Pairing: Mommy!Wanda x Fem!Reader
Summary: You've had one too many glasses of wine. Thankfully, Mommy's here to make sure nothing bad happens, right?
Content Warning: Dubcon, mommy kink, intoxication, fingering (R receiving), power imbalance.
Word count: 1.5k
A/N: for the wonderful @sokovianpuppy on her birthday. i hope i did your kink list justice with this one. please be mindful of the dubcon tag, the con is very dub!
The lamp hums, its low golden glow the only source of trembling light in the living room. Outside, you can hear the rain tapping against the windows impatiently, but inside, the air is thick, cloying. Wanda’s perfume, something with fig and wood, usually makes your nose scrunch, but with how much wine you’ve had, all you can smell right now is the dizzying scent of crushed grapes.
You’re curled on the couch in one of Wanda’s oversized sweaters, the one that feels like it might’ve been plucked straight from a cloud. A half-empty glass of wine rests in your hands, your second now, while Wanda watches you from the other end of the couch. Her green eyes sparkle with something predatory that you don’t notice.
“Drink up, big girl,” she murmurs, her voice velvet to your ears. “You’ve had a very long week. Mommy wants to make sure you’re nice and relaxed.”
The bottle in her grasp tips forward, and the wine glugs generously into your glass, color so deep it makes you think of blood. You sip again, the wine burning sweet down your throat, and then again, over and over until your glass is lighter and the room is a little tilted on its axis. You swallow sluggishly, but when you try to pull back, Wanda keeps the glass there a second longer, and a trickle escapes the corner of your mouth when you finally pull away.
“Um,” you begin, your words coming out slower and softer than you want them to, a giggle laced between your words that doesn’t quite belong to you. “I think, um, that’s enough for me.”
Wanda shifts closer, the movement silent. Her hand finds your knee and begins to stroke, her thumb tracing little circles that make you skittish. “Shh, you’re fine,” she soothes, and your body slackens at the sound. “You’re alright, I’ve got you. Look at you, baby, blushing like that. You’re so pretty like this.” Her voice has a pleased note to it, like a panther curled up in the shade of a tree, body tense and waiting to pounce.
The hand at your knee doesn’t stop. It slides up your leg and teases the hem of your sweater.
You squirm, pressing your legs together instinctively.
“Wait–” you say, the word slipping from your tongue. “My head feels weird.” Your voice is smaller, breathier than you’d like, almost faintly whiny. You push her hand away weakly, but the alcohol has turned your muscles soft and useless.
“Shh,” Wanda says again, the sound scratching a deep part of your brain. “Let me take care of you.” A gentle kiss to your temple while her fingers keep moving, slipping down until they cup between your legs over your panties. They’re already damp, and the realization makes your face burn hotter.
You squirm, your hips twisting away from her touch, but she follows easily, hand pressing more firmly.
“You’re getting so wet already, baby,” Wanda murmurs, her voice soft like velvet wrapped around a knife. “That’s okay. Your body needs this.”
“No… I don’t–” you begin, but the words tangle in your brain. You try to close your thighs, but her knee nudges between them, holding you open, exposed. Hot tears gather in your eyes, blurring the lamplight into hazy stars. “Wanda, please. It’s too much. I can’t.”
Another hush, less soothing than before, and then she’s nuzzling into your neck as her fingers push your panties aside. They slide through against your slick labia, slow and deliberate, and then, without hesitation, push inside you without any resistance at all.
The sudden stretch prickles your eyes, and a broken whimper escapes your throat. You’re so full it hurts, and you feel yourself clenching around Wanda’s fingers despite confusion spinning in your mind.
“Easy, baby, I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and soothing like she’s comforting a child. Her fingers curl deeper, stroking steadily against the sensitive spot that makes sparks shoot in your chest. The sound is filthy, rhythmic, and you whimper. “Just breathe. Mommy’s right here.”
The word lands when your head is already floating, thoughts too scattered to catch it fully, and it slips from your own lips before you can stop it, slurred and needy.
“Mommy…” you sob softly, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Shame and heat twists together in your belly. “Mommy, wait– it’s too much, I can’t…”
“Poor, poor thing,” Wanda coos, almost mockingly, and your cheeks flare with heat as she leans in to lick away one of your tears. “But you’re taking my fingers so well. Look how nicely you’re opening up for me, baby.”
She scissors her fingers, stretching you impossibly wider, and the burn blooms into heavy pleasure that makes your hips jerk wildly. You whine, loud, pushing at her shoulders weakly as you squirm beneath her.
Your body is sliding against the couch, skin sweaty and sticking to the fabric. The sweater you’re wearing, Wanda’s, feels almost suffocating now, rubbing against your nipples with every twist and squirm. The scent of your arousal thickens the air, mixing with the foggy smell of wine.
“Mommy… please, it’s too deep,” you say, voice cracking with dizziness. Your hips buck, trying to dislodge her, but the movement only drives her fingers deeper, and you moan despite yourself.
Your arousal coats Wanda’s hand, shining in the low lamplight. She holds you closer, moving an arm to wrap around your waist, effectively pinning you against her while her fingers keep their steady, unrelenting rhythm.
“I know, baby. I know it’s a lot,” she soothes, her voice soft, and you almost forget how much you didn’t want this. “But Mommy’s here to help you, okay? You’ll feel so much better after you cum, sweetheart.”
Her thumb nudges at your clit insistently, and then it starts to circle, forcing out a cry from your mouth. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, thighs trying to clamp around her arm but they’re too shaky, your cunt too needy to allow the movement.
Tears stream steadily down your cheeks, and the blurry room won’t stop tilting. Every breath tastes like wine, and the wet sound of her fingers pumping into you fills the room alongside your desperate pants.
“Please, Mommy– slow down, please, everything’s spinning,” you sob the words, half-begging, half-whining, not even sure of what you want anymore. The pleasure coiling tight and hot in your cunt is almost terrifying with how fast it’s building.
“Mommy knows exactly what you need,” Wanda says gently, almost tenderly, as if she was reading your thoughts. Her fingers curl with purpose, fucking you hard enough to make your hips cant upwards with every thrust. Her lips find your forehead, then your soft, fluttering eyelids, and finally a kiss to the corner of your trembling mouth. “My good girl. Let it build, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.”
You shake your head weakly, another broken sob escaping. “I can’t– Mommy–” The word keeps slipping out, making you dizzier, making everything more confusing. Your hips twitch in conflicted little movements, sometimes pulling away from her touch, other times grinding down on her hand. Sweat trickles down your back. The pressure inside you swells unbearably, every stroke of her fingers dragging you closer to the edge you never asked for.
Wanda’s breath is warm against your ear. “That’s it, baby, don’t fight it. It feels good, right? Let your body relax, don’t fight it.”
Your orgasm crashes over you without any mercy. Your whole body seizes, back arching sharply off the couch as a raw, choked cry is torn from your throat. Pleasure rips through your drunken haze in sharp waves, your cunt pulsing hard around her fingers, and warm wet heat gushes down your hand and onto the cushions. You’re sobbing through every spasm, tears flooding your vision, limbs shaking helplessly, your release too big, too intense, like it’s tearing through you.
Eventually it slows, weakening to soft pulses. Even as you tremble and whimper in the aftermath, Wanda’s fingers are still inside you, buried deep and stroking softly through the fluttering aftershocks. Your head is cradled against her chest, tears sticky against your cheeks.
“Mommy’s got you. Breathe, baby. Just breathe.” Her free hand strokes your hair, heart-wrenchingly gentle even as her fingers give one last possessive curl inside you.
Your face finds her neck, dazed, exhausted, the room still spinning slowly around you. “Mommy…” you whisper, voice tiny and lost, unsure why the word in your mouth feels both comforting and terrifying.
Wanda smiles against your hair, pressing a soft kiss. “That’s right. Mommy’s here.” Her fingers twitch once more inside you, a wordless promise. The rain outside continues to fall. “Mommy’s not going anywhere.”
Mommy Wanda who had no clue how you survived before you met her. From your accounts you just thrifted and budgeted like crazy but with Wanda in the picture that was no more.
She’d take you on elaborate shopping trips, not letting you look at a single price tag and simply buying everything that caught your eye.
With you hooked on her arm she’d lead you all over until finally taking you to a “toy shop” as she put it.
Mommy Wanda loved watching your eyes widen and your face go red as she led you through the store.
Pointing out different dildo sizes and pressing on your tummy while whispering, “I could stuff your pussy so well with this, would you like that baby?” Even going as far as to pick up a display dildo and hold it to your abdomen. The red dildo was about 8 inches long with various bumps on it making you blush a deep red.
(Wanda ended up buying the toy)
She’d show you all the different vibrators and making you pick out one.
And if you hadn’t been red before you definitely were when Wanda began showing you more diverse toys. Taking her time and showing you each nipple clamp, handcuffs, ribbon, and paddle, (making sure to buy each one of course.)
Mommy Wanda who didn’t miss the way your legs had been squeezing the whole way home. She’d make sure to spoil you that night with all your new fun “toys”.
who needs oxygen when you have boobs in your mouth? ⊹₊ ⋆
ꢤꢆ back at it with the mommy milkers 🥛
description - your stepmom, wanda has recently taken lactation pills as a favour to a friends baby whilst she’s away, but what happens when her friend’s trip is cancelled and she doesn’t need the favour anymore?
warnings - 18+, smut, stepmom!wanda, lactation, fingering, shy!reader, teasing, r first time, praise kink, soft dom wanda, sub reader, sweet wanda, kissing, slight aftercare, shitty description omg, lactation, lactation, did i mention lactation? lmk if i missed anything, my first full one shot, beware ;>
a/n - ok so i’m not too sure abt how the whole lactacion pill thing works and i tried searching shit up but it’s quite complicated and different for everyone i’m sure but im not that bothered abt accuracy it’s just a fantasy. the backstory is also kind of cliche but what other way is there to justify getting with your dad’s hot wife? 😂
thank you to my sweet sweet mootie @sparklejumprope13 for the title, it’s perfectly fitting <3
word count - 3.4k
it’s a warm summer evening. you’re sat in bed with your stepmom, wanda. her legs are splayed out as you sit between them, your back rested against her chest. soft rays of light pour into the room through the lace of the curtains, leaving floral patterns all over the walls. the beams land on your skin in little shapes, golden and toasty - making you sink further into her embrace.
her arms are wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed out on your shirt, softly rubbing the silky material and as she moves her hair tickles the back of your neck, causing you to wriggle a little in her grasp.
you’re watching a movie together - grease, one of your favourites. wanda isn’t particularly fond of musicals but she doesn’t care much, as long as she gets to spend time with her sweet girl.
it’s been nice, getting to spend time with wanda, getting to know her. she came into your life a little over three months ago and you were skeptical at first, because like so many of your dads past wives, they all stormed into your life with a motive, wanting to drain your dad of his life’s savings, then move on to the next rich prick. you couldn’t say you felt sorry for your dad, he was in-fact a prick, but every time one of his wives left it broke a little piece of you. you’d been so oblivious to their niceties and seemingly sweet gestures. every time you’d think, finally, finally you get to have the love you never had, the love you never felt you deserved - but every time, they’d leave like a thief in the night, taking a little piece of your heart with them. as you and wanda grew closer you’d often find yourself thinking that if she ever left you like they did, there’d be nothing left of you afterwards. you’d be a shell of broken pieces with no more love to accept.
it was scary, opening up to her about all of this, but she reassured you that she wasn’t like them. you chose to believe her one last time, and you’re once reclused self has now become chatty and open and vulnerable. you’re still deathly shy around her most of the time, but who can blame you when wanda looks the way she does - intimidatingly beautiful, pale green eyes and long auburn locks that shimmer in the rays of her bedroom where you both sit.
although you love the peace and serenity of relaxing with wanda, the moment is cut short when you hear a sharp inhale suck through her teeth. you turn your head and see her biting her lip, her hand pressed firmly into the skin of her thigh, trying to suppress whatever is causing her discomfort.
you sit up a little, thinking maybe your hurting her, but it doesn’t help, and another soft groan escapes her.
“are you okay, mommy?” you ask, tracing your fingers along the smooth skin on her legs in an attempt to relieve her. she shakes her head, wincing and cupping a hand on one of her breasts.
“ooouh - fuck,” she hisses, kneading her flesh. you sit, dumbfounded by whatever it is going on.
“sorry, sweetheart. mommy shouldn’t swear, but fuck-” she laughs acidicly. “it hurts.” her eyes close, like she’s trying to imagine anything other than the pain coursing through her veins. you sit and watch her fondle her breasts for a moment before the explanation to all of this shoots back into your memory. you remember her talking about a friend of hers who was going on a trip and wasn’t able to take her baby with her. she’d asked wanda to babysit for her and possibly cross feed because she didn’t want the baby on formula, for whatever reason you couldn’t remember - something about nutrients. wanda happily said she’d do it, but just a few days before the trip (after she’d already started on the lactation pills) her friend told her that it had been cancelled due to weather conditions.
wanda swore to herself to never do anything nice for anyone ever again after that. the pain is insurmountable, shooting through her flesh and making her stomach lurch.
“can i do anything to help?” you feel horrible, knowing she’s going through this for no reason and that there’s nothing she can do until the pills she took stop their effects.
“can you rub on mommy’s stomach please, baby?” the pills have also given her a number of side effects including cramps, and it makes her feel like a teenager who’s got their first period all over again.
you nod and she lifts her shirt up a little. you press your hand into her warm skin, slowly massaging the area with little dips of your fingers. she smiles through her pain at your efforts, reaching her hand out to smooth over your hair. “just a little more pressure, sweetheart,” she says, still moulding her breasts over her thin shirt.
you try your best to add pressure, but touching her like this feels weirdly intimate, especially when she has that contorted look on her face, and soft little whimpers spill from her mouth. you don’t want to overstep or end up hurting her.
“here,” she says, reaching out and patting your hand. “how about we switch, hm? you massage mommy’s boobs instead?” your lips part for a second before you realise and you quickly close your mouth, nervously rubbing the back of your neck. “a-are you sure?”
“of course, baby. mommy just needs a little more firmness on her tummy.” she connects her thumb and index fingers together as she speaks.
you don’t quite catch the coy smirk she lets her lips break in to for just a second, too busy not being able to look her in the eyes whilst you nod your head in agreement.
she straightens her face when you look up and gives you a tender smile instead, taking your hand and guiding you to her cloth covered breast. you lay your hand flat on the surface, too scared to move, to do anything. “go on sweetheart, help mommy feel better.”
it’s squishy and warm as you squeeze and you feel them spilling out of her bra underneath her shirt - the overgrowth of milk clearly making it too small for her. you begin lightly massaging, hands pressing in a clawing motion against her tits. “like this, mommy?”
she sighs, tipping her head back at your touch. “yeah, baby, oooh - that’s it,” she moans softly, placing her own hand on her stomach and pressing hard at the tightening pressure on her pelvis.
you massage for a few more minutes and it seems as though some of wanda’s pain has been alleviated. her eyes are closed and she breathes in long stretches as you work. you can’t say the idea of groping your mommy’s tits isn’t making your underwear just a little damp, and you try not to squirm every time she softly mewls, but it’s gets frustratingly harder with each passing minute.
even more so when you start to feel a slight wetness on her shirt. it settles on your palms, warm and slightly tinted. you pause, looking up at her. but she doesn’t seem to notice, too encapsulated in her meditative state.
the liquid flows a bit more freely now, darkening the patch of her shirt around where her nipples are. “m-mommy?” your fingers stop their motions on her boobs and her eyes flutter open. she sees you staring at your hand, unsure of what to do with the liquid that has accumulated there.
“oh, detka.” she coos, stroking your temple. “can you go and get mommy’s pump, please?”
you nod and she tells you it’s in one of her bedside table drawers. you stand up shakily, though you’re not sure why. your head seems to feel a little fluttery and you feel a slight jolt in your abdomen. a feeling that gets worse as you watch wanda lift her shirt up, revealing only a thin bra that has become almost transparent around her nipples.
you instantly look away, focusing on the task at hand. get her pump. you reach down to the bottom drawer of her nightstand and open it, fetching the item and walk back to the bed, almost antagonisingly slow.
you pass her the item and sit down next to her awkwardly, not knowing what to do with yourself. and if that wasn’t already hard enough, she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, scrunching it up into a ball and aiming at the laundry basket a few feet away.
you turn away as soon as your eyes come into contact with her breasts, wanting to be respectful, not because you’re afraid of ogling her - no, never that.
“it’s okay, sweetheart,” she giggles. “you can look.”
you turn back around, smiling sheepishly and taking her in. they’re full, almost swollen, her nipples hardening as they come into contact with the fresh, cool, summer air. your cheeks turn pink and you try your best to look at her pretty face, but it feels like they’re staring right at you.
“you okay, bunny?” she snaps you out of your thoughts. you clear your throat and give her an unbelievable smile. “yes.”
she’s just about done fiddling with the pump and attaches the flange on to her nipple. she breathes, thinking she’s about to get a relief from all this, but the suction seems to not be working. she checks the tubing and assembly, not understanding what the problem is.
she tries once more and the suction fails again. she cups one of her boobs as an achy cramp suddenly attacks. “mmh,” she whimpers - unintentionally, or not, gripping one of your thighs.
you wouldn’t say you like seeing your mommy in pain, but the sounds she makes and the hold on your thigh is making quite the mess of your panties - much so that if she moved her hand one inch closer she’d for sure feel the stickiness coating your groin area.
“baby…” wanda whispers, her thumb making little circles on your thigh. “w-would you mind?” she asks, her words slow and drifting into the air. you catch them before they dissipate and your eyes widen involuntarily.
you know she really wouldn’t ask if she didn’t have any other option and the thought of her nipples in your mouth doesn’t seem like a bad thing, so why are you so nervous?
you stare into space, and she anxiously waits for your answer, hoping to get it sooner rather than later. “please, sweetheart…mommy hurts.” she winces, fingering her exposed, tender nipples. her words have you instantly obliging, nodding your head vigorously like that alone will stop her pain.
“yeah?” she waits for your confirmation, her tensed muscles finally relaxing a little.
“yeah,” you echo, your skin prickling with warmth.
“come here, sweetheart.” wanda opens her arms, gesturing for you to sit sideways on her lap. once you’re comfortable she kisses your forehead and rests her hand on the side of your thigh. you find it a little hard to breathe now that you’re close up to her - her breasts mere inches away from your face, dripping milk down onto her stomach. “go head, baby,” she coaxes, stroking your thigh.
you glance at her face once more and she softly smiles, all the extra reassurance you need to lean forward and wrap your lips around her nipple.
she sighs as you slowly suckle, letting her shoulders sink fully into their natural state. you hum and relax your tongue around her as the sweet, thin liquid flows into your mouth. it doesn’t taste like you expected, you somehow thought it’d be bitter, but it’s almost got a vanilla kind of tinge to it.
“mmh…good girl,” she murmurs, her fingers slow and soothing on your thigh, and a pulse of heat rushes straight to your core. your legs squirm slightly underneath her touch and you apply more pressure, suckling as the milk caresses your stomach lining.
wanda guides one of your hands to her other boob, placing it there and squeezing your fingers. you let out a low squeak as you massage, feeling the tiny milk droplets leak out of her nipple with each touch. “such a helpful little girl,” she says, moaning softly when you gently pinch her erect bud.
your sleep shorts seem to grow wetter just as fast as the milk seeps into your mouth. you don’t mean to have these reactions, but this whole situation feels like a fever dream, just not one you’d ever want to wake up from - it has your thoughts feeling blurry and your tummy feeling all funny. you press your free hand just above your panty line, willing the delightful ache away, but it doesn’t seem to work.
once the boob your undivided attention is on starts feeling a little empty, wanda sits you up and places you on the side of her other one. you don’t waste any time, latching on to her trickling nipple and shutting your eyes closed. she puts her hand back on your thigh, letting her fingertips dance up and down your skin. her lips widen as she sees just how much your enjoying it and she fights to hold back a moan when you accidentally bite her nipple, eager and hungry like you haven’t had a bite of food in days. you smile bashfully, an apologetic expression on your face.
“you like that, baby?” she grins, deep down wanting you to do it again. you just nod in response, irrationally afraid of what might happen if you let go for one second.
her fingertips trail up towards your stomach, she can’t seem to keep her hands to herself. she rubs the area with her palm, feeling your stomach bloat as it fills with liquid, the rising and dropping as you breathe accentuating the effect. “mommy loves your little tummy, sweetheart.” she presses a little harder, your stomach making little gurgling noises as you digest her milk.
you whimper, pursing your lips around her, forcing your legs shut as you squirm in her lap. wanda coos, kissing your cheeks and pushing harder against your stomach.
“poor baby.” she lowers her hands, trailing down towards your inner thighs. when you realise where she’s headed your brows pinch, and you gaze up at her, all doe eyed and fuzzy headed. she doesn’t say a word, her face motionless, just making it seem like innocent little touches. you almost believe it, but then you feel your shorts being pulled to the side and two fingers teasing you over your panties. you unlatch from her nipple, a sharp gasp squeezing out from your throat. “m-mommy?”
“keep suckling, baby - that’s it,” she mutters, gently pushing your mouth back onto her breast. her nails lightly graze your clit and you pule as she spreads your legs so that she can gain better access.
she flexes her fingers over your panties, slowly collecting all your dampness on her skin. “mommy felt how wet your sleep shorts were while you were drinking her milk, bunny,” she almost sings, gasping without a single ounce of shock at the wetness coating her fingers.
you find it hard to stay still, your legs writhing at her touch and your lips quivering around her nipple, making little drops of the white liquid drip out from your mouth. she neatly wipes the spilt milk off of your chin, kissing the corner of your mouth in the process. “was it making your insides all funny, hm? - sucking on mommy’s boobies.”
your hips buck at her words, making you flustered and hot within seconds - the teasing of her fingers on your pussy isn’t helping at all. “mhm…” is all you can manage with the sweltering heat attacking your core.
she pushes your panties to the side, running her fingers up your folds. “mm, i bet, honey.” she spreads them open, pressing a finger on your clit and rubbing in slow circles, and you let out a strained moan, burrowing your face in the side of her boob. “ohh, baby - does that feel good?”
you nod, whimpering into her skin as she increases the intensity, making your skin tingle and shiver. “fff- mommy,” you whine, popping her nipple back into your mouth and sucking eagerly, your teeth grazing her sensitive flesh. she moans inaudibly, her fingers slowing on your clit as she gathers herself before picking their pace back up and overwhelming your senses.
“such a pretty girl,” she says, smiling as if she’d just won the lottery and inching her fingers closer to your dripping hole. “say it for me, princess - tell mommy you’re her pretty girl.” she circles her fingers around your entrance, letting your slickness wrap around them like lube.
“‘m your pretty girl, mommy,” you mumble around her nipple, and it satisfies her enough so that she sticks her fingers inside your pussy, curling them slightly upwards and pounding them into you.
your hands clutch at her own as she fucks her fingers inside you, clawing and pulling involuntarily as your mind tries to keep up with your body. “shhh, i’ve got you. yeah, you’re doing such a good job…taking it so well.”
you suck lazily on her boob, milk dribbling down your chin and chest. wanda’s free hand rests on your stomach, pressing down like before, making you wriggle and press your hips up further into her touch, seeking what your body cannot handle.
you exhale sharply when she curls her fingers some more. her own hips start to lightly buck up against your thigh, the sight of your tired pussy being finger fucked and the feeling of your walls clenching around them making her insatiably aroused.
you feel her weak attempt at humping against you, the fabric of her pants and the position you’re in a useless barrier - you can tell how frustrated and pent up she is and it only causes your orgasm to draw closer. “god, sweetheart…you’re making mommy so wet,” she mewls, fucking her fingers deeper into your hole.
“‘m so close, mommy,” you cry out, your eyes glistening with unshed tears as you suckle on the remainder of what’s left in her boobs. the pressure on your cervix leaves you a whiny, disheveled mess, biting down hungrily on her nipples, needing more.
wanda groans, tilting your chin up and kissing your mouth - wet and sloppy and without any rhythm, struggling to keep her cool. her tongue rasps against yours and you noisily whimper into her mouth, the sounds vibrating against her oesophagus.
she teasingly presses harder on your stomach, knowing that will end up being your demise. you feel a knot of heaviness in your bladder and clutch at your mommy’s hands again, trying but failing to pry them off. “come for me, angel…come for mommy.”
you moan inaudibly one last time before your legs squeeze together and shake violently as your pussy contracts around her fingers and you reach your peak, a stream of pleasure washing over you.
“that’s it, baby.” wanda soothes, wrapping her arms around you while your body stiffens and your vision blurs. “soo pretty when you come.” she pulls her fingers out of you slowly then sticks them in her mouth, humming at the taste of you.
you whine, laying in the pleasure of your first orgasm for a moment, then press your face into her chest, ineptly sucking on the skin of her breast.
“shhh, mommy’s got you,” she whispers into your hairline, stroking up and down your backside. “such a good girl…”
she sits you on her lap, your legs straddling her. she looks down at your dazed expression and pouts at how soft and blissed out you look. it’s adorable, and she can’t resist pressing tiny little kisses all over your face.
you giggle, trying to shield yourself but she just pulls your hands away. “mm mm, i don’t think so” she teases, peppering your face even more and feeling her lips get warmer as you flush at her touch. “there’s my sweet girl.”
she softens, pulling you back against her chest and cradling you gently in her arms. “i love you, sweetheart,” she murmurs, petting your hair.
you bury your face deeper into her chest, drunk on love and affection - your mouth finds its way back to her nipple and you suckle until you no longer feel the sunlight on your back.
You never imagined you would be living your best life.
It was on a rainy afternoon that you met Wanda. The first image you had of her was her wet clothes and hair, unloading boxes and suitcases from her car in the parking lot. You offered to help her and ended up discovering that she was moving into the apartment next to yours.
After that, you became great neighbours — and more than just neighbours. Even though she was older than you, you never felt the age difference. In the conversations you shared, she seemed perfectly comfortable opening up about her personal life and experiences. That’s how you discovered about her separation and her twin children. The more you got to know her, the more you wondered how anyone could have left that woman. She was amazing — both as a person and as a mother.
Your favourite day of the week became Wednesday — the day you had promised to take her kids and their dog to the park. You weren’t quite ready to admit that the reason it made you so happy was because it was the one day you knew for sure you’d see Wanda.
After they had burned off all their energy, it was time to head home — the part you loved most. That meant Wanda would be waiting for her boys and for you. She always invited you to stay for dinner, and of course, you always said yes. It was, for sure, the best meal you had all week.
And so, it was on a Wednesday night that things started to change. After a wonderful dinner and putting her boys to sleep, she invited you to stay a little longer. She said there was some leftover ice cream, but she didn’t want to leave it for her twins — too much sugar, she said. You stayed. After all, what harm could a bit of ice cream and Wanda’s company do?
You just didn’t expect the wave of emotions would bring crashing over you that night.
You were sitting on the couch, a new series that had just come out playing on the TV, with the tub of ice cream resting between you.
The show was engaging enough, but your focus kept drifting to the woman sitting beside you. You stole quick glances at her whenever you reached for a spoonful of ice cream, taking in every detail — she was perfect. And, of course, she noticed you looking at her.
Suddenly, she took the ice cream tub for herself and said - "Come here, Y/N. I’m getting cold, and we still have ice cream to finish." - She opened her arms — a clear invitation for you to lean against her.
You were grateful for the dim lighting, with only the glow of the TV illuminating the room — you were sure your cheeks were flushed. Your back rested against her body as her arms wrapped around you in a soft embrace. She set the ice cream tub on your lap and kept eating and watching the show as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Your body slowly began to relax, melting into her embrace. Her warm skin touching yours. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this until now — and you were certain you’d be craving it forever.
At the end of that night, after the ice cream was gone and the first episode had finished, the path between you two was undeniably set to change.
-"Thanks for the lovely company, sweetheart. I think we should do this more often. How about coming over tomorrow to watch the next episode?" - she said, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder and holding you a little tighter.
---
Days turned into weeks, and now it had been a month since that night — and, not that it really mattered, but you had been visiting Wanda practically every day since. Whether it was to look after the boys, walk the dog, or — most importantly — spend time with Wanda.
You started to notice the little ways she was careful with you, always making sure you were eating and resting well. It was almost as if she had adopted you as one of her own, and you couldn’t deny that you felt a sense of comfort, maybe even something maternal toward her.
It was a special day — the season finale. With the twins at their dad’s, the house just for the two of you. The cookies were baking in the oven while you fluffed the pillows and adjusted the blankets on the couch, all set up for a cozy night.
Just like your routine now, you curled up in Wanda’s arms. It had become your favourite place — and she never failed to mention that holding you was the best thing she could ask for.
--
The episode was over, and the plate of cookies was empty. It was time to leave — the part you hated most. But Wanda didn’t suggest getting up. Instead, she gently pulled you closer, guiding your head onto her lap. You glanced up at her, a bit confused — but deep down, you were loving every second of it.
-"I love spending time with you like this, Y/N," she said, gently caressing your face. -"You look so small like this in my arms… like my baby girl."- You felt her lips press softly against your forehead.- "You are my baby girl, right? Just mine."
You nodded, your thoughts racing as if your deepest wish were coming true. It felt like a dream.
-"Perfect. But if you’re my baby, that means I’m your mommy. Am I right?" she said with a teasing smile.
Before you could answer, her fingers were already tracing over your lips.- "I can be your mommy and take care of you. Nothing to worry about. That’s what you want most, isn’t it, darling?"
You let out a frustrated whimper as her finger slid into your mouth. It was instinctive — you began sucking on her finger as if you’d been doing it for years. A wave of calm washed over you, your thoughts melting away. For a moment, all you wanted was to stay there forever, nestled in her lap.
Wanda seemed to love it too. Her eyes sparkled as you played with her finger, and she kept murmuring how good you were for her. Her good girl.
---
Another afternoon with Wanda.
Some might call you selfish, but you loved the days when the twins were with their dad — it meant you’d have Wanda all to yourself. But unfortunately, that day wasn’t going the way you’d hoped. With the end of the semester approaching, you were buried under college assignments, and at Wanda’s insistence, you’d spent nearly the entire day studying.
Your eyes were growing heavy, and your head was starting to ache. Wanda, who had been reading a book on the couch, must have noticed your exhaustion — and you could tell she felt pity for you.
-"Sweetheart, are you okay? Why don’t you come to rest here with me?"
You didn’t think twice. Getting up from your chair in a rush, you headed toward the living room. She was still focused on her book, so you carefully lay down beside her, resting your head on the pillow in her lap.
The first ten minutes were comfortable — until you started feeling ignored. The fingers that had been lazily threading through your hair had stopped, and her attention seemed completely absorbed by the book in her hands as if she’d forgotten you were even there. After an exhausting day of college work, now being ignored by Wanda? It felt like a nightmare.
You took a deep breath, your body growing restless. Your fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, tugging lightly. At first, she didn’t seem to notice — or maybe she was ignoring you on purpose.
Another frustrated sigh escaped you.
-"Mommy, please…"
You were definitely desperate for her attention now.
She only hummed a soft "Hmm?" without even glancing down at you, her hand still absentmindedly stroking your hair.
You couldn’t believe it.
Frustrated, you pulled her hand away from your head — and that finally got her attention.
-"What’s wrong, darling?" she asked, closing the book and setting it aside. - "Do you want my finger to help you relax?" - Her hand was now gently holding your chin.
Honestly, you weren’t sure what you wanted. Well, you knew you wanted her attention — you wanted all of her for yourself. You tried to form a sentence, to say something certain, but your mind failed you — too many thoughts swirling at once. So instead, you chose to bury your face in her lap, pressing yourself closer to her body.
-"Hey, baby girl. Talk to me. What’s wrong, hm?" - She adjusted you in her lap, one arm wrapped around your body while her other hand gently lifted your chin, making you look at her. - "You know… I think I know something that would make you feel better." - She winked at you, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Without you even realizing it, she lifted her shirt, she was wearing no bra, her breasts exposed right in front of you, mere inches from your face. Your eyes widened in surprise — a good surprise. You probably looked like a needy puppy being given the best treat. After long moments of staring at what was right before your eyes, you finally looked up, meeting Wanda's gaze as she watched you.
-"I think someone is pretty happy with the surprise, huh?!" she said in a teasing tone. "They’re all yours. Why don’t you taste them? Unless my baby doesn’t want to…" - She was just about to pull her shirt back down when you let out a breathless, almost desperate "No!"
-"No, no, please, I want them, please, mommy." - You looked up at her with your best puppy-dog eyes.
She let out a laugh at your desperation, pulling your head closer to her breasts. You wanted to devour her boobs in an instant, but at the same time, you wanted to savour every single second of it.
Nervous and inexperienced, you hesitantly traced your tongue around her nipple, feeling it harden beneath your touch. A soft, muffled moan escaped her, spurring you on even more.
Soon enough, you started suckling. It was perfect — the softness of her boobs against your tongue, the way her body tensed beneath you. You only slowed down when you needed to gasp for air, but even then, you never wanted to stop to catch your breath.
You don't remember how long you stayed like that. In fact, nothing else mattered anymore — you just wanted to stay there, suckling, without any thoughts, just relaxing. Until Wanda's voice brought you back to the present - "Baby, I think that's enough for today." - her hand gently caressing your cheek. -"You'll have more later, I promise. But if you keep going like this, you'll leave mommy's boobs dry. Imagine no milk for my baby girl." - she said in a playful tone, but the thought of tasting milk straight from Wanda's boobs made your mind spiral. You let out a louder moan. -"mmm, I think someone’s craving a bit too much here. Who knows, maybe someday, hm?!" . Maybe your thoughts were too loud, and Wanda figured out that her baby is very, very hungry.
---
It’s been months since you became Wanda’s baby girl. Your intimacy developed naturally, without pressure, at your own pace. You both began exploring new experiences until touching each other’s bodies became part of your routine. You still blush when you remember the first time Wanda said it was mommy’s job to take care of her baby’s pussy. But that story is for another day — because today, Wanda has a very special gift for you.
You smelled a fresh scent of strawberries as you walked into the kitchen. Wanda was putting away the groceries she had bought, and you offered to help organize them.
-"These strawberries look delicious, they smell so good," - you said, picking up the bowl of fruit.
-"Nah nah, they’re for later," she said, taking back from your hand.
You gave her a pleading look. -"Please, mommy, I'm starving. I think I'll die if I don't eat something right now."
She laughed at your drama, knowing she could never resist when you begged like that. -"Okay, okay, the nighttime snack is coming early. Go wait on the couch, I’ll bring it along with your bedtime milk."
She didn’t take long, but you found it odd when you saw that she was only holding the bowl of strawberries. - "Sorry, baby, I forgot to buy your milk at the store today," - she said, sitting down on the couch.
You couldn’t hide your disappointment at the news. Wanda knew you always had milk at night before bed — it always helped you sleep better. So it felt strange to think she had forgotten something so important, already a part of your nightly routine.
-"Come here and sit on my lap to eat your strawberries. Weren’t you the one dying for them?" she teased, biting into one.
You curled up in her lap — your favourite spot, always — with your head resting on her arm as she fed you a strawberry. It was delicious, you couldn’t deny that. But after three pieces, you didn’t feel as eager as before.
Wanda noticed your lack of interest and downcast look. -"Hey, my love. I know you were upset. How can I make it up to you and make you feel better?" - she said, gently caressing his face. -"I think there’s something that always cheers you up."
You knew very well what she was referring to. Even though you were in a low mood, you felt a spark of happiness at the thought of Wanda’s boobs. Without hesitation, you began to lift her shirt. She gave a soft smile, knowing you could never resist, and helped pull the shirt off completely, exposing her body to you.
You held her boob and ran your tongue over her nipple, gently licking around until it get harder. Your other hand started playing with her other breast, making her overstimulated with your touch.
As always, you couldn't wait for too long, you needed to feel her soft breast in your mouth completely. Your lips pressed her hard nipple, letting it slip inside. You start suckling.
Wanda kept her eyes locked on your face, on your mouth. She was always mesmerized by the way you suckle her breasts — your eyes hungry, yet your lips always gentle.
Though you were careful not to hurt her, you couldn’t stop yourself from suckling harder. It was something beyond your control as if your body was desperately craving more and more of her. And Wanda knew your needs all too well. In moments like these, she would start gently stroking your hair and whispering in a soft tone for you to breathe and suck slowly. But she didn't do it this time.
With Wanda not stopping you, you kept suckling harder until you felt something liquid coming out of her nipple. You paused, her boob still in your mouth, motionless. Confused, you lifted your eyes, seeking Wanda’s gaze.
-"Did you find something, my love?" - she asked with a teasing smile. -"I hope it tastes like you’ve always dreamed".
You were frozen, unable to believe that it was really happening. It was true that you and Wanda had talked about lactation a few times, but you never imagined it could actually become real. It was everything you had ever dreamed of.
-"I hope it’s okay that if we switch up your milk brand,” she said in a playful tone. - "What are you waiting for? Don’t you want mommy’s milk?"
So it was happening. It was real. You finally snapped out of your thoughts and went back to suckling eagerly. Feeling the warm liquid in your mouth, it tasted so good — better than you had ever expected.
You were drinking the milk as if it were your first meal in years, your mouth moving relentlessly, unable to stop.
-"Sweetheart, I know you’re very happy about this, but you need to slow down. Breathe a little," - Wanda said, gently trying to pull your face away. You weren’t convinced and let out a muffled moan, still with her boob in your mouth.
-"How about you take a bite of the strawberry? You wanted so badly to eat," - she said, picking up a piece and bringing it close to your face. Maybe that’s not a bad idea, you thought. You finally let go of her breast and opened your mouth for her.
She brought the strawberry to your mouth, and you took a bite. The contrast between the sweetness of the fruit and the taste of her milk was intoxicating. You craved more.
She offered you another piece and you took a bite. But before you could swallow it, you reached for her boob again and began suckling, eager to taste more of her milk — with the strawberry. It was addictive.
Wanda seemed to enjoy the view, proud to see her baby feeding so well. She kept doing it, holding up a strawberry and waiting for you to take another sip of milk before biting into another piece.
Once the bowl was empty, she gently caressed your belly, now satisfyingly full of strawberries and her milk. - "You took mommy's milk so well. I'm so proud of you." - she left a kiss on your forehead.
You gave a shy smile, trying to hide your face, you faced her boob that was in front of you. To your surprise, there was a little piece of strawberry near her nipple. Wanda followed your gaze and saw the tiny piece too.
-"oh I see someone made a mess here." - she said teasing. -"why don't you clean it up for me, hm?"
You understood exactly what she meant. Without a second thought, your mouth gravitated back to her boob, driven by a hunger you could no longer control again, you stayed there suckling her milk.
Summary: a daily life with your cowgirl farmer girlfriend and how you deal with her little obsession.
content: Top Wanda (she denies her bottom vibe), bottom Reader (until Wanda changes her mind), teasing, praising, pet names, mention of punishment, food playing (?), smut, denying, oral kink.
The best-known honey farmer, living in a small and cozy ranch with her girlfriend. But it's not only the pure and sweet honey syrup that is famous, everyone from the village knows how delicious and fresh her handmade honeybuns are. All too ordinary from the neighbors' views, maybe because they don't know the peculiar things about your life as a couple.
Wanda is obsessed with you. To be more specific, she is obsessed with your taste. It's not a surprising matter for you since you figured out she has an oral kink. Every time she bakes her handmade honeybun she asks for your help to try the fresh honey. Although, she never gives you a spoon to do it. The first time you waited for her to hand you the tool to try the honey, but she never did. You get it now. Dipping your finger into the bowl to get some of the syrup then taking it into your mouth to taste it, your eyes straight to hers, never losing her gaze. And it's always the same dialogue.
Wanda: and...? Is it good, sugar?
Y/n: hmmm it's delicious.
Wanda: ya sure? Hmm let me try some.
You keep with the tradition, your finger getting more honey from the bowl, directing it to her mouth, making a little mess on her lips as if you're applying lipstick with your finger, you feel her heavy breath before she runs her tongue over her lips to clean it. Mesmerized by her slow movements, she knows she's always teasing you.
But Wanda wants more and you never deny to her. Honestly, this is what she has been waiting for all this time. Your finger inside her mouth. The sweet taste mixing with the filling you are giving to her with your finger drives her mind dizzy. Usually, you let her play the way she wants, circling her tongue around your finger and sucking it at her own pace. Still, sometimes you like to tease her too, holding her jaw with your fingers pressing firmly on her cheeks while your index finger is inside her mouth, still sticky with honey, making deep in and out movements. The eyes full of pleasure and the muffled moans she gives to you cause your sore core to drip every time.
You love this side of Wanda. The way you encouraged her to let this desire flourish she doesn't even need to use an excuse to taste something from your fingers anymore, she just takes your fingers. In fact, her need to feel and taste you made your entire body an aim. It's so hot and lustful but still so vulnerable from her. You state that because you know how Wanda likes to have control and she makes you very aware of that, especially when you start forgetting your place.
The weekends have a special routine for you and Wanda. In other words, you have a particular rule to follow. No panties. You thought it was just a temporary teasing from her but you learned with some punishments it's a serious rule to follow, and one of her favorites.
-
Another Sunday morning waking up with the smell of coffee and pancakes, or flapjacks as she likes to call. You smile spontaneously, stretching out on the bed but not lying that you wish a little to have the warmth of your girlfriend's body beside you. It was really hard for you, in the beginning, to get used to her early bird clock, but what could you complain? She is a determined farmer, the best, your cowgirl.
Leaving your thoughts behind, you get up still sleepy and follow her rule, took off your panties, and put the pajamas shorts back on. Following that appetizing smell, you go down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Her gaze catches you immediately when you enter the room, she gives you a soft smile and a welcome "Good morning, my sleepy bunny". Even with the smooth tone she used, you noticed how her hungry eyes scanned over your entire body, you felt as if you are undressed. Well, almost like that, the white pajamas that you are wearing with cute strawberries stamped on it was a gift that she gave you weeks ago, comfortable but maybe a little small for your regular size. And It's obvious Wanda does that on purpose, but you honestly don't mind, you like the way she cares about picking out your clothes once in a while.
You walk towards her embrace, it's definitely your favorite place to be, in her arms. She gives a soft kiss on your cheeks before she snuggles her face in your neck, smelling your sweet scent, maybe she's addicted to it too.
Wanda: Did you sleep well, sweetpie?
She asks while picking some shy kisses on your neck making you shiver a little.
Y/n: Yes, I did! But I missed you in our bed when I woke up, you know...
You start feeling the warmth of her body running through your clothes and you wonder why she's always this hot. You have to adjust yourself when you felt her fingertips patting your arm.
Wanda: Ohh I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up, but see, I had to leave bed early to make all these good treats to my pumpkin.
Seeing all those yummy foods on the table makes your mouth water and thinking it became her routine of always doing this, only for you, your heart melts.
Y/n: Well, it sounds like an acceptable excuse, also the smell is sooo good. I may forgive you…
Wanda: It's all for you, sugar....and you're all for me.
She whispers the last sentence while her hand traces the way to your breast, still over your t-shirt she grabs and squeezes gently, just to take a moan from your mouth. Her lips pressed your neck and you can feel that she gave a sly smile with that. You feel the pressure of her thumb rubbing on your nipples, the fine fabric of your t-shirt brushing your skin, the overstimulation is already too much for you to think.
Before she gives you a short break, she makes sure to press her fingers over your upper breast, exactly the spot where she left some of her marks days ago. "I have to map your body with my mouth and make spots in your skin where I'm gonna hide my little treasures" is what she says. And well, she truly does a good job by that. Your thoughts are cut off by her teasing voice and her hand lowering until she holds firmly your ass.
Wanda: but you know, there is one ingredient that is left here.
You know exactly what she's referring to, but you like to play the dumb role, genuinely this is what she's expecting you to do too, she loves when you use your words.
Y/n: hmm really? What would this ingredient be then?
Wanda: It's the honey, my honey, actually.
She says softly, her hand that once was in your ass now is putting the soft material of your shorts to the side, and you give a low whimper due to her act. You only realize how soaked you're when she touches your sensitive folds, her fingers exploring your pussy with slow movements to dampen it with your arousal.
Wanda: oh darlin', you're so wet for me already.
You moan louder than you are expecting by hearing that. She is close to getting what she wants.
Wanda: But I need more, pumpkin, you know that, right? Your soaked and throbbing pussy to taste. C'mon, give me what I want.
That's her game. She noticed a long time ago how her praisings and teasing words cause over you, so she always takes advantage of that. The more she says the more you get wetter, it's like a magic trick she played on you and an infinity source of your taste to her.
Wanda: Lemme taste my bee-sweetenin’, hm?
Your wish is to beg her to thrust her fingers right inside you, but you know it would be in vain. It's her ritual, she presses her fingers harder on your clit, and it's the sign that they are wet enough. You are only able to whine louder and try to keep your legs straight. Then she tastes you. Licking her fingers close to your face just to give you the best view of her tongue taking every drop of your arousal.
Wanda smirks when you bite your own lips and set your hands on her waist. The aching between her legs is the manifestation that she needs more of you. She takes your hands off her and gets down on her knees while making you lean on the counter and spread your legs. The fabric of your pajamas is so soft that she doesn't even bother to take your shorts off, instead, she puts them aside, again, she loves it when your mess makes your clothes sticky.
You whimper when you feel her breath close to your skin, leaving soft kisses on your inner thigh until her lips touch superficially your damped folds, just for teasing you. Her tongue presses for a space, then she traces a path from your cunt to your clit. You don't know if the wetness you feel is her saliva or your arousal anymore, it's all messy and soggy.
Her patience starts to fade when she intensifies her movements, grabbing firmly your thighs to spread even more your legs, your hand threaded through her hair. She thrusts her tongue inside you, taking your arousal to your entrance until you feel you're almost dripping. You angle your hips and pull her head toward you, seeking more contact with her mouth, you need her deeply and faster inside you.
Y/n: ughh faster Wanda, do your job with your mouth.
She stops immediately and looks up to you.
Wanda: what did you just say?
Y/n: ohh no no, I.. I- I just need you.
A heavy regret covering all your thoughts. You know your place, you have to do what she says and take what she gives, it's not that difficult. You are just pathetic to think that she could give some control to you for once. Well, maybe one day, but not today.
Wanda: I don't like the tone you used to me.
Y/n: I know, I'm sorry, Wanda, please.
Already on her feet, she stares at you with disappointed bitter eyes. You start begging her, shy whimpers coming through your mouth when you try to adjust your shorts that she didn't even bother to put back in place.
Wanda: hush your mouth, Y/n. You only take what I give to you and for now you're going to receive nothing.
This Saturday you didn't help Wanda to cook the honeybuns. Actually, she didn't even ask you to do it. She ignored all your direct looks, but you knew she was watching you through the kitchen window when you were cleaning the garden. You felt her gaze on your neck, her distant thoughts planning the best punishment for your bad behavior early. You interrupted her honey tasting and now you will pay for it.
Those soft hands that once were baking those delicious sweet buns will be hard on you tonight.
18+ asking mommy! wanda to suck your tits dry humping involved
you’ve had your lips wrapped around her nipples for quite some time now, just gently suckling. it’s become a thing you do with her almost every night - helps you relax and wind down after a long day of big thoughts.
and you think it must feel so good because every time your lips attach to her sensitive buds she sighs, moaning softly as she covers your forehead with kisses.
your brows pucker and you whimper inaudibly at the noises she makes. she looks so happy and warm and tingly. you want to feel good too :(
you reluctantly take your mouth off of her wet nipple and peer up at her, lashes fluttering. “mommy?”
she makes a little sound at the loss of contact, eyebrows pinched. her features soften when she sees the look on her little girl’s face. “what is it, baby?”
your eyes are fixed on her boobs, the task of asking her feels daunting to the point you can’t even look at her face. “c-can you read my mind?”
she faintly smiles, smoothing her fingers over your hairline. “use your big girl words, sweetheart.”
“i can’t.” you pout, your hand twisting in her half worn shirt. you get so shy asking for what you want, even though you know she’ll most likely say yes.
“cmon, bunny. tell mommy what you need.” she assumes you want her to play with your pussy because one of your hands is pressed on your inner thigh. she doesn’t know the reason your so achy is because you’re thinking about her tongue swirling around your nipples.
“c-can you do it to me?” you mutter, your skin turning pink.
she tilts your face up towards her gaze, tracing your temple “do what, baby?”
“what i was doing…” your cheeks are full blown red now, your pupils jittering as you avoid her gaze.
“you want mommy to suck on your boobs, hm?” she wears a half smile on her tinted lips, loving the reaction her mere presence has on you.
you sigh softly “uh huh…please.”
she kisses your forehead once more before gently tracing your tank top, pulling the strap down with light touches. her hands reach around the back of your bra and she removes the clasp, rubbing your back in circular motions. “such a good girl for asking mommy so nicely.” she discards your bra, laying it on the sheets next to her for later.
“ohhh, what a pretty little girl,” she murmurs, squeezing your plump flesh with her warm fingers.
you let out a shaky breath when her lips connect with your right nipple. she hums around it, feeling it harden in her mouth.
you whimper when she sucks a little harder, her red hair lightly scratching your skin. both of her hands cup your boobs upwards, squeezing and massaging the area as her tongue licks over your nipple, sending goosebumps all over your skin. “ohh - mommy.”
she moves over to your left boob, attacking your skin, her mouth wrapped around as much as she can fit in, lips suctioning on and off in little plops.
then she sinks her teeth in, nibbling and gazing up at you while your body wriggles. her own exposed nipples rub against your stomach and your hands find her hair, almost methodically playing with each strand, trying to ground yourself as the ecstasy swallows you whole.
wanda’s lips widen around your skin, seeing you so worked up over this is vertigo-inducing. she adores how sensitive you can be. “mmh, you like that, puppy?”
“…y-yes, mommy.” you mewl, shyly smiling back down at her. you gasp softly when she nibbles harder and you rock your hips up, grinding on nothing.
she coos, pushing her leg forward so you have something to let out your pent up energy on.
you hump her thigh happily, dragging your soaked pussy against the fabric of her pants. she shifts her knee every so often, making your clit pulse as your brain tries to override the cataclysmic pleasure hacking your system.
“tell mommy how good it feels, baby,” she whispers loudly, rubbing circles around your hipbones.
“f-feels s’good, mommy,” you moan, clutching on to her abdomen, signaling for her to pull you closer.
she wraps her hand around youu, pulling as close as she can so that she can still mouth at your boobs. she squeezes your waist, patting it with three taps as if permission for you to come undone.
and you don’t really have a choice. the pressure on your clit bubbles into soft mush as you let go, your legs shaking when you weakly ride out the last few motions you have left in you.
she swirls her tongue around your nipples as you come down, pecking the skin all around it. “good girl…that’s it.”
you twitch when she pulls her leg back, and she squeezes your flesh softly before pulling your tank top back up and laying beside you, stroking your side.
you press your face into her bare chest, humming contentedly as you nuzzle further into her. she pets your hair in long strokes as you breathe lazily on her tits.
your mouth begins to find it’s way back to her nipple and she exhales slowly as you start suckling.
“that’s it, sweetheart. let mommy have her turn again.”
a/n - idk why but i feel like the concept of things sound sm freakier in my head compared to when i write them
Summary: You wanted to win your stepdaughter over. To earn her trust, get on her good side—to please her. And that pleases her.
Pairing: Stepdaughter Wanda Maximoff x Stepmom Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Tags/Warnings: 18+ fauxcest/stepcest, smut, top Wanda, bottom reader, age gap (Wanda is around 20-25 while reader is 38-45), emotional manipulation, depictions of parental violence, grief/loss, noncon taking of photos, toxic Wanda (she hates you so much)
Author's Note: I am just so hyperfixed w stepdaughter Wanda that I had to post this so advanced after posting it just yesterday on Patreon. I am posting this so that you can ask requests or ask questions for this AU.
This won't be a continuous series. Instead, it'll be a collection of standalone fics, which is why this one is...relatively short.
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Wanda first heard your name three months ago, when her father called her at college to say he'd met someone. She'd shrugged it off then, used to his short-lived flings after her mother died, figured it would fizzle out like all the rest. She didn't bother asking who you were.
She got home for spring break to find your shoes by the front door and a framed wedding photo on the mantel in the living room. The bottom dropped out of her stomach—her father never even told her it was happening. This wasn't a fling. You'd moved into her mother's house, taken her mother's place, and no one had asked her what she thought.
The front door slammed so hard the photo frames rattled on the walls, making you jump where you were stirring pasta on the stove. Erik was in his office, so it was just you downstairs when Wanda trundled her suitcases up the steps, stopped dead in the entryway when she saw you standing there in her mother's kitchen. Her face went white, then sharp, all the pieces clicking into place faster than you could speak.
"Who the fuck are you!?"
You held out a hand to calm her down and she knocked it away, the spoon clattering to the floor, red sauce splattering up the front of your shirt. She didn't apologize, she just stood there shaking, hatred blazing in her eyes like you'd already broken everything she ever loved.
Erik burst through the door two minutes later, having gotten Pietro's panicked call from his room down the hall. He grabbed Wanda's shaking shoulders, trying to pull her into a hug, but she wrenched away, yelling that he'd lied to her for six months, that he didn't care what she wanted anymore. Pietro finally stepped forward when his father's face flushed red with frustration, his grip on Wanda's arm slipping as she tugged hard enough to make his father stumble. He called her name soft, hesitant, reaching out to wrap both arms around her shaking shoulders from behind to hold her back.
Wanda fought him hard, heels scrabbling against the hardwood, but Pietro's always been stronger, built for the soccer he plays year round. She went limp in his hold eventually, chest heaving, hot tears spilling over that she refused to wipe, her eyes locked on you where you still stood by the cold stove, not moving an inch.
It's been two full months since that first fight and the cold war in this house never really ends—she just learned to fight quieter, especially when her father is not around to step in for you.
She never bothers rinsing her dishes, just leaves them caked with old food on the coffee table when she storms out. Her dirty laundry piles up by the washing machine, overflowing onto the floor, and she expects you to pick it up and sort it like she's your spoiled child you never asked for.
Last Saturday you stepped into the bathroom at 6 A.M. to find vomit pooled by the toilet, splashed up the side of the tub, and she'd already stumbled to her room and locked the door, snoring loud enough you could hear it through the wood. You had to clean it up alone, the acrid smell sticking to your clothes for hours. She has been out all night again and got home earlier this morning.
And there were times that you always woke up to girls slipping out the front door at dawn, their shoes clicking quiet on the hardwood like they're afraid to be caught. More often than not, Wanda doesn't even walk them out—just stays curled behind her locked bedroom door, leaving you to make awkward small talk with hungover girls who don't know what to call you. When she does see them out, she leans in the doorway of her room, one bare foot propped on the frame, and stares right through you the whole time. She doesn't say a word, just holds that cold, deadly look until the door clicks shut behind the girl, then turns and slams her own door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Every small or big mess, every cold silence, is a reminder you're still the intruder who broke into her life.
And now, another fire has started between you and your stepdaughter.
Pietro leans back in his chair, still laughing with his dad about something that happened on his team. You glance at Wanda, who hasn't spoken a word at dinner, picking at her asparagus like it personally offended her. You clear your throat soft, leaning forward a little to include her.
"I was just wondering—did you ever play any sports? Your brother has always been so obsessed with soccer."
Wanda's fork stills halfway to her mouth. She lifts her eyes slowly, pinning you where you sit, the corner of her mouth twitching into a cold, sharp smile.
"Why do you care? You're just gonna insert yourself into every part of my life anyway, might as well get all the details from dad."
Your husband sets his fork down with a quiet clink, opening his mouth to scold her, but you reach under the table to touch his wrist, shaking your head once to stop him. Wanda watches the gesture, her smile dropping into that familiar cold, tight line, jaw set hard enough to see the muscle tick.
"I'm done. I'm going out." She pushes her chair back slowly, half her dinner still untouched on the plate.
Pietro tries to smooth it over, leaning forward to call after her as she grabs her jacket off the back of the chair.
"C'mon Wands, don't leave, mom was just—"
Wanda stops on her track, her back going rigid. She doesn't turn around, doesn't say anything for a long ten seconds, and you can see her shoulder muscles tightening under her sweater.
"Mom?" She smirks, wanting to laugh at what she just heard his brother say. "She's never gonna be my mom." Then, she looks at you straight in the eye, stepping closer from where you sat, her finger pointing at your face. "You, you are never going to be my mom. You hear that? You're never gonna be my fucking mom so stop pretending like you are!"
Erik grabbed Wanda's arm before she could step back and when she tried to pull away, his hand snapped out and struck her across the cheek.
You gasped and pulled your husband back, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Wanda stumbled, one hand pressed to her stinging cheek, eyes wide with shock before the hurt hardened into cold, unforgiving hatred. She didn't cry, didn't make a sound, she just stared at his father like she didn't even recognize him anymore.
She spins around her cheeks streaked with hot tears she doesn't bother to wipe away. Her chest heaves and the anger rolls off her so thick you can almost touch it, every muscle in her body coiled tight like she's ready to fight the whole room. She yanks the door open and doesn't look back before slamming it shut.
Pietro shoves his chair back, grabbing his own jacket and yelling back at his twin.
A block away from the house, Wanda spins on her brother, eyes still red, voice cracking. "You calling her mom now? How could you do that? How could you both just forget mama so easily?"
Pietro stepped closer to her even when she flinched back, his voice soft and guilty. He says he hasn't forgotten their mother, he could never forget her, it just slipped out and admitted that he has been calling you that for sometime now—mom. You're here now, you're nice to him, you make dad happy again after all these years of him just being hollow and sad. Wanda shakes her head, backing away further, like his words are something dirty she can't let touch her.
She crosses her arms tight over her chest to hide how much she's shaking, hot tears spilling over faster now that it's just the two of them. She can't believe he's already taken your side, that he's okay with replacing their mother with some stranger who showed up six months ago. She spits that you're not family, you'll never be family, and if he can't see that, then he's just as much a traitor as their father is.
You will never be her mom, she will never ever call you that.
As for you, you'd chosen to step back. No more trying to earn your stepdaughter's affection, no more pushing to become part of her life. Instead, you stayed on your side of the house, keeping your distance for the entire time she would be there.
So...who would've thought that your side of the house would end up in your stepdaughter's bed?
A flash of her phone camera blinds you for a second. You were shaking and naked, almost close to passing out. The photo captured the slick mess of cum between your thighs that looked like glitter.
Her palm slaps hard against your swollen, slick cunt over and over, making you jerk and cry out into her pillow, your whole body trembling under her. She laughs low when you whine, grabbing your hip to hold you still for another stinging blow.
"Get up. Dad's gonna be home in twenty minutes and you still have dinner to cook. Don't forget to pick up my laundry on your way out."
thinking about mommy wanda forcing you to take her big strap.
with the tip pressed up against your opening, you squirm as she begins pushing inside.
“mommy,” you cry, your brows knitted together.
she’s above you, one hand keeping your thighs spread apart while the other guides her cock inside you.
“shhh, baby.” wanda soothes, her hand giving your thigh an affectionate squeeze.
“it’s too big!” you squeak, your hands reaching to clamber against her hips.
“ohh, you can take it, baby. you can take it.” she continues pushing the tip in until the first inch disappears inside you.
you whine, unable to stay still as you writhe on her faux cock.
“look at you.” she purrs. her eyes are fixated on the way your pussy stretches around her length. you’re so tight that it borders on painful. the generous amount of lube she applied before was the only thing assisting in fitting it inside you.
“halfway there.”
“you’re talking it so well, milaya.”
tears prick in your eyes, which eventually roll down your cheeks as she continues pushing more length inside you.
“look at me. let me see your pretty face when you cry.”
when she finally bottoms out inside of you—all 9 inches—you’re sobbing. she’s slow as she pulls out and then pushes back in. you can feel every inch as she fucks you gently while your walls adjust to her strap.
“There you go baby, just like that. Deep breath in for mommy…”
Her fingers held a burning joint to you lips and Wanda watched as the length slowly burned down.
“Get all stupid and pliable for mommy, now blow out.” She pressed her lips so that they were barely touching yours and inhaled the smoke from your mouth.
You hadn’t talked in twenty minutes, just giggling and staring at Wanda as she played with your hair.
“Such a pretty little girl, doing anything I ask. You wanna keep being a good girl for me hm? For mommy?”
Wanda wasn’t shocked when you nodded, your face plastered with a smile as her hands hooked around her neck.
“Good girl, now just let mommy make you feel good” as her hand slipped underneath your waistband, ready to make you addicted to the feeling of her.
“what’s wrong, bunny?” wanda hates seeing her special girl cry :( but she knows just how to help you.
“let mommy kiss that pout off your lips.” she tugs at your bottom lip with her teeth and kisses your mouth eagerly, her tongue grazing yours.
“mmh…” she slowly licks your tear stained cheek. “i hate seeing my little girl so upset.” she pulls you onto her lap, holding you close, sucking your tongue - inevitably making your legs squirm.
“you wanna play, sweetheart?” she coos. your hips drag incessantly on her thighs - she’s the only one who can make it better.
“let mommy take all those mean thoughts away, bunny…hm?”
when you overhear a comment frank makes to mateo, you decide to back off. frank doesn't like that one bit and does everything in his power to get your attention back.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING frank langdon x er!barbie!reader
WARNINGS overheard conversations, miscommunication, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, girly!reader, post-rehab frank langdon, recovery themes, yearning to the max, repression also to the max, flirtation as a coping mechanism, kissing!, making out on the job!
WC 3.9k | REQUEST here!
“The new intern claims Barbie’s been doodling your name with little hearts all over her forms. Somebody’s got it bad.”
Mateo’s statement floats over the nurses’ station diver.
It manages to slam straight into your self-image. Delicate tissue at the best of times, wedged between your left ventricle and the tiny circuit that compels you to adopt every sad house-plant at Trader Joe’s.
Yes it’s true, you do, for the record, employ thematic embellishments. A heart here. A flourish there. (Morale matters; medicine is bleak). That is not the same thing as ‘having it bad’.
But the problem is apparently people can’t make that distinction, and now you can see it too clearly, a pack of first-years huddled together, snickering over your smittenness, spider-webbing a hairline crack right through the high-gloss competence you spent seventy-eight paychecks shellacking.
It’s that eighth-grade deja vu: the day Jack Harrison caught you tracing Mrs. Jack Harrison in bubble letters on your planner and passed the page down the row like contraband.
The heat that bursts behind your ears now is the exact temperature of that day, when the whole cafeteria seemed to sync with your cardiac rhythm — thump, she likes him, thump.
You straighten behind the med cart, ready to emerge and correct the narrative before it mutates any further, when Frank speaks first. “Ignore it. It’s just noise — I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Oh.
Something clamps shut inside you so abruptly it almost audibly clicks.
Like you’ve been fizzing under pressure all shift and someone, somewhere, has just screwed the cap on tight. The carbonation tears around blind, frantic for an exit.
Noise. The word expands until it feels the whole corridor. Noise, as in background nuisance, as in easily tuned out, as in the thin electrical whine of a dying bulb that nobody bothers fixing until someone from maintenance finally rips it out and tosses it.
So that’s what he hears when you talk? A squeaky hindrance he tolerates out of courtesy?
The lively back-and-forth you stored under maybe someday morphs, in one breath, into you pawing at a deadbolt while he waits for the scratching to stop.
You pivot on silent flats, slip down the side corridor before Mateo or Frank registers movement.
Three steps in, a shoulder clips yours — McKay, clutching a stack of imaging requests. Clipboards explode across linoleum.
“Whoa, road-runner much?” she laughs, stooping. Her grin falters when she meets your deer-in-the-headlights stare. “Hey, you good? You’re kind of… vibrating.”
There’s no better word for it. Your fingers keep sparking against each other, your chin keeps twitching toward the main hall, and every nerve ending chants the same directive: bolt, wounded-fawn style, into the nearest underbrush before the hunter looks up.
You drop to your knees, paper edges nicking your skin as you herd the spill into something vaguely stack-shaped.
Out of the corner of your eye, Frank and Mateo both turn at the clatter. Frank’s brows notch, mouth already forming the silent You okay?
You slap the stack into McKay’s hands.
“Peachy!” you babble, already sidestepping to block Frank’s sight-line. “Totally good. Very busy. High-priority sticker emergency. Life or death if you’re, like, six and waiting for discharge.”
Your shoes squeak as you bolt.
There are several indicators, in Frank’s opinion, that suggest you’ve come down with something terminal, and the first arrives in the form of his inbox.
Or rather, the absence of its usual infestation.
When he finally gets ten uninterrupted minutes to wade through his overnight emails, there is only one from you.
A curt administrative note about revised intake-labeling protocol, plus an attached spreadsheet for the week’s front-desk coverage.
It is concise. Properly punctuated. Horrifyingly lucid.
Frank stares at it a full second longer than necessary, as if more of you might reveal itself under scrutiny.
Because, usually, by this point, there are at least twelve.
They arrive in glitter-bomb bursts throughout the day. A few carry actionable intel. Most are digital magpies’ nests: random URLs, blurry memes, rogue exclamation points, and the kind of half-formed shower-thought nonsense you apparently consider too important to trust to your own mind.
He spends longer than he’s willing to admit at the computer waiting for more emails to come in.
They never do.
The second indicator presents itself when he swipes into radiology and, for the first time in recent memory, does so alone.
No sudden apparition at his elbow, no imploring eyes, no breathless little “oops, forgot mine again,” delivered as though this is an unforeseeable act of the gods rather than a behavior pattern.
He tends to just hand the badge over without questions.
There is no point doing otherwise. If not him, you’ll simply latch onto the next available soft touch with security clearance, and Frank would rather it be him.
He frowns when the reader spits its green light at an empty hallway.
The third, and by far the most worrying, indicator arrives in the break room.
Frank boxes himself into a stolen minute, pours a cup, looks up too late, and finds you standing at the same counter.
Usually this is your opening. Your preferred habitat.
You’d reach across his body for sugar you absolutely do not need (you’re sweet enough as it is), clip his front with your ass, crowd his elbow while stirring, then look up like none of it was intentional, like he’s just a piece of furniture placed unfortunately in your path.
He braces for impact. Nothing happens.
Instead you give a brisk nod, measure out a generous amount of creamer into your cup, and keep your radius fanatically intact.
You leave before he can tally the damage.
The space beside him turns freezer-aisle cold. Frank’s fingers blanch on the mug handle. He blames the overzealous hospital ventilation for about half a second, then hears the excuse rattle around his own head and die there.
He has half a mind to go after you. Catch you by the wrist before you get too far, steer you into a vacant bay, and do the whole thing properly since apparently no one else is treating this personality drop as emergent.
History, exam, differential. What’s been siphoned out of you, and can he replace it?
In a better universe, that line of inquiry earns him one of your usual responses, “Should I unbutton for the stethoscope, Doctor?”
But he can’t do that. Can’t go stalking after you like some lovesick asshole with a savior complex and a death wish.
Especially not now when he is, at best, one bad headline away from vaporizing the fellowship he’s been clawing toward for years. He needs HR to stop looking at him like one more incident will finish the job rehab failed to.
And beyond that, he’s been trying to starve the gossip before it gets any bigger. Partly for himself, sure. Mostly for you.
This place has a long memory when it comes to his mistakes and a short one when it comes to anything decent he’s ever done.
He’s not about to hand the hospital a fresh excuse to staple your name to his and let people act like you’re just another piece of collateral from the mess he made of himself.
But shit he misses you. He wants your attention back on him. And the flirting and the smart mouth and the little collisions of your body with his like you’ve forgotten where one of you ends and the other begins.
So if he can’t be obvious, he’ll be strategic. He’ll do what he does best. Lay the bait and wait for you to come to him.
At two he messes with the thermostat.
There’s a woman in Facilities who’ll adjust it for him without putting in a work order, no questions, an ongoing favor from the time she showed up in the ER with split knuckles and a story about slipping while replacing a vent cover.
Frank stitched the cut closed in under six minutes, declined the point out that the wound looked a lot more like she’d punched through something than brushed against it, and earned himself a useful little pocket of goodwill in the process.
And, more often than not, Frank squanders that usefulness on you.
A degree warmer in the mornings, sometimes two if the night crew has left the department with all the ambient warmth of a crypt, timed just before you blow in the front doors, already looking faintly wounded by the concept of central air.
It’s at sixty-six now.
Low enough to summon you, high enough that no one can accuse him of weaponizing infrastructure for attention.
Although that is precisely what he’s doing.
But it takes longer than expected for you to appear in his line of sight. And when you finally do, you pay him no mind.
You putter through the department in several layers: cardigan, coat, fleece, thermal tights, hands tucked into your sleeves.
You look pissed. You look adorable. Frank resents learning those two things can coexist so easily.
He tries to catch your eye but you just keep moving through the pit like an overdressed cumulonimbus radiating indignation at every ceiling vent, refusing to seek him out.
It makes no sense. You should have filed a verbal complaint with him by minute eight.
And at minute forty-five he watches (sourly) as Garcia slides up beside you, a still-steaming warmer blanket perfectly folded over her arm.
“You look frostbitten,” she murmurs, settling the plush square around your shoulders.
You exhale a blissed little thank-you and lean into her, soaking up the heat Frank had planned to supply by proxy.
Garcia lifts her gaze, finds him across the pit, and winks. Problem solved, ER Ken, she mouths, fluffing the blanket with exaggerated care just to make sure he clocks her fingerprints all over his failed experiment.
Problem not solved. In fact, freshly enlarged.
Frank later lumbers down the hallway toward your office like a kicked senior dog chasing the last scrap of affection from its owner. He clutches the print-outs in his hand so tight they rasp with every step.
He finds you at your desk, hair fallen in stray ribbons across your face, mouth pulled down at the corners while the monitor paints you blue. Concentration or maybe displeasure. Hard to tell from this angle.
He hovers, suddenly unsure whether to knock on the actual door or just the wall of silence you’ve erected.
He opts for the literal door, two knuckles, two quick knocks.
Your head lifts. Something bright like excitement sparks across your face then the expression collapses, shutters down to business. Like you remembered all at once the circumstances surrounding him and whatever stupid hope had leapt up before you could stop it.
He hates that expression immediately. Hates that it exists. Hates even more that he can’t quite sort out why seeing it on your face feels like a personal failure.
“Need this form revised,” he says, lifting the mangled stack. “Thought maybe you could escort me to radiology? Could use the company, and you terrify the techs less than I do.”
It’s needy and transparent and he knows. He doesn’t care how it sounds as long as you say yes.
“I’m, uh, really busy at the moment, Dr. Langdon. Pending labs, two admits… might be a while.” You rattle it off too fast, like reading a grocery list you just wrote in your head. He knows every item is invented on the spot.
“Humor me, okay? I’ve had seven hours of people telling me to wait my turn. I need one cooperative face before I implode.”
You worry the inside of your lips, eyes flicking to the doorway.
Finally you nod. “Fine.”
One syllable, and it hits like epinephrine. He can’t stop the microscopic lift of his chin, lungs taking in a fuller breath as if permission itself has oxygenated the air.
He angles toward the hallway, offering the smallest tilt of his shoulder so you can merge.
“Thanks,” he says, voice pitched towards casual.
“Sure.”
He glances at you to his left. Goosebumps litter the expanse of your arms. He eases his stride so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder instead of half a step behind. “You cold?”
“Nope. Perfectly comfortable.” You answer while simultaneously yanking your sleeves down to your knuckles.
He snorts. “Yeah and I’m the post child for impulse control.”
You stop mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “That’s not funny, Frank.”
His first name. That’s progress, he thinks. Even laced with contempt, hearing it from you feels like an exhale after hours underwater.
He knew you wouldn’t like the joke. Made it anyway, cheap currency to buy a spark out of you. If spark equals fury, so be it. Fury beats indifference every time.
“Yeah, poor taste. Reflex, I guess.” He winces, thumb rubbing the knot at his collar.
You huff through your nose and pivot forward again, pace clipped. Frank falls in step a half-pace behind, then edges closer.
“Cardigan looks new,” he ventures. “Color suits you.”
“It’s old,” you say, eyes still on the hallway ahead.
Frank smothers another wince. Stupid. By this point the day has offered him more than enough evidence that the usual methods are dead on arrival.
Compliments, bait, orchestrated coincidence, all of it useless now that you’ve apparently decided to treat him like a mildly inconvenient coworker.
That’s the part he likes least. The sudden sense that he can’t locate himself in relation to you anymore.
The part he likes least changes when he finds you twenty minutes later, stationed beside some orthopedic meathead, looking luminously alive.
No longer wan or withdrawn or visibly dying of whatever new strain of virus you’ve contracted. But smiling. A laugh bubbling out, fingers corkscrewing a curl the way they do when you’re charmed.
Apparently you can still flirt. You can still sparkle. You just can’t seem to do it anywhere near him.
Before his cortex can veto, he’s crossing the floor, stopping dead at your shoulder.
“Just need a status update on Mrs. Carlson’s tib-fib before radiology locks the board.”
Mrs. Carlson, insofar as he knows, is fictional, but her imaginary fracture buys him two startled glances and three precious seconds inhaling the vanilla-and-alcohol warmth of your laugh.
Meathead flips through pages. “Um… we don’t have a Carlson today.”
Frank fakes a thoughtful frown. “Huh. Alias, then. Happens every weekend — patients think we’re the witness-protection program.”
Ortho squints. “I can pull the day-sheet again —”
“Good idea,” Frank says, nodding like a supervising attending. “Check PACU and the boarding queue; wouldn’t want to miss an imaging window.”
The guy mutters agreement and slinks off, shoulders hunched in duty. Frank turns to you, expression suddenly softer.
Crossing your arms, you cock a hip where Ortho had been. “Impressive diversion tactic. Did Mrs. Carlson spring fully formed from your imagination, or is she a previous imaginary friend?”
The fury’s back again.
Frank scratches at his jaw. “Didn’t think it through.”
“You think plenty. Maybe just tell me what you want instead of throwing Jason under a bus.”
Jason. Stupid name for a stupid guy, he thinks.
What he wants is one honest conversation and maybe your ass back where it belongs — in his personal space. He can’t say that last part though, so he settles for the first in the only terms he knows how.
“What I want is a five-minute consult with you. Somewhere quieter.” He flicks a glance at the empty bay down the hall, then back to your crossed arms. “Please.”
You study him for a moment, then nod once.
“Bay twelve’s open. Five minutes, then I’m due back at my desk.”
Frank files the claim under Questionable. You treat workstations like bar stools — occupied only until something shinier beckons. It’s not the desk ticking in your head; it’s the idea of being walled in with him past the half-life of your composure.
He watches tension climb your scapulae as you march ahead, timing yourself like a patient on a stress test.
Bay 12 yawns open and swallows you both.
The instant the noise of the corridor seals off, Frank feels his pulse redeploy to places it has no business patrolling. Temples, wrists, the hollow just above his sternum.
For one beat you stand opposite like combatants in a children’s-duel-turned-board-meeting: arms folded, backs straight, pretending neither of you can feel the static in the air.
“Right.” He claps once (why did he clap?) and immediately regrets it. “Consult.”
Your brows tip up, perfectly polite, perfectly guarded. “On our imaginary tib-fib?”
Frank’s ears go hot.
“Yeah, about that. I might have — misallocated resources.” He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough that sounds like a car refusing to start. “Look, I just —” A breath, steady, like he tells interns before a lumbar puncture. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… different. Quieter. Less —” he gestures vaguely, like there’s a medical term for starlight. “I thought maybe I’d done something.”
“Frank, I’ve been at this hospital for three years. You’ve existed in approximately one and a half of them. If I’m different and you assume it’s about you, that’s either breathtaking narcissism or —” a small, lethal smile “— maybe something else.”
Something else. He recognizes your own bait and still lunges.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Quiet. Direct. No place to hide in it. “Maybe I did assume it had something to do with me because I wanted it to.” His knuckles sweep his jaw. He never looks away from you. “Because if it’s not that, then I’m standing here making an ass out of myself for no reason, and I’d actually prefer the narcissism.”
You hesitate. “I’m just… giving you a little breathing room, okay?”
“Breathing room?” He moves toward you impulsively before catching himself, eyes wide, almost pleading. “I don’t — fuck, I don’t want breathing room. What are you doing that for?”
“What do you think?” You laugh, but it’s hollowed out completely. He doesn’t like the sound. “I spend half my shift practically trailing after you. Everyone sees it. I just —,” you purse your lips. “I don’t want to embarrass myself any more than I already have.”
He frowns at that. You’ve never once moved through this place like someone worried about looking foolish.
You flirt when you want to flirt, laugh when you want to laugh, and say things most people would bury alive before letting them leave their mouths. You leave little traces of yourself everywhere. Lip gloss prints on coffee lids. Heart-dotted notes. Sweaters draped over chairs that aren’t yours. There is nothing cautious about you, nothing particularly governed by social survival.
Even your embarrassment tends to be theatrical, temporary, burned through fast and replaced with another bad idea. He has never known you to care this much about the audience.
“What are you talking about?”
He watches as your eyes break off and land somewhere past his shoulders, as if the answer might be stapled to the wall.
“I heard what you said earlier.”
Frank’s brow furrows harder, causing a headache. “What?”
“With Mateo.” Your arms tighten across your middle. “About me being ‘just noise.’ About how I’d lose interest soon enough.” Your eyes flick up to his for a second. “So I thought maybe I should help you out with that.”
Blood sluices out of his skull, then surges back so hard his vision pulses.
For a beat, Frank just stands there, knocked completely sideways by the realization that you heard that, heard those exact words with none of the context that had made them make sense in his head. Christ.
No wonder you pulled back. No wonder you’ve been different. He’d been cornered by Mateo outside the med-supply cage, half-listening to him gleefully recycle some intern gossip thread like it was harmless entertainment, and all Frank had been trying to do was kill it fast.
Shut it down. Mateo was fishing for a reaction, for confirmation, for anything he could carry back into the staff room and let breed.
Robby’s got a disciplinary file half built with his name on the tab. One more thing and he’ll be back in that carpeted purgatory explaining how “post-rehab Frank” was just a limited-time offer.
The only thought had been do not feed this. Do not let you become a bigger target than you already are.
“No, that’s — fuck.” He breaks off, already hating how badly he’s said everything. “That’s not what I meant. I called the intern noise. The gossip. The whole stupid conversation. I meant she’d get bored and move on if I didn’t exacerbate it. I did not mean you.”
If anything, the entire point had been to avoid throwing you under the bus by acting like there was nothing there to poke at. And somehow that attempt has landed here, in front of him now, having done exactly the opposite.
You look at him for a second like you’re trying to decide whether to believe him and coming up short.
“I can handle it, you know. I’m a big girl. If I’m too much, or if I’ve been making you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.” The flat seam of your lips is more withering than any shout. “I’d rather hear it straight than keep walking around here feeling like some joke everybody else is already in on.”
“I know you could,” he says, too fast, like he needs to get there before you decide otherwise. “I know you could handle it. And if that was what this was, I would’ve said it, yeah?” His chest keeps punching at the scrub top, lungs over-ventilating around the terror of being misunderstood. “I don’t want you to stop flirting with me. I don’t want you to stop hovering or talking or… any of it. I — I fucking need it — You.”
“Frank…”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he hates that you can see him thinking it.
“If I do something stupid right now,” he says, voice low, “are you gonna slap me?”
He’s half begging for the hit, half begging on the green light.
Your exhale stutters into a breathy laugh. “Depends how stupid.”
Stupid wins.
Frank closes the last inch and touches his mouth to yours.
Soft at first, like he’s half-afraid you’ll vanish. You don’t. You stay… then soften… then melt, and everything inside him rushes forward. The second your lips part, the kiss deepens. Hunger and apology braided tight.
His hand rises to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hair there, and the kiss tips from cautious to greedy in a single heartbeat.
He’s been starving himself on purpose, convincing the ache it was dietary. You don’t feed a craving that noble, he’d told himself in a dozen graveyard-shift pep talks. Now the craving is kissing back, and his resolve crumbles like a sugar packet.
You curve forward, spine bowing until his shoulders hit the curtain and the metal rings screech on the rail, but the world past the vinyl may as well be orbiting another sun. You both break into breathless laughter, but neither of you stops.
They warned you about selfish addicts, a voice needles.
This is exactly what they meant: taking the one thing that makes the ward bearable and unintentionally hurting its feelings to keep it safe — then stealing it anyway.
He swallows the guilt, chases it with another taste of peppermint.
Frank pulls back just far enough to speak, foreheads still touching. “No more breathing room, okay?”
You pretend to ponder, then glance at the inch (maybe) separating your bodies. “Pretty sure you just repossessed every cubic inch of it.”
“Good,” he says, thumb stroking the tendon at your nape like he’s checking his own pulse there. “I’m keeping it.”
Selfish, a reprimand flickers, but he can’t imagine surrendering the warmth that’s finally tugged his chest open.
Then the hallway pager shrieks, reminding you that the world still exists and someone probably needs a doctor who isn’t currently making out behind a curtain.
You both straighten, slower than necessary, Smooth hair, reset badges.
As you step through the divider he catches your hand, gives it a quick, secret squeeze.
You squeeze back, and the grin you trade in that split-second says everything the rumor mill never could: whatever this is, it’s no longer background noise.
MARIA NOTE hi hi hi thank you for reading and witnessing er barbie and franks FIRST KISS!!!!!!!!!! behind a questionably sanitary curtain, no less. may their pager batteries die forever so we get more smooch time. ₊ ⊹🪻 ✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🪴
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
mommy!wanda teaching innocent reader how to suck her strap ??👀
men & minors dni !!
—
Mommy!Wanda had slowly introduced you to new things, such as camomile tea, homemade treats.. and bedroom activities.
You had always been an innocent little thing, so oblivious to the endless possibilities when it came to pleasure.
Wanda enjoyed corrupting you very slowly, like starting to slide her tongue into kisses, mentioning how wonderful if it would be to play with new toys.
Her next idea was to introduce you to her strap-on. Mommy!Wanda started off by encouraging you to suck on her fingers while on your knees. You were a little confused, but you never denied your mommy’s wishes.
This went on for a week until one particular dinner. Wanda had cooked a lavish meal, even lit some candles, all for this secret special occasion.
As you put your cutlery down and sipped on your juice (you weren’t allowed wine because apparently it wasn’t suitable for your innocent mind), Wanda shifted her chair back slightly, leaving a gap between her knees and the table. You watched curiously.
“Honey, come and kneel for me.”
Without any hesitation, you got up and knelt in front of Wanda, looking up with a sweet smile. Your mouth opened automatically, expecting two fingers, but she shook her head.
“We’re going to try something new today.” Mommy!Wanda unbuckled her belt, pulling them down a bit to reveal her deep red strap. Your eyes widened in surprise, because you’d never seen one before, only heard of them.
“It’s just like my fingers, but better. Can you suck on it, sweetheart? Mommy would be so pleased.” Her soft voice never failed to make you melt into a submissive, pliant state. So after a moment of figuring out how to start, you leaned your head forward, edging the tip into your mouth.
“That’s it, honey, just like that.” Wanda bit her lip, guiding your head down further, the strap halfway into your mouth. You whimpered, because it was a lot different than two fingers, but you were determined to please your mommy.
You reached the bottom, gagging slightly as you looked up at Wanda, noticing her pleasured expression. Although she couldn’t feel the strap, she got just as much pleasure watching you.
“Oh, princess, you’re a natural. Now, like this..” Wanda gently gripped your hair, guiding your head up and down until you got used to the motion, doing it yourself. Tears formed in your eyes, but you didn’t want to stop.
After a few minutes, Wanda finally guided your head backwards, away from the now wet strap. You gasped for breath, wiping your eyes and the corners of your mouth quickly.
“You did so well, baby. Mommy’s so proud of you.”
Wanda continued to praise you, even a few hours later when you were curled up in bed. You wanted to do it over and over if really pleased Wanda so much.
“Maybe tomorrow I can teach you all the other things we can do with that toy, hm?” She suggested, and you nodded eagerly.
Mommy!Wanda chuckled at how quickly you agreed to everything. You really were her innocent girl.
you get home past curfew, walking in to your stepmoms house. she’s sat on the living room couch with her head in her hands. when she hears the door click open she immediately straightens, a long breath travelling all the way from deep inside her, finally getting it’s release. you walk into the living room with an apologetic smile on your face, but when you hear her voice crack it vanishes. “baby…w-where were you?” she trembles, hands shaking as she combs her fingers through her disheveled hair.
“i’m so sorry, mama,” you blurt out. “my phone died and everyone wanted to stay a little longer—” you pause when you see a tear trickle down her face. she hastily brings her sweater to her cheek, wiping it away.
you feel terrible. you can’t drive and it really worries wanda when you go out with your friends and forget to charge your phone. she still blames herself though - she should have checked you charged it before you left, or that you at least took a power bank with you.
you drop your bag on the floor and hurry to her side. “please don’t cry, mama,” you whimper, realising this is the first time you’ve seen her do it. she looks awfully pretty. her face scrunches up so delicately, lips slightly pursing. you banish the thought to the back of your mind, your thumb tracing her skin when another tear falls. “n-no - ‘m so sorry.” the thought of her sat at home, not knowing where you were or what you were doing, or if something had happened to you makes your heart hurt. you hold back a sob, not wanting to make the moment about you, but she notices the glossy polish that blurs your vision when you try to blink the tears away.
“s’okay, detka,” she breathes, trying to force a smile, not wanting to make you feel any more guilty than you already do. she knows you don’t mean to be such a forgetful girl. “mommy’s just being dramatic.” she strokes through your hair, humming softly and pressing a long kiss to your forehead.
“are you sure?” you lightly kiss the wet mark on her cheek, and she grins weakly, her eyes fluttering shut at your adorable attempt to soothe her.
“…yeah, baby. don’t worry about me. i’m just glad your safe.” she pulls you into her embrace, cradling your head against her chest. you sigh, her sweet perfume filling your nose.
“i’ll charge my phone properly next time. promise,” you murmur, your words slightly muffled by the fabric of her sweater as you press your face in between her breasts.
wanda bites her lip and tilts your head back up so she can see you properly, her green eyes illuminating in the dark room. “i know baby, it’s okay.” she pulls you back against her chest, gently swaying you.
“you’re not mad at me, mommy?” your surprised at how forgiving she can be. it’s nothing you’ve ever experienced before, alien to you your whole life, but she just can’t be mad at you - ever. you’re the sweetest thing she’s ever had in life. you would never hurt a fly. and she can’t think to be angry at you when you look up at her so prettily, a little pout on your lips, making her just a little aroused more than anything.
“mad?…” she trails, swiftly pushing your hair to one side and wrapping her lips around your neck. “no…mommy’s not mad.” she sucks gently, her tongue poking out, licking upwards over the bruises she leaves on your sensitive skin. you whimper in response, clutching at her sweater. “mmh…” pleasure swims in your head when she starts to suck a little more fervently.
you feel so deeply in the moment, wanting to make it better, wanting to do anything to make her feel better. “m-mommy?” your hands move under her sweater, pressing against her supple stomach.
“mm?” she replies - wet, sloppy sounds filling the air as she finds your sensitive spot, making you shudder. you moan softly, trying to find a thread to hold your sentence together. “d-do you wanna…use me?” you mutter, the need to please her overwhelming, the unshed tears from just moments ago spilling over unwillingly.
she hears your voice tremble and coos, taking her lips off your neck and cupping your face. she presses a wet kiss to your cheek, just like you did. “no, baby.” she smirks, tracing her thumb on your lower lip. “mommy just wants you, sweetheart. c’mere.” she cups your bottom firmly, squeezing your flesh through the denim of your shorts. you apologise once more and she shushes you. her hands move around your waist up and under your thin tank top. she squeezes lightly on one of your boobs and you tip your head back, biting your finger as a needy hum escapes your throat.
“she needs you so bad.”
a/n - i saw a gif on pinterest of her crying and j needed to write something abt it. she’s such a pretty crier 😵💫
