#noirc0vewrites

- Natasha Romanoff

pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

summary: She got caught.

tags/warnings: smut, fluff, top!reader, dom reader, g!p reader, bottom!natasharomanoff, sub natasha romanoff

author's note: i love me some bottom nat.

word count: 3324

The hum of the repulsor lifts faded from my ears, replaced by the rhythmic thud of my own heart against my ribs. Sweat slicked my skin, a testament to the brutal hour I’d just put in at the tower’s gym. Super serum coursed through my veins, not just giving me the strength of a goddess, but the body to match – tall, muscular, every curve defined, and between my legs, a dick that could rival any man’s. I felt good, powerful, and utterly spent, my mind already drifting to a cold shower and a protein shake.

My bare feet, still buzzing from the last set of sprints, carried me down the polished hallway, the stark white walls a familiar blur. The tower was quiet, most of the team either out on missions or holed up in their labs. Then, a sound. Faint at first, a whisper of something familiar, something primal. I paused, my head tilting, straining to catch it again. It was coming from Natasha’s room, a few doors down.

A soft gasp, then a low, throaty moan. My name. “Y/N”. Said with a desperate longing that sent a shiver through me, not from cold, but from something far hotter. My lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. Cocky? Absolutely. I knew the effect I had on people, especially the women of this tower. Natasha, though usually composed, always had a certain flush about her when I was near. This… this was beyond mere flush.

I crept closer, my movements silent, a predator stalking its prey. The moans grew louder, more insistent, a symphony of pleasure building behind the closed door. “Y/N… oh, Y/N…” Her voice, usually so sharp and controlled, was now a ragged plea, stretched thin by desire. A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, shot through me. This was too good to pass up.

The door was ajar, just a sliver. I pushed it open gently, no sound, no creak. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of bedside lamps. And there she was. Natasha. Her back was to me, her body arched, ass high in the air, face buried in a pillow, her legs spread slightly, clad only in a tiny pair of black lace panties that barely covered anything. Her fingers were tangled in the sheets, knuckles white. She was moving, grinding against something, lost in her own private world of fantasy. My fantasy, apparently.

A low chuckle rumbled in my chest, a sound I barely suppressed. This was perfect. My hand dropped to my sweatpants, pulling them down just enough to free the heavy, rigid length of my cock. It sprang forth, tall and thick, already slick with pre-cum, practically throbbing in anticipation. I moved silently, one long stride bringing me to the edge of her bed. She still hadn’t noticed me, lost in her rhythmic humps, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

I positioned myself behind her, my cock a warm, hard spear aimed precisely at the wet, beckoning slit between her cheeks. Her panties were already damp, clinging to her, practically begging for me to tear them away. But I wouldn’t. Not yet. The shock would be better. The surprise.

I pulled them aside and with a slow, deliberate push, I slid in.

A sharp, strangled cry tore from her throat. Her body seized, stiffening instantly, every muscle locked. The rhythmic humps stopped. She gasped, a sound of pure disbelief, her head snapping up from the pillow, eyes wide and unfocused. Then, slowly, painstakingly, she turned her head, her deep green eyes finding mine.

Her face, flushed crimson from her solo escapade, drained of all color. Her mouth hung open, a silent O of shock. My cock, buried deep inside her, pulsed with every beat of my heart, a constant reminder of my presence. Her ass, still high, quivered around me, a sweet, tight embrace.

“Well, well, well,” I murmured, my voice a low growl, a predatory purr. I leaned in closer, my breath ghosting over her ear, the scent of her arousal, sweet and musky, filling my nostrils. “Where’s your moaning of my name now, Black Widow?”

She just stared, her eyes flicking from my face to my dick, which was now fully impaling her. A tremor ran through her. She tried to speak, a choked sound escaping her lips, but no words formed.

“I want you to scream it,” I continued, my voice firm, commanding. “I want you to scream my name so loud, the whole damn tower hears it. I want Thor to hear it from Asgard. I want the world to know who owns you.”

I pulled back, almost entirely, just the head of my cock teasing her entrance, then plunged back in, hard and fast. A genuine scream tore from her. Her nails dug into the sheets, her back arching even further, a guttural sound ripping from her throat.

“That’s it,” I praised, my hips beginning a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Scream it for me, Tasha. Tell me you want it.”

She couldn’t form words, not yet. Only sounds. Deep, throaty moans, punctuated by sharp gasps as I picked up the pace. My cock, thick and full, stretched her, filled her, scraping against her internal walls with every thrust. Her tight pussy gripped me, a warm, wet vise that threatened to milk me dry too soon.

My hands found her hips, pulling her back against me, aligning our bodies perfectly. I started to pound, a relentless, primal rhythm. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the room, wet and resonant. Her ass cheeks slapped against my thighs, a steady percussion to our escalating symphony.

“Say it,” I demanded, my voice husky, my own breath coming in ragged gasps now. “Say my name, Natasha.”

“Y… Y/N… oh God, Y/N…” The words finally tumbled out, broken and desperate, laced with pleasure and surrender. Her head lolled back, her eyes fluttering closed, her body now moving with me, not against me.

“Louder,” I urged, my cock driving deeper, faster. “I can barely hear you.”

She screamed it, a raw, unrestrained sound that vibrated through the room, through my very bones. “Y/N! Oh, fuck! Y/N! Yes! Please! More!”

I grinned, a feral, triumphant grin. This was the Natasha I knew was hidden beneath the cool, collected spy persona. This was the woman who craved control, now utterly out of it, at my mercy. I kept going, my thrusts becoming a blur of motion, my hips slamming into her ass, the bed groaning under our combined weight. Her pussy was a slick, hot cavern, swallowing my cock whole, begging for more. The air around us grew thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and impending orgasm.

She bucked, her back arching violently, her hips pushing back against mine, trying to meet my every thrust. Her legs trembled, her toes curling. A low, guttural growl escaped her, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her body went rigid again, a full-body tremor shaking her.

“I’m… I’m going to… oh, Y/N!” she choked out, her voice cracking.

I felt her pussy clench around me, a series of exquisite contractions that sent shivers down my spine. Her internal muscles milked my cock, pulling at the head, making me groan. I held her hips tight, pinning her to the bed, and pumped a few more powerful thrusts, feeling the surge of my own climax building, hot and undeniable.

With a final, desperate cry, her body convulsed, her hips slamming back against me as she rode out her orgasm. I felt the wetness gush from her, hot and slick, coating my shaft. Her cries turned into whimpers, her body collapsing onto the bed, utterly spent.

My own climax hit me moments later, a wave of intense pleasure that washed over me, making me shake. I groaned, as I emptied myself deep inside her, a hot, thick torrent of cum filling her pussy. I collapsed onto her back, my chest heaving, my cock still buried deep, throbbing, slowly deflating.

We lay there for a long moment, our breaths ragged, the only sounds in the room the creak of the bed and our racing heartbeats. My body was heavy, sated, but the energy still hummed beneath my skin.

“Well,” I whispered, my lips brushing her ear, “that was quite the welcome.”

She didn’t respond, her body still trembling. I pulled out slowly, the wet sound of my cock leaving her pussy a loud sound in the sudden quiet. She whimpered softly as I withdrew, a tiny sound of loss. I flipped her over gently, pulling her into my arms. Her eyes, still hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, met mine. A faint blush returned to her cheeks.

“You’re… you’re impossible,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

I just smiled, stroking her hair. “And you love it.”

She didn’t deny it, just nestled her head into my shoulder, her hand finding my dick, now soft but still sensitive, tracing its length. “So… that was one round. You said you wanted me to scream it for the whole tower. I think I only managed to get half the floor.”

“Oh, we’ll get there,” I promised, my voice a low rumble. “We have all night.”

And we did. We went for two more rounds, each one more intense than the last. I made her ride me, her small body arching over mine, her nipples hard, rub against my chest which grew my desire to suck them. I flipped her again, taking her from behind, her ass a perfect target for my relentless thrusts. Each time, her screams grew louder, more uninhibited, until by the third time, I was sure Clint could hear her from the vents in the next hallway. By the time the first rays of dawn peeked through the blinds, Natasha was a boneless, quivering mess, utterly dumbfounded, her pussy raw and swollen, her voice gone from all the screaming.

I held her close, her head resting on my chest, her fingers idly tracing the lines of my abs. She was asleep, a soft, contented purr escaping her lips. I, on the other hand, felt energized, ready to take on the world. Or at least, ready for a very large breakfast.

The next morning, the smell of coffee and burnt toast hung in the air of the communal kitchen. I walked in, feeling refreshed and annoyingly smug. Natasha was nowhere in sight, which was probably a good thing. My eyes scanned the room, landing on Wanda, who was perched on a stool, stirring her coffee with a thoughtful expression. She looked up as I entered, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, her eyes raking over my body, lingering for a moment on my crotch. “Someone had a very… loud night.”

I chuckled, grabbing a mug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Maximoff.”

“Oh, I think you do,” she countered, her accent thickening with amusement. “It’s hard to miss the sounds of a certain super-spy screaming your name so loudly the windows practically rattled.” She took a sip of her coffee, her gaze never leaving mine. “She has quite the set of lungs, doesn’t she?”

I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms, my smirk firmly in place. “She certainly does. And she used them well.”

Wanda’s smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I can imagine. Makes one wonder… if she could scream your name like that, what could I do?”

My eyebrows shot up. Subtle, Maximoff. Very subtle. “Are you propositioning me, Wanda?”

“Is it working?” she challenged, her head tilting, a playful glint in her eyes. “I heard you’re quite the… collector, Y/N. And I, for one, would love to add myself to your collection.” She slid off the stool, her movements fluid and confident, walking towards me. “I’m free tonight. Say, eight o’clock? My room. We can see if I can make the whole tower shake.”

The confidence, the sheer audacity of her, was intoxicating. And, let’s be honest, I was always up for a challenge. My reputation preceded me; I had a knack for making women scream, and I enjoyed every second of it. My body, honed by the serum, was a magnet, and my cock, a willing instrument of pleasure.

“Eight o’clock, Maximoff,” I agreed, my voice a low rumble. “Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, her fingers brushing my arm as she walked past, sending a jolt through me. She gave me a wink over her shoulder as she exited the kitchen, leaving me with a lingering scent of her perfume and a definite sense of anticipation.

I finished my coffee, a fresh wave of smugness washing over me. Natasha, then Wanda. This tower was a playground, and I was the queen of it.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with mission briefings and training simulations. I caught glimpses of Natasha, but she avoided my gaze, her cheeks flushing whenever our eyes almost met. It was cute, almost. But my mind was already on Wanda, on the challenge she presented.

As evening approached, I made my way back to my room, ready to shower and prepare for my eight o’clock rendezvous. Just as I reached my door, a hand shot out, grabbing my arm.

“Y/N.”

It was Natasha. Her voice was barely a whisper, her grip surprisingly strong. She pulled me, not into my room, but into hers, slamming the door shut behind us with a soft click. The suddenness of it caught me off guard.

“Hey, Tasha, what’s up?” I asked, a playful smile on my face. “Excited for round four?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pushed me, gently but firmly, until my back hit the cool, solid surface of her door. Her small frame was pressed against mine, her eyes fixed on the floor, her usually sharp gaze now downcast, almost shy. Her hands were fisted at her sides, trembling slightly.

“Natasha?” I prompted, my smile fading, replaced by a flicker of concern. This wasn’t her usual demeanor.

She wouldn’t look up. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her brows furrowed. The air grew thick with an unspoken tension.

“You can tell me,” I said softly, my voice losing its playful edge. I reached out, my finger gently hooking under her chin, lifting her head until her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, met mine. They were clouded, not with desire, but with something else. Something I couldn’t quite place. “What is it?”

Her breath hitched. “I… I heard you in the kitchen this morning.”

My mind raced. The conversation with Wanda. My agreement. Oh.

“You and… Wanda,” she continued, her voice barely audible, a fragile whisper. “Tonight. Eight o’clock.”

A pang, sharp and unexpected, twisted in my gut. I hadn’t considered this. Not really. I was so used to taking what I wanted, to the thrill of the chase, that I hadn’t thought about the consequences. About her consequences.

“Natasha…” I started, but she cut me off.

“I… I don’t want you to go.” The words tumbled out, rushed and desperate, her gaze flickering away from mine. “I don’t want you with her. Or with anyone else.”

My heart, usually so unyielding, softened. This wasn’t the Black Widow. This was Natasha, small and vulnerable, confessing something deeply personal, deeply painful.

“I… I want you,” she continued, her voice gaining a fragile strength. “Only you. I… I want you to touch only me. To make me scream your name. Not anyone else.”

Her confession hung in the air, raw and honest. My cocky smirk completely vanished. This wasn’t just about sex anymore. This was about something deeper. Something real. The way she looked at me, the earnestness in her eyes, the tremor in her voice… it melted me. All the bravado, all the casual conquests, suddenly felt hollow.

“Natasha,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. I cupped her face in my hands, my thumbs stroking her soft cheeks. “You… you want me? Just me?”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Yes. More than anything.”

My chest ached, a strange, beautiful pain. I leaned down, pressing my forehead against hers, closing my eyes. The scent of her, clean and faintly floral, filled my senses. My hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against me, my arms wrapping around her.

“God, Tasha,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “Why didn’t you just say something?”

“I… I was scared,” she confessed, her voice muffled against my chest. “You’re… you’re so big. So confident. I thought… I thought I was just another conquest.”

I pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes, seeing the genuine hurt there. “Never, Natasha. Never just another conquest.” I kissed her then, a soft, tender kiss, nothing like the wild passion of last night. This was slow, deliberate, filled with a promise I hadn’t known I was capable of making. My lips brushed hers, tasting the faint salt of her tears. I deepened the kiss, my tongue seeking hers, a gentle exploration. She responded, her lips parting, her tongue tentatively meeting mine. It was sweet, hesitant, a completely different kind of intimacy. I drew her tongue into my mouth, sucking gently, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her. Our saliva mingled, a warm, wet exchange that spoke of connection, not just lust.

I pulled away, my gaze locked on hers. “I’m an idiot,” I confessed, a soft laugh escaping me. “A total idiot.”

I scooped her up into my arms, carrying her easily, as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms circling my neck. I carried her to the bed, laying her down gently, then settling beside her, pulling her close. I stroked her hair, her back, her small, trembling body.

“No Wanda,” I declared, my voice firm. “No one but you.”

A relieved sigh escaped her. She nestled into my side, her head on my shoulder, her fingers tracing the outline of my biceps. We lay there for a long time, just holding each other, the silence comfortable, filled with a new, fragile understanding.

Then, a thought struck me. “Wanda,” I mumbled, pulling out my comm. “I need to cancel.”

Natasha stiffened. “No. Let me.”

I looked at her, surprised. She was usually so averse to direct confrontation.

“I want her to know,” she said, her voice small but resolute. “I want her to know that you’re mine. That *we’re* together.”

My heart swelled. My Natasha. Always the fierce one, even when shy. I handed her the comm, pressing the contact for Wanda. It rang once, twice, then Wanda’s smooth voice answered.

“Y/N? You’re early. Impatient, are we?”

Natasha took a deep breath, her hand gripping mine. “Wanda, it’s Natasha.”

A beat of silence from the other end. “Romanoff. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Wanda’s voice was cool, laced with a hint of suspicion.

“I… I’m calling to tell you that Y/N won’t be joining you tonight,” Natasha said, her voice gaining strength with each word. “Or any other night, for that matter.”

Another pause. Then, a low chuckle from Wanda. “Oh? And why is that, darling?”

Natasha squeezed my hand. “Because she’s with me. And she’s staying with me.”

“Is that so?” Wanda’s voice was perfectly even, but I could almost feel the power humming behind it. “And Y/N, do you have anything to say about this sudden change of plans?”

I leaned into the comm, my voice firm and clear. “She’s right, Wanda. I’m off the market. Natasha here has claimed me.”

A sigh from Wanda, a sound of resignation. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. But I suppose I understand. Romanoff has a way of getting what she wants, even when she’s being shy about it.” A beat of silence. “Just make sure you make her scream louder than she did last night, Y/N. For my entertainment.”

Natasha’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but a triumphant smile touched her lips. “She will,” she promised, her eyes meeting mine, a spark of challenge and desire igniting within them. “Believe me, she will.”

She ended the call, then turned to me, her eyes shining. “So,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, “now that’s settled. What were you saying about round four?”

I grinned, pulling her closer, my lips finding hers. This was it. This was real. And it was going to be so much better than any casual fling. This was Natasha. My Natasha. And I was hers.

- Jane Smith

pairing: Jane Smith x Reader

summary: A love that stayed quiet—until it couldn’t.

tags/warnings: angst, fluff, smut, top!reader, g!p reader, bottom!janesmith, mention of divorce

author's note: so sorry for late upload (i really want to be an active author) it just so happens that i’m sick lol…

word count: 3982

The scent of jasmine and old paperbacks always clung to Jane’s house, a comforting, familiar perfume that had been my sanctuary for years. I’d spent countless afternoons there, watching her children grow, witnessing the beautiful chaos she orchestrated with such effortless grace. My heart, a traitorous thing, had long ago decided it belonged to her, even when her life was irrevocably entwined with John's. He was a good man, a kind father, but every time I saw her laugh, a genuine, unrestrained sound that crinkled the corners of her eyes, a pang of something akin to jealousy, yet softer, a yearning, would twist in my gut. I loved her, an impossible, silent love that I meticulously buried under layers of friendship, beneath shared cups of lukewarm tea and late-night calls about school projects and global crises.

Then the news broke, a seismic shift that reverberated through the tabloids and, more profoundly, through the quiet corners of my own existence. The divorce. John and Jane. It felt monumental, like a mountain range collapsing, reshaping the landscape of everything I knew. My first thought, shameful as it was, wasn't for their pain, but for the tiny, insidious sprout of hope that unfurled within me. A chance. A whisper of a possibility I’d never dared to entertain.

Don (their eldest son), even then, carried an old soul in his young frame. He was perceptive, observant, his eyes often holding a wisdom beyond his years. One rainy afternoon, while Jane was on a call, tucked away in her study, he found me in the kitchen, idly stirring sugar into a forgotten mug of coffee. The silence between us stretched, comfortable, until he spoke.

“You look at her differently,” he said, his voice quiet, almost a murmur, as he watched the rain streak down the windowpane. He didn’t turn to me, just kept his gaze fixed on the blurring world outside.

My heart lurched. Had I been that obvious? Had my carefully constructed facade crumbled? “What do you mean, Don?” My voice felt thin, reedy.

He finally turned, his expression unreadable. “Not like a friend. Like… like how Dad used to look at her, sometimes. Or maybe… even more.” A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. “You love her, don’t you?”

The air left my lungs in a whoosh. I felt exposed, vulnerable, my secret laid bare by a teenager. But there was no judgment in his eyes, only an unsettling clarity. I swallowed, the coffee suddenly bitter in my mouth. “Yes,” I breathed, the word a confession, a release. “More than I should.”

He nodded slowly, a thoughtful gesture. “She deserves to be happy.” He paused, then looked directly at me, a directness that startled me. “And you make her happy. You always have.” His words were a balm, an unexpected blessing. “She needs someone now, more than ever. Someone who sees her, really sees her, not just… the idea of her.”

His understanding, his quiet support, was a revelation. It wasn’t an endorsement for immediate action, but a validation of my feelings, a silent permission to hope. I knew Jane needed time. The divorce was raw, a gaping wound. My approach had to be subtle, a slow, gentle weaving of my presence into the fabric of her new reality. I became her anchor, her unwavering constant. I’d arrive with homemade meals, not asking, just placing them on her counter. I’d listen for hours, offering a silent shoulder, a steady gaze, never pushing, never judging. I’d help with the kids, reading bedtime stories, supervising homework, a silent, loving presence in their lives. I wanted her to feel my love not as a demand, but as a soft, enveloping warmth, a safe harbor.

The months bled into a year, then more. The sharp edges of the divorce began to soften, replaced by a weary acceptance. Jane started to laugh more freely again, her eyes regaining some of their former sparkle. My hope, carefully nurtured, swelled. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, she called me, her voice light, almost giddy.

“You won’t believe it,” she practically sang into the phone. “I met someone.”

My stomach dropped, a cold, leaden weight. The air in my apartment grew thin, stifling. “Oh?” I managed, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “That’s… that’s wonderful, Jane.” Each word was a tiny shard of glass in my throat.

“He’s an architect, Y/N. So smart, and he makes me laugh. Really laugh, you know?” She sounded so happy, so utterly delighted. It was a sound I’d yearned to be the cause of, the recipient of. “We’ve been out a few times. I think… I really like him.”

I mumbled something about being happy for her, about needing to go, a flimsy excuse. I hung up the phone, my hand trembling, the receiver cold against my ear. The hope I’d so carefully cultivated, so tenderly protected, withered and died in that instant, leaving behind a vast, echoing emptiness. The world, which had started to regain its vibrant colors, dulled to shades of gray.

I started to pull away. Slowly, subtly at first. My calls became less frequent, my visits shorter, my excuses more elaborate. I told myself it was for the best. To see her with someone else, to witness her joy, a joy I so desperately wanted to be the source of, would be unbearable. It was self-preservation, a desperate attempt to shield my already fractured heart from further damage. But the distance, meant to protect me, only amplified the ache.

Jane noticed. Of course she did. She was too attuned to the people she loved not to. Her calls started to come more often, her texts filled with questions, with a growing concern. I deflected, I prevaricated, I created a carefully constructed wall of unavailability. I couldn’t face her, couldn’t pretend.

One blustery Saturday, my phone vibrated with a text from her. “The kids miss you. I miss you. Come over. Please. They want you to help them build the new Lego castle. And I… I just want to talk.”

I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen. The kids. Their innocent faces, their unadulterated joy when I walked through the door. How could I deny them? How could I deny her? The guilt gnawed at me. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

I arrived at her house, the familiar scent of jasmine and paperbacks hitting me like a physical blow. The front door was ajar, a cacophony of children’s laughter spilling out into the crisp autumn air. They were outside, I realized, their voices carrying from the sprawling backyard.

Jane met me at the threshold, her expression a mix of concern and something I couldn’t quite decipher. Her eyes, those extraordinary green eyes, searched mine, probing, questioning. She wore a soft, oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked tired, beautiful, and utterly perplexed.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice soft, but with an underlying current of something unyielding. “Finally.” She stepped aside, ushering me in. The house felt strangely quiet without the children inside, the usual hum of activity replaced by a tense stillness.

I walked past her, my gaze fixed on a spot on the wall, anywhere but her face. “Hey, Jane. Sorry I’ve been… busy.” My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

She closed the door behind me with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silent hall. “Busy? For three weeks? You haven’t returned my calls, you’ve canceled every plan we made. What’s going on?” Her voice had hardened, a steely edge I rarely heard.

I shrugged, feigning indifference, though my heart hammered against my ribs. “Just life, you know? Things come up.” I moved towards the living room, a desperate attempt to escape the intensity of her gaze.

She followed, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor, but her presence was a palpable force. “No, I don’t know. Not when it comes to you. You don’t just vanish, Y/N. Not from me. Not from the kids.” She stood directly in front of me now, blocking my path, her arms crossed, her expression resolute. “Tell me. What is it?”

I finally met her eyes, and the raw emotion there, the hurt, the confusion, twisted a knife in my gut. “It’s nothing, Jane. Really. I just… I need some space.”

Her laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. “Space? From me? After everything? What did I do, Y/N? Did I say something? Did I offend you?” Her voice rose with each question, a rare display of anger. “You were my rock through the worst time of my life! You were here, every single day, and now you’re just… gone. And you expect me to believe it’s ‘nothing’?”

The accusations, the hurt in her voice, chipped away at my carefully constructed defenses. My own anger, born of pain and frustration, flared. “You want to know what it is, Jane? Fine!” I took a step closer, my voice rising to match hers. “It’s that I can’t stand to be around you anymore! It’s that it’s too hard!”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock replacing the anger. “Too hard? What are you talking about? What could possibly be too hard about being my friend?”

“Being your friend?” I scoffed, a bitter taste in my mouth. “That’s what you think this is? Just friendship?” My voice was trembling now, the dam threatening to break. “God, Jane, how can you be so oblivious? So utterly blind?”

She recoiled slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Blind to what, Y/N? Explain it to me! I’m trying to understand, but you’re making no sense!”

The words tumbled out then, a torrent I couldn’t stop, years of suppressed emotion finally erupting. “Blind to the fact that I’m in love with you, Jane! That I have been for years! Blind to the fact that every time you talked about John, it felt like a knife twisting in my gut! Blind to the fact that I stayed, I waited, I hoped, through all of it, through the divorce, through your pain, because I thought… I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally have a chance!” My voice cracked on the last word, tears blurring my vision. “And then you call me, all giddy, talking about some architect, about how you ‘really like him,’ and it just… it broke me, Jane. It absolutely shattered me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the children’s laughter from outside. Jane stood frozen, her face a mask of disbelief, her mouth slightly agape. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were wide, unblinking, fixed on mine. The anger had completely drained from her, replaced by something akin to awe, a profound realization dawning in their green depths.

“You… you love me?” she whispered, the words barely audible, as if she was testing their sound, their meaning.

I nodded, tears streaming freely down my face now. “Yes, Jane. I love you. More than anything. And it hurts. It hurts so much to just stand by and watch you fall for someone else, someone who isn’t me.”

She took a slow, deliberate step towards me, then another, until she was standing directly in front of me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her body. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and gently cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear. Her touch was electric, sending a shiver through me.

“Y/N…” Her voice was still a whisper, laced with a new kind of emotion, a tenderness that made my breath catch. “I… I had no idea.” Her eyes searched mine, a depth of emotion swirling within them. “No idea it was… like this.” She paused, her gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. “But… I felt it. Something. I always felt something with you. A connection. Different from anyone else. A comfort, a safety I couldn’t explain.”

Her hand moved from my cheek to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, drawing me closer. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a desperate hope rekindling, fragile yet potent.

“When you pulled away,” she continued, her voice gaining strength, “it felt like a piece of me was missing. Like the air went out of the room. I didn’t understand why I felt so… lost without you. So empty.” Her eyes, now shimmering with unshed tears, locked with mine. “I thought it was just… friendship. But it was more, wasn’t it? It always was.”

She leaned in, her forehead resting against mine, her breath ghosting across my lips. “That architect… he was nice. He made me laugh. But he didn’t make me feel this.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “He didn’t make me feel… whole.”

My hands, which had been hanging uselessly at my sides, rose, finding purchase on her waist, pulling her closer still. The scent of jasmine and her own unique perfume filled my senses, intoxicating. “Jane,” I breathed, her name a prayer, a plea.

“I love you too, Y/N,” she whispered, the confession a soft explosion against my lips. “I think… I’ve loved you for a long time, and I was just too afraid to see it. Too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to lose you.”

Her lips met mine then, soft, hesitant at first, a tentative exploration. It was nothing like I’d imagined, nothing like the fiery, passionate kisses I’d fantasized about. It was soft, a gentle pressing, a slow unfolding, tasting of salt and tears and a profound, aching relief. I responded, my own lips parting, inviting her in. Her tongue, warm and soft, tentatively brushed against mine, a delicate dance of discovery. I deepened the kiss, pouring all my stored-up longing, all my silent devotion, into the movement. She reciprocated, her body pressing flush against mine, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me tighter. The kiss grew in intensity, a slow burn that spread through my veins, igniting every nerve ending. We moved as one, a silent conversation of longing and recognition, our lips molding together, tongues intertwining, tasting, exploring, a desperate thirst finally being quenched.

Her fingers threaded deeper into my hair, her nails gently scraping my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. My hands roamed her back, tracing the curve of her spine, feeling the soft fabric of her sweater, the warmth of her skin beneath. Our chests heaved against each other, our breaths mingling, ragged and desperate.

She broke the kiss, her forehead still pressed against mine, her eyes fluttering open, glistening. “Upstairs,” she murmured, her voice husky, a soft invitation. “Now.”

I didn’t need another word. I scooped her into my arms, a surprising strength surging through me, and carried her towards the staircase. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her head tucked into my shoulder, a soft giggle escaping her lips. Each step was deliberate, a silent promise, our bodies swaying with the rhythm of our desire. The house was quiet, the children’s laughter a distant, muffled sound.

We reached her bedroom, a sanctuary of muted light and soft textures. I gently set her down beside the bed, our eyes never breaking contact. The air in the room hummed with anticipation, thick with unspoken desires. Her hand reached out, her fingers fumbling with the hem of my shirt, her gaze still locked on mine. I understood.

I pulled my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap. Her eyes devoured my chest, a slow, appreciative gaze that made my own skin tingle. I reached for the hem of her sweater, and she lifted her arms, allowing me to peel it away, revealing the delicate lace of her bra. Her breasts, full and soft, rose and fell with her quickened breath.

“Beautiful,” I whispered, my voice rough with emotion, and leaned in to kiss her again, a deeper, more urgent kiss this time, my mouth claiming hers with a newfound confidence. My hands cupped her face, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones, as our tongues danced, a fervent, hungry exchange. I tasted her fully, the sweetness of her mouth, the faint tang of desire.

My hands moved from her face, tracing the line of her neck, down to her shoulders, then along her arms, pulling her closer until our bodies were pressed together once more. I could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft swell of her breasts against mine. Her fingers, delicate yet firm, unbuttoned my jeans, slowly, deliberately, each button a small explosion of anticipation.

We broke the kiss, gasping for air, our eyes shining with a shared intensity. Her fingers slid beneath the waistband of my jeans, her touch sending shivers down my spine. I reciprocated, my own hands finding the button of her jeans, then the zipper, easing them down her hips. The denim pooled around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, her legs long and graceful. She wore a pair of soft, silk panties, clinging to the curve of her hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured, my voice thick with awe, my gaze sweeping over her body. Her skin glowed in the soft light, smooth and inviting.

She reached for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, and led me towards the bed. We sank onto the mattress, the soft give of the springs a welcome embrace. We lay facing each other, our bodies close, our eyes locked in an intimate dance. Her hand, still holding mine, lifted, and she brought my knuckles to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to each one.

“I want you,” she breathed, her voice a raw confession, her eyes burning into mine. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and I never even knew it.”

My heart swelled, a joyous, triumphant ache. I leaned in, kissing her gently, softly, a tender exploration of her lips, her jawline, the soft curve of her neck. My hand found the clasp of her bra, and with a soft click, it came undone. I gently pushed the fabric aside, revealing her breasts in their full glory. Her nipples, dark and inviting, puckered, standing at attention.

I lowered my head, my mouth closing over one, a soft suckling motion. She gasped, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through me. My tongue flicked and swirled around her nipple, teasing, tasting, drawing out a moan that was pure pleasure. Her hands tangled in my hair, holding me close, pressing me deeper. I moved to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, my lips and tongue working their magic, eliciting soft whimpers and gasps from her.

Her hips began to move, a slow, sensual sway against my own. I felt the friction, the growing heat between us. My hand moved from her breast, trailing down her stomach, over the silk of her panties, until my fingers found the moist warmth between her legs. She was wet, so incredibly wet, a testament to her desire.

I slipped a finger beneath the silk, tracing the delicate folds of her labia, feeling the soft, engorged clit beneath my touch. She arched into my hand, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips. “Please,” she whispered, her voice strained, almost pleading.

I eased another finger in, then another, slowly, carefully, stretching her, preparing her. The soft squelch of my fingers entering her wetness was a symphony to my ears. Her hips lifted, her body instinctively seeking more. I stroked her clit with my thumb, a rhythmic, teasing motion that sent shivers through her entire body. Her moans grew louder, more insistent, but still muffled, a conscious effort to keep our secret from the children outside.

I leaned up, my eyes meeting hers, a silent question passing between us. She nodded, her gaze fierce with desire. I pulled down my boxers, freeing myself, my cock springing forth, hard and throbbing, slick with pre-cum. Her eyes widened, a flicker of awe and anticipation in their depths.

I lifted her legs onto my shoulder and positioned myself between her legs, my cock pressing against her wet entrance. The sensation was exquisite, the heat of her skin against mine, the promise of what was to come. I pushed gently, slowly, easing the head of my cock inside her. She gasped, her body tensing, then relaxing as I slid deeper. The wet sound of my cock entering her wetness was a primal symphony, a testament to our shared desire.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered, her voice a strangled gasp, as my cock slowly, deliberately, filled her completely. I felt her muscles clench around me, a warm, tight embrace that stole my breath. I paused, allowing her body to adjust, to acclimate to the fullness, to the glorious invasion. Our eyes locked, a silent communication of pleasure and profound connection.

“Remove this”, she said referring to my only cloth on, my bra. I removed it and throw the piece of clothing somewhere on the floor, not taking my eyes off her.

Then I began to move, a slow, steady thrust, pulling almost entirely out, then pushing back in, deep and full. The rhythm was hypnotic, a primal dance of bodies intertwining. Her hips rose to meet mine, her moans growing louder, “Fuck.. Y/N…” though still muted, a soft, breathy chorus of pleasure. The bed creaked softly beneath us, a rhythmic accompaniment to our movements.

Each thrust was a declaration, a release of years of unspoken longing. I felt her tight around me, the soft give of her flesh, the heat of her core. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I leaned down, kissing her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, tasting the salt and sweat of her skin. Her hands gripped my back, her nails digging in slightly, a desperate need for more.

“F-..aster,” she gasped, her voice raw with passion, her hips arching higher, urging me on.

I obeyed, quickening my pace, my thrusts becoming more urgent, more powerful. “Oh my… mhmF-fuck yes!.” The bed began to rock with our movements, the rhythmic creaking growing slightly louder. We moved together, a seamless unit, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths ragged. The sounds of our pleasure, soft gasps, whimpers, the wetness of our bodies intertwining, filled the room.

My balls slapped against her ass with each thrust, a satisfying thud against her soft skin. I felt the pressure building within me, a delicious, unbearable tension. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me even deeper, her climax nearing. Her moans became more frequent, more desperate, her fingers digging deeper into my back.

Suddenly, her body tensed, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she arched beneath me, her muscles clenching around my cock in a series of exquisite spasms. Her climax was a silent scream, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, her entire body trembling.

I felt myself nearing my own release, the glorious contractions of her orgasm pushing me over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, I emptied myself inside her, a hot, pulsating rush that filled her completely. “Fuck baby..” I groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure ecstasy, my body shuddering with the force of my own climax.

I collapsed onto her, my body heavy, spent, yet utterly content. We lay there for a long moment, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, our bodies still joined, the warmth of her wetness around my spent cock a comforting embrace. The sounds of the children’s laughter, still distant, still muffled, seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of our shared afterglow.

She stirred beneath me, her fingers gently stroking my hair. I lifted my head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes, still heavy-lidded from pleasure, were soft, filled with a profound tenderness. A small, contented smile played on her lips.

“I never knew,” she whispered, her voice still husky, “that this was what I was missing.”

I chuckled, leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Me neither,” I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. “But I’m so glad we found it.”

We lay there for a while longer, tangled together, our bodies cooling, our hearts slowly returning to a normal rhythm. The world outside, with its architects and its demands, seemed a distant, irrelevant thing. All that mattered was this, this quiet intimacy, this shared space of love and vulnerability. The children’s laughter, now a comforting background melody, reminded us of the life we had, and the beautiful, unexpected future we had just begun to build, quietly, in the soft light of a shared afternoon.

- Jane Smith

pairing: Jane Smith x Reader

summary: Jane’s weekend lover.

tags/warnings: smut, angst, top!reader, g!p reader, bottom!janesmith

author’s note: thinking of turning this into a v v short series.. if it does well. (DM me to get on the tag list.)

!idea from tt’s “weekend lover” audio!

word count: 1429

The silk sheets, cool against my back, twisted around my legs, a silent testament to the storm that had just passed. Jane’s head, heavy with sleep, nestled against my shoulder, her breath a soft, even rhythm against my neck. Her dark hair, a wild cascade, fanned across my chest, tickling my skin, each strand a silken whisper. The scent of her—a mix of expensive perfume, sweat, and something uniquely hers, like sun-warmed earth and jasmine—still clung to the air, thick and intoxicating. My cock, still swollen and sensitive, throbbed gently between my legs, a dull ache of satisfaction and something else, something sharper, already beginning to prick at the edges of my contentment.

She stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips, her body a warm weight pressed against mine. Her hand, slender and elegant, found my hip, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. I closed my eyes, trying to bottle this moment, to hold onto the fragile peace before it inevitably shattered. It always shattered.

“You’re still awake,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep, a low purr that always sent a shiver down my spine. She lifted her head, her green eyes, luminous even in the dim light filtering through the blinds, met mine. A slow smile spread across her face, a private, knowing curve of her lips that made my stomach clench.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. I ran my fingers through her hair, letting the strands slide through my grasp. Her skin, flushed from our exertions, glowed in the muted light. I remembered the way her back had arched, her nails digging into my shoulders, the guttural cries that had spilled from her throat as I pushed into her, deeper, harder, until her body convulsed around my cock, milking me dry.

Her thighs, still slick with our mingled fluids, brushed against mine. My cock, thick and rigid, had been a furious piston between her legs, plunging into her wet, eager pussy. Her lips, swollen and red, had been a constant source of torment, sucking on my tongue, nipping at my lower lip until I tasted the faint metallic tang of blood. Her clit, a hard bead, had pulsed under my thumb as I teased it, swirling my finger around its sensitive head, watching her eyes roll back in her head. The rhythmic wet sound of my cock sliding in and out of her had filled the room, punctuated by her gasps and whimpers. Her pussy, a tight, hot sheath, had gripped me so fiercely, every thrust had been a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’d watched her tits bounce with each thrust, her dark nipples, erect and tempting, practically begging for my mouth. The air had grown heavy with our scent, a musky, primal aroma that promised endless nights of sin. I had felt her come, a series of exquisite tremors that ran through her entire body, tightening around my shaft, squeezing every last drop of pleasure from me until I couldn't hold back, my own release a hot, surging wave that emptied into her, filling her with my seed.

Now, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine, a soft, lingering kiss. “You were incredible,” she whispered, her breath warm against my mouth. “Absolutely incredible.”

My heart, stupid and stubborn, swelled in my chest. This was it, the fleeting moment of intimacy, the illusion of permanence, before the inevitable. I knew the script by heart.

She stretched, a languid, cat-like movement that showcased the elegant lines of her body. My eyes traced the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips, the long expanse of her legs. She was a masterpiece, a living, breathing work of art, and I was her willing, foolish devotee.

Then, her hand reached for the bedside table. My breath hitched. There it was. The phone. My stomach plummeted, a cold dread washing over me, familiar and unwelcome. She picked it up, her movements fluid and unhurried, as if she weren’t about to stab me through the heart.

“Just need to check something,” she said, not meeting my gaze, her eyes already scanning the screen. Her thumb swiped, and the bright glow of the display illuminated her face, starkly outlining the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the slight frown that creased her brow.

My jaw tightened. “Right.”

She tapped a few keys, the soft clicks echoing in the quiet room, each sound a tiny hammer blow against my fragile composure. She brought the phone to her ear, her back slightly turned to me, as if to offer a pretense of privacy, a gesture I found both insulting and utterly predictable.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, a tone she reserved for him, the man who waited for her, the man she always returned to. “Just calling to say… I’m on my way back. Traffic was a nightmare.”

My vision blurred at the edges. Traffic. A nightmare. The lie, so casual, so effortless, twisted in my gut. I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea washing over me. I heard her murmuring, something about a late meeting, a client call. Her voice, usually so vibrant and expressive, flattened into a practiced monotone, devoid of the passion she’d shown me mere minutes ago.

“Yeah, I know, love. I miss you too. Be home soon.”

Love. The word, a poisoned dart, struck me squarely in the chest. I felt a cold, hollow ache spread through me, a familiar emptiness. I was just the pit stop, the convenient detour, the secret indulgence. I was the toy she played with when she was bored, the release she sought before returning to her real life, her real love. And I, like an idiot, always welcomed her back. Always.

She ended the call, a faint click, and then turned back to me, her expression unreadable. She offered a small, apologetic smile, a flicker of something in her eyes that might have been guilt, or perhaps just pity.

“John,” she explained, as if I needed an explanation, as if I hadn’t just heard every word. “He worries.”

I pushed myself up, the sheets pooling around my waist. The air suddenly felt too thin, too suffocating. My cock, which had been blissfully sated, now felt heavy and useless, a stark reminder of my foolishness.

“He worries?” My voice was low, laced with a bitterness I no longer bothered to hide. “Or you just needed to remind yourself you have a husband?”

Her smile faltered. Her eyes, those captivating green eyes, widened slightly. “Y/N, don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Don’t start what, Jane? Don’t start acknowledging the giant, gaping hole in this arrangement? The fact that you just fucked my brains out, then called your husband to tell him you’re coming home?”

She sat up too, pulling the sheet higher, a defensive gesture. “It’s not like that. You know how complicated things are.”

“Complicated?” I scoffed, running a hand through my hair. “Complicated is an understatement. It’s a fucking carousel, Jane. And I’m the idiot who keeps getting on for the same damn ride, knowing exactly where it ends.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, her eyes pleading. “You know I care about you. This… this means something to me.”

“Does it?” I challenged, my voice rising. “Because every time you do this, it feels like it means absolutely nothing. It feels like I’m just a convenient distraction, a warm body to fill the space between your husband and your perfect life.” My chest heaved with the effort of holding back the surge of raw emotion. “I can’t keep doing this, Jane. I can’t be your weekend lover anymore.”

She reached for my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “Please, Y/N. Don’t say that. We can talk about this.”

I pulled my hand away, the touch burning. “There’s nothing to talk about. You have a life, a husband. And I…” I looked around my apartment, at the quiet, empty space that felt like an extension of my own hollow heart. “I deserve more than this. I deserve someone who doesn’t have to lie to get to me, or lie to leave me.”

Her face fell, the mask of composure finally cracking. Her lips trembled. “Are you… are you saying this is over?”

The words caught in my throat, a bitter pill. My heart screamed no, begged me to pull her back, to fall into her arms and pretend none of this mattered. But another, stronger voice, a voice I had ignored for far too long, finally spoke.

“Yes,” I said, the word a painful, defiant whisper. “I’m choosing myself, Jane. For once, I’m choosing myself.”