did though.

General Dreykov was an idiot. Not many people knew that though. He hid well behind his power, behind his armies of strong willed women with no other place to turn to anymore. He hid behind Melina Vostokoff, he hid behind Madam B who ruled with an iron fist, but most importantly, where he’d messed up the most, was hiding behind Natasha Romanoff.

It’s sad to think that you’d known nothing about her until she had died. It’s sad to think that for the entire time you’d known her, she’d had her own interests, and her own secret hobbies, and her own plan to find freedom. It was all there, because Natasha Romanoff had never been chemically subjugated to fit the narrative and bloodbath of Dreykov’s expectations. Natasha Romanoff was his shield, his arms and legs without the commitment or workout regimen that kept her abs tight and her womb infertile. Natasha Romanoff was not his brain. Natasha Romanoff had never been anybody else’s brain but her own. Though, she’d been yours for a while too, probably even Yelena’s. Natasha Romanoff never was very good at recognizing how much she mattered to other people.

Natasha was taken from her mother’s arms when she was an infant; six weeks old. Her mothers name was Irena, and while photography was a hard thing to track down in the middle of rubble, you’d found out she had blonde hair and the brightest green eyes. They held no candle to Natasha’s — No, Natasha’s were pure electricity and trauma, a somehow beautiful combination when she wore it with flawed pride for little girls to recognize and protect.

She was eleven when Cuba became a place filled with trauma and triggers and only fourteen when she became your first abuser and the only person to ever hold your hand in the dark, windowless hallways of the Red Room. You went on your first mission when she was seventeen and you were nine. She’d held your hand then too. More than what was probably necessary for your cover as orphaned sisters. You hadn’t even been back on base for two months before alarm bells woke you up with instructions to find your handlers and prepare for a fight. Only, your handler was gone. She was the reason for the alarms, and she hadn’t even sent a whistle down the hallway as a forewarning to her departure.

After that, you’d seen the fall of Natasha Romanoff’s once untouchable legacy firsthand. Tales of her bloodshed had been whispered with so much excitement for a time. Her lips used to quiver when she heard the quips of forbidden storytelling, trying to conceal her pride. It hadn’t occurred to you at the time, but her smile had gotten softer over the years that she’d been your handler, like her pride was becoming guilt, like learned monstrosity was becoming instinctive humanity. Maybe if you noticed it then, she wouldn’t have grown up to be a woman made up entirely of regrets.

Her absence in the Red Room was unexpected and hollowing. The front entrance of Dreykov’s secret prison wasn’t a revolving door. People didn’t just disappear, and when they did, they never stayed gone. You remember Katya went missing once. Two weeks undetected in The Maldives. She’d come back malnourished and wide-eyed, shaking like a leaf. That was one of the first times you’d seen Dreykov genuinely care for his widow. That was the first time he’d ever truly accepted that his training wasn’t enough anymore; that he had to step up his tactics.

That was the entrance of chemical subjugation and mind control in your life. In Yelena’s life. In the chapter that finally wound all of your lives together again, even though you’d never known that for all your life a string had connected you all so fragilely.

Natasha had told you about her little sister, though she’d never used such intimate words. She said there was another widow on her longest mission, and that was enough to know Natasha cared about her, because Natasha didn’t clarify anything unless it mattered to her. If Yelena — that unnamed widow who she’d never given you a description of — meant nothing to her, she wouldn’t have wasted her breath to add her memory to the sentences she spoke to you in the middle of the night when it was practical to be sleeping, not wasting air.

When Natasha left, you were twelve. Nobody would’ve known had Dreykov not kept the last two numbers of your birth year on the top left corner of your file; of every file once he permanently implemented his chemical subjugation techniques in the Red Room. It was the simplest way to assure no widow was prematurely taken out before they proved their worth to him.

You remember Anya. Dreykov tested the younger widows first. They were a less detrimental loss. Dreykov hadn’t put decades of training and unmaking into them yet. They were nobodies. Anya was six. She was two weeks away from beginning her first rotation in the Room. Your first rotation had felt so scary, so big. You’d felt so little. You can only imagine what Anya felt being sent to a premature death for the name of ‘the future’. That’s how Dreykov learned a dose too big can be lethal in seconds. That’s when Dreykov took another thing from you. Your age.

Before chemical subjugation, you’re not sure if widows ever truly knew their age. You were only a child, still months away from what you know now was your thirteenth birthday. You hadn’t known how old you were then, and it didn’t matter. There were never any birthday parties, never any drivers tests, or proms, so what difference did it make if you were eleven and the person on the other side of the room with the same lashing scars on their back was seven. All of you were in the same hell.

Instead, you were grouped by functionally and performance. It was all a range. Some girls advanced faster, others followed the typical age curve. None ever fell behind. If they did, Dreykov killed them himself — the only time he ever got his hands dirty. Sonya was the first widow you’d ever seen killed by someone other than a handler; other than Natasha. She must’ve been a year younger than you. It was hard to tell back then, back before your bodies developed with or without the necessary nutrition. Some girls got their periods. You know because the bloody sheets would be wrapped around their heads until they suffocated in the dining hall at scheduled meal times. Having a period was a sign of failed control. It meant you weighed too much to be useful. The only ones allowed to have their period were the girls that Dreykov deemed ‘in line for graduation’. Those girls were the ones a year away from their nineteenth birthday. Those girls were once Natasha Romanoff a year and two weeks ahead of her involuntary hysterectomy — the ‘graduation’ ceremony.

Yelena was twenty-six when she defected. She’d been your handler up until your graduation, when Dreykov had deemed her your official partner. You were on a mission. She got away. Her absence felt like Natasha’s. At the time, you still didn’t know that a piece of Natasha had been with you the entire time you thought she was just gone, but Yelena knew that Natasha had touched you. That Natasha — at least partially — lived in you. You didn’t know how much peace you brought Yelena subconsciously, even through the thick fog of chemical subjugation, until she was free falling from the sky, willing to die just so that you could live and learn what freedom felt like beyond red mist.

There had never been a way to describe what that sudden blackness looked like. What it felt like to be without Natasha so suddenly, without Yelena. But, then you watched it physically engulf Yelena. Inky, thick, suffocating looking blackness just engulfed her entirely, and every time you’d ever been abandoned ambushed you like it was happening all over again.

The heart doesn’t beat faster in the face of fear. It slows down, stops entirely. Anybody who’s ever claimed to not be a people pleaser, has never known true, unavoidable fear. It turns you into a fool. It corrupts even the parts of your brain that had never been able to undo the years of psychological conditioning and abuse. General Dreykov would’ve killed you himself if he’d ever found out you ran into the face of imminent danger all to save a clearly compromised agent, but he wasn’t here because Natasha had made sure that he died.

Natasha. You couldn’t lose Yelena like you’d lost Natasha.

They’d both disappeared before. Both of them guilty of toying with your heart and your suppressed emotions, both willingly and unwillingly, but they’d always come back. Natasha came back after she defected. Yelena came back after she did too. That blackness had always been temporary, but then one day it wasn’t.

One day, Yelena had missed your call. She’d been on a mission, tying up loose ends with Melina and Antonia, unsuspecting of what awaited her, but most importantly, free. She’d been free of abuse and mind control for the first time in her life, but then Thanos snapped his fingers, and you never heard from her again.

Natasha had found you. She’d brought you back to the Avengers campus with her, and she made you a peanut butter sandwich with tears in her eyes every day for five years while you looked for Yelena who had hollowed the both of you out entirely, not to mention the loss of everyone else. You hadn’t made many connections, but Laura Barton was one that Natasha insisted you keep close, and to also be without her consoling that had initially broken through the residual trauma of withdrawing from mind control drugs… well, it broke you.

You don’t know what you expected the darkness to feel like, but its disappointingly not like the water misters at the amusement park on hot summer days. You only know what those feel like on clammy, flush, sun kissed skin because of your first mission with Natasha, but you’d been chasing the sensation ever since she dutifully brought you back to the Red Room. Grocery store produce departments are the closest you’ve ever come to finding that fond freedom again.

Before your eyes, New York City becomes a purple-sky planet where gravity makes your belly feel like carbonated soda going flat. Your hand isn’t occupied by a hand-gun anymore. There’s a hand in yours. It’s shaking. It’s cold. The mountain is steep, the cliffside narrowing until it meets a deadly point that Natasha hangs in front of.

“It’s okay!” She calls, her fingers wiggling in your grasp. She’s slipping, getting closer and closer to an imminent death as she struggles to escape your hold and finally free yourself and Yelena even if it means sacrificing a life she hadn’t even gotten to live fully or freely yet. She’d never gotten to enjoy a life without the shadow of Dreykov gleaming over her.

After the battle, she’d fled the scene to the Raft, in search of the family she’d accepted as her own too late. She got wrapped up with Thanos, and then body slammed by a nasty depression that even your company couldn’t undo. You’d spent years mindlessly dancing together but in silence until your toes bled, forcing your bodies to accept familiar pain instead of daunting and uncharted grief.

“No!” You sobbed, your hand grabbing onto her wrist. The rocks cut your knees through the tactile suit Tony had designed on a whim, the palm that braced your weight and Natasha’s on the edge of the cliff was bloody. “No, no. Yelena needs you! She needs you! I need you!”

Natasha glanced down, and you don’t think she realizes, but her fingers twitch like she’s trying to find a way to grab onto your wrist and stop this from happening at all. It’s a single moment of doubt, a single moment of humanity that’s always been beneath the surface in her, and then she’s bracing her knees against the cliff, pushing off and extending her knees until the force swings her away from you. “It’s okay.” There’s an echo of a whistle on the way down, too far away to hear the impact, but you think the moment her body meets the ground below sends vibrations shattering through every stunted growth plate in your body.

“No!” The scream splits your vocal chords, you can still taste the blood in your mouth four years later. You reach out to grab her, seeing her fall right before your eyes, but your fingers go right through her and she falls. Over and over again.

The puddle of blood gets thicker, higher. It’s coming over your eyes and out of your ears, you’re swimming in her blood. In all the blood that you’ve spilled, that she’s spilled, that she’s lost — losing, dying without. Natasha is dead.

“Hey.” You can’t hear the voice that’s cutting through the darkness clearly, it’s distorted, far off, but all around you everything becomes brighter. Natasha’s not at the bottom of a cliff, the sky isn’t so black that it reflects your worst fears and memories, Yelena’s not bloody. She’s bruised, dirty, probably exhausted, but the only blood on her body is from superficial wounds, and her eyes are still open and they’re soft, not frozen, cold, or wide will fear that can never be comforted. It haunts you to know that Natasha Romanoff, the fearless Black Widow, died terrified and nothing would ever right that wrong. You’d been enough to bring her comfort in life when Yelena wasn’t around, but not even you could give her any peace of mind before the plunge. You hope she’s not still scared. Haunting that mountain range with tears that fall like raindrops on the bloodstains her bones rest on.

“Natasha! Natasha, she—“ You sobbed, crumbling into Yelena’s chest as you stumbled backwards, desperately trying to put distance between yourself and the place you’d stood when blackness engulfed. You weren’t always this weak. Once, you’d been made of marble. A dry cough barks up your throat, it stings, it brings up blood that evidently wasn’t just a memory.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Yelena’s gone through so many changes. She cut her hair for starters. You’d never been allowed to do that before. Widows only ever got trims. Having short hair was to constantly be at a disadvantage, and autonomy whatsoever was vehemently prohibited. Your hair gave you covers. It gave you the unique opportunity to be somebody entirely different with just one part two inches from the center of your head. Your hair was the first thing you lost control over in the Red Room, not even your clothes or the meals you got to pick. But, Yelena had cut it. She’d chopped it to her chin with a pair of garden scissors at Melina’s. It’s grown since then. It falls over her shoulders now, and the undersides have gone dark with age. Once, it had gleamed beneath the sun, healthy and long, braided in various ways for no other reason than individuality. Autonomy wasn’t allowed, but someway, somehow, there was still a chance to be your own self once you were old enough and skilled enough to do the braids you wanted in the morning. Yelena hasn’t sported a braid in almost a full year.

Her voice has changed too. It dawned on you too late that Natasha’s voice had never found its way to you. You’d heard the thick Russian she could still speak fluently up until the day she died. You’d heard the perfect American, and how it was the slightest twinge sweeter only because of her channeled focused in perfecting the trickiest vowels. You’d even heard her handful of other languages and the tones that she felt it necessary to take just to master the appearance, but she’d never been without a cover long enough for you to know what she sounded like without another person to be. Yelena’s become more Americanized, but there’s still a twinge of Russian in her accent. Her grammar is getting better, her culture references are more niche and situationally fine tuned, but she still slips up sometimes. She’s still the ever imperfect Russian still trying to find herself even when she seems so sure in moments like this.

“I never told her that I forgave her!” Four years later and it dawns on you that you allowed Natasha Romanoff to die without ever explicitly hearing your forgiveness. She knew. You never would’ve spent five years in a cinder block and space metal compound with her if you hadn’t forgiven her, but if she was anything like you, and you know that she was, she never let herself move on. If she was anything like you, you know that even with all the good she’d done, she still went to bed remembering how it felt to wear your blood like gloves. “Natasha! Natasha, no, I have to get to her! Let me go! Let me go! I have to get to her! She’s all a-alone! And it was cold there, Lena! Так холодно. Как в комнате. Она была так напугана, Елена. Мы должны ее поймать.”

You struggle against her, but Yelena doesn’t let you move. Her eyes gleam with tears, the confrontation of Natasha’s death something she’s evaded tactfully for the last three years, but it’s seemed impossible to escape. The memory of rope burns around her neck is haunting. It feels impossible to know her last moments with Natasha were spent fighting. Fighting in her apartment, in the ducts, in the farmhouse, and the sky. They’d reconciled but far too late. Precious hours wasted. They could never make them up.

“She knew, and she would not have let you tell her.” Yelena hates talking about Natasha. She hates that she can’t trust her memory with anybody besides herself, but old habits die screaming in the middle of New York city it seems. You wonder briefly if Natasha had faced this moment of sudden debilitation. When she’d faced the chitauri with Clint, the first ever battle as an Avenger — a hero — had she felt so entirely paralyzed by every shortcoming that led to her growth. You’d never get to ask her. To learn from her how you’d never seen a reason to before. It haunts you how death widens your perspective but narrows the scope of any possible exploration. You’re forever burdened with glorious and sickening what-ifs. “She is not in pain anymore.” It feels like a cheap shot at comfort, but Yelena can’t think of anything to say. You’d never told her it was cold on Vormir. You never mentioned that it reminded you of the Red Room, or that Natasha was scared before she died.

Yelena didn’t know how she pictured the scene beforehand. You’d told her about the purple sky, and the awkward gravity, you’d mentioned that you grabbed Natasha’s hand, that you fought over who was going to abandon her. She hadn’t imagined either of you overly optimistic or enthusiastic, but knowing that in those final moment Natasha went maskless, terrified and somehow still passionate… Yelena didn’t know what to do.

“How do you know?” Either you find the strength to break out of Yelena’s restrictive grasp, or she’s distracted enough by grief to let you go when you pull just enough. Both of you are on your feet, tears in your eyes, emotions blotching your cheeks though the appearance of utter desperation looks different on both of you. “How do you know, Yelena?! She’s on a — I left her at the b-bottom of a mountain in space!”

“We cannot change that.” Yelena breaks, and it’s so quiet that you almost don’t register the utter defeat in her tone as a tear finally tracks down her cheek.

“We’ve never been able to change anything!” Your voice raises and Yelena winces. You don’t yell often, especially not at her. You look so much like Natasha now, with your fists grappling for anything to hold in blinding frustration. The inability to understand and accept your emotions is a dead ringer, tantrums in Ohio diluted with the natural profession of life and maturity, assuredly no help from the repetitive dosages of mind control drugs that suppressed conscious thoughts, but she can remember it if she tries, and she goes back to that place all the time, just never with you. But she does now. She can’t help it. She’s felt so alone since you’d come back without Natasha, she hadn’t been able to see that she was still around. Natasha had raised you, with both kindness and a temper. You’d seen more sides to her than Yelena ever had.

“That is not true.” Yelena shakes her head, and you know that you’re wrong instantaneously. Natasha Romanoff may have never been able to fully separate herself from a life of doing the hard bidding for the little man, you and Yelena may have never learned how to truly heal from the trauma of the Red Room, just suppress and deflect until it either went away or dissolved, but things had changed. Yelena had changed. She’s confident, even if she’s not happier, and it looks good on her. You’ve changed too. The world has changed. Little girls have women to look up to now; more than just one of them. Your lives had already been written in blood and stone, nothing was going to pull you out until death finally came knocking, but you could never say that nothing good had ever come from your misfortunes. “Do not say that.” Her voice wavers, and another tear falls down her face. It’s slow, almost cinematic, but then it takes a sharp right and falls over her lips, pearls of liquid trapped in her cupid's bow. It’s so utterly raw, so real. You’ve both been running from this for a long time.

“I just wanted more time.” It had taken you years to come to that revelation. All you really wanted was more time with Natasha. More time to know her, to learn all the littlest things about her she’d never been able to express when you’d known her before, to ask her all of these impossible questions like how do you possibly step into the light and be a hero when you’ve done unspeakable things even with your freedom intact. She was so young. Eight years older than you. That numbers only four now.

“I know.” Yelena whispers, and she nods her head, knowing that your rampage of pent up emotions has met its tranquil end. There’s rubble all around you. You wonder what Natasha saw when she finally noticed the damage after that first battle. Did she see the bodies of all the girls she’d killed in the Red Room? Because you can see her body in the rubble, right next to Anya’s, taunting you with the reminder that you’re tainted — never truly good.

“It’s not fair.” You glance back to Yelena, seeing the same terror in her green stare as she takes a peak to your direct left. You wonder who she sees — which one of her bodies sticks out the most right now, when you both should be nothing but relieved.

Yelena shakes her head, an exasperated sigh leaving her lips. She looks so much like Natasha right now, so filled with annoyance at the natural order of the world that she can’t even conceptualize what emotion to express physically, so instead she’s resigned herself entirely. You match her on that playing field, just like you always matched Natasha. “It never is.” She sighs.

“Hey, uh, do you guys want to go inside?” Bob comes up behind Yelena without so much as a single sound, and while the both of you are highly trained assassins who still sleep with knives beneath your pillows, you nearly jump out of your skin as he catches you wrapped up in a moment of pure and radiant humanity — the thing Natasha Romanoff had sacrificed her life for you to find and cherish.

“Oh my gosh, Bob.” Yelena rolls her eyes, her hands waving around beside her head. The sun reflects off of the oils that have gathered on her scalp. Neither one of you have been reasonably okay in a long time, but you think you’re finally on the mend as she chews Bob’s ear off. “You do not just sneak up on an assassin like that! I am very dangerous. I could kill you no problem. You do not want that! I just saved your ass!”

“Uh,” Bob gawked, looking between you and Yelena with eyes wide with indecision. He wasn’t sure whether he should defend himself, or back away slowly with his hands raised. A look of utter amusement crossed your features, your arms folding in front of your chest right as Yelena broke, giving away her maniacal amusement as she clapped her hands.

“Oh Bob, you should see your face!” Yelena cackled before she reached back and grabbed your hand, nodding toward the large building that Natasha had once called home. You never thought you’d have a chance to call it that too, but here you are, one foot already inside the door and a clean slate at a reputation in front of you thanks to the redhead you’d never seen anything but goodness in. “Natasha lived here.” Yelena breathed in awe as she stepped inside, and you smiled, finally able to accept that fact with warmth.

“Now all we have to do is follow her footprints.” Optimism was never your strong suit, it had been discouraged since the very first instance of recognizing positivity. But, Natasha had somehow found a way to be positive throughout those five heads without Yelena, and it was contagious even in death.

“Sounds easier said than done.” Yelena snorted, but you could hear the thick emotion in her tone that she was trying to push aside, probably having decided she’d cried enough already.

“I believe in us.” You shrugged, bypassing Alexei on your way to the elevator, rolling your eyes as he irrationally glared down at a portrait of Steve Rodger’s that Valentina had either forgotten to remove, or just didn’t care to touch by the front entrance.

“Why?” Yelena scoffed, her tone incredulous as the elevator lifted you to a floor marked N on the elevator panel. A pang shot through your chest as you recognized the significance and the fact that Tony Stark had gone through the efforts to personalize an elevator panel for his Avengers — his chosen family.

“Because Natasha did.”

[yelenaslore]

a/n: I'm back guys, exams all done! thanks for being patient with me. feel free to send as many requests as you would like. summary: y/n gets extremely bored while Alex is working from home and she desperately needs attention. pairing: Alex Cabot x female reader warnings: none word count: 2.5K

masterlist

Bored - Alex Cabot

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and Alex was - unsurprisingly - working. Y/N had long since given up trying to convince her girlfriend that weekends were meant for relaxation. If anything, Alex seemed to take weekends as a personal challenge to be even more productive.

Currently, she was perched at the dining table, glasses low on her nose, typing furiously on her laptop. A neat stack of legal briefs sat beside her, color-coded sticky notes peeking out from the pages like tiny flags of impending doom.

Y/N, on the other hand, was bored to death.

At first, she tried to entertain herself. She scrolled through her phone, watched a few episodes of a show she didn’t really care about, played fetch with their dog (who promptly lost interest after five throws), and even considered cleaning—considered. But it had been hours, and she was dying.

Finally, she decided she’d had enough. With a dramatic sigh, she stood up, walked over to where Alex was working, and leaned down until her chin rested on Alex’s shoulder.

“You wanna get your ass beaten in Uno?” Y/N asked, her voice dripping with challenge.

Alex didn’t even look up. “Mmm. No.”

“Wow. You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. And I decided no,” Alex replied, typing something that sounded very official and very boring.

Y/N straightened up and narrowed her eyes. “So you’re just gonna work all day while I wither away from lack of attention?”

“You could read a book,” Alex suggested.

“I could also eat glass, but you don’t see me doing that either.”

Alex sighed, finally sparing her a glance. “Give me another hour.”

“Another hour?!” Y/N threw her hands up. “Alexandra, I am a woman on the edge. Either you play Uno with me, or I start acting feral.”

That made Alex smirk. “Feral, huh?”

“Yes. Full chaos mode. No rules. No laws. Do you really want that?”

Alex gave her a look, the kind that said ‘I deal with hardened criminals daily. You do not scare me.’

Y/N huffed. “Fine. You leave me no choice.”

She stalked away, leaving Alex to shake her head and go back to work.

Y/N started small. She “accidentally” dropped things near Alex. A pen here. A book there. At one point, she spilled an entire bag of Skittles onto the floor, each one making an unnecessarily loud plinking noise.

Alex exhaled sharply through her nose. “Are you five?”

“I’m bored,” Y/N groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

“You should’ve thought about that before dating a lawyer.”

“Okay, then I have no choice but to escalate.”

Alex shook her head, already resigning herself to whatever nonsense Y/N was about to pull.

She tried snuggling up to Alex, draping herself over her shoulders like a human scarf.

Alex gently pushed her off.

Then tried poking her arm repeatedly.

Alex ignored it.

Y/N started dramatically sighing at random intervals.

Alex turned to her with the patience of a saint. “Is there a reason you’re being extra annoying today?”

“Yes,” Y/N pouted. “You’re not paying attention to me. If I wanted to be neglected, I’d text my landlord about fixing the leak in our sink.”

Alex finally closed her laptop. “Okay. One game. Then I go back to work.”

“One game?” Y/N scoffed. “You’re adorable. It’s never one game.”

Alex rolled her eyes but indulged her anyway, setting her laptop aside as Y/N ran to grab the Uno deck.

They sat across from each other, the cards dealt, the battlefield set. Y/N cracked her knuckles like she was preparing for war.

Alex raised an unimpressed brow. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you’re about to lose.”

The game started off simple, both of them playing civilly. But then, Y/N played a Draw Four on Alex.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “I see how it is.”

Y/N grinned innocently. “I don’t make the rules.”

Alex drew her four cards, her lawyer brain already calculating revenge.

And then, chaos.

Reverse cards were thrown like daggers. Draw Twos stacked higher than Alex’s legal briefs. Y/N cackled when she skipped Alex for the third time in a row.

“You’re evil,” Alex muttered.

“And you’re losing,” Y/N sing-songed.

But then, Alex played a Draw Four right when Y/N had one card left.

Her smug grin vanished. “No. No, no, no. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do,” Alex said, smirking as she slid the extra cards toward Y/N.

Y/N scowled, snatching them up. “This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Should’ve thought about that before bullying me into playing.”

The game stretched on, both refusing to back down. At one point, Y/N attempted to subtly throw a card under the table, but Alex caught her mid-act.

“Did you just cheat?”

“It’s called creative strategy.”

Alex stared at her, deadpan.

Y/N sighed. “Fine. I may have bent the rules slightly.”

Alex shook her head, laughing. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“That is debatable right now.”

Eventually, after an unfair amount of Draw Twos, Alex won.

Y/N gaped at her. “You cheated.”

“I played legally,” Alex corrected, smirking as she stretched. “And now, I return to work.”

“WHAT?!” Y/N gasped. “You can’t just win and leave!”

“That was the deal.”

“You monster.”

Alex chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Y/N’s forehead before heading back to her laptop. “You’ll survive.”

Y/N crossed her arms, stewing.

And then—

“I challenge you to a rematch.”

Alex didn’t even look up. “Not happening.”

“Best two out of three!”

“Still no.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “I hate dating a lawyer.”

Alex just smirked. “No, you don’t.”

Y/N wasn’t one to accept defeat gracefully. No, she thrived on revenge. And if Alex thought she was going to just sit there quietly while she went back to her boring lawyer things, she had severely underestimated the level of chaos Y/N was willing to unleash.

For a moment, Y/N considered flipping the Uno table. Full, dramatic rebellion. But then she realized it wasn’t a table - it was the dining table. Their dining table. The very expensive, very heavy dining table that Alex would absolutely murder her for damaging.

So, she had to be smarter.

Quietly, Y/N slipped away into the kitchen.

Alex was back to typing, her fingers moving fast over the keyboard. Completely immersed.

Y/N peeked around the corner, watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Then, she snatched a bag of chips from the cabinet, opened it as loudly as humanly possible, and started munching with the crunchiest bites ever.

Alex froze. Slowly, she turned her head.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Y/N, mouth full of chips, gave her the most innocent look she could muster. “Huh?” Crunch.

Alex exhaled through her nose, the way she did when opposing counsel said something particularly stupid in court.

Y/N shoved another handful of chips into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Alex took a deep breath, visibly practicing restraint. “Y/N...”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Y/N said, plopping down dramatically in a chair. “Just eating my feelings after being brutally betrayed by the love of my life.”

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s Uno. You lose in Uno.”

“You cheated.”

“I played by the rules.”

“Your rules are evil.”

Alex shook her head, turning back to her laptop. “Go find another hobby.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. Alright. Desperate times, desperate measures.

She stood, stretched, and then she flopped onto Alex’s lap. Fully. Bonelessly. Limply.

Alex made a very undignified oof sound. “Jesus, Y/N!”

“You left me no choice,” Y/N said, flopping her arms dramatically over Alex’s shoulders. “You work too much. I am merely redistributing your priorities.”

“By crushing me?”

“It’s called love.”

Alex sighed. “You are the neediest human being alive.”

“And yet, you chose me. So who’s the real fool?”

Alex pursed her lips, trying - and failing - to hide a smirk. “Move.”

“No.”

“I have important things to do.”

“Is it more important than me?” Y/N asked, batting her lashes.

Alex sighed, long-suffering. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

Alex glanced down at her, eyes softening just slightly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Y/N grinned. “Then play another round of Uno with me.”

“No.”

“Best three out of five.”

“Absolutely not.”

Y/N gasped, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. “So you don’t love me?”

Alex rubbed her temples. “That is not what I said.”

“You implied it.”

Alex stared at her, clearly debating whether or not this battle was even worth fighting.

Y/N turned up the puppy eyes—full-force, desperate, devastating.

Alex sighed, defeated. “One. More. Game.”

Y/N beamed, leaping up. “You just sealed your fate.”

Alex chuckled, shaking her head. “If it means I get some peace after, then fine.”

Y/N cackled as she shuffled the deck.

Alex should have known.

She should have expected Y/N to pull some unholy nonsense.

Because five minutes in, Y/N was grinning like a villain.

“Why do you look so smug?” Alex asked warily.

Y/N laid down a Draw Four.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“Pick. Up. Your. Cards.”

Alex begrudgingly picked up four more cards. But as soon as she got rid of a few, Y/N hit her with a stacked Draw Two.

Alex’s jaw clenched.

Y/N smirked. “You mad?”

Alex gave her a flat look. “No.”

“Because it seems like you’re mad.”

Alex took a slow, deep breath. “Play your next card.”

Y/N played another Reverse.

Alex’s nostrils flared. “You just want to see me suffer.”

“Would you not do the same to me?”

Alex didn’t answer. Because she absolutely would have.

And then, the worst betrayal of all—

Alex had one card left.

Y/N played a Draw Four.

Alex stared at her, jaw tightening, fingers tapping against the table.

Y/N grinned. “You were saying?”

Alex inhaled sharply, picked up her four cards, and exhaled. “I’m dating an actual gremlin.”

“And winning,” Y/N added.

Alex shook her head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Extremely,” Y/N agreed.

Alex sighed, dropping her cards. “Fine. You win. Happy?”

Y/N beamed, throwing her arms around Alex. “I knew you’d see reason!”

Alex shook her head, kissing the top of Y/N’s head before pulling away. “Okay, now can I get back to work?”

Alex had gone back to her laptop, once again convinced that she had won the battle and secured her productivity for the rest of the day.

Y/N, however, was nothing if not determined.

She had tried being annoying. She had tried cheating in Uno. She had tried physically attaching herself to Alex like an overgrown koala. But clearly, all of these tactics had only resulted in temporary victories.

So, she had to be smarter.

More strategic.

And thus, the most diabolical plan formed in her mind.

She decided to go for a run.

But not just any run.

A very intentional run.

She changed into the tightest pair of leggings she owned, leggings that had once made Alex walk into a wall when she first saw Y/N wearing them. Paired it with a sports bra that left very little to the imagination. And, because she was committed to the cause, she even pulled her hair into a high ponytail, knowing full well that Alex had a very specific weakness for that.

Then, without saying a word, she grabbed her headphones, shot Alex a quick innocent smile, and left the apartment.

Alex didn’t even look up.

Perfect.

Now, all she had to do was get really sweaty.

About forty minutes later, Y/N returned, successfully looking like she had just finished competing in the Olympics.

Her skin glistened with sweat. Her leggings clung to her like they were painted on. Her sports bra was damp. She was slightly out of breath, strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She looked like one of those insanely attractive people in workout commercials, except this was all very real.

And she knew it.

She strolled inside, tossing her keys onto the counter, stretching her arms up with an exaggerated groan.

Alex still didn’t look up.

Fine.

Time to turn up the heat.

“God,” Y/N sighed dramatically, walking toward the fridge. “That was a good run. I’m so hot.”

Alex hummed absentmindedly, still typing.

Oh, we’re gonna fix that.

Y/N grabbed a water bottle, twisted the cap off, and tipped her head back, drinking in a way that was entirely unnecessary. A few drops dribbled down her throat, over her collarbone, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

Still, Alex. Did. Not. Look.

Fine. She wanted to play it cool? Y/N would break her resolve.

She grabbed a towel, walking right past Alex’s chair as she started patting down her sweaty chest.

And then – finally - Alex’s typing paused.

Y/N had to fight every instinct not to smirk.

“Good run?” Alex asked, voice suspiciously even.

“Mmm,” Y/N hummed, stretching again. “So good. I feel amazing. But, ugh, I got so sweaty.”

Another pause.

Y/N casually leaned against the table, stretching one leg behind her, subtly accentuating things. “Gotta cool down. Maybe take a long shower.”

Alex exhaled through her nose.

Y/N smirked. Gotcha.

She walked around the table, standing directly behind Alex, hands landing on her shoulders.

“Wow,” Y/N murmured, kneading gently. “You’re so tense. All that work stressing you out?”

Alex stiffened slightly but didn’t react.

Y/N leaned in closer, her lips dangerously near Alex’s ear. “You know, exercise is great for stress. You should join me next time. We could work up a sweat together.”

Alex’s hands paused on the keyboard.

Y/N smirked. “Or, you know, I could just shower alone.”

Alex slammed her laptop shut.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning in her chair to finally look at Y/N.

And oh, the way her eyes darkened as they swept over her? Y/N felt victorious.

“Something wrong, Counselor?” Y/N asked, all fake innocence.

Alex exhaled sharply. “You planned this.”

“Planned what?”

Alex leaned back, arms crossed, a tiny smirk playing at her lips. “This. The whole running, sweating, stretching, looking like that.” She gestured vaguely at Y/N’s entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. “Can’t a girl just get a workout in without being accused of crimes?”

“You do nothing without an agenda.”

Y/N beamed. “Exactly. So, what’s it gonna be? You back to work? Or are you gonna let me kick your ass in Monopoly?”

Alex sighed, running a hand through her hair, gaze lingering on Y/N’s abs for a fraction too long.

Alex let out a long, long breath.

Then - without a word - she stood up, grabbed Y/N’s wrist, and started pulling her toward the bedroom.

Y/N blinked. “Wait. Where are we going? Monopoly’s in the living room-”

Alex shot her a look.

A very dangerous look.

Y/N gulped. “Oh.”

Alex smirked. “You wanted my attention? You’ve got it now.”

Y/N grinned.

Game. Set. Match.

[yelenaslore]

finally redid my navigation posts from four years ago… maybe one day i’ll get around to updating my age bc im twenty-one 😭

[yelenaslore]

OBX ONESHOTS

gorgeous

jj maybank is just so gorgeous that you can hardly say anything to his face…

fluff, x jj maybank

friends

a normal day with your friends that didn’t consist of risking your lives.

fluff, pogues

bonfire

rafe (let’s pretend that he isn’t a psychopath) getting protective over you at the bonfire after he catches other guys (maybe the pogues) flirting with you & you reassure him that you’re his

fluff, x rafe cameron

saving grace

y/n routledge has been acting more jumpy and shaken lately. what happens when her brother and his best friend find out that the cause is her not-so loving boyfriend? more importantly, how long will it take before jj comes to terms with the fact that he’s in love with jb’s little sister, or with the fact that y/n’s in love with her saving grace?

fluff, heavy themes, x jj maybank, routledge!reader

t-shirt troubles

jj doesn’t take a lot of things seriously, but when it comes to you, his little sister, he’s as serious as can be. luckily for you, his friends feel the same way, but your new boyfriend’s about to be put in his place before he knows it.

fluff, maybank!reader

take it back

a terrible fight leads to a tragic news report.

angst, x jj maybank

facades

kiara being the top filth for you. a hint of plot in this, then it’s just sex.

smut, x kiara carrera

the list

exhibitionism. that was your sex life with jj. after the first incident in the hms pogue, you and him had a made a list of all the potential places to explore this kink. first on the list, the bathroom at midsummer’s. 

smut, x jj maybank