You'll probably move right through me, on my way to you. A simple little blog, where I will post my writings and drabbles and such. Come make yourself comfy and read a while. WLW. Song lyrics and car talk likely. Smut will be indicated. I am not cross posting, so if you find it elsewhere, it ain't me, toots. Enjoy :]
18+, Men and Minors DNI- Do not repost works without permission!
WLW, Celebrity Fan-fiction. Heavy use of song lyrics for themes and storylines, and I don't like to write short fics. This is my first fanfic blog in a long time- I appreciate reading everyones comments on my work! Focused on Scarlett Johannson and her characters, Elizabeth Olsen, AJ Cook, Rhea Ripley, etc.
Bonus points to those who can guess all the lyrics being used :]
Series: I Like Your Blood On My Teeth Just A Little Too Much (ScarJo)
HIATUS
You’re a former military, career oriented security executive who has made quite the living for yourself- but it has always been lacking. Your non-committal attitude has led you down a playgirl lifestyle, never really settling. What happens when your new boss throws you a curveball, and as a result? You end up hopelessly involved with a Hollywood starlet. (Warnings: Smut, Strong Language, Violence, Stalking, Death Threats, Implied Abuse/Sexual Abuse, Flashbacks to War/PTSD)
*More warnings will be added as I write*
Ch. 1 - Are You at One, or do You Lie?
Ch. 2 - We’re Hiding Like a Shadow in the Dark
Ch. 3 - All This Money and This Pain Got Me Heartless
Ch. 4 - Fuck Around and Damn Near Die in it
Ch. 5 - You Pulled Me Under Just to Save Yourself
Ch. 6 - You Blame Me for Everything You Hate
Ch. 7 - Fall Down Before Me, I Want You on Your Knees
Ch. 8 - The Weight That’s Crushing can be Relieved
Ch. 9 - I Have a Growing Fear and You’re Not Helping Me
Ch. 10 - I Pulled Off Your Wings, Then I Laughed
Ch. 11 - Army Green Was No Safe Bet
Ch. 12 - Whisper on a Scream, Doesn't Change a Thing
Ch. 13 - Digging Up the Dirt, You Get to Meet All Sorts
Ch. 14 - I Just Want You to Know Who I Am
Ch. 15 - The Only Thing You Brought Is Psychological Warfare
Ch. 16 - You're Gonna Get What's Coming to You
Ch. 17 - A Pebble in the Water Makes a Ripple Effect
Ch. 18 - If You Wade Around Forever, You Will Surely Drown
Ch. 19 - I'll Be Hurtin' When I Wake Up On The Floor
Series: I Work Too Hard, Can You Fuckin' Pay Me? (Wanda Maximoff)
ONGOING
Y/N moved to escape some of thier looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs? (Warnings: Smut, Strong Language, Cheating, Intersex!Reader, Alcohol Abuse, Angst)
- PT. 1 - PT. 2 - PT. 3 - PT. 4 - PT. 5 - PT. 6 - PT. 7 - PT. 8 - PT. 9 - PT. 10 - PT. 11 - PT. 12 - PT. 13 - PT. 14 - PT. 15 - PT. 16 - PT. 17 - PT. 18 -
S.J. - You Hold Your Hands in the Air, Screaming My Name 😈
S.J. - So Fucked Up, From the Way That You Touch - Pt. 1. Pt. 2. 😈
E.O. - Our Fire When We're Together, Mixed With Paranoid Manners🥰
N.R. - I Got a Secret, So I'ma Drop ‘Em to the Floor 🎄😈
W.M. - Easy to Love 🥰
J.J. - It's Time to Let Her Know What You Need - Pt. 1 Pt.2 😈
N.R. - Let's Talk About Chemistry😈
J.J. - Caught Between Black and White 😰
W.M. - I Just Wanna be Yours 😈
N.R. - There's No Hope In Endless Winter 😰
N.R. - Ancient Sun, Cast Your Light (Pt. 2 to There's No Hope In Endless Winter) 😰😈🥰
W.M./N.R - I Gambled On Red And The Price Was Paid 😈
W.M./N.R - Fuck Me Like You Mean It (Pt. 2 to I Gambled On Red)😈🥰
S.J. - You Should Probably Leave 🥰😈😰
N.R. - I Can't Help The Way I'm Feelin' Pt. 1 Pt.2 😈
E.O. - Watch The World Explode From Underneath Your Glow 😈
W.M. - She Had Other Plans
W.M. - Tell Me Your Limit and We'll Cross the Line Again (Pt. 2 to She Had Other Plans)😈
W.M./N.R. - Come With Us And You Will See ⚰️😈
J.J. - Black and Blue 😈
E.O. - You're A Doll, You Are Flawless🥰
E.P. - Between the Pain and the Way You Look 😈🥰
*credit for images/lyrics used on this blog belong to respective owners, i do not own these images/songs. contents of this blog are purely for creative entertainment purposes, any similarities between those portrayed in this blog and real people are purely coincidental. all works on this blog are fiction. works are my own, do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.*
AN: i swear i didn't see how slightly similar this one and the one with Andy are :)) this one was written more than a month ago and i simply didn't get around to editing it.
Summary: Beneath sharp glances and quiet defiance, something unspoken stirs. Power shifts, boundaries blur, and in the hush between words, a fire takes root—slow, forbidden, impossible to ignore.
Gothic Literature: Thursday, 5 PM.
The last class of the day. This room always feels colder than it should, lit too dimly, like someone designed it to match the curriculum.
Stone walls, creaky floors, dark windows. A crypt disguised as a seminar room. Perfect for Professor Ripley.
She arrives on the dot, as usual, without a sound. No flustered bags or scattered papers. No fake smiles or pleasantries. Just her.
She moves like the silence belongs to her. Like the air itself pauses until she allows it to move again. Rhea Ripley. Technically, Dr. Ripley, but no one dares call her that. We’re all a little too afraid. Or turned on. Or both.
And I? I can’t really stand her. She might be brilliant, but she is annoying as hell.
She’s wearing black again. She rarely wears anything but black, really. Long leather coat she shrugs off immediately, turtleneck stretched across her chest, long sleeves hugging her arms perfectly. Her frame is bigger than the chair she settles into. She doesn’t sit so much as dominate the space around her. Her hair is down, as usual, and it frames her face perfectly. Her eyes are the color of warning signs and cold steel, and I’d kill for the chance to make them blink first.
I’m already watching her when she looks up.
“Y/n,” she says smoothly, with a voice that makes even the most pretentious literature feel like sin, “if you’re going to stare, at least be bold enough to have something to say.”
A few people chuckle nervously. I don’t look away.
“I was just thinking it’s funny.” I reply casually, controlled, resting my chin on my hand. “The way everyone in Dracula loses their mind over some guy in a cape who barely speaks. Like, how is that fear? That’s camp.”
She sets down her pen. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Camp,” she repeats, as if tasting the word. Her mouth curves into something halfway between a smirk and a threat. “So you’ve reduced the founding cornerstone of Gothic horror to… drama club aesthetics?”
I shrug, but I can feel my pulse quickening. “All I’m saying is that true horror isn’t about monsters. It’s about people. Dracula’s interesting, sure. But Mina? Jonathan? Lucy? They’re the real tragedy. He’s just the catalyst.”
There’s a long pause. The silence stretches thin and taut. I know what she’s doing — letting it sit, letting everyone feel the weight of the exchange. This is how she teaches. With stares, and silences, and sentences that sound like weapons.
Then she stands.
It’s calculated, quiet, and somehow it sends a chill down my spine. She walks — no, stalks toward the front of the room. Her heeled boots hit the stone floor like punctuation. Her presence is gravitational. I swear I hear someone shift in their seat just to give her more space, even though she hasn’t asked for it. She never has to.
“Let’s talk about real horror, then.” she says, eyes never leaving mine. “Let’s talk about proximity. Power. The kind of fear that creeps into your bones not because of what’s said, but because of what isn’t.” She pauses in front of me. Inches away. “That feeling of being watched. Of being known. Of being...”
Her voice drops.
“...read.”
My throat tightens. My face warms up. It’s not a blush, I refuse to give her that, but my breath stutters in a way I pray no one else notices. She doesn’t have to touch me. She could press one hand flat against the desk and I’d feel it in my spine. She’s carved out a space around me, and it’s just us now, locked in some wordless challenge.
“This is Gothic literature,” she says. “Seduction and control. Fear wrapped in beauty. Obsession dressed as logic. Power,” she draws out the word “wearing a smile.”
Then she turns away. Just like that. Dismisses me.
“I want a paper." she says to the room, still walking, back toward the blackboard. “Two thousand words. Your definition of fear. Psychological, social, emotional. Use any text we’ve read. Due next week. And Y/n?”
I look up again, meeting her eyes as she glances back over her shoulder.
“You’d better scare me.”
And then she starts the actual lecture, like that whole exchange was nothing but a warm-up. Like she didn’t just unmake me in front of thirty other students with a five-minute staredown and a handful of words.
But she knows what she did.
And so do I.
⸻
After, the hallway outside the lecture room is narrow and dim, just like the rest of this part of campus: old stone, flickering lights, tinted windows. It smells like old books and something colder, maybe metal. I usually hate how quiet it is out here after class. Today it’s worse.
Because I hear her footsteps.
I’m almost at the stairwell when the sound of her boots echoes behind me, steady, unhurried, the same pace she always keeps, like she has all the time in the world and the world bends to match it. I don’t have to turn. I feel her long before I see her.
“Y/n” she says behind me, smooth and flat, like she’s picking up a conversation we never actually finished.
I pause, just for a second, hand hovering over the stairwell door handle. I half turn and she’s there. Not close, not far, just… looming. Casually.
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
Her expression doesn’t shift. She steps closer.
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself in lectures. But I will now.” She pauses. “You’d better scare me.”
Her voice is lower than before, more private, like she’s peeling away the professor voice she uses to silence a room, and using something sharper, quieter, just for me. It feels like a blade dragged softly against my skin.
“I thought that was just for dramatic effect.” I reply. I try to make it sound dry, detached. My default defense. “You know, to keep the class awake or something.”
She tilts her head just slightly. Her eyes flick over my face, slow and deliberate. “No. You’re already enough of a distraction. I don’t need to bring the dramatics.”
My heart slams once, hard, against my ribs. But I don’t let it show.
“Then why are you following me?”
“I’m not,” she answers, voice a little colder now. “You just haven’t left.”
I swallow. I hadn’t realized I was still standing there, hand still on the door I haven’t pushed open. Because she doesn’t let you leave, not when she’s speaking. Not when she’s looking at you like that.
I lower my hand and turn fully to face her. The corridor feels smaller than before. Too narrow. Too quiet.
“You really think I’m a distraction?” I ask, and I can’t help the way my voice changes on the word. “Or are you just trying to put me in my place?”
“Why would I do that?” she murmurs. “You seem too fond of misplacing yourself for me to meddle.”
There’s a moment. A second, maybe two, where everything goes still. Just the sound of her voice hanging in the cold air, and the heat building slowly under my skin, rising like steam.
She steps forward again, just a little. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the difference. I don’t move back.
She looks down at me — and she really does have to look down — and says, “You really think because you can spar with me in class, that you can do the same outside of it?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “you want someone who can keep up with you. And maybe you’re not used to getting just that.”
That does something. Her jaw tightens slightly, but it’s there. A shift. A crack in the ice.
She leans in, her voice barely a breath now. “You have no idea what I want, or I’m used to.”
And then she walks away.
Not a goodbye. Not even a glance back. Just the sharp scent of her perfume lingering behind her, and the sound of her boots disappearing down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
She didn’t even touch me. Didn’t have to.
But I can still feel her, her presence, like heat pressed into my skin, like her shadow reached out and left fingerprints.
And I think…
…I really do want to scare her.
⸻
A week later, I drop the paper on her desk.
No words, no flourish. Just a neat stack of pages printed on thick ivory paper. I chose that paper on purpose. It feels heavier in the hand, like it carries weight. Like it’s not just a paper. It’s a challenge. A dare. A key turned in a locked door.
Rhea doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t even glance down at it. She just watches me as I pull my hand away, fingers barely brushing the polished wood of her desk. Her gaze is unreadable. A blank page hiding something violent between the lines.
I break the stare first. That, I’ll allow her. For now.
Class today is on The Turn of the Screw. Of course it is. Nothing like a slow descent into psychological chaos and unreliable narration to keep the mood appropriately feral. She paces in front of the chalkboard like she owns the idea of tension, like Henry James wrote it just for her.
She opens the discussion by writing one word in big, deliberate letters on the board: Ambiguity
Then she turns.
“Who decides what’s real?” she asks. “The narrator? The reader? The professor?”
A pointed glance my way. I don’t take the bait.
Not yet.
Someone in the back mumbles something about interpretation. Rhea doesn’t even acknowledge it. She starts walking again, circling the room slowly like a storm gathering around a house with too many windows.
“The governess sees what she believes. But do we?” she presses. “What makes fear more potent: knowing the truth, or not knowing it?”
I raise my hand. “Not knowing.”
She stops moving. “Why?”
“Because the unknown gives us permission to imagine something worse than what’s actually there.”
Her head tilts just slightly. “Interesting,” she says. “So ambiguity is seductive.”
I smile. “Always.”
There’s that silence again. That silence she uses when she wants to pull the oxygen out of the room and force everyone to listen, even when she’s not the one talking.
Her eyes stay on me a second longer. Then she moves on and continues the lecture.
Class ends twenty minutes late. No one dares to complain.
I take my time packing up, and even though I don’t look at her I can feel her behind me. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
“Y/n” she says as the last student shuffles out, the door clicking closed behind them.
I straighten, turning to face her.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t need to. Her voice is smooth as marble, but something simmers underneath it. Something I’m not entirely sure she’s trying to hide.
“I read your paper in our break.”
Well she’s in a hurry. I arch a brow. “And?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She takes a step forward, then another. Not aggressive, just with purpose. Like she’s walking through fog with a knife in her hand and a map in her mind.
“It was… interesting,” she finally says. “You know how to twist a sentence until it bleeds. And you understand fear.” She pauses, eyes sharp. “Intimately.”
My stomach tightens. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” she murmurs. “Not from me.”
Another pause. Longer this time. And then—
“I’d like to speak with you further about your analysis. Later. Now I’m in a rush.”
She says it like it’s not any obligation, but I know better.
“What time?” I ask.
“Eight. My office.”
She doesn’t wait for confirmation. Doesn’t need it. She turns and walks away, the scent of her trailing behind. Dark, woddy, floral, with a vibrant hint of tobacco smoke.
I watch her disappear down the hall.
I’m not sure what scares me more. That I don’t know what she wants…
…or that I think I do.
⸻
The space outside her office is darker than the rest of the building, like even the overhead lights know not to push too hard near her. My footsteps echo against the old wooden floor, and I hesitate outside the door, just for a second. The number’s small and brass and cold to the touch when I brush my fingers over it.
No knock.
I just open it.
Because she told me to come.
And because I want to see what happens when I stop pretending.
Her office is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined.
Dim lighting. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in deep mahogany. Thick curtains drawn tight over the windows. No photos. No personal clutter. Just old hardcovers, iron bookends shaped like gargoyles, and a single desk — wide, deep, the kind you could lay someone across if you wanted to make a point.
She’s already there. Sitting behind it like a shadow made solid. A cup of tea — black, probably scalding — rests near her elbow, untouched. She doesn’t look up right away, as if making me wait is part of the game. Or maybe part of the lesson.
Finally, she speaks.
“Close the door.”
Not a greeting. Not a request.
I do.
The click echoes in the silence like a sentence being passed.
She gestures to the chair across from her desk, a sleek, armless thing with nowhere to hide.
I sit.
She watches me for a long, unnerving second. Her eyes drag over my face like she’s cataloguing me. Not looking at me, but into me, sorting through drawers I didn’t give her permission to open.
“Your paper was evocative,” she says. “Dark. Precise. I found myself rereading certain lines just to feel their weight again.” A pause. “There’s one in particular. Where you describe fear as a presence, a silhouette in a locked room.”
I nod once. “It was a metaphor.”
“No,” she says softly. “It was recognition.”
That stops me.
My breath catches, just slightly, but it’s enough for her to see it. Her eyes flash with the faintest glint of satisfaction, like she’s finally confirmed something she already suspected.
“Fear,” she continues, “isn’t always about danger. It’s about power. The knowledge that someone could destroy you… but hasn’t.”
Her fingers tap once against the desk. Then stop.
“And sometimes,” she adds, “that kind of fear is… welcome.”
My heart is pounding now, too loud in my ears. I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified. Maybe both.
“I wrote what I knew,” I say.
“I know.”
Another silence.
Then she stands.
She walks around the desk slowly, the way she moves when she wants to take up space. And she does. All of it. By the time she reaches the front of the desk, she’s no longer Professor Ripley. She’s something older, sharper, carved out of stone and heat. She leans against the edge, arms crossed, her body the only thing that could stop me from reaching the door if she wanted to.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
She picks my paper up from the desk and flips to the second page. Her fingers are long, strong, ink-smudged along the side from hours of grading. I try to ignore the tattoos, otherwise I’ll truly be lost. She reads one line aloud, voice steady but low:
“To be seen entirely and still left untouched. That’s the cruelest intimacy.”
She looks up. “Do you believe that?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
She steps forward.
Now she’s right in front of me. I’m still sitting, and she’s towering. Not looming, just present, like a storm cloud deciding whether to break. Her thigh brushes my knee. Barely. Just enough to register as contact.
Just enough to scramble whatever coherent thoughts I had left.
She leans down like a predator cornering it’s prey, slow, until I can feel the heat of her breath near my ear and the only other thing that registers to me is her scent — earthy but floral, dark, woody, with a vibrant tobacco edge. This is how I know every time she's close. It's very distinctive.
“Then why do you keep asking to be touched?” she murmurs.
My breath catches fully this time, audibly. My fingers grip the edge of the chair like it’s the only thing tethering me to the floor.
She straightens again, tall and imposing.
And she doesn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, she reaches over and picks up the small black book sitting on her desk. A first edition Frankenstein, I think. She brushes something off its cover, and then hands it to me.
“Read this.” she says, voice back to neutral, but still low. Still intimate. “We’ll discuss it next week.”
I take the book. Our fingers don’t touch. But they could. Fuck, they almost do.
She walks to the door and opens it slightly.
Dismissal.
But when I pass her, she doesn’t move out of the way completely. Her body brushes mine, with just a fraction of pressure and her eyes hold mine one last time.
“Goodnight, Y/n”
It’s not warm. Not cold.
It’s a promise. Or a warning.
I step outside of her office and back into the dark and mysterious hallways, heart pounding, palms sweating, book clutched tight in one hand like it might bite me.
Once again she didn’t touch me.
But I think she left fingerprints anyway.
⸻
Another week, another Gothic lit class.
The lecture hall feels heavier today. Like the air itself is charged, thick with something unsaid. I take my usual seat near the front, flipping open my notebook but barely catching her words.
Rhea strides in just one minute late — sleeves rolled up this time, a bit above her wrists, a small glimpse at the ink trailing up.
I figured there are more tattoos a while ago, when I noticed the ones on her hands for the first time, but having it confirmed peaks my interest even more.
I wonder what she looks like in a t-shirt...
Nope. Not opening that door.
Her eyes find me instantly, sharp and steady, dragging my attention away from the ink. Hopefully she didn’t notice where I was staring.
She doesn’t start with a greeting or formalities. Instead, she drops a single sheet of paper onto her desk, then turns to the class.
“Today,” she says, voice low and deliberate, “we’re going to discuss the theme of obsession in Gothic literature.”
I know that theme all too well.
She starts calling on students to share their thoughts, but her gaze keeps drifting back to me. It’s almost like a game. A dangerous one.
And I refuse to even play, yet.
When she finally calls on me, the room falls quiet. I meet her eyes, steady and defiant.
“Obsession,” I say, “is what happens when control slips away. When the lines between fear and desire blur.”
A flicker of something, maybe approval? amusement? crosses her face before she masks it with that sharp professor look.
“Good." she replies. “But tell me, Y/n, when does obsession become dangerous? And who holds the power then?”
I hold her gaze for a long moment, feeling the heat of the unspoken challenge.
“When it’s mutual,” I say finally, voice low, “and no one’s willing to back down.”
She smiles then. Not warm. Not cold. Something dark and promising.
“Exactly.”
The class resumes, but the space between us remains charged, electric.
I know this is just the beginning.
When the lecture ends, the room empties slowly, students gathering their bags, voices rising into the usual post-class murmur. But the noise fades into the background, replaced by the pulse in my ears, the echo of her gaze burning through me long after she turns away.
I pack my notebook carefully. Her words twist in my mind like a dark ribbon. The whole room feels charged, as if the storm has narrowed to just the two of us.
I don’t move right away. Instead, I watch her from my seat, her back to me as she stacks papers on her desk. The soft scrape of her movements punctuates the quiet, steady and unnerving.
Only a few students remain, the other’s footsteps fading down the hall. The space between us shrinks even more.
I prepare to leave the room too since I dont think she has anything else to say, but my heart races when she suddenly looks up, eyes boring into mine without hesitation, unwavering, as if daring me to meet her challenge.
“Y/n, stay behind for a moment.” she says, voice low and commanding, no room for refusal.
I stand, swallowing hard but holding my ground. My footsteps echo as I slowly cross to her desk, tension crackling like static.
The last students file out, the door clicking shut with a finality that reverberates like a verdict.
She folds her arms, the muscles beneath her sleeves flexing subtly. The symbols peaking from under her sleeves are like a secret language inked on skin.
She doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker in her gaze, a softened edge I almost miss.
“As I mentioned last time, you wrote a good paper.” she says folding her hands neatly on the desk. “Not many students understand fear the way you do.”
I nod slowly, words stuck somewhere between my mind and my throat.
“But,” she continues, her voice dropping, “sweetheart, there’s still a lot you need to learn about control.”
My pulse quickens. I know she means more than just literature.
She leans forward over the desk slightly, her presence filling the space between us. Her sharp scent wraps around me.
“Control,” she says, “isn’t just about power over others. It’s about power over yourself. Knowing when to hold on… and when to let go.”
Her eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unreadable.
“Do you think you have that kind of control?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation.
“I’m learning.”
Her lips curl in an almost smirk before she straightens. The movement is fluid, like she’s both stepping closer and pulling away at once.
“Good.” Her voice is low, rough, deliberate. “Because this isn’t a game you win by playing it safe.”
The silence between us thickens, almost suffocating. I want to say something, anything, but the weight of her presence pins the words inside me.
She studies me for a long moment, then rises.
My breath catches as she circles the desk, closing most of space that was left between us. Her thigh brushes lightly against mine, a whisper of the slightest contact, but it’s enough to ignite sparks along my skin.
Her voice drops to a near whisper.
“Be ready to lose.” she murmurs.
Then she steps back.
The door opens, and she’s gone before I can find my voice.
I’m left standing there, heart hammering, caught in a storm of fear and desire twisting through me.
Damn. She doesn’t even have to touch me to own me.
And maybe, just maybe, I want her to.
⸻
Another week passes. It’s ten minutes before lecture, and I’m leaning back in my chair, half-listening to Charlie and Avery bicker about whether Dracula is sexy or not.
“She literally invites death into her bedroom.” Avery argues, gesturing with her pen. “That’s Gothic, it's romance, it’s iconic—”
“That’s a cry for help.” Charlie deadpans.
I laugh quietly, spinning my pen between my fingers.
“It’s all a cry for help.” I mutter. “This whole genre is just centuries of people being horny and afraid at the same time.”
That gets a big laugh from both of them.
Avery turns to me. “What about Professor Ripley? You think she fits the Gothic archetype?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean: aloof, unreadable, physically intimidating and exasperating in just about every way?”
They both nod. Hard.
I tilt my head, thinking. “She’s not just Gothic. She’s… the female personification of Terrifier.”
They stare.
“You know,” I continue, grinning, “the clown from the horror movie? Except instead of a hacksaw and clown makeup, she’s got literature degrees and veiny, muscular arms. Same vibe though. Completely fear-inducing but kind of hot?”
Avery bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, you’re going to hell.”
Charlie snorts. “She does have murder clown energy.”
“I’m serious.” I say, amused. “Tell me she wouldn’t make an amazing slasher villain. Tall. Dark. Silent. You think you’re safe, then boom! You’re torn to pieces. ”
They’re still laughing when the room goes quiet.
I don’t have to turn around to know why.
I already feel her.
A chill climbs my spine as I glance toward the door.
Rhea Bloody Ripley stands in the doorway, backlit by the pale hallway light. Navy blue v-neck creating a beautiful frame around her necklaces, black jeans and the signature black boots.
A gorgeous demon prepared to strike.
And her eyes?
On me.
Not a single expression. Not even the smallest twitch.
But I know she heard.
And suddenly, Terrifier doesn’t feel so funny.
⸻
The next night, it’s later and darker than I expected for this part of campus. I’m cutting through a narrow alley on my way back from grabbing a heavily needed coffee, the streetlights flickering above. The frostiness of the coffee ended up giving me more peace than I expected, but now I have to focus on getting back home.
And then the peace is gone.
Because the demon is here, hiding in the shadows.
Leaning against the brick wall of a building, arms crossed. I almost don't see her. She’s wearing a black, fitted t-shirt that shows how muscular her arms actually are, the tattoos on full display not making it any easier on me. Jesus... now I don’t have to wonder anymore, but I wish I did.
She looks effortless, but there’s a storm beneath her calm.
I freeze.
She tilts her head, watching me like a predator watching the prey who just realized the cage door is locked.
I try to keep walking, keep my pace even, avoid eye contact, pretend she isn’t there. Maybe I can escape and say I didn't see her.
But she steps forward.
Two long, sure strides.
Blocks my path.
“Running away?” she asks, voice low, rough, no hint of patience. “That’s new.”
I try to slide past her, but she steps right into my space, her scent dark and electric in the crisp night air.
“No,” she says, voice dropping to a low purr that vibrates deep in her chest. “You don’t get to ignore me.”
Her hand closes around my arm with firm but soft, controlled pressure — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who’s in charge here. I want to jerk away, to pull free, but something in her gaze pins me in place. It’s a dangerous mixture of calm and threat. She’s holding a fuse and daring me to trigger it.
Her eyes bore into mine, sharp and unblinking, that stupid blue swallowing every single one of my thoughts. I can feel the heat of her body, the strength in her arms, the steady, commanding rhythm of her breath. It’s impossible to look away.
“I’m not someone you walk away from,” she says, each word deliberate, coated with an edge of promise and warning, “not if you want to keep playing this game.”
She leans in. Her proximity makes my pulse thunder in my ears and my breath catches, shallow and uneven.
For a long moment, we just hold still, caught in a silence that’s thick and electric.
Then her grip tightens, just slightly, a reminder that she could break me if she wanted, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
“You think you can walk away from this. You truly think you will if I let you.” she whispers, voice low enough that it’s almost a caress and a knife pressed against my throat at the same time. “But you won’t. Not really.”
My heart pounds, the heat rising beneath my skin until I feel nothing else besides the charged space between us.
I want to say something, to protest, to claim control back, but the words stick, caught in the web of her dominance.
She pulls back, gently, just enough to let me breathe but not enough to let me go. Her gaze never leaves mine.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she moves past, a deliberate claim.
One look back at me over her shoulder and then she's gone.
"Terrifier" I think, swallowing hard.
And I’m the idiot who walked right into the funhouse.
⸻
The classroom buzzes with restless energy as students settle in. Avery shoots me a grin from across the room, eager for the next round of sparring with Professor Ripley. She’s only missing the popcorn at this point.
I lean back, eyes finding Rhea — the same kind of all black style of outfit she usually goes for, except this time she chose a black, thin, kinda see through summer cardigan resting over a black tank top.
It is summer and getting hotter and hotter so I don't blame her.
And here I was planning to maybe not be her sparring partner today.
When she pauses, I raise my hand.
“Yes, Y/n?” Her voice is smooth but sharp, expectation laced with challenge.
I hold her gaze, voice steady. “Fear in gothic literature isn’t just about the supernatural, it’s about control. Losing it or craving it. Which is ironic coming from someone who controls a room just by standing there.”
The room stills. I catch a flicker of dark amusement or warning in her eyes.
She steps down from the podium, moving toward me deliberately. The space shrinks.
“You think you understand control better than I do?” she asks softly.
I smirk. “I was honestly just saying, you know? But I do think I’m starting to."
She bends to pick up a dropped paper from my desk. Her hand brushes mine, light and deliberate.
A spark. I don’t pull away.
Later, during a break I’m in the nearly empty hallway, I notice her turning a corner and coming my way before she gets to me, so at least the element of surprise is out of the question.
I slow, thinking for a second that I can get away this time, but she catches my hesitation and I see a flicker of a smile. Then she speaks before I can try to turn away.
“You’re getting bold.” she says quietly as she gets closer. “Careful not to cross lines you can’t come back from.”
I meet her gaze. “Maybe I want to.”
She takes two intimidating steps closer. The scent of leather and something darker wraps around me.
Before I can react, she moves past me and she’s back in our class.
Like I said, I hate this woman with a passion.
⸻
The lecture hall feels heavier than usual today. I follow Rhea's movements across the room as she sets up the projector. Her gaze flicks my way, sharp and assessing.
I raise my hand during the discussion, deliberately interrupting a point she’s making.
“Professor, isn’t the true horror in gothic literature the loss of control over one’s own desires?” I say, voice steady but edged with challenge.
She pauses, eyes narrowing just enough to send a warning through me.
“Y/n, you know you’re skating on thin ice lately." she says, voice low but audible, making the entire room turn to look.
I meet her gaze without flinching. “I just wanted to make sure the idea I got from all this isn't a completely wrong one."
Her face gives me absolutely nothing. "You're not wrong. Now, back to what I was saying..."
And she keeps going after dismissing me like that.
After class, the hallway is mostly empty. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.
Rhea approaches, her strides confident, each step echoing dominance.
“You enjoy provoking me." she states, voice cold.
“I do." I reply, stepping closer, deliberately invading her space.
Her dark eyes flash, and she grips my wrist, firm and unyielding.
“Know your limits." she commands.
But I only smirk, brushing my fingers lightly over the back of her hand before pulling free.
⸻
Later, in her office, I’m sorting through some papers she handed me.
I offered. There might be this permanent banter between us and she might be the one person who annoys me the most, but I couldn't help myself seeing how much she has on her plate.
Rhea watches me over her glass, her eyes dark and intense. Unlike last time, I’m not across from her but on her left, a little over the corner of the desk, close enough to almost touch. I can literally feel her breath if she leans in to look at something I'm working on.
“Careful with those.” she says, low and clipped. “They’re still supposed to be mine, you know? I can already see huge differences and I know you know my system. My style.”
I laugh, soft but menacing. “Maybe I want to take control. And you gave me free rein here, so technically… that’s on you.”
The smirk I throw her way does exactly what I want. It riles her.
There's a short, sarcastic laugh. Then it vanishes. The huntress returns.
She straightens, looming just a little, then leans in. The space between us shrinks. Fast.
I reach out, let my fingers brush over hers, then start tracing the ink I can’t stop staring at. Couldn't do it if my life depended on it.
Her breath catches.
She doesn’t pull away. But her eyes flash with warning.
“Do not forget your place, little one." she says, voice low and fierce, then continues without moving a muscle. “You’re reckless.”
I glance up, meet her intense gaze.
“And you’re predictable." I answer, voice a whisper.
She moves closer, her hand flexes over the edge of the desk beside me.
Her proximity is magnetic, almost suffocating.
I push further, letting my fingers trail over her forearm, feeling the warmth beneath the thin sleeve.
The muscles beneath my fingers tense involuntarily and her breath stutters slightly.
Instead, she lowers her voice. “Touch me like that again and you’ll see just how unpredictable I can be.”
I bite my lip, smiling up at her in a very Harley Quin way, daring her. “Can't wait.”
She backs up, the tension crackling between us like electricity.
Oh, we're on.
⸻
The wind cutting through the alley I'm in feels wrong.
Not cold, just sharp. Too sudden for almost the middle of June. Like the air itself is trying to warn me.
I ignore it. I keep walking. Faster.
The streets are quieter than they should be. My phone is long dead in my hand. I glance behind me again and feel the prickle across my spine.
He’s still there.
Pacing behind me like he owns the sidewalk. Not too close, but not far enough. Smiling I think, though I can’t quite see it.
My skin crawls.
I take a hard turn toward a row of dim buildings, hoping to shake him off. But my gut says I’ve only made it worse.
His footsteps follow.
I don’t even remember how I got here, just that I’d gone out yet again for iced coffee and air and somehow let time get away from me. Classic. Smart. Stupid.
“Hey.”
His voice bounces down the alley, smooth and slurred like he thinks I owe him something.
“Where you headed?”
I don’t answer.
“Aw, don’t be like that.”
I pick up my pace.
He does too.
Another turn. Another narrow street. Shadows lurch along the brick walls beside me.
And then—
I run straight into someone.
Hard.
I hit solid muscle and something soft, cotton maybe. I stagger back with a gasp, hands out to steady myself.
That’s when I see her.
Rhea.
But it's not what I'm used to.
She’s not in the usual leather, or signature boots. Only the black aspect remains. She’s in shorts and a faded, slightly oversized t-shirt that sways around her hips like a dare, along with some vans and her headphones are simply resting around her neck. Her tattoos on full display and it's like they’ve been resting, sleeping, waiting for a reason to wake up.
The streetlamp behind her flickers once, like even it knows she’s a force to be reckoned with.
Her entire being wraps around me protectively without her actually doing so.
Her eyes cut behind me, toward him.
Her stance shifts slightly. Nothing showy. Just enough to promise violence if he takes one more step.
And he knows it.
Because the moment her jaw ticks, he mutters something under his breath and disappears into the dark.
Just like that.
Like a bad dream that realizes it’s outnumbered.
My pulse is thudding.
“Are you okay?” she asks, eyes still scanning the alley like she might chase him down just to make sure he stays gone.
“Yeah.” I say. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Then she finally looks at me. Fully. And I forget how to swallow.
There’s a slight shine to her collarbone. Her shirt clings perfectly. She looks like she walked out of a different universe and into mine on accident. Bare skin, bare arms, and that same unreadable stare.
It also looks like the woman was on a walk or maybe a run and I stumbled in the middle of it.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” she says. “Especially looking like that.”
My lips part. “Looking like what?”
She doesn’t answer. She just starts walking.
No offer. No gesture. Just that quiet expectation that I’ll follow.
And I do.
The summer air wraps around us, thick, slow and too warm for the tension laced between our bodies. But there’s that breeze again. A wrongness in it. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like to want something I’m not supposed to.
We walk in silence, the soft tap of our sneakers on pavement the only sound.
I glance at her again.
The shirt rides up a little with each step. Her muscles shift, flex. Her fingers are curled like she’s holding back the urge to hit something. Or grab something.
So I do it.
I touch her.
First, I wrap my hand around her arm.
It's light. Nothing more.
But she stops walking almost instantly.
“You really want to test me again?” she says, without turning her head.
“Wasn’t testing anything.” I say softly.
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and hungry.
“I told you not to do that.”
“You did.”
Her breath catches slightly. “And you didn’t listen.”
“Just wanted to see what would happen.”
Her jaw clenches.
I don't pull away.
Instead, I let it linger. Make it obvious.
Deliberate.
My fingers slide up the curve of her bicep. Not teasing. Not tentative. Just there, like a promise. I trace the line of her skin, push the edge of her sleeve up with my thumb, brushing the seam slow, certain.
I watch her face the whole time.
She doesn’t move.
But she’s breathing heavier now. Her eyes are locked on mine like she’s calculating something dangerous. Like if I take it one step further, she won’t stop herself.
I step closer. Barely.
Enough to close the air between us.
“You let people think you’re made of stone.” I whisper.
“Maybe I am.”
I smile. “Then how come you flinch when I get too close?”
Rhea moves fast.
She grabs my wrist, same as last time, but rougher now, hotter. Her palm presses into my pulse point.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t.”
Her voice drops, low and dark and almost shaking. “You think I’m going to just give in?”
My breath stutters. “No.”
“Good.” she says, stepping even closer. “Because I’m not. That would be too kind.”
The way she says it makes my knees weak.
“You keep touching me like that,” she continues, her other hand ghosting near my jaw, “and I will not be gentle.”
“I know.”
“You think that’s what you want?”
“I don’t think.” I whisper. “I feel.”
Her eyes narrow.
And I do it again.
My hand moves down her arm, fingers splaying. My nails barely graze her skin.
I trace the inside of her elbow.
She flinches.
Not visibly. Not obviously. But I feel it. A twitch in her muscles. A moment of restraint straining to hold.
And then she snaps.
She backs me into the wall so fast I don’t even register movement. Just pressure. Heat. Her body pressed against mine, her hands slamming flat against the brick on either side of my head.
She’s not touching me.
Not exactly.
But she might as well be everywhere.
Her face is inches from mine, her breath warm against my cheek, her stare devouring.
“You think I won’t ruin you?” she whispers.
“I think you already are.”
Her breath catches. Her throat flexes.
She tilts her head just slightly. Like she’s deciding where to start.
Then—
Nothing.
Just silence. Charged and aching.
She pulls back. Slow. Controlled. Her eyes dragging across my face like she’s memorizing the lines just to hate them later.
And then she lets go of the wall.
“Go home.” she says again, quieter this time. “Now.”
But I don’t move.
Not until she steps away. Even then, I don’t want to.
I want to touch her again. I want her to lose control. But I just nod. Turn. Walk away.
And her stare follows me all the way down the street.
As if she still doesn't quite trust the night with me.
⸻
It’s been two weeks of chaos.
Two weeks since Rhea showed up like a gothic knight in shining armour.
Two weeks of us orbiting each other like stars destined to collapse.
Every encounter is a landmine. She brushes past me in the halls and my breath stutters. She stares too long in class, daring me to say something, do something. And I do. Every damn time.
I talk too much in seminars. Challenge her arguments. I flirt with danger. I flirt with her.
And she gives it right back.
But there’s a difference now. A sharpness that wasn’t there before. Her comments have gotten colder. Calculated. Sometimes cruel. And every time I think I’ve gotten under her skin, she slips right out again, like I never touched her at all.
She’s pushing me away.
But she doesn’t want to let go.
That contradiction has been tearing me apart for fourteen long days.
And today, it explodes.
It starts with her cutting me off mid-sentence in class. “If you spent half as much time studying as you do arguing with me, your scores would show it.” The words land with a smack. Half the room glances at me, the other half glances at her.
I hold my tongue. Barely.
After class, I storm into her office, heart racing.
“You enjoy humiliating me?” I ask, teeth clenched.
She doesn’t look up from her desk. “You enjoy asking for it.”
I laugh once, bitter. “Right. Of course. Everything’s my fault. Your words mean nothing, right? It’s just me being too sensitive.”
Her eyes lift. Cold. Unreadable.
“Careful.” she says. “You’re not ready to hear what I really think.”
I almost say something else. Something reckless.
But I don’t.
I walk out before she can hurt me again.
And this time, I do run.
I take to the streets with no direction, no destination. Just anger and hurt propelling my feet forward. I don’t cry. I don't really do that.
The sun’s gone down, the city swallowed by warm summer air and that occasional unsettling breeze that slips under your skin like a warning. I walk until the tension in my chest starts to fracture, until the fight in me simmers into something closer to grief.
Why does she do this?
Why give me just enough to hope and then shove me back again?
A sharp sound behind me.
Footsteps, close.
I turn, already knowing.
Rhea.
She’s yet another black t-shirt, slightly oversized and hanging loose on her frame, sleeves rolled up to her biceps. She looks infuriatingly good, and I want to punch her and kiss her in the same breath.
“Don’t." I warn, stepping back.
She doesn’t stop.
“Why are you here?” I snap. “You made it pretty clear in your office I’m just a nuisance.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“You’ve been meaning things for two weeks, Rhea.”
My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks.
She pauses, maybe for the first time in all of this, and the street goes quiet around us. Just the wind and the distant hum of the city and my racing pulse.
Her eyes find mine.
“I’m sorry." she says. Quiet. Steady. Just that.
Not a tremble. Not weakness. Just a truth she couldn’t hold back any longer.
My chest tightens.
Not because it fixes anything.
But because she said it.
I look at her for a long moment. I want to scream. I want to walk away.
But I do neither.
Instead, I step forward.
I reach for her arm. Not tentative this time either, not teasing. Possessive.
My fingers wrap around her bicep, and I hold on.
Her jaw flexes.
“You don’t get to apologize and pretend this will just go away." I whisper.
She steps in, her hand brushing the side of my neck.
“I’m not pretending.”
And something shifts.
I press into her.
My hands run over her arms, up under her shirt, palms grazing hot skin. I drag my nails gently down her sides, watching her breath hitch.
She grabs my waist, yanking me in until we’re chest to chest.
The kiss is... something different.
Not too harsh, not too soft. Longing. Want. Desire.
Teeth. Tongue. Heat.
It’s not gentle. It’s not romantic.
It’s all us. All Rhea.
She groans into my mouth, biting my lower lip before kissing me again, harder this time.
Her hands are rough, finding every inch of me they’ve been denied for months. They slide under the hem of my top, splay across my lower back, grip the curve of my hip like she owns it.
I pull back, gentle, steady, just long enough to say, “Take me home.”
She doesn’t ask twice.
And we get to her place.
Us coming through the door of her apartment is the most controlled thinderstorm to ever exist.
Her hands on my waist. My mouth on her neck. Her teeth nipping at my jawline, muttering dark things between kisses.
The second the door shuts behind me, hard, her mouth is on mine again.
She lifts me, slams me gently into the wall, never breaking contact.
Her voice is a soft purr. “You still sure about this?”
My fingers tangle in her hair. “I am.”
She drags her mouth down my neck, biting. Hard enough to mark.
My head tilts back, a gasp slipping from my lips.
“I hate how much I want you.” she breathes, words harsh against my skin.
“Then stop fighting it, Rhea. Please."
She turns me around, and carries me toward the bedroom. Her hands hold me steady as ever, one still tugging at my clothes, tracing lines she’s memorized from a distance.
She puts me down gently. One more push and I'll be falling on the bed. But she stays there, predatory, close, yet gentle and safe.
In the soft lighting, I finally see her face clearly.
She’s fire and restraint. Like something feral barely kept in check.
And then I touch her again.
Hands flat against her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. I trail my fingers down, under the hem of her shirt, let them linger just below her navel.
She exhales sharply. Her control slips again.
And I want to make her lose all of it.
She tackles me back onto the bed, crawling over me with slow, deliberate menace.
“You know that if you keep touching me like that,” she murmurs, lips inches from mine, “I won’t stop.”
“I never said I want you to, and you know it.”
Her eyes darken.
“Then let me hear you say it.”
I meet her gaze, unflinching.
“I want all of you.”
Her mouth finds mine again. The rest of our clothes disappear in a blur of hands and gasps. Her touch is everywhere. Rough, reverent, relentless.
There’s no room left for teasing. No room for restraint.
this is a little rant, so feel free to scroll—but I’m tired. burnt out, even.
being a creative—whether you draw, edit, or write—should be about the art, right? the outlet. the joy. we all say, “it’s not about numbers.” and yet… when you pour your free time and your heart into something, hit post, and it flops? It hurts. It’s demotivating.
I could keep my edits and fics to myself! I don’t, because I love being on the other side too—watching your edits, reading your fics on repeat. If we all stop posting (because of people not engaging; indirectly making us wonder if we, and our work, suck!) fandom fades. and honestly, parts of it already has. community has been slipping into recycled, uncredited content and a lot of taking-things-for-granted.
Metrics do matter.
Tumblr has no algorithm. It’s not like Twitter or Instagram. the only way for a post to gain traction is by reblogging!
likes are nice!! but they don’t push a post. reblogs do!!
comments and asks keep people going. four minutes of your words can fuel hours of someone else’s creativity!!
If you want fandom to keep existing, please engage:
reblog the things you enjoy (add a tag or a thought if you can). so that others are able to enjoy the work as well!
leave a comment saying what you liked, it doesn’t have to be a whole paragraph—one sentence can be enough.
send asks and questions; start conversations, be engaged!!
credit creators and don’t repost without permission. (reblogging and reposting aren’t the same thing)
with the rise of AI, protecting human-made work matters more than ever. be loud for the people who make the things you love, or we will burn out.
MDNI
MasterList
CW: Smut, Dom Emily, Possessive Behaviour, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Spanking, Tribbing/Scissoring, Pubic Hair Mentions, Fade To Black Instead Of Aftercare.
WC: 13,647
(Not Proof Read)
You flirt with an unsub. It's for the case. You know it, and so does Emily. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to watch. She waits until the takedown is clean, the team is gone, the door is locked. Then she puts you in your place.
The music is loud but not unbearable. A steady pulse that vibrates through your ribs, low and hot, sticky with sweat and perfume and the cheap thrill of flashing lights. The club is crowded. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close. Just enough room to press past bodies and feel skin as you go. You’ve been here an hour. Long enough to get the lay of the space, long enough to spot the unsub. Long enough to catch his eye.
Emily’s across the room at the bar. You clock her in your periphery even when you aren’t looking. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you approached the target. You can feel her gaze like a brand at the nape of your neck. She’s not good at hiding it tonight, not when he’s got a hand at your waist, not when you laugh too easily at something he says, not when you lean in close under the pretense of being heard.
You know how you look. You know how Emily sees you. Skirt tight and short, the top low-cut, one of her favourite pairs of heels that she told you make your legs look like they go on for miles. And it’s for the case, technically. But you don’t miss the way her jaw sets when he tucks your hair behind your ear. You don’t miss the way her hand tightens around her drink when your fingers brush the unsub’s chest, casual and slow.
You’re not trying to torture her. But you’re playing a role, and she knew that going in. Still, the flash in her eyes when you look her way, just once, just long enough to meet her gaze before the unsub’s hand starts to slide lower, tells you exactly how thin her patience is running.
It’s not long after that the takedown happens. Smooth, clean, no mess. You don’t have to touch the guy again. The team moves in. The cuffs go on. No one gets hurt.
And then it’s over.
You expect Emily to decompress like the rest of them. To have a drink. To celebrate a case closed. Instead, she doesn’t say much of anything. Doesn’t answer JJ when she asks if you two are joining them at the bar. Doesn’t look at you when you make a joke. Doesn't make a noise on the ride home.
The second the front door closes behind you, she crowds you back against it.
Not angry. Not rough.
Just controlled.
Simmering.
Her mouth near your ear. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
The heat in her voice doesn’t match the cool of her words. She’s already pressing her body against yours, thigh between your legs, mouth at your throat.
“I wasn’t,” you say.
She kisses just below your jaw. “Didn’t look like that from where I was standing.”
“I was doing my job.”
“You’re very good at your job,” she murmurs, voice low and firm and possessive. “But that doesn’t mean you get to walk away like nothing happened.”
Her hands find your hips. Pull you closer. Her breath is hot against your collarbone. There’s no distance left between you. No space for confusion. Just her, everywhere, all at once. Jealousy, yes. But not the destructive kind. Not the kind that causes doubt. It’s the kind that stakes a claim.
And tonight, she’s going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.
She doesn’t take her time. Not in the way that means patience, not in the way that gives you room to think. She moves like she’s already made up her mind. Like everything you did back at the club has been burned into her memory and she’s not going to rest until she’s overwritten it all.
Her teeth scrape against the delicate skin beneath your ear. Not hard, not yet. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch, just enough to make heat pool low in your belly. Her fingers tighten at your waist. You can feel her knuckles brush skin where your top has ridden up. There’s nothing tentative in the way she holds you. Nothing soft in the grip she has on your body.
“You let him touch you,” she says, her voice low and steady, lips brushing over your skin as she speaks. “You let him talk to you like he had a chance.”
She bites a little harder this time. Not enough to leave a mark, not quite. But she’s close. And when her tongue flicks over the spot a second later, soothing and hot, it makes your knees weaken.
“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?” Another nip, higher this time, closer to your jaw. “The way you laughed? The way you leaned in like you wanted him?”
You start to speak, some kind of protest, some reminder that it was all for the case, but she cuts you off with another bite. This one leaves a sting.
“Don’t,” she says, breath hot against your neck. “I don’t need an excuse. I know it was fake. That’s not the point.”
Her hand slides down. Skims the hem of your skirt. Lingers there. Fingers pressing just a little too deliberately along the back of your thigh.
“The point is,” she murmurs, nipping her way across your throat now, her voice going quieter and rougher as it settles into your skin, “he got to touch you. He got to smell you. He got to imagine what you’d sound like when you’re falling apart.”
Her hand moves higher.
“He got to watch you smile like you wanted him.”
You gasp when her teeth sink in at the base of your neck. No hesitation this time. She’s going to leave a mark. She wants to. You can feel it in the way she sucks until your skin pulses, the way her other hand fists into the fabric at your waist, keeping you right where she wants you.
“And I had to stand there,” she goes on, the words dragged against your skin, each one hotter than the last. “Watching him put his hands on what’s mine.”
You’re breathless now, back arching, hands gripping the front of her shirt like you need something to ground yourself with. But Emily doesn’t let up.
“I should’ve dragged you out of that club,” she growls softly. “Should’ve bent you over the table and reminded you who you belong to.”
Her tongue flicks over the new mark. She breathes in deep like she’s trying to calm herself, but she doesn’t stop.
“Maybe I still will.”
Her mouth trails lower, dragging across your collarbone, your chest. Hands still gripping your thighs, pushing your skirt up inch by inch. Every movement deliberate. Every word a match thrown into kindling.
“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you’re mine.”
Your pulse hammers under your skin. Your voice comes out wrecked already. “I’m yours.”
“That’s right.”
Another mark. Another bruise-to-be at your shoulder.
“Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every fucking look you give. It’s all mine.”
You’ve never felt so wanted. So claimed. So utterly undone before she’s even gotten your clothes off.
She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are darker than they were at the club, rimmed in something low and smouldering, something barely held in check. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to. She’s already decided what tonight’s going to be.
Her hands slide down your sides, steady, purposeful, then off you completely.
"Bedroom," she says. Nothing more.
You go without hesitation, legs still a little weak, skin still prickling where her mouth left heat and bruises behind. You hear her follow, slow, deliberate steps. She doesn’t rush. She’s letting the anticipation spread.
By the time you reach the bed, you can feel her presence behind you like pressure against your spine. You turn, expecting her to reach for you again, to press you back, but she doesn’t. She stays just out of reach.
Her arms fold across her chest.
“You want me to fuck you?” Her tone is even, controlled. Still riding that razor’s edge between composed and absolutely gone. “Then get on your knees.”
You hesitate for less than a second. The tone in her voice doesn’t leave room for questions. You drop.
The carpet’s rough under your bare knees. The room is quiet except for your breath and hers. You keep your eyes on her thighs, waiting. She steps closer, and your breath catches again when you see her fingers go to the waistband of her jeans. She unbuttons them slowly. Then she stops.
"You want my hands on you tonight," she says, "you're going to earn it."
She doesn’t look away as she pushes her pants and underwear down together, not slow for your sake, but deliberate, exposing herself without the faintest hint of modesty. Her pubic hair is dark, thick, natural, soft curls framing everything below like velvet shadows against her skin. It’s not trimmed for anyone’s gaze. It’s not put on display. It’s just her—real and raw and so goddamn hot it makes your mouth go dry.
She hooks a leg over your shoulder, pulling you closer without a shred of hesitation, voice low and rough.
“You let him touch you,” she says again, fingers sliding into your hair, gripping just enough to keep you still. “So now you’re going to make it up to me. With your mouth. Until I decide you deserve more.”
Your heart stutters hard against your ribs. She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just uses that grip to pull you in closer, spreading her stance wider, one foot braced on the floor, the other still looped over your shoulder.
“You don’t stop until I tell you.”
And then she presses herself to your mouth, not gently. Not soft. Just raw and needy, slick already, the warm press of her thighs bracketing your head. You breathe her in, familiar and earthy and clean, the faint scent of skin and sweat and heat clinging to the curls that brush against your face.
You start slow, lips soft against her, tongue parting her with reverence—but that isn’t what she wants.
“Don’t tease,” she snaps. “He didn’t tease when he touched you. You didn’t tease when you giggled in his ear.”
Her voice tightens as you adjust, licking deeper, dragging your tongue over the slick length of her, flicking her clit harder, faster. She groans low, thighs twitching around your face, hips rocking forward into your mouth like she’s taking what’s owed.
“You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?” she growls. “The way you laughed? The way you leaned in like you fucking wanted it?”
You try to speak, some half-formed denial, but she pulls your hair tight and pushes you deeper.
“Shut up.”
It’s not angry. It’s not cruel.
“Open wider,” she snaps again, voice already breaking at the edges. “You’re going to make me come just like this. On your face. With my thighs around your head. And then maybe I’ll touch you.”
Her breath hitches when you moan against her, the vibration setting something off. Her hips grind down harder, her slick thick on your chin now, your tongue aching with the effort of keeping up with her pace.
“You like this,” she pants. “You like being used. Like being a toy I use to get myself off. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod, helpless and wrecked, nose pressed against the heat of her, your mouth slick and swollen, jaw burning, arms trembling.
“Fuck—right there—don’t stop.”
Her hand fists in your hair. Her whole body tenses.
Her body is slick and hot and aching against your tongue, and you feel it in every part of you—her tension, her hunger, the possessive fury just barely held back behind each slow roll of her hips. Her grip in your hair is firm, not punishing, but tight enough to make sure you don't move unless she wants you to.
You open wider like she told you, jaw straining, tongue flattening beneath her. You drag slow, deliberate strokes through the wet heat between her thighs, letting your nose nudge through the soft curls at her mound as you bury yourself deeper.
You want her to fall apart on you.
You want her to make a mess of you.
When you draw your tongue back and shift to her clit again, your lips wrap around it gently, then tighter, sucking until you feel her hips jolt.
“Fuck—god, you’re filthy for it,” she snarls. “You like this too much. You don’t even want me to touch you, you just want my cum in your mouth.”
Your moan answers her. You lap at her in long, fluid motions, alternating between the soft suck of your lips and the steady flick of your tongue, circling her clit over and over, faster now, until your jaw aches and your hands are trembling and she’s shaking above you.
Her thigh is flexing hard against your shoulder. She’s trying to stay upright, but her body’s giving out, her legs twitching under the weight of it. You feel the tremor in her belly when you push two fingers into the plush softness of her inner thigh for leverage and seal your mouth over her again.
“Suck it,” she groans. “Harder—don’t stop. Fucking don’t you dare stop.”
Her body takes over.
There’s no finesse in it now, no effort to maintain control. Just the pure, instinctive rhythm of her hips as they start to roll harder, faster, her cunt pressing down against your mouth like she needs more than you can give. Her slick is everywhere, soaking your chin, smearing across your cheeks, hot and endless, and the soft curls at her mound drag over your nose with every grind of her hips.
“Fuck, yes—just like that,” she pants, her voice barely holding together. Her fingers tighten in your hair again, anchoring you there, holding your face exactly where she wants it. “You’re gonna stay right there. Gonna let me fuck your face.”
You moan again, deeper this time, letting the sound vibrate into her. She responds with a sharp gasp, a shudder that ripples through her body as she bears down harder, grinding her clit against your tongue like she’s chasing it now, like she’s desperate to tip over.
Her cunt rocks against your mouth again, the motion raw, messy, all slick and heat and pressure. Your lips stay parted, your tongue working in time with every roll of her hips, licking up and down her slit, then flattening again to let her grind on you. You’re soaked now, every breath tasting like her, every inch of your skin below your nose marked with her arousal.
She’s using you.
Not cruelly. Not thoughtlessly.
But wholly.
Entirely.
Her body jerks when you suck harder, your mouth sealing around her clit again, tongue flicking, dragging, catching her just right. She chokes on a gasp, one hand flying to the wall to steady herself, the other still locked in your hair, holding you still as her hips begin to stutter.
“You want it?” she hisses. “You want me to cum all over that pretty fucking face?”
You nod as best you can, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, lips bruised from the force of her riding you.
“Then earn it.”
She grinds again, rougher now, rhythm falling apart as she gets close. Her breath punches out of her in short, desperate gasps. She’s muttering now, broken curses between clenched teeth, hips jerking, thighs clenching around your ears.
“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”
And you don’t.
You lock your mouth over her, tongue relentless, letting her rock and ride and rut against your face until her body breaks.
She cums hard.
It hits her all at once—hips locking, cunt spasming against your tongue, thighs trembling. Her head falls back and a strangled, wrecked moan tears from her throat as she grinds down through it, fucking her release into your mouth like she wants to leave it there, like she wants to keep tasting it on your lips later.
You don’t stop until she pulls away.
Not because you want to stop. But because she’s too sensitive now, her whole body twitching and pulsing, her slick thick on your tongue and your chin and probably the floor. She pulls back with a sharp inhale, thighs still trembling, hand sliding from your hair down to your jaw. Her thumb smears through the wet mess she left on your skin, dragging it slow across your cheek like she wants to see it shine in the light.
Her chest is heaving. Her pupils are blown wide. She stares down at you with something that isn't quite a smirk but holds all the danger of one.
“You look so fucking pretty like that,” she murmurs, thumb slipping over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth open again. “All ruined. And I haven’t even touched you yet.”
She doesn’t speak for a moment.
Just stands there, panting, flushed and trembling slightly from how hard she came, the shine of it still slicking your lips. Her fingers trail down from your cheek to your throat, a soft, teasing line that barely lingers before she pulls her hand away entirely. Then, without a word, she reaches for her shirt.
The silence stretches between you, heavy and pulsing, lit with the kind of heat that makes you dizzy. You stay on your knees, watching her. Watching the slow reveal as she peels the sweat-damp fabric over her head and tosses it to the floor. Her bra goes next. There’s nothing careful or seductive about it. She undresses like she owns the room, like she owns you. Like she doesn’t need to put on a show because you’re already undone.
Your eyes drag over her chest, over her stomach, over the dark patch of hair between her thighs still slick with arousal. She notices your stare and lets you have it. Lets you look. For a second.
Then she points at you.
“Clothes. Off.”
You scramble to obey, fumbling with your top, shimmying out of your skirt, the wetness between your legs thick now, hot and aching from being ignored so long. You don’t try to hide it. You let her see what she’s done to you. You let her see how soaked your thighs are.
But she doesn’t come closer.
She just sits down on the edge of the bed, legs slightly parted, hands resting casually on her thighs. Her expression is calm. Almost amused.
“Come here,” she says.
You move, still breathless, still flushed, your clothes in a heap behind you. But when you go to kneel again, her hand shoots out, catching your wrist.
“No,” she says, voice low and firm. “Over my lap.”
Your heart skips.
She tugs you forward, guiding you until you're bent over her thighs, hands braced against the bed, your bare chest pressed to the covers. Her legs shift under you, helping to support you better.
“I told you,” she says, her palm gliding slowly over the swell of your ass. “You don’t get to walk away from what you did tonight.”
You shiver.
“You wanted to play games at the club?” she says. “Now you’re going to pay for it.”
Her hand lingers on the curve of your ass, the touch deceptively soft, almost tender. It doesn’t match the look in her eyes, or the sharp command of her voice, or the tension that’s still coiled in her from everything you stirred up earlier tonight. She strokes slowly, fingers dragging across your skin like she’s mapping it out. Like she’s imagining what it’s going to look like by the time she’s done with you.
You’re already shaking.
Not from fear. Not from cold.
But from anticipation.
“You knew what you were doing tonight,” she says finally. Her tone is even. Measured. But there’s a thread of heat beneath it that betrays just how tightly she’s holding her control. “Smiling at him. Touching him. Letting him get close.”
You open your mouth to speak, but her hand presses down firmly against your lower back.
“No. You’ve had your chance to talk.” She pauses. The hand stroking your ass slides between your legs for just a second, enough to make your thighs twitch. She doesn’t give you anything, not yet, just feels how wet you still are. Her breath catches a little at the proof of it.
“You’re dripping,” she says, almost to herself. “Fucking soaked. And I haven’t even laid a hand on you.”
The pressure lifts again. Her fingers resume their slow path over your skin, soft now, almost tender in contrast to the edge in her voice.
“You want to act like a slut?” she murmurs. “Then you get punished like one.”
You press your cheek against the covers, your pulse a hard, pounding drum in your throat.
“I’m going to spank you,” she says. “Fifteen times. You’re going to count them. Out loud. I want to hear you.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, the anticipation flooding your body so fast it makes your head spin.
“And when we’re done…” Her voice dips lower. “You’re going to thank me.”
The silence afterward is sharp, like she’s letting the rules settle in. Like she’s giving you the chance to absorb them before she moves forward.
Then her hand slides up your spine, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, grounding you again.
“Colour?” she asks, soft but firm.
You don’t hesitate.
“Green.”
Emily doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the silence stretch, lets it settle around you like a second skin. Her hand stays on your back, warm and steady, her thumb tracing slow circles just below your shoulder blade. It’s not comfort. It’s control. The kind that says she’s in no rush, that she’s going to take her time with this, that you’re going to feel every second of what you’ve earned.
Then her hand leaves your back.
The first slap lands clean across the curve of your ass. It’s not hard, not yet—just enough to startle, to spark something beneath your skin.
“One,” you whisper, breath catching in your throat.
“Louder,” she says, calm and cool. “I want the neighbours to know you’re getting punished.”
You swallow hard, cheeks already burning. “One.”
Her hand smooths over the spot she just struck, rubbing the sting into your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. Then lifts again.
The second swat is sharper. More direct. It lands just to the side of the first, the skin there more sensitive. You flinch. Not away from her, but into it.
“Two,” you gasp, louder now.
Your thighs are already slick, the ache between them deepening with each breath. The burn from the spanks is blooming now, a dull, glowing heat that spreads from your ass to your core. You press your hips tighter to her thigh without thinking, seeking friction, relief, anything.
Emily notices.
“No rubbing,” she warns, voice low. Her hand comes down again, this time a little lower, catching the underside of your ass where it’s softest.
You yelp. “Three.”
The sting bites sharper now. It lingers longer. Your breath stutters as you try to settle again, fingers curling into the covers.
Four lands on the opposite side, the sharp crack of it echoing through the room. “Four,” you moan, hips rolling before you can stop them.
Her hand slides between your legs for just a second. Not to touch. Just to feel. She groans when she finds you wet and swollen.
“You’re dripping all over me,” she says, amused now, her palm dragging back over your sore skin. “And we’re not even halfway there.”
The next two come quick, one after the other. Five. Six. You gasp both numbers through clenched teeth, your voice getting shakier as the burn builds. The sting is layered now, sharp on the surface, warm underneath, humming through you like a live current. It hurts, but not in a way that makes you want to stop. It hurts in the way that twists low in your belly, in the way that makes your clit throb against nothing.
She gives you a pause after six. Her hand strokes over your ass, both cheeks now red and warm beneath her palm. You can feel how sticky your inner thighs are, how badly you want her to touch you, how close you are to begging already.
But she’s not done.
Seven is harder. A deliberate test of how much you can take. Your breath hitches, the number caught in your throat for a second before you force it out.
“Seven.”
She hums, pleased. Her other hand rubs along your back again, grounding, before her palm strikes again.
Eight. Nine.
Your legs tremble. The burn is deep now, rooted in your core, radiating with every beat of your pulse. Your cunt is aching. Empty. Clenching around nothing. Every time she slaps you, your hips jolt forward, instinctive, desperate.
Ten lands straight in the centre, right where the muscle is fullest, where the heat lives hottest now. You moan the number this time, not even trying to hide it.
Emily chuckles low behind you. Her hand strokes the abused skin, fingers slipping lower, trailing between your legs again, spreading your slick lazily along your folds, but not quite touching your clit. Not yet.
“Look at you,” she murmurs. “So turned on you’re shaking. You love this, don’t you?”
You nod. Voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears.
“Use your words,” she says, pressing two fingers against the inside of your thigh, close enough to make you whimper. “Tell me how much you love it.”
“I love it,” you breathe, frantic now. “I love it, Emily. Please—”
She spanks you again. Hard. “Eleven.”
You choke on the number, moan it through clenched teeth.
“Twelve.”
The pain blurs with the arousal now, a thick haze of heat and want and obedience. You’ve never felt more bare, more open. Your body is humming. Your cunt is leaking down your thighs. The air feels too thin.
Thirteen. Fourteen.
Your voice is ragged. Your body rocks with every hit. You can’t keep still.
Then she pauses. One hand rubbing over the burning skin of your ass, the other still between your thighs, fingers not giving you quite enough.
And then the last one lands.
Fifteen.
Your whole body jerks with it. The sting explodes across your skin and the ache rushes straight to your cunt.
You gasp the number like a prayer. “Fifteen.”
Then a pause. A beat of silence.
You remember what comes next.
“Thank you,” you whisper, dazed and trembling. “Thank you, Emily.”
And her hand finally cups your cunt, warm and wet and solid.
“That’s my good girl.”
Emily’s hand lingers on the curve of your ass for a final moment, her palm warm over the sting she left behind. Then she gives you a soft tap. Not sharp, not playful. Dismissive. A wordless command.
“Up.”
You ease off her lap on unsteady legs, the muscles in your thighs trembling, ass hot and sore and aching in the best kind of way. The room tilts a little as you straighten. Her gaze stays on you the whole time, dark and hungry, flicking down the line of your body like she’s deciding what to do with you next.
She doesn’t stand.
She leans back on her palms for a moment, then shifts higher onto the bed, planting one foot and pushing off the floor with the other so she can scoot back against the pillows. She stretches out with a slow exhale, arms lifting above her head for a breath, her body long and flushed and slick in the low light.
Her thighs fall open slightly, casual, unhurried. There’s nothing preformative in the way she lays there, nothing shy or uncertain—just that same quiet, simmering authority she’s carried all night, like she knows exactly what she wants and how long you’ll take to give it to her.
“Come here,” she says, tilting her chin at you. Two fingers curl lazily in the air. She doesn’t need to say it twice.
You climb onto the bed, moving toward her on all fours, the mattress dipping beneath your knees, your skin still buzzing from the weight of her hand. Your breath catches when you reach her, dropping down on your forearms so your chest brushes lightly against hers, mouth already tilting toward hers for a kiss.
But before you can close the distance, her fingers press to your forehead, firm and final, stopping you in place.
“Uh-uh,” she says, soft but sharp. “No kisses yet.”
Your breath stutters.
Her fingers slide down, dragging over the bridge of your nose, then falling away completely.
“Turn around.”
You blink.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Her voice is lower now, all smoke and command. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate.
“Face the other way. Put that pretty cunt over my mouth and your mouth over mine.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Your thighs clench.
She lifts her eyebrows.
Her hands find your hips, guiding you with barely-there pressure as she shifts lower into the pillows. You can feel her thighs parting beneath you, feel the air change between your legs as she speaks again, low and even.
Her hands settle on your hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate circles into your skin. She's not rushing you. She's just holding you there, just letting the weight of her words come next.
“You still haven’t earned my touch.”
Her grip tightens just slightly.
“I want your mouth on me. I want to cum on your face again.”
She pauses, watching the way you shiver, the way your breath catches at the base of your throat.
“But you don’t get anything until I decide you've earned it.”
Her voice is calm. Settled. Deadly sure.
She shifts her hips once beneath you, just enough for the slick heat to radiate against your face, a taunt more than a touch.
“Now get started.”
You lower yourself slowly, hands braced against the tops of her thighs, breath shaking as the scent of her floods your senses. She’s slick and warm, swollen from the first orgasm you pulled out of her, her curls damp against your lips before you’ve even touched her properly. Her thighs flex under your palms when your breath fans over her, and still, she doesn’t reach for you.
She just waits.
You drag your tongue through her slowly. From the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke, tasting her again—hot and musky, tinged with salt and sweat.
You feel her inhale through her nose, feel the tension pull tight beneath her ribs, feel the slow press of her hips as she tilts up into your mouth.
You don’t tease. You want to. But she gave you a task, and you’re going to complete it the only way she’ll allow.
Your tongue flicks gently over her clit, soft at first, just enough to make her exhale shift into something heavier. Then again, firmer this time, the tip of your tongue circling slow, gathering slick before pressing flat and dragging over her.
She groans softly, low in her throat, her thighs spreading wider to give you room.
You press in closer.
You seal your mouth over her and suck—light at first, then harder, letting your tongue flick in rhythm, steady and focused. Your hands shift beneath her thighs, holding them open, fingertips digging into the soft flesh just enough to keep her where you want her. Her body twitches when you angle lower, when your tongue dips to tease at her entrance before curling up again to flick her clit. You’re messy with it now. Wet and warm and eager. Each breath you take fills your lungs with her, and each stroke of your tongue draws another sharp twitch from her hips.
Her hands stay off you, just like she said they would. She’s giving you nothing. You haven’t earned it yet.
But she’s breathing harder.
And when you flatten your tongue and start to move it in slow, insistent circles, her hips buck once, uncontrollably, before settling back.
“Just like that,” she murmurs, more breath than voice.
You press in harder. You let her use you. Your jaw aches but you don’t stop. You want to feel her come apart again. You want to be the reason.
You wrap your lips tighter around her clit and suck—hard enough to make her curse under her breath.
You’re buried in her.
Mouth slick with her arousal, chin soaked, your jaw straining with effort and your thighs trembling from holding yourself still. Every part of you is tense with the need to be touched, to be fucked, to be filled, but your mouth stays locked to her cunt, your tongue relentless and aching. You flick over her clit in steady strokes, then slow to circle, then suck again, letting your tongue trace the shape of her.
She moans softly beneath you, but she still hasn’t touched your cunt. Hasn’t even tried.
Instead, you feel her breath.
It ghosts over your skin, hot and deliberate, every exhale grazing your folds. She's close enough now that when she sighs, it stirs your slick, your clit twitching at the sensation. You can't see her, but you know her mouth is parted, know her gaze is pinned between your legs, watching every drip of arousal fall from your cunt.
And you’re soaked.
Soaked in the way that has you dripping from your core, the slick running in slow trails down the inside of your thighs. It’s impossible to ignore how wet you are, how swollen and desperate. You’re leaking onto her chest, hot drops landing just below her collarbone, sliding across the swell of her breast.
She hums when one lands there, amused, smug.
“Messy,” she murmurs, voice warm and thick. “You’re getting me filthy, babe.”
You can feel her lips curve against the inside of your thigh, her mouth so close but still not touching. She inhales deeply, the sound filthy, deliberate. Then her hands slide up from your hips, fingers pressing into the fullness of your ass, spreading you wider.
She groans, low and appreciative. “God, look at you. Dripping.”
Her thumbs knead into the swell of your ass, massaging the flesh slowly, lazily, as if she’s just getting comfortable. Not possessive. Just indulgent. She squeezes and spreads you open further, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your cunt even more, your slick glistening in the low light, spilling down to her chest in a steady trail.
“Don’t stop,” she warns, her grip tightening just slightly when your rhythm falters. “You stop, and you don’t get anything tonight.”
You moan into her, tongue pushing deeper, licking up every drop she gives you. The vibrations from your mouth make her twitch, her hips shifting, breath catching.
“Just like that,” she murmurs again, voice breathier now. “Fuck—just like that.”
But she still doesn’t touch your cunt.
Not even a brush.
She stays there beneath you, teasing with nothing but breath and heat and the steady pressure of her palms on your ass, squeezing you, spreading you, holding you open while you work to bring her over again.
And you will.
You have to.
Because you’re soaked and empty and desperate.
And she still hasn’t even touched you.
Her breath rolls out against your pussy, another teasing exhale that hits you square on your clit, and your hips jerk without permission. Your tongue stutters, mouth still working her clit in tight, focused circles, and her thighs twitch in response, a groan slipping from her lips. You don’t falter long. You press in again, tongue curling, sucking harder.
But it’s not enough. Not anymore.
The ache between your legs has become sharp, a clenching need that burns through your spine. Your cunt feels swollen, empty, dripping. The slow drag of her fingers across your ass only makes it worse, like she knows exactly what you're holding back, exactly how much you need to be filled.
You move one hand from where it's braced on her thigh and bring it down, slow at first, sliding between your legs. She doesn’t stop you. She doesn’t say a word. But the second your fingers graze her cunt, slick and open and begging, her nails dig just a little deeper into your skin.
You drag your fingers through her folds, slow at first, just enough to feel the heat radiating off her. She’s soaked. Wet in that aching, generous way she only gets when she’s been edging on power and control, when she’s been holding herself back just to keep you in place. Your fingers slide easily through her slick, collecting it, smearing it across your knuckles as you curl them back to her entrance.
She groans beneath you, the sound rough and strained, her thighs tensing. Her hands don’t stop kneading your ass, don’t stop spreading you open. If anything, her grip tightens, grounding herself in the feel of you above her while you work her cunt.
Your mouth stays sealed to her clit, tongue flicking with practiced rhythm as you press your fingers into her, slow and steady. The heat inside her grips you immediately, her walls tightening as you ease in, and she lets out a breath like she’s been holding it this entire time.
You curl your fingers, just slightly, just enough to make her gasp.
Then you start to move.
Her hips jerk against your mouth, the muscles in her stomach flexing under your chest. You can feel it all. Every little reaction. Every twitch of her thighs. Every clench around your fingers. You pump into her slowly, carefully, your tongue never faltering, circling her clit while your fingers fuck her open.
"Fucking yes," she groans, her voice vibrating against your cunt with each exhale. "Just like that. Don’t you dare stop."
You moan into her, and the sound sends a tremor through her hips. Your jaw is starting to ache, your arm burning with effort, but none of it matters. Not with the way she’s moving now. Writhing beneath you, cunt squeezing your fingers with every roll of her hips, her slick coating your palm as you thrust deeper, harder.
Her grip on your ass is bruising now, fingernails dragging down the curve of you like she’s trying to mark you, anchor herself with the shape of your body.
"More," she breathes, her voice wrecked now, raw with need. "Give me more."
You give it to her.
A third finger slides in with a stretch, your knuckles brushing up against the spot that makes her groan like it’s ripped from her chest. Your tongue doubles down, mouth soaked and sore and relentless as you suck her clit between your lips, feeling her tense again.
She’s close. You can feel it.
Her cunt flutters around your fingers, clenching tight, her whole body arching into you now.
You don’t stop.
You push harder.
You keep her pinned, keep your mouth latched to her, keep your fingers working her from the inside out until she breaks again.
It happens fast.
One moment her hips are rocking into your mouth, chasing every curl of your tongue, every deep thrust of your fingers. The next, her body locks up underneath you, thighs tensing around your ribs, heels digging into the bed as she gasps, sharp and breathless.
Then she cums.
Hard.
Her cunt clenches around your fingers, fluttering in tight, desperate pulses that make it hard to move. You hold her there, fingers buried deep, tongue still circling her clit as her body jerks beneath you, every muscle drawn tight. She moans, low and broken, the sound ripped straight from her chest, her voice ragged with the force of it.
The slick between her legs floods over your hand. Wet and hot, coating your palm, your wrist. Her pubic hair is soaked with it now, the soft curls clinging to your chin, sticky with sweat and arousal as you mouth at her clit through the aftershocks.
"Fuck," she hisses, voice barely a whisper. Her head falls back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with each shaky breath.
You keep licking, slower now, easing her through it. Her body twitches under your mouth, too sensitive, but she doesn't stop you. Her hips roll one last time before she shudders and goes still, her thighs loosening around you, her hands sliding from your ass to the bed like she’s spent everything she had.
She's panting. Slick. Glowing with the kind of release that leaves her soaked and trembling, cunt still twitching weakly around your fingers.
You barely have time to breathe before her hands slide back down your thighs. No teasing now. No slow, possessive strokes. Just firm, sure pressure as she spreads you open and pulls you down, locking you into place with a grip that says you’re not going anywhere.
And then she moves.
Her mouth finds your cunt with no hesitation, no warning. Just the wet, open heat of her lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard enough to rip a cry from your throat.
You try to stay upright. You really do. But the moment her mouth seals around your clit, your whole body jolts, and your strength shatters.
Your arms give out, elbows folding beneath you, and your chest collapses forward—straight onto the soft heat of Emily’s mound. Her pubic hair is still damp with sweat and slick, the curls coarse and warm against your skin as the tops of your breasts press flush against her hips. The angle sends your face deeper between her thighs again, your cheek brushing her inner thigh, your lips dragging against her folds as you cry out into her.
Because she doesn’t hold back.
She dives in like she’s been waiting all night to break you. Her mouth clamps down around your clit and sucks, wet and deep and insistent, her tongue flicking rapid and precise. You feel it like lightning through your spine. Your hips jerk, your thighs shake, and you moan helplessly into the heat of her cunt beneath you, your breath fogging against the slick mess you left behind.
Her hands are gripping your ass again, fingers digging in hard as she pulls you back tighter, keeping your pussy right where she wants it—spread and dripping into her mouth. There’s no teasing in her now. Just hunger. Just revenge. Just satisfaction and punishment wrapped together in the wet, steady rhythm of her tongue.
She licks through your folds like she’s trying to drink you, collecting your slick and smearing it across her mouth, sucking your clit so hard you have to bite down on your own moan. Your body rocks forward again, your face buried in the curls framing her pussy, your breath hot and stuttering against the sensitive skin.
You can’t move.
You can barely think.
Every time you twitch, she moans into you. Every time you pant, she licks harder. Her tongue is relentless, fast and firm, licking circles around your clit and then flattening to press broad and hot over it until your hips roll helplessly back against her face.
And she doesn’t stop.
Not even when your legs start to shake.
Not even when your nails dig into her thighs.
Not even when you sob out her name into the wet heat between her legs.
She holds you there, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue slick and sure.
She holds you there like it’s everything she’s wanted. Like your wreckage is the thing she’s been building toward all night.
Her grip on your ass tightens, not to hurt, not even to restrain—just to feel it. The tremble in your muscles, the heat of your skin, the way your whole body twitches every time she sucks a little harder. She feeds off it. Every moan that escapes your mouth, every stutter in your breath, every slick roll of your hips against her face makes her groan into your cunt like she’s tasting something divine.
Her mouth is soaked now, flooded with your arousal, her tongue flicking fast and filthy, tracing tight circles around your clit before dragging down to lick through the mess you’re dripping into her mouth. She parts you with her thumbs, tongue plunging deep, then sliding down again to suck at your clit with obscene focus.
You can feel her breathing under you. Deep, greedy breaths like she’s inhaling the scent of you, living off it. Her chest rises and falls beneath your ribs, her groans heavier now, not from effort, but from pleasure.
She’s getting off on it.
You feel it in the way she moves, desperate but precise, like she's chasing something in herself too. Every time you gasp, her mouth seals tighter. Every time your body jerks, she holds you steadier, lips dragging over your cunt with open-mouthed hunger, tongue wet and unrelenting.
And when you start to cry out—really cry out—when the sounds start breaking out of you sharp and unfiltered, she moans deep and low, the vibration reverberating through your clit until you cry her name into the mess between her thighs.
Her breath hits your soaked folds, hot and quick and shaking now. You can feel her shifting under you, her own cunt pulsing, her thighs flexing around your head like she’s chasing friction herself. But she doesn’t stop to touch. Doesn’t chase her own high. She’s chasing yours. She wants to drag you there first. Wants to watch you fall apart from underneath you.
"God, listen to you," she pants into your cunt between sucks. Her voice is wrecked. Starving. "You sound so fucking good like this."
She sucks your clit again, harder this time, drawing it between her lips and circling her tongue until your hips jolt with the sudden rush of pressure. Her hands are slick with your arousal now, gripping your thighs, guiding your cunt tighter to her mouth like she wants to drown in you.
And she’s groaning constantly now. Every sound you make is fed back through her mouth. Every twitch of your hips makes her lick faster. Every gasp punches more heat into her own core, her cunt swollen and untouched and aching beneath your chest.
She doesn’t stop.
Not when your legs start shaking harder. Not when your thighs threaten to close around her head. Not when your face is soaked with the slick heat of her pussy, your cries muffled against her skin.
She just grips you tighter.
Licks deeper.
Moans louder.
And waits for you to break.
Your cries are starting to come faster now, pulled ragged from somewhere deep, too messy to muffle against her skin. Your hips rock helplessly, driven by instinct more than control, chasing every flick of her tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to your body.
And Emily is insatiable.
Her mouth doesn’t ease up. Her tongue stays locked to your clit, flicking harder, then circling, then flattening in steady, pulsing waves that make your thighs tremble uncontrollably. She sucks again, deep and wet, and when your body jolts in response, she lets out a low sound—primal and possessive—against your cunt.
Then her hands shift.
One of them slides lower, fingers dragging through the slick mess you’ve soaked her with, gathering it lazily like she has all the time in the world. She groans into your cunt again, your taste thick on her tongue, and then she presses two fingers against your entrance without warning.
You gasp—loud, shattering.
She pushes in deep.
The stretch is perfect. Immediate. Your body clamps down, slick gushing around her knuckles, and she fucks you slow, deliberate, mouth never leaving your clit. The angle is sharp like this, her hand curled beneath you, but she knows your body like she’s memorized every nerve. She adjusts with ease, fingers curling down, just slightly, just enough—
You scream into her thigh.
She’s found it.
She hums, satisfied, and begins to rub—light, rhythmic pressure against your g-spot, stroking it over and over while her tongue flicks fast and tight around your clit. Your body locks up. Your stomach clenches. Your legs threaten to give out again, but she holds you steady, buried in the mess of you, lips soaked, chin slick, moaning as your walls flutter around her fingers.
"That’s it," she murmurs, breath hot against your skin between licks. Her voice sounds drunk on you. "Right there. Let it happen."
Her fingers thrust again, hitting the same spot, and your vision whites out.
Her other hand returns to your ass, gripping, guiding, keeping you open for her mouth while her fingers work you from the inside out. It’s overwhelming. You’re soaked. So open. So exposed. Your slick is coating her chest, dripping from her wrist, your cunt clenching down hard around her hand as she pushes in deeper and curls her fingers again.
She groans with it, the sound wrecked and wild, her mouth never leaving you.
"God, you're fucking pulsing," she pants, her voice gone rough. "You're so close. I can feel it. You're gonna cum for me, aren’t you?"
You nod, frantically, hips stuttering.
It hits all at once.
There’s no warning beyond the desperate clench of your thighs and the way your hips twitch in a last, broken attempt to move. No words make it past your lips—just a sound, raw and unrecognizable, torn from your throat as your whole body locks up.
Your cunt tightens around her fingers with violent precision, fluttering in frantic, helpless pulses. Your slick floods her hand, hot and gushing, drenching her wrist, spilling over her palm as she keeps fucking you through it. Her fingers keep curling into that soft, swollen spot inside you, and her mouth is still on your clit, licking in fast, hungry circles, refusing to let you come down.
You cry out again, legs shaking hard, your body spasming forward until your face is buried fully in her cunt, her slick smearing across your cheek as your mouth drags against her folds. Your whole body trembles, arms giving way completely, your chest pressed into the heat of her hips as you sob against her.
You’re soaked.
You can feel it everywhere—slick dripping down your thighs, pooling between your bodies, streaking down the insides of your knees as you convulse through the aftershocks.
And she doesn’t stop.
Not right away.
She draws it out, tongue still moving, fingers still fucking up into you until your cunt clenches so hard it aches, until you’re whining into her skin, overstimulated and trembling, nails clawing weakly at the sheets beside her legs.
Only then does she ease off.
Her fingers slow.
Her tongue stills.
And you collapse, panting, broken open on top of her, your slick painting every inch of skin she’s touched.
She exhales beneath you, breath warm against your soaked folds.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, voice low and spent. Her thumb drags a lazy circle into the crease where your ass meets your thigh.
Emily doesn’t move much at first. Just breathes. Deep, steady pulls of air that rock your body gently where you lie slumped over her, still trembling, still pulsing with aftershocks that haven’t fully settled.
Her fingers slide out of you slow, dragging your slick with them. It’s obscene, the sound wet and broken between your thighs. You flinch at the loss, overstimulated, sore, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. You’re limp and leaking, stretched out over her body like you’ve melted from the inside out.
She hums beneath you, satisfied.
Then you feel her shift.
Not to get up.
Not to clean.
Just enough to lift one arm from the bed, her hand drifting up to her chest where your slick has spilled down her sternum, pooling in the valley between her breasts, smeared across her skin in warm, glistening trails.
She drags two fingers through the mess, slow and indulgent, collecting it like she wants to keep it.
You feel her laugh under you, quiet and low, almost reverent. Then her palm spreads the slick across her breast in lazy, circular motions. She’s not cleaning herself off. She’s playing. Her fingertips trace through it, dragging your come around the curve of her chest, gliding over her nipple until it hardens beneath her touch.
Her skin is wet with you. Shining. Her breast rising and falling with every breath as her fingers swirl through your slick again, then pinch lightly at her nipple, teasing it to a peak.
"You’re still dripping," she says, voice low and almost amused. "You’ve made a mess of both of us."
She cups her own breast, slick running over the sides of her hand, thumb rubbing lazy circles around her nipple.
Her other hand returns to your thigh, fingers dragging slowly across the tacky sheen of your skin. You’re still twitching. Every brush of her knuckles sends a pulse through your cunt, still tender, still swollen and raw. She feels it. She knows. Her thumb strokes lazily near the crease where your thigh meets your hip, not touching your center, not yet, but close enough to make you shift, soft and involuntary.
“You soaked me,” she murmurs, voice curling into your ear from beneath you. “Look at this.”
You try. You tilt your head, neck weak, and catch a glimpse of her chest through your lashes. Your slick is everywhere. It glistens across the slope of her breast, shines in the hollow between them, glues strands of hair to her collarbone. Her fingers dip into it again, gathering more, dragging it up over the swell and back down, painting herself in you.
“I should make you lick it off,” she says, tone thoughtful now. Almost playful. Her hand slips between her breasts, slick smearing down the center of her chest. “One slow pass with that pretty tongue. Every drop.”
Your breath stutters.
Her fingers move again. Not to clean. Not even to tease. She presses two of them together and pulls them apart, watching the thin string of slick stretch between them, then smear down the slope of her sternum again.
You try to shift. To lift yourself. But she presses her palm into the small of your back and keeps you there.
“Not yet,” she says, the command soft, almost affectionate. “You’re not done resting.”
Her hand slides up your spine, slow and firm, then down again, mapping the shape of you.
“You came so hard for me,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “Felt you pulse all over my fingers. So fucking wet.”
You tremble again, cunt clenching at nothing, sore and empty and still aching.
Her palm cups your ass, squeezes once, then drags down between your thighs. She doesn’t push in. Doesn’t rub. Just traces the mess.
“You’re still leaking,” she says, sounding almost proud. “Still dripping for me.”
Then she brings her fingers back up to her chest, smearing more of you across her breast, thumbing her nipple again with a little sigh. Her eyes flutter closed, and for a second, she just breathes.
Completely relaxed.
Covered in you.
You stay there for a moment, chest rising and falling against her body, face still buried in the dark curls between her thighs, the scent of her sweat and your cum clinging to your skin. Your pulse has started to slow. The twitching in your limbs has dulled into a heavy throb, warm and aching in a way that doesn’t hurt, just fills you. Every inhale tastes like her. Every exhale makes your muscles sink deeper into the soft, radiant heat of her.
Finally, you breathe. Really breathe.
Air in. Air out.
And when your arms stop shaking long enough to hold your weight, you lift yourself off of her. Your thighs are soaked. Your mouth is slick. Her fingers are still wet from playing with your mess, and her chest is gleaming in the low light, streaked with your cum in warm, glistening trails.
You turn around slowly, limbs dragging with exhaustion, with satisfaction, with something deeper. Emily watches you with hooded eyes, her hair spread wild across the pillow, her mouth wet, her skin flushed.
You crawl over her, straddling her hips, the slick between your thighs catching against the soft hair at her mound. You can feel her warmth beneath you, the steady press of her breath, her cunt still pulsing gently where it rests against you.
You hover there, just for a moment. Your hands plant on either side of her shoulders. Your knees bracket her hips.
Then you lean in.
Your mouth finds hers without hesitation.
The kiss is slow. Not soft, not delicate, but slow. Her lips are wet with your cum, with sweat, and you kiss her through it. Deep and open and shameless. She tastes like heat and salt and slick, and you let it linger, tongues dragging, mouths parting, breath shared between teeth.
She hums into your mouth, low and pleased, her hands sliding up your thighs. Not grabbing. Just holding. Touching you now like she’s allowed to, like you’ve earned it.
You break the kiss only when your lungs beg you to, and when you do, you press your lips to her jaw. Then her throat. Then lower.
You drag your mouth down her chest, licking as you go, tracing the curve of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts. Your tongue finds the slick first, warm and sticky, still shining in the low light. You lick a long, slow stripe across the top of her left breast, gathering it onto your tongue, tasting the sharp edge of yourself where she smeared you.
She exhales hard, head falling back.
You do it again. Slower.
Your tongue circles her nipple next, wet and stiff beneath your mouth. You suck gently, then drag your tongue lower, licking the mess she spread across herself, chasing every drop like a promise.
Her hand slides into your hair, not pushing, just resting. Her hips shift beneath you. Her breath goes ragged again.
Your mouth moves across her chest in slow, deliberate passes, tongue dragging through every streak of your slick still clinging to her skin. It’s warm now, spread thin by her fingers, made sticky and soft by the heat of both your bodies. You taste salt and skin and something sweeter underneath, the musky traces of your own orgasm where it still lingers in the hollow between her breasts.
Emily groans softly when you lick across the top of one, then lower, your tongue circling her nipple. You close your lips around it and suck, gentle at first, letting the fullness of her breast fill your mouth. Her hand tightens in your hair, fingers threading through with just enough tension to hold you there.
"Just like that," she moans, voice low and fraying. "Keep going."
You drag your tongue down the curve of her breast, licking up every smear of slick she painted herself with, then switch sides, licking up the swell of the other, your lips open, breath hot. Her nipples are already hard, flushed dark, and each time you suck one into your mouth, her hips shift beneath you. Slow. Subtle. Restless.
You feel her thighs part a little wider. Feel her cunt press up against your soaked inner thigh. She’s wet again, you can feel it, heat blooming between her legs, the mess of both of you smearing where your bodies touch.
You flatten your tongue and lick across her sternum, chasing the trail of slick she smeared there earlier, and when you glance up at her, her eyes are barely open. Her mouth is parted. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow bursts.
Then her hand fists in your hair.
“Sit up,” she says, voice low, the authority returning in full.
You obey immediately, breath catching as you lift your head from her chest, your thighs still straddling hers, your cunt wet and aching where it brushes against the soft curls above her mound. She rises with you, using that grip in your hair to pull you upright, chest to chest, her breath hot against your neck.
“You want to get off sucking on my tits?” she murmurs. “Then you’re going to do it my way.”
Her hands slide down to your hips and grip hard. She shifts underneath you, bends her knees, and presses up until your cunt grinds directly against hers. The sudden friction makes your breath stutter, your head fall forward onto her shoulder.
She rocks into you once. Firm. Deliberate. The slick between your bodies catches, clit to clit, lips parting, heat blooming where you’re both soaked and swollen. You cry out into her throat, but she’s already moving again.
“Take what I give you,” she growls, pulling you tighter, guiding your hips until your cunt drags hard over hers again, the pressure deep and messy and hot.
You whimper.
Her mouth finds your shoulder. She bites, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your hips jerk against her. She moans low in your ear as your slick smears against her skin, the mess of both your arousals building between your thighs.
"Keep your mouth on my tits," she says, voice sharp and breathless. "Now."
You drop your head again instantly, lips finding her breast, tongue circling her nipple before sucking it deep into your mouth. She hisses through her teeth and ruts up into you harder.
"That’s it," she pants. "Grind that messy little cunt into mine. Just like that."
Your mouth works her breast as your hips begin to match her pace, cunt dragging over hers in slow, aching strokes that make your thighs shake. The slick between you only makes it better, every roll of your hips louder now, wetter, filthier, the heat rising so fast it steals your breath.
You switch sides, mouth sealing around her other nipple, licking and sucking as she claws at your hips, dragging you into her, groaning each time your clits slide together.
She’s soaking wet. So are you.
And she’s not letting you stop. Not until she’s ruined you all over again.
Your hips fall into rhythm with hers, messy and desperate. Every grind of your cunt against hers sends heat licking up your spine, your thighs trembling from the pressure and the pace. The wet slide of your bodies meeting is filthy—slick clinging and pulling, lips parting and dragging, clits catching just right, again and again.
Her pubic hair is soaked.
You feel it with every motion, coarse and soft and warm, matted with your slick and hers, sticking to your inner thighs, to your cunt, to your skin where it presses flush against your own curls. It adds to the friction, to the mess, grounding you in the rawness of it. The way your bodies fit. The way her cunt glides against yours with no resistance, just heat and need and wet, endless need.
You can hear it. The obscene sound of your pussy grinding against hers, wet and sharp and rhythmic, loud in the space between your panting breaths.
Emily groans under you, deep in her throat, her hands still gripping your hips like she’s controlling every move.
"That's it," she pants. "Let me feel how soaked you still are."
You bury your face in her chest again, tongue dragging across the sweat-slick curve of her breast, tasting the salt and heat, the trace of your own cum where it’s dried into the curve of her skin. You take her nipple into your mouth again, sucking harder now, almost frantic with it, tongue swirling and flicking, then pulling her in deeper until she’s gasping through her teeth.
Her nipple stiffens in your mouth, pebbled and sensitive, and you suck harder, your lips slick from the sheen of sweat and cum and saliva. You switch sides again, trailing your tongue down the valley between her breasts, licking up the last of what you’d spilled on her earlier, then sealing your mouth over her other nipple, letting it drag over your tongue before you suck it deep and hard.
Her breath stutters. Her hands slip, grabbing fistfuls of your ass now, grinding your cunt harder into hers. The pressure builds fast, the heat unbearable. Every roll of your hips sends your clit dragging over hers, both of you slippery and swollen, every inch of contact sparking through you like fire.
You whimper against her breast, sucking harder, teeth scraping gently before your tongue soothes. She arches into you, cunt grinding up into yours with more force, her clit catching against your clit just enough to make your hips buck, to make your moan break open across her chest.
You lick her again. Bite softly. Suck until her nipple slips wet from your mouth and you catch it again.
Not thrown, not dramatic—just heavy. Like the weight of it finally caught up with her. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, jaw slack, throat exposed. And beneath you, you feel the way her body shifts. The way her hips roll harder, deeper, like the rhythm is coming from somewhere inside her now, not from control, not from dominance, but from the low burn of need she’s no longer holding back.
She’s wet. You can feel it everywhere. The heat of her cunt dragging slick over yours with every grind, every roll, every slow slide that presses clit to clit until it starts to feel unbearable. The soft tremble in her thighs. The way her stomach tenses when your hips meet. The little catches in her breath, sharper each time you angle just right.
Her hands aren't guiding anymore. They’re clutching. One hand tight on your hip, the other sliding up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades like she’s grounding herself, anchoring her own unravelling to the curve of your spine.
Her breath stutters when your cunt drags a little harder over hers, the angle shifting just enough to send pressure sharp and steady through her clit. Her thighs flex beneath you. Her head turns, lips parted, a sound half-formed on her tongue.
You shift your weight again, hips tilting to give her more, to meet her motion with deeper pressure. Her breath catches and releases in a sound that isn’t a moan, not fully—just a raw exhale, hot and full of tension, like she doesn’t trust her voice yet.
She’s close. You can feel it.
You don’t ease up.
Your hips keep grinding, your cunt slick and aching, sliding over hers with every press and drag. Her wetness matches yours stroke for stroke, the heat between you thick and filthy, but it’s her chest that pulls you back in.
You shift your weight just enough to dip your head again, breath hot against her skin. Her nipples are flushed and slick, glistening in the low light from the attention you’ve already given them — but not enough. Not yet.
You run your tongue across the curve of her breast, slow and steady. Then again, closer to her nipple, letting the tip of your tongue flick just once before you pull back. She lets out a low whine, hips jerking, chasing yours.
You smirk against her skin, then press your mouth fully to her breast again. You suck, hard this time, sealing your lips around her nipple and drawing it deep, letting the pressure build until her breath punches out through her nose in a sharp gasp.
“Fuck,” she mutters, hoarse. “You don’t stop, do you.”
You don’t answer. You just suck harder.
Your tongue flattens and circles, slow at first, then faster, teasing the sensitive skin until she squirms beneath you, one hand tightening in your hair, the other gripping your thigh. You moan around her nipple, low and hungry, and the vibration makes her hips jerk again.
Then you pull back with a wet pop and move to the other side.
Your fingers come up to pinch the one you just left, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, keeping it stimulated while your mouth moves to the next. You drag your tongue in a slow spiral around the areola, not touching the centre yet, just playing with the edges, teasing her until her chest rises to meet your mouth.
You finally suck her nipple into your mouth and let your teeth graze — just a little — just enough to feel her twitch beneath you. Then your tongue soothes it, circling faster now, lips sealed tight.
You keep the rhythm going back and forth until both nipples are stiff and raw and flushed deep pink, until she’s panting like she can’t breathe through it, like it’s almost too much.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes, voice shredded. “You’re gonna make me cum just from that.”
You hum around her nipple, tongue still working, your cunt dragging slow and heavy against hers with every roll of your hips. You pinch again. Just a little rougher. Her whole body twitches.
Her nipples are so sensitive now. You can feel it in the way she bucks when your tongue flicks just right, in the way she grinds up into you every time your fingers roll or twist.
You glance up — her head’s tilted back, lips parted, eyes dark and glassy with lust. Her hands move constantly now, like she doesn’t know where to touch. Your ass. Your back. Your thighs. The back of your neck. She can’t stay still, can’t stop moving, and you haven’t even given her enough yet.
So you give her more.
You bring both hands up and cup her breasts fully, squeezing softly before dragging your thumbs across her nipples again. She shivers hard. Her hips jolt. Her clit catches yours in a perfect, sudden grind that makes both of you gasp.
You keep going.
You suck harder, draw her nipple deep into your mouth and press your tongue against the roof of your mouth, grinding it gently while you roll the other between your fingers. Then switch. Again and again. Each time a little more pressure. A little more heat. A little more bite.
“Look at you,” she breathes, head tipping forward, eyes lidded and watching you now. “You’re soaking my fucking cunt and you’re still sucking on my tits being a good girl for me.”
You moan into her breasts, wet and open, and the sound makes her laugh — not mocking. Just low and breathless and wrecked.
Your mouth keeps working her nipples, teasing and sucking, licking and pulling, until her body’s trembling beneath you again. Your cunt stays grinding against hers in a slow, messy rhythm that doesn’t stop building. Her slick is everywhere. Yours too.
She grabs the back of your neck, yanking you closer, forcing your mouth tighter around her breast.
“Harder,” she growls.
You obey.
You suck harder, rougher, tongue moving faster, until her nipple slips from your lips with a wet, obscene sound and you catch it again, this time with your teeth. You graze just enough to make her hiss, then suck it deeper. Your fingers twist the other until she gasps and moans, one leg wrapping around your waist to hold you tight.
Her clit catches yours again. Your hips jerk. Her nipple stiffens even more in your mouth. You can barely think past the heat now, the smell of sex and sweat and skin, the wet slide of her cunt against yours and the way her tits fill your hands, her breath catching every time your mouth moves.
She’s not close anymore.
She’s past that.
She’s suspended — right on the edge — and so are you.
Your hips grind harder now, cunt dragging slick over hers in long, aching strokes that make your legs shake. The friction is searing, wet and thick and perfect, every press of your clit to hers another surge of heat that builds and builds until it’s everywhere.
Emily’s panting beneath you, her body taut, chest flushed and rising in sharp bursts. Her hands grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down into her cunt with every grind, harder, faster, her thigh locking around you like she’s trying to keep you there, locked in the heat and the mess.
Your mouth is still on her tits. You don’t stop. You suck her nipple deep and hard, tongue swirling, lips tight, and she screams, loud and cracked and wrecked, as her whole body jerks up into you.
“Fuck, just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she gasps, voice breaking, breath catching as her cunt grinds up into yours in frantic, sloppy thrusts. “I’m, I’m gonna—”
You feel it hit her.
Her hips buck wildly under yours, cunt pulsing so hard you feel it with every roll of your hips. She’s soaking wet, wetter than before, and it gushes between you, slick and messy and hot as she cums, moaning through her teeth, mouth open and raw.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
Your hips keep moving, chasing it, riding her through it, cunt grinding against hers so hard now that the wet slide is filthy, obscene, loud, nothing but slick on slick and gasps and heat.
She’s still cumming when it hits you.
Your orgasm slams through you, sharp and overwhelming, tearing a cry from your throat as your clit pulses against hers, your whole body locking up, thighs trembling. Your hands clutch her tits, not to tease now but just to hold, to ground yourself as wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.
You cry out into her chest, mouth open, tongue dragging over her nipple as your hips stutter, grind, buck through it, your cunt fluttering against hers with each clench, the slick between you endless.
You don’t know where you end and she begins anymore.
It’s just heat. And wet. And breath. Nerves blown wide open, your whole body riding that last wave with hers, grinding until it’s too much, until your thighs give out and you collapse against her, trembling, your face buried in the curve of her neck.
You’re both still panting. Shaking. Drenched.
Your cunt is still twitching against hers, sensitive and messy, soaked in both your cum, the aftermath hot and sticky where your bodies are still pressed tight. Her hand slides weakly up your back, not to guide this time, but just to hold.
You feel her kiss your temple. A soft, shaky thing.
Your breath evens out first. Not fully calm, but less frantic, less desperate. Emily’s chest moves steady beneath you, her hand sliding up and down your spine in slow, grounding strokes. The heat between your legs is still sharp, every brush of her slick pubic hair against your cunt sending tiny shocks through you, but you’re too exhausted to move.
“Stay right here,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, warm, almost hoarse from everything she’s just pulled out of you. “Don’t even think about getting up.”
You let out a weak laugh, your face pressed into her shoulder. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Her lips press against your forehead, then linger there. A kiss, not hungry this time, not claiming, just gentle. “Good.”
You let your body melt into hers, chest to chest, legs tangled, cunt still pressed against hers in the warm, ruined mess you’ve made together. Her hands pet softly down your spine, fingers tracing sweat-slicked lines. Your breaths slowly start to sync.
It’s quiet, except for the soft sound of your breathing, the occasional twitch of your hips when an aftershock flares through your clit, the stickiness of your release cooling between you.
You don’t know how long you stay like that.
But when you finally lift your head to look at her, her eyes are on you, soft and dark and still wrecked, and her lips are parted like she wants to say something, but all she does is kiss you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The room smells like sex, sweat, and heat. Sheets ruined beneath you, bodies sticky with the mess of each other. But Emily doesn’t care. She just keeps holding you, her fingers combing slowly through your damp hair, her palm warm against the curve of your back.
“You did so well,” she says softly. “Taking everything I gave you. Letting me—” she cuts herself off, sighs against your skin. “I pushed you hard tonight.”
Her other hand slides down to cup your ass, careful now, soothing. She traces the sore heat she left earlier, fingertips gliding over bruised skin with tenderness that almost undoes you more than the spanking did.
You sink deeper into her. She shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket bunched at the edge of the bed. She drags it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders. The warmth is instant, and you sigh into it, into her.
She doesn’t talk much after that. Just keeps kissing the side of your head, brushing her lips over your hairline, your temple, the corner of your eye. Little touches. Little reminders. Each one softer than the last.
Emily doesn't say anything for a long while. Her hands keep moving, slow and sure, like she's relearning every inch of you in the quiet. Your skin hums under her touch, but the urgency is gone now. What lingers is warmth. Stillness. Something deeper than just physical need.
Her fingers trace up your spine, then down again, dipping into the curve of your waist like she’s memorizing the shape of you. She hums quietly when you press a kiss to the hollow of her throat, her skin still damp, still tasting faintly of sweat and salt and the remains of something wild. But the edge is gone. There’s no sharpness in it now. Just the soft pulse of contentment, shared in the hush between heartbeats.
You shift a little, letting your leg drape across hers, thigh to thigh, cunt still pressed to her hip in the mess of both of you. And she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She welcomes it, welcomes you, her hand slipping under the blanket to rest at the small of your back.
“I love when you're like this,” she says eventually, her voice sleep-rough, threaded with fondness. “Soft. Relaxed. Mine.”
You don’t answer with words. You just nuzzle closer, your nose brushing the underside of her jaw, your arm curling tighter around her waist. Your chest is heavy with something full and slow and safe. You’re still aching, still sore, but it feels good now. Earned. Shared.
She kisses the top of your head again. No rush. Just her lips against your hair, lingering longer than before.
“I’ll get us a towel soon,” she murmurs, barely audible. “Just… not yet.”
You hum in agreement, too comfortable to move, too wrapped in the scent and heat of her to care about the stickiness between your thighs or the sheets underneath you.
The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, now fully in sync, rising and falling like waves. Outside the window, the world keeps going, but in here, there’s only her. Only you. The warmth between your bodies, the comfort of her hand on your back and her heartbeat under your cheek.
She shifts beneath you just enough to get a better hold, her arms wrapping around your waist, tucking you closer. You sigh into it, into her, the last of your tension slipping out of your bones.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asks after a moment, so quietly you almost miss it.
You shake your head without lifting it. “No. You were perfect.”
She lets out a slow breath, one of those long exhales that comes from someplace deep. Her lips find your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
Little kisses. Slow and weightless. Not greedy. Not claiming. Just there.
“I liked watching you fall apart,” she says softly, like a confession she’s only now ready to give. “You’re beautiful when you let go.”
The words settle into you like warm water.
You lift your head just enough to look at her. Her eyes are half-lidded, hair damp against her temples, mouth slightly open like she’s still catching up to the quiet. You brush your fingers along her jaw. Trace the edge of her lips. You don’t kiss her. Not yet. You just look.
There’s something grounding about this moment. Not just the stillness of it, but the rightness. Like you’ve come back to yourself and found her already there waiting.
You lower your head again, this time resting it over her heart. Her hand returns to your spine, slow and steady. The weight of her body beneath yours, the warmth of her skin, the throb between your thighs—it all blurs together, into a comfort that’s full and earned.
Time slows. Then stops.
And the next time either of you speaks, it’s not to say anything at all.
Just the soft sound of her humming. A kiss pressed to your hair. The two of you, wrapped around each other, too entangled to separate. Too sated to care.
When the world returns, it will come gently.
The sheets are wrecked beneath you, damp and twisted, but neither of you makes a move. You feel her shift once, like she might reach for something, but then she settles again, her arm curling tighter around your back.
You’re both too comfortable to care. Too worn out to do anything except stay exactly where you are.
And maybe later one of you will get up. Maybe you’ll deal with the mess, the soreness, the cleanup.
You were her physical therapist. Now, you're also her partner. You watched and guided her through a career-changing injury, and after she wins her title back, you want to reward her for all the hard work.
A/N: Smut and stuff... because Mami needs it. And how could you not, with this absolute GODDESS of a woman?
Word Count: 3.3K
She Keeps Me Alive, Shes The Beast In My Bones
In the quiet calm before the storm, the air was filled with anticipation. The arena lights dimmed, a single spotlight cutting through the darkness to illuminate the ring. The crowd's murmur grew into a deafening roar as the first notes of Rhea Ripley's theme song filled the vast space. As her girlfriend, you sat anxiously in the front row, your heart pounding in rhythm with the bass. As Rhea's physical therapist, you knew the pain she had endured to get here, the endless hours of rehabilitation, the sweat and tears shed in the shadows of the gym. And now, her moment had arrived.
Running your tongue along the back of your teeth, you were still getting used to having a tongue piercing. A gleaming silver tongue piercing with a vibrating stud—a secret reward for Rhea's dedication- rests heavily on the muscle. Your heart fluttered at the thought of the surprise, the intimate gesture of love and support that you hoped would ease some of Rhea's tension. It had been months since you had been remotely intimate, not only because of the injury, but because of how invalidated Rhea felt.
Rhea had been pushing herself to the limit, her usual fiery spirit replaced by a taut, focused intensity that had left little room for joy or lightness. This small token was your attempt to remind Rhea of the passion that you shared outside the ropes, the spark that had brought you two together in the first place. She had gone so far as to not stay at the townhome you both shared, but rather a hotel suite by the PC to focus on her training for the last two months.
The match was brutal, a testament to the competitive spirit of both wrestlers. You watched with a mix of professional scrutiny and personal anxiety, your eyes never leaving Rhea's every move. You knew Rhea's body like the back of your hand, and you could see the subtle signs of pain she tried to hide. When Rhea emerged victorious, the crowd erupted. As your eyes scanned the ring, finding Rhea's exhausted gaze and holding it, you willed her to read the silent message of love and admiration.
After the match, as the lights dimmed and the crowd dispersed, you made your way backstage, your adrenaline starting to pump in anticipation. You knew the routine—Rhea would be icing down her shoulder, adrenaline still pumping through her veins. You had to wait, giving Rhea the space she needed to come down from her high. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the secret of the vibrating tongue stud a pulsing thrill against your palate.
When Rhea finally emerged from the locker room, she looked like a warrior goddess in the aftermath of battle. Sweat-drenched hair stuck to her forehead, her eyes alight with triumph, but there was a softness in her gaze that told you she was ready to truly come home. Rhea marched towards you, opening her arms as you ran towards her. You embraced the warmth of Rhea's skin, a stark contrast to the chilly metal of her championship belt. You could feel the tightness in Rhea's muscles ease a bit, the tension draining from her as she leaned into the comfort of their embrace.
"I'm so proud of you, baby," you began, running your arms up behind her head, playing with the long black tresses. Rhea leaned into your touch, a sigh escaping her as you gently kissed her forehead, then her nose, before finally landing on her lips. You felt the stud against your teeth and smirked.
She pulled back slightly, resting her forehead against yours. "Are you ready to come home, baby?" you whispered, shattering the silence around you.
Rhea nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. "More than ever," she replied, her voice hoarse from the exertion of the match. She leaned down, pecking your lips once more, and then pulled away. "But first, I need to get this thing checked out," she said, gingerly touching her shoulder.
You nodded understandingly, your hand lingering on her shoulder before dropping away. "I'll grab your bag," you offered, heading to the locker room. Inside, you gathered her things, feeling the weight of the moment. As you turned to leave, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. This was it, the moment you had been planning for weeks, a chance to reconnect and rekindle the flame that had been dimmed by pain and pressure.
When you returned, Rhea was sitting on the bench, the belt now resting next to her. She was still in her wrestling gear, but the exhaustion was slowly giving way to a tired peace. "Oi, come here," she said, patting her lap as the medic worked around both of you. You sat down, taking her hand in yours, watching the doctor with a professional eye, nodding at his instructions.
As the medic wrapped her shoulder with care, Rhea's eyes never left yours. The vibrating stud in your mouth was a constant reminder of the surprise waiting for her. "Thanks," she murmured to the medic, her voice low and filled with relief. The doctor nodded and packed up his things, leaving the two of you alone.
"How does it feel?" you ask, nodding towards the shoulder she has been rehabbing for months.
"Better," Rhea replied with a grimace. "But it's going to need some work. I think I went too hard with the strength training."
You nodded sympathetically, feeling the weight of her words. "We'll get through this, I promise. You know I'm here for you, every step of the way. We can rehab it some more."
Rhea's expression softened, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a hint of a smile. "I know, babe. And I couldn't do it without you."
With the medic's departure, you felt a sudden rush of nervous excitement. Now was the time. You leaned in, pressing your lips to hers in a gentle kiss that grew in intensity. Rhea's eyes widened slightly, feeling the new addition to your tongue against her own. She pulled back, a question in her eyes, and you couldn't help but laugh, a little nervously.
"I got you something," you murmured, before trapping her lips in another passionate kiss. This time, you let the stud do the talking. Rhea's eyes grew wide, and she broke away, staring at you in shock.
"When…why?" She fumbled out, her eyes darkening as she tried to speak. You could see the curiosity in her gaze as she studied your mouth, her eyes flicking back and forth between your lips.
"I wanted you to experience a little bit more of what you make me feel, literally." You said with a cheeky smile, showing off your new piercing. Rhea's eyes sparkled with a mix of surprise and intrigue. "I figured, with all the stress of the title run, you could use something…extra."
She groaned as you ran your tongue along your teeth, copying her signature smirk as best you could. "You're something else, you know that?" Rhea said, shaking her head with a mix of amusement and affection. "But, really, when did you get this done?"
"A week after you went to the hotel," you admitted, feeling a slight blush creep up your cheeks. "I wanted it to be perfect, so I had it done when I knew you wouldn't see me much; otherwise, I have a feeling it wouldn't have healed so quickly."
Rhea's gaze was intense, a mix of desire and curiosity. "Why is it so large?"
"That's for me to know, and you to find out," you rasped into the shell of her ear, before standing and grabbing her bag. "Let's get you home, and then I'll show you exactly what this thing can do, champ." You emphasized the champ, swaying your hips as you walked away.
Her laugh followed you out of the locker room, the sound sending shivers down your spine. This was a Rhea you hadn't seen in months, the one who didn't have the weight of the world on her shoulders. The one who knew how to let go and have fun.
In the car, the tension was palpable. Every shift of your tongue against the stud sent a pulse of excitement through you, and you could see Rhea's eyes dart to your mouth, curiosity getting the better of her. You both knew what was coming, the anticipation building with every passing mile.
You finally pulled the truck into the driveway of your townhome, sitting for a moment as you both ruminated in the tension. The silence was broken by the sound of Rhea's fingers drumming against the leather seat. She turned to you, her eyes smoldering with a newfound hunger. "Take me inside, babe," she demanded, her voice a low growl that sent a thrill through your body.
With trembling hands, you unlocked the door and led her into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, Rhea spun you around, pinning you against the wall. Her mouth crashed down on yours, her tongue probing and teasing the piercing. Rhea's hands roamed over you, her strong grip a stark reminder of her power in the ring, now transferred to this intimate setting.
You both moaned into the kiss, the vibration from her voice sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your own hands found their way under her damp shirt, tracing the contours of her abs, feeling the muscles twitch and respond to your touch. The taste of victory was still on her tongue, mingling with the sweetness of your mouth.
"Bed," you broke the kiss, pulling her head back by the black hair that was starting to cling to her face. "Now." Your voice was firm, and Rhea's eyes lit up with excitement as she picked you up by the backs of your legs and carried you through the hallway, not breaking eye contact as you both laughed.
In the bedroom, you gently lowered onto the king-sized bed, the softness enveloping you both. Rhea's eyes never left yours, softening as she looked over you like she was afraid to miss a detail. "God, I missed you. I missed this, us." The words slipped out of her mouth, raw and unfiltered, and you felt a knot in your chest loosen.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the walls. You reached up, tracing the line of her jaw with your thumb, feeling the roughness of her stubble. "I missed you, too," you whispered, leaning in for a gentle kiss that grew more insistent with every second.
Rhea's hands slid under your shirt, her calloused fingers leaving a trail of heat across your skin. You shivered as she brushed over your nipples, now realizing you didn't have a bra on. The surprise reflected in her eyes was priceless. She leaned back, a smirk playing on her lips as she took in the sight of you.
"Naughty girl," her eyes ran up and down your body, taking in your flushed state. "No bra, new piercing, what else is Mami going to find?" she hummed as she slowly pushed your shirt up, revealing your bare chest. You gasped, the cold air hitting your sensitive skin. She leaned down and began peppering kisses between your breasts, making her way up to your neck. "So, what's this about wanting to show me something?" Rhea whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
Her hands began to explore further, unbuckling your belt with surprising deftness given her still-wrapped shoulder. You pushed her back up, slowly starting to unbuckle some of her ring gear. You felt the weight of the stud against your tongue, and the anticipation was making it hard to focus on anything but the promise of what was to come.
As you removed her top, the piercing rubbed against Rhea's neck, sending a shiver down her spine. She gasped, looking at you with a mix of excitement and surprise. "Fuck, babe," she murmured, her eyes dark with desire. "This is going to be…interesting."
You both laughed, the tension of the day dissolving into the warmth of your shared passion. Rhea's hands moved to the button of your jeans, her own excitement growing as she felt the stud against her skin. She kissed you deeply, her tongue dancing with yours. She broke away, pushing the denim down your toned legs as she knelt to take them off of you. You stepped out of the pool of fabric, feeling the coolness of the floor against your bare feet.
The air in the room was thick with desire as Rhea looked up at you, her eyes smoldering. You could see the hunger in her gaze, and your heart skipped a beat. You reached down to help her up, and she took the opportunity to kiss your stomach, her breath hot against your skin. You tugged at her own shorts, eager to feel her bare flesh against yours. It had been far too long since you felt her skin, her body weight on top of you, her love for you in the most primal way possible.
Her leather shorts hit the floor, revealing her muscular thighs and the damp fabric of her underwear. You stepped towards her, kissing just below her collarbone, where a bruise was starting to develop. Rhea's hand slid down to cup your mound, her thumb ghosting over your clit. You moaned into her ear, your breath hitching as she began to massage you in slow, deliberate circles.
"Babe," you moaned, your head falling back as she took the opportunity to lave your neck and chest with kisses. Your fingers found the hem of her sports bra, desperate to feel the warmth of her bare breasts. With a deft flick, the fabric was gone, and you palmed her, feeling her nipples pebble under your touch. She suddenly pulled away, walking towards the closet and disappearing inside. You took this opportunity to twist the stud in your mouth, turning it on to vibrate. The sudden buzz made you bite your lip, a silent moan escaping your mouth.
Rhea returned, her own eyes wide with excitement. "I have a surprise for you too," she announced, holding up a velvet bag. She approached the bed, her movements predatory, and set the bag down before you. You sat up, your curiosity piqued. "But you go first," she said, gesturing towards your mouth. "Show me what you've been hiding."
With a smirk, you leaned in and gave Rhea a deep, lingering kiss. The vibration from the stud hit her tongue, and she jolted with surprise before melting into the kiss. The sensation was intense, a thrumming symphony of pleasure that echoed through your entire body. Rhea's hands slid down your back, cupping your ass as she pulled you closer. You could feel her desire, her body responding to the new sensation.
Breaking the kiss, Rhea leaned back on the bed, panting slightly. "Fuck, that's…that's something else," she murmured, her eyes hooded with lust. You chuckled, feeling a sense of triumph. It was working, the tension was dissipating, and the passion between you was reigniting.
You reached for the velvet bag, your heart racing with excitement. Rhea had always loved surprising you, and you had no idea what she could have picked up. You pulled out a sleek, black leather collar with a silver tag engraved with "Brutality" on it. You looked up at her with a grin, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "I guess I'm the one getting pampered now," you said, fastening the collar around your neck.
Rhea's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she took in the sight of you in the collar. "You're more than just my partner, you're my everything," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. "Now, let's see if that stud of yours work for its keep."
With that, she grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you down for another kiss, deeper and more demanding than the last. The vibrations from the stud danced against her tongue, setting her nerves alight. You moaned into the kiss, before pushing her back and taking control. You straddled her, grinding your pelvis against hers as you felt her wetness growing. The stud was doing its job, adding a whole new level of sensation to every kiss and touch.
Rhea's hands found your hips, gripping tightly as she pulled you closer. Her hips began to buck upward, seeking relief from the growing ache between her legs. You broke the kiss, sliding down her body, your mouth leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles down her neck, over her collarbone, and across her chest. You took one of her hardened nipples into your mouth, the stud sending waves of pleasure through her. Rhea's back arched off the bed, a keening sound escaping her throat.
"Fuck, babe," Rhea panted, her grip on the bedsheets tightening as you worked your magic on her sensitive nipples. The vibrations from your stud were driving her wild, and she could feel the beginnings of an orgasm coiling in her belly. Her eyes were screwed shut, the sensation of the piercing against her skin unlike anything she had ever felt before.
You slithered down her body, the stud grazing against her stomach as you went. Rhea's muscles quivered beneath you, and you took a moment to appreciate the powerful body that lay before you. It was a stark contrast to the vulnerability in her eyes when you had first met her, a young wrestler with a fiery spirit and a broken shoulder. You had helped her through that, and now you were going to help her through this.
Reaching the apex of her thighs, you kissed along where the waistband of her underwear sat, feeling the heat radiating from her. Rhea's breath grew shallow as she anticipated what was to come. You hooked your arms around her thick thighs, moaning at the glistening wetness waiting for you. "You're so beautiful," you whispered, the vibration of your voice making her squirm.
With a grin, you slowly kissed around the slick folds of her pussy. She was already so wet, and the sight of her arousal made your own need pulse. You kissed the soft skin of her inner thighs, making her whine before finally pressing the stud against her clit. The vibration was intense, and her body jerked in response. Rhea's eyes shot open, looking at you with a mix of shock and pleasure.
"Oh, fuck," she breathed out, her legs spreading wider as you began to explore her with the new addition to your mouth. You licked and nibbled, the vibrations from the stud creating an intoxicating symphony of sensations. The taste of her desire was like a drug, making you want more. You slid the stud down, tracing the line of her slit and watching her face contort with pleasure. Her hands found their way into your hair, pulling you closer as you licked and kissed her with renewed enthusiasm.
Her hips bucked, and you knew she was close. You focused your efforts on her clit, the stud's vibrations increasing in intensity as she grew wetter. "I'm going to come," she warned, her voice tight with need. You didn't stop, the vibration of her voice sending waves of pleasure through your own body.
Rhea's orgasm hit her like a truck, her back arching off the bed as you held onto her thighs for dear life. The piercing sent shockwaves of pleasure through you both, a symphony of sensation that had you seeing stars. Her nails dug into your scalp as she rode the wave of ecstasy, her legs shaking uncontrollably.
As she came down, her breathing heavy and erratic, she looked at you with a mix of awe and love. "Fuck, babe," she murmured, her voice still shaky. "That was…that was something else."
You chuckled, your own arousal building. "Glad you liked it," you whispered, sliding back up her body. "Now, it's your turn to make me scream."
Part 18 - Y/N moved to escape some of their looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs?
Word Count: 2.2K
Read Pt. 1 HERE Read Pt. 2 HERE Read Pt. 3 HERE Read Pt. 4 HERE Read Pt. 5 HERE Read Pt. 6 HERE Read Pt. 7 HERE Read Pt. 8 HERE Read Pt. 9 HERE Read Pt. 10 HERE - Read Pt. 11 HERE - Read Pt. 12 HERE - Read Pt. 13 HERE- Read Pt. 14 HERE - Read Pt. 15 HERE - Read Pt. 16 HERE - Read Pt. 17 HERE
For Granted, In Vain, I Took Everything
——— FLASHBACK ———
“Piet, what are we doing?” You whisper-yelled as he was sneaking around the back of an upscale single-family home in a part of Westview you hardly ever ventured to.
“Just trust me, Y/N. And be quiet, I don’t wanna get caught because you can’t keep your voice down,” he wheeled around, causing a grunt to escape your lips as you ran into his chest.
The moon cast a soft glow over the well-managed lawns and meticulously trimmed hedges, and the quiet of the night was eerie. The neighborhood was like a ghost town, not a single car driving by or a dog barking in the distance. Just the occasional cricket chirp piercing the silence.
"I have to get something from this house, I guess they stole it from my guy," he whispered, as he began working his way towards the back of the house. "Apparently, it's just inside the door."
"Pietro! That's breaking and entering!" you hissed, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. Your heart was racing, the adrenaline mixing with the booze and drugs already in your system. He wheeled around again, and you narrowly avoided colliding with him again. "Look, I'm all for the occasional illicit activity, as long as it doesn't involve serious jail time," you continued, trying to keep your voice at a low volume. "But breaking and entering? Burglary? Piet, a high isn't worth this."
"It's not just for a high," he said, his eyes serious. "Look, it'll be quick, I swear. In and out. You just need to look out for me. If you see the guy in the office above the door, I need to go in, get up, and use this laser pointer to get my attention." He slapped a little light into the palm of your hand. "Now, go, sit up by the back fence, that should give you enough of a view of what's going on."
You nodded reluctantly, sliding the laser pointer into your pocket. "Fine," you murmured, making your way to the back fence. You sat down, trying to keep your breathing even. Your heart was racing, and you felt a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead despite the warm night. The sound of a window opening made you jump, and you watched as he climbed in with the grace of a cat burglar. You had to admit, he was pretty good at this. "And they call me the bad influence," you whispered to yourself.
The minutes stretched on like hours, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a car engine. You were about to call it quits and go in after him when you saw the shadow of a figure moving in the room above the door. You flicked on the laser pointer, the red dot dancing on the wall until it found its target.
Pietro quickly looked around, grabbing what you assumed was what he needed, before making his way back out the window. You let out a deep sigh, keeping your eyes on the streaky blonde. But in your relief, you had failed to notice the figure moving from the far side of the house, out onto a balcony, and down into the yard where you both were.
The moment you saw the figure, you knew it was trouble. You leaped to your feet, the laser pointer clattering to the ground, forgotten. "Pietro!" you hiss, trying to get his attention, but he was already halfway out the window. "Fuck! Pietro!" you whisper-shouted, trying not to alert the person moving closer.
You watched in horror as a lithe figure walked around the backyard, the briefest of flickers coming from the lighter they used to ignite their cigarette. The orange ember illuminating the sharp angles of their face briefly before it was engulfed in shadow again. Your heart was in your throat as the figure paused, looking around the yard as if they had heard something.
You crouched down, hoping that the shadows would swallow you whole as the figure approached. Your eyes darted to the ground, searching for a way out. That's when you were trapped by a stunning woman, illuminated by the moonlight. There was an almost reflective white streak in her hair, and you could smell the scent of her expensive perfume from where you were. She had a gun in her hand, and you realized with a sinking feeling that this was not just a simple burglary gone wrong.
"Well, well," she began, a hint of amusement in her voice. You quickly looked behind her to see Pietro stop by the back gate, looking at you. You flicked your head to the side, like you were getting hair out of your face, and he ran out of the yard. She was too busy watching you to notice. "Looks like I've got some extra company tonight."
Your eyes snapped back to her, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. "Who are you?" you asked, trying to sound more confident than you felt.
The woman took a drag on her cigarette, the end glowing like a malevolent eye in the dark. "The person you don't want to mess with," she replied, her smile cold and knowing. "My name is Val. To what do I owe the pleasure of this disruption?"
You swallowed hard, trying to come up with a lie that would get you out of this. "I... I was just taking a shortcut home," you stuttered. "I didn't know anyone lived here."
She tutted at you, flicking the cigarette onto the ground and stepping closer. "Don't lie to me, darling," Val said, her voice a seductive purr. "Let's try this again," she held the gun up, pointing it right at your chest. "Why are you here?"
"I was told to pick something up," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. The cold metal of the gun was a stark contrast to the warm night air. You remembered the name of the guy Pitero had been getting his stashes from. "Manny... he needed something from the house," you gesture vaguely towards the window he had just exited. "He told me to come and get it."
Val's eyes narrow, the moonlight glinting off the barrel of the gun. "Manny," she repeats, her voice a whisper. "How interesting." She takes a step closer, the gun still trained on you. "What's in it for you, hm?"
"He... he offered me a large stash," you stuttered out. Val's eyes narrowed further, the gun lowering as she inched towards you.
"All of this," she motioned to the house behind her, "For free drugs?" Val's voice was skeptical, but there was a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.
You nodded, your heart racing. "It's all I care about, I swear."
"Well, darling, if that's all you care about, follow me." Val's smile was cold, and the gun remained at her side as she turned and strode towards the house, not looking back to see if you would follow. You had no choice but to follow her, your legs trembling with fear. She opened the back door and led you through a kitchen that gleamed with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. "So tell me, just how large of a stash is worth the possibility of jail time, or worse off, death?"
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "It's...it's substantial," you murmured, hoping that would be enough to keep her satisfied. Val opened a fridge, pulling out a bottle of vodka and two glasses, setting them down on the counter with a clink.
"I would imagine. But how much?" she asked, her tone mocking. You nodded, watching as she poured a generous amount into each glass. "Here," she handed one to you. "To seal the deal," she said, raising her own in a toast.
You were now sufficiently confused. Val was acting like you weren't just some junkie that stumbled onto her property but rather a guest. "How much?" you asked, taking the glass and downing the contents in one gulp. The alcohol burned your throat, but it helped steady your nerves.
"Yes, darling. How much was Manny going to give you for that pesky little bag?"
You paused, trying to gauge her intentions. "It was... a brick," you finally murmured.
Val's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A brick? That's quite the compensation," she said, sipping from her glass. "But I'm afraid I can't just let you walk away after I caught you snooping where you don't belong."
You felt a knot form in your stomach, the alcohol doing little to ease your nerves. "What do you want?"
She ignored your question, moving from the bar cart she had been perched by, to a little box in the living room. Reaching in, she grabbed a tiny bag, extending it to you. "Here," she began, wiggling it your way. "Try this."
You took it with trembling hands, eyeing her suspiciously. "What is it?"
"This is you, proving to me that you are the drug user in this situation, not the young man I saw with you. This is you, getting him out of trouble."
You stared at the bag, feeling your stomach drop. The smell was faintly familiar, but you couldn't place it. It wasn't your usual style, and the way Val was looking at you, it was clear that this was a test. A game she wanted you to play, and you had no idea of the rules or the consequences of losing. You typically stuck to the basic stuff, drinking and weed, and let Pietro dabble in the harder things.
With trembling hands, you took the bag and dumped it out onto the counter. A fine white powder spilled out, glinting in the moonlight that streamed through the kitchen window. Your mind raced, trying to figure out what this could be, what she could be trying to do.
She watched you with predatory intent, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and malice. "You know what to do with that, don't you, darling?"
"Yeah...yes I do," you began to arrange it into a tight line, in the way you had watched Pietro and his buddies do plenty of times before.
Val leaned over the counter, her nose almost touching yours. "Good," she whispered, her breath hot on your face. "Now snort it."
You hesitated, the fear making your hands tremble even more. The gun was no longer pointing at you, but you could feel it hovering in the air, a silent threat. With a deep breath, you bent down and inhaled the powder. It burned your nose, making your eyes water. You coughed and sneezed, the world around you spinning for a moment. Val chuckled, watching you with a smug smile. "There," she said, patting your back. "Now, we're even."
Before you knew it, your world started to spin, and you fell to the floor.
What brought you back was the flashing lights and feeling of being lifted. As you looked around, you noticed you were on a porch, and there were police cars everywhere. Two cops were now limping you over to the ambulance to be checked out, while Val put on a show to another officer and what you would guess was her husband.
The man looked over, his eyes filled with rage as he saw you being walked away, but Val had a firm grip on his arm and was whispering sweet nothings into his ear. The paramedics were asking you questions, but you couldn't form coherent answers. You were too busy trying to keep your stomach from emptying itself.
Once you had been deemed 'good enough' to go, the cops handcuffed you and placed you into the back of a patrol car. You leaned against the cool glass, watching the scene before you. Suddenly, Val began to shake her head and cry hysterically. She ran to the police car and pulled you from the back seat.
"Just let them go!" She wailed, rattling the handcuffs on your wrists. "They are clearly just hurting, and sending them away won't help!" She yelled again, before turning and winking at you.
"Ma'am, you just admitted that you caught them breaking into your house, and they were using drugs on your counter. Why would we let them go?" The policeman's voice was stern, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes.
Val's tears were a masterful performance, her mascara leaving dark trails down her cheeks. "Because they're just lost, Officer. They need help, not jail time," she pleaded, her grip on your arm tightening. "I can... I can give them that help. They won't bother anyone again, I promise."
The policeman exchanged a skeptical look with his partner before finally nodding. "Alright, we'll take you up on your offer. But if we catch them around here again, or if you're lying..." he trailed off, unlocking the handcuffs.
You rubbed your wrists, still in a daze from the drug's effects. Val's grip on your arm was like a vice as she led you back towards the house, her smile never faltering. "Thank you, officers," she called over her shoulder. "I'll take good care of them."
Part 17 - Y/N moved to escape some of their looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs?
Word Count: 1.7K
Read Pt. 1 HERE Read Pt. 2 HERE Read Pt. 3 HERE Read Pt. 4 HERE Read Pt. 5 HERE Read Pt. 6 HERE Read Pt. 7 HERE Read Pt. 8 HERE Read Pt. 9 HERE Read Pt. 10 HERE - Read Pt. 11 HERE - Read Pt. 12 HERE - Read Pt. 13 HERE- Read Pt. 14 HERE - Read Pt. 15 HERE - Read Pt. 16 HERE
The Guns Will Smoke, But The Bullets Won't Lie
You awoke to the hushed tone of two voices arguing. Pietro and Wanda. You groaned as you tried to shift, the pain in your shoulder reminding you of your recent escapade. The look they shot you as you brought attention to being awake displayed their clear worry.
"You're awake," Wanda said, rushing over to your side. Her eyes searched yours for any signs of distress, her hand reaching out to grasp yours. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice tight with fear.
"Hello to you both, too," you croaked, trying to sit up again. The pain was less intense now, but the memory of the gunshot was a fresh wound in your mind. The nurse had told you that the surgery had been successful and that the bullet had missed any vital organs, but the pain was a stark reminder of how close you had come to dying.
Pietro's eyes searched yours, looking for the truth behind the lie you had told over the phone. "Y/N," he started, his voice thick with concern. "You're not okay. What happened out there?"
"I told you, Piet," you said, wincing as you managed to sit up, the hospital gown rustling around you. "Like I said, that guy shot me when I refused to open the briefcase Val sent me to pick up." Wanda's grip on your hand tightened, her eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness that warmed your heart despite the cold hospital air.
"What was in the briefcase?" Wanda's voice was barely a whisper, her gaze darting between you and the bag that sat on the chair next to the bed.
You shook your head, "I don't know," you admitted. "I never looked. Val made it clear that it wasn't my concern. I told the guy that, and then he shot me. I think he took the case, and that's all I remember, aside from the burning from when I was used for target practice. Next thing I knew, I was here."
Wanda's eyes searched yours, and you could see the fear and anger in them. "Why did you go, Y/N?" she whispered, her grip on your hand tightening. "You could've called for help."
You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I had to do it, Wands," you replied, your voice hoarse. "I owed it to you, to all of us. I couldn't let Val keep playing these games without consequences."
"But why did you go alone?" Wanda's eyes searched yours, her voice shaky with emotion. "You should have told us, let us know where you were," she began, setting herself gently on the bed by your legs. "Then, when you went radio silent, I was so scared..."
You nodded, understanding the fear she must have felt. "I know," you murmured, looking down at your hand in hers. "I didn't want to involve you guys anymore. I wanted to protect you both, and I thought that by handling this alone, it would keep you out of Val's crosshairs," you sighed, leaning back onto the pillows behind you. "But my dumbass, never would have thought this literally meant crosshairs." you cringe at the thought, as Wanda and Pietro's faces fell.
"Don't you dare," Wanda warned, her voice low and filled with a mix of anger and fear. "Don't you dare downplay this. You almost fucking died, Y/N." You felt a twinge of pain in your chest, not from the gunshot, but from the raw emotion in her eyes.
"I...I know," you stuttered.
"Do you? Do you really, Y/N?" Wanda continues, her volume increasing as she continues. "We finally hear from you after days of silence, Pietro just showing up at my house and telling me to pack an overnight bag. As we fly here, he fills me in on the bits and pieces, and trust that I know they were bits and pieces, and not the whole truth," she glares at her brother, who drops his head to avoid her stare.
"Then we get here, and have no clue where to find you. You weren't answering your phone, but luckily, there was a news story about someone who had been dumped," her voice cracked as she looked up at the hospital ceiling. "Someone who was dumped on the main drag by an unmarked vehicle after being shot. The news story continued by saying that the only reason that this person survived was that there was a slew of EMTs leaving the hospital, and they watched the whole thing happen."
Wanda's eyes found yours again, "We took a chance, coming to the Ridgefield Park Hospital, not knowing if the anonymous person was you." She took a deep breath, her voice steadying. "We got here and asked if you were here. Of course, as someone with no listed next of kin, convincing the staff that we knew you was not easy."
Pietro stepped closer, placing a hand on Wanda's shoulder, "Wanda, we need to stay calm," he said in a soothing tone. You nodded, understanding her anger but knowing it wasn't going to solve anything. "You scared the shit out of us," she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of anger and relief. "But more than anything, I'm just...I'm just so fucking mad at you," she whispered, her grip on your hand tightening until it almost hurt.
You looked up at her, "I know, Wanda. I understand," you murmured, trying to keep the pain from your voice. "But I had to do something, and she gave this as an out. Val can't keep doing this to us."
"But you can't play hero," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "You're not invincible, Y/N. You could've died."
You squeezed her hand back, feeling the warmth and anger radiating from her. "I know," you whispered. "I had to do something, Wanda. In her words, 'If I want to keep playing house with you,' I needed to do this for her. I know it sounds insane, but I was just trying to end this."
"End what, Y/N?" Wanda's voice was barely above a whisper now, her eyes searching yours for an answer that could possibly justify the situation you had put yourself in. "Based on what I know of her and what Pietro has said, even if you had gotten this briefcase back to her, she likely wouldn't have given up." Her eyes pierced through you as she continued, "What is so important about this briefcase that it was worth risking your life for? Because god knows that she was not going to stop, even if she got what she wanted. And know she really isn't going to stop."
You took a deep breath, the gravity of the situation starting to really set in. "I didn't get that far into this," you admitted. "But I had to try, Wanda. For us, for everyone." You paused, the silence in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.
Pietro broke it, "Y/N, you can't keep playing her games," he said, his voice firm. "You're going to get yourself killed, or worse off, all of us."
You nodded, feeling the truth in his words hit you like a ton of bricks. "I'm sorry," you murmured, squeezing Wanda's hand. "I didn't mean to scare you guys."
Wanda leaned in closer, her eyes searching yours. "While I appreciate the apology, detka, I want to know- what did Val say, exactly?" she asked, her voice a mix of anger and concern.
You took a deep breath. "She said if I didn't get the briefcase, she would come for you," you whispered, the memory of the cold, hard phone against your ear making you shiver. "My guess is that she has something she thinks will ruin me if she exposes it, and I would bet money that she is trying to run me out of any town I may move to until I just come back to Westview."
Wanda's eyes searched yours, her anger morphing into a cold, hard resolve. "What do you think is in that briefcase, Y/N?" she demanded, her grip on your hand never wavering.
"Honestly, Wanda," you said, your voice weary and defeated. "I have no idea. It could be anything, knowing her. I could give two shits about me, I just didn't want anything to harm you or Piet. You guys are the only semblance of family I have left."
Wanda's grip on your hand tightened, the pain in your shoulder a dull throb as you continued to sit up in the hospital bed. "First things first, you are adding either Pietro or me to your emergency contacts and next of kin. So help me god if I have to do this wild goose chase again, you will wish that you had actually died."
You nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "I promise," you murmured, squeezing her hand back. "What are we gonna do about Val?" you asked, looking between the two of them.
Pietro sighed, his eyes dark. "We're going to end this," he said, his voice firm. "No more playing her games. No more hiding. We're going to find out what was in that briefcase, and we're going to use it to take her down. This is blackmail, and for what? Sex? Retribution? Spite?"
Wanda's gaze never left yours, her eyes searching for the truth. "Is there anything else we should know?" she asked, her voice low. "Anything at all that could help us understand what she has on you? A little incident with the police, maybe?”
Oh. Yeah. She was there when Val had called, and you in a valiant attempt to display transparency for trust, put the call on speaker phone so Wanda could hear the call between Val and you.
You let out a deep sigh, not wanting to bring this up right now.
"Wanda, I don't think right now is the time to bring up what she was referring to," you say, looking into her eyes. The pain in your shoulder is a constant reminder of the mess you've gotten into, and the last thing you want to do is add to the tension.
"No, Y/N. Now is absolutely the perfect time. Lay it all out, right now." Wanda's voice was a mix of anger and fear. Her eyes searched yours, demanding the truth. You knew she wouldn't rest until she had it all.
Part 16 - Y/N moved to escape some of their looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs?
Word Count: 2.7K
Read Pt. 1 HERE Read Pt. 2 HERE Read Pt. 3 HERE Read Pt. 4 HERE Read Pt. 5 HERE Read Pt. 6 HERE Read Pt. 7 HERE Read Pt. 8 HERE Read Pt. 9 HERE Read Pt. 10 HERE - Read Pt. 11 HERE - Read Pt. 12 HERE - Read Pt. 13 HERE- Read Pt. 14 HERE - Read Pt. 15 HERE
When The Money Talks, Do You Think It Gets The Point Across?
When you arrived, the warehouse loomed in the darkness like a forgotten monument to the town's industrial past. The address Val had given you led to a side door that was slightly ajar. You approached it with caution, every nerve in your body on high alert.
With a deep breath, you pushed the door open and stepped inside. The smell of damp cardboard and old metal filled the air. The only light came from a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows on the towering stacks of boxes and crates that surrounded you. It was a maze, one that Val had no doubt designed to keep you off-balance.
You pulled out the flashlight on your phone and began to navigate the aisles, the sound of rain outside seemingly amplified by the hollow echoes of your footsteps. Your heart raced as you scanned the labels, looking for any clue as to what she could possibly need you to retrieve.
As you approached the back of the warehouse, you heard a faint buzzing noise, like the sound of a small engine. The sound grew louder, and you moved closer, trying to pinpoint its source. Your heart raced as you rounded a corner and found yourself face-to-face with a man in a black hoodie, his attention focused on a small drone in his hand. He looked up, startled, and your eyes met for a brief moment before he took off running.
You gave chase, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The floor was slick with rainwater that had seeped in through the old roof, making it treacherous underfoot. The drone hovered just above the man's head, zipping through the air as he weaved in and out of the narrow aisles. You followed him into a room with a large, metal door, the buzzing now deafening in the enclosed space.
The door was ajar, and beyond it, you could see the package you presumed Val had sent you for. It was a large, unmarked crate, surrounded by a pile of cash and a few bags of what looked like drugs. The man had stopped, his back against the wall, panting heavily as he held the drone in one hand and a gun in the other.
"Who the fuck are you?" he spat, his eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape.
You held up your hands, trying to appear non-threatening. "I'm just here for a package," you said, keeping your voice steady. "I don't want any trouble."
The man's eyes narrowed, the gun still trained on you. "This isn't your business," he warned, his breathing ragged.
"I'm not looking for trouble," you repeated, taking a cautious step forward. "Just hand over the package and the drone, and I'll be out of your hair."
The man's grip tightened on the gun, his eyes never leaving yours. "You don't know what you're getting into," he growled.
"No, I really don't," you responded calmly, your eyes never leaving his. "But I've got a pretty good idea, and I'm not going anywhere until I get what I came for." You took another step forward, the drone buzzing ominously above his head.
The man's eyes widened, his hand trembling slightly. "Look, lady, I don't know who you think you are, but this is way above your pay grade."
"I'm just the messenger," you lied smoothly, taking another step closer. "Val sent me." The mention of her name seemed to have an effect on him. His grip on the gun loosened a fraction, and the drone hovered closer to the crate.
"Val?" His eyes narrowed. "You're working for her now?"
You nodded, hoping that invoking Val's name would be enough to convince him. "Look, I'm just here to do a job. I don't want to cause any trouble for you, but I need that package."
The man's eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of deception. "Alright," he said, his voice tight. "But if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone—"
You held up your hands in surrender. "My lips are sealed," you assured him. "Just let me grab the package, and I'll be out of here."
The man hesitated for a moment, then nodded, shoving the drone into his pocket and stepping aside. You approached the crate, heart thumping in your chest. You sighed, wondering what on earth Val could want with something so heavily guarded.
With trembling hands, you unlocked the crate and lifted the lid. Inside, you found a sleek, black briefcase, the kind that screamed 'expensive and dangerous'. The kind of briefcase that could contain the fate of nations or the downfall of empires. You picked it up gingerly, not wanting to chance jostling it.
The man with the gun had his eyes glued to the crate, his breath shallow. "Is that it?" he asked, his voice edged with nerves.
"Apparently," you murmured, holding the briefcase in front of you like a shield. The man's eyes narrowed, and the gun was still pointed at you. "I'll just take this and go," you said, taking a step back.
"Wait," the man said, his eyes darting to the briefcase. "You don't even know what's in there."
"Nope, and I was also told it's none of my business." You took another step backward, trying to put more distance between you and the man with the gun. The briefcase felt heavier than it probably should have, but you didn't dare to ask why. "Now, if you'll excuse me," you said, turning on your heel.
The man didn't move, his eyes still glued to the briefcase. "You're not going to get far," he warned, his voice tight.
You shrugged. "I've got a pretty good track record for getting out of sticky situations," you replied, your voice calm despite the fear coursing through your veins. "I'm leaving now."
With that, you turned and walked away, the sound of his gun being cocked echoing in the cavernous room. You didn't dare look back, focusing instead on the exit sign that glowed faintly in the distance. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could feel the briefcase growing heavier with each step you took. The man didn't follow, but you could feel his gaze boring into your back like a hot knife.
There was a faint whistle, before you felt a searing pain in your shoulder. You stumbled, dropping the briefcase as a crimson bloom blossomed on your shirt. "You bitch!" you screamed, spinning around. The man was walking closer, a sadistic smile on his face. "Val may have told you not to look, but she sure as hell didn't say that to me.”
You woke up to a steady beeping that was ringing throughout the room, your mind and vision hazy. The smell of antiseptic and the feeling of something pressing against your shoulder brought back the memory of the gunshot in a rush. You were in a hospital bed, a white sheet tucked up to your chin, and an IV drip attached to the back of your hand.
"Unghhh, fuck," you groaned, trying to sit up. The pain in your shoulder was intense, but the feeling of something pressing down on it stopped you. You looked around the room, the fluorescent lights above buzzing and flickering. The walls were a stark white that hurt your eyes.
The door to the room opened, and a nurse looked in, her face a picture of concern. "Ms. Y/L/N, you need to stay down," she said firmly but kindly. You nodded, settling back down.
"Sorry, just uncomfortable." You mumbled through the fog of pain and confusion.
The nurse checked your vitals and the monitors, her eyes darting between the screens and you. "You're going to be okay," she assured, her voice soothing. "But you need to stay still. You were shot, after all," she reminded you gently.
The words hit you like a ton of bricks. Shot. In the warehouse. The briefcase. Val. The fear and adrenaline rushed back, making you dizzy. "Fuck," you breathed, your hand reaching up to touch the bandage on your shoulder. The nurse noticed your distress and took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as she checked your IV.
"It's alright," she said, her eyes kind. "The bullet didn't hit anything vital. After the blood transfusion, your body responded wonderfully. You're going to make a full recovery."
You nodded, trying to focus on the good news. But the reality of the situation was setting in, and with it, the weight of your decision to take on Val's favor. You should have known better. You should have trusted your gut. Wanda's gut. Shit. Wanda.
"What happened?" you asked the nurse as she typed some things in your medical file on the computer.
"Well, darling, we were hoping you could answer that. It's not every day someone is dropped on the corner of the intersection with a gunshot wound and near-fatal blood loss."
"Excuse me, did you just say near fatal?" You couldn't keep the alarm out of your voice as you tried to process what the nurse had just told you.
"Well, yes," she said, not looking up from her clipboard. "But you're stable now, thanks to the quick response of some EMTs who were just leaving the hospital. You're a lucky one, however, there is no next of kin in your file..."
"Because I don't have any," you murmured, your mind racing. "I'll be okay," you assured the nurse, trying to keep your voice steady despite the panic rising in your chest. "Could I have my phone, please?"
The nurse nodded, retrieving your phone from the bag that sat on the chair by your window. You thanked her, your trembling hands taking the device. The screen was a blur as you unlocked it, ignoring all the notifications you had, scrolling through to Pietro's name. You knew you should call Wanda, but you needed to warn Pietro first.
"Y/N!" he drawled out, clearly not having the slightest clue that you had been sent to Westview for Val.
"Pietro," you snipped back.
There was a beat of silence on the other line before he responded, "What's wrong?"
"Guess, Piet. Who have we been worried about for the last month?" you replied, trying to keep the pain and irritation out of your voice.
"Val," he said immediately, his voice filled with dread. "What happened? And where have you been? Wanda has been worried sick, I haven't been able to find you anywhere."
You took a deep breath, the pain in your shoulder a constant reminder of your misadventure. "That's because I'm not at home, Piet," you began, your voice strained. "Val sent me to pick something up for her, to try and even the scales so she would leave everyone alone."
"Y/N, I'm not liking the sound of this," he began, a despondent tone to his voice. You could hear a faint rustle and shuffle in the background, like he was gathering things up.
"Wanda knew, at least that I was coming back to Westview to handle this, under the guise that hopefully, Val would leave her, leave us, alone." You could feel the dull ache in your shoulder sharpening as you lay your head back on the bed. The nurse had given you some more pain meds, but they hadn't kicked in yet.
Pietro was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, "And what happened?"
"I need you to check on Wanda, Piet. Physically. Don't just call her. Go to the house and check on her." The demanding tone to your voice left no room for question.
There was a pause, "Y/N. What. Happened?" Concern and frustration etched his words.
"I was asked to pick something up for Val. She left no room for me to question it." You swallowed hard, the pain in your shoulder now a constant throb. "But I got to where I needed to, and there was someone else I had to deal with. Clearly, she was concerned with making sure the right person got whatever this package was." You gritted your teeth, the memory of the mystery man's smirk before he took off running.
"Okay," he drew out, clearly still asking a question by his tone. "What was the package?"
"She told me not to look. In her words, 'Don't get cute, it wasn't any of my concern,'" you sighed. "So i have no fucking idea."
"Okay, I'm missing something here, or you're not telling me something." His voice was tight, and you could hear the tension in his tone. "Why do you need me to check on Wanda? Did something go all fucky?"
You took a deep breath, trying to keep the frustration at bay. "She sent me to a warehouse outside the city," you began. "There was some guy at the warehouse, he was doing something at the warehouse, and I spooked him when I went in."
"Y/N, for the love of fucking god, just tell me what has you being so goddamn cryptic," he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "What the hell is going on? What do I need to be worried about for Wanda?"
"I got the briefcase that Val wanted," you continued, the words heavy on your tongue. "But the wierdo at the warehouse wanted to know what was in it. He asked me, I told him I had no clue. He didn't like that answer, so as I was walking away, he pulled a gun and shot me." You mumbled the last part, hoping he wouldn't hear it.
But, of course, he had. "You got shot?" His voice was a mix of horror and anger. "Y/N, what the actual fuck?"
"I know, Pietro," you whispered, feeling the weight of his shock and anger through the phone. "It's complicated. After I got the briefcase, I was leaving, and he just...he didn't believe me, I guess. He shot me in the shoulder."
"Where are you?" he demanded, his voice tight with concern. "I'll be right there." There was more shuffling in the background, and the slamming of his car door. "I'm checking on sis now, and then I'm coming to you."
You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "No need," you murmured, the painkillers finally starting to kick in. "But please, be careful. I don't know what shes up to, and I am guessing that asshole took the suprise she wanted me to get. So who knows what kind of mood Val will be in?"
"Fuck," he spat. "I'll handle it. You just...you just rest," he said, his voice softer now, filled with brotherly concern. You could hear Wanda in the background, wondering why he just showed up out of the blue. "What do you want me to tell this one?" He asked, his voice low. You could hear her questioning him in the background.
Before you could answer, there was loud rustling and slapping noises, before her voice rang through the receiver. "Who is this?" Wanda's tone was sharp, the fear in her voice cutting through the painkillers' haze.
"Hey, Wands," you greeted, trying to keep your voice steady despite the pain. "It's okay, it's just me."
There was a moment of silence before she spoke, the relief palpable in her voice. "Oh, thank god. Are you okay?" Wanda sounded frantic, and you could hear her fumbling with something in the background.
"Piet can fill you in," you said, trying to keep your voice even as the pain medication began to cloud your thoughts. "But I have to go, okay?" You could feel the pain killers kicking in, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up the "I'm fine" schtick.
"Y/N, don't you dare hang up." Wanda's voice was firm, cutting through the haze. "I've been worried sick. What is going on? I haven’t heard from you for days!"
You sighed, the fog in your brain thickening. "I got caught up in Val's shit, Wanda. It's a long story," you murmured, the edges of your vision beginning to blur. "Just... just be safe. Okay?"
No, Y/N, don't you dare," Wanda's voice grew stronger, more demanding. "You tell me what happened. Right now."
"Wanda, I can't right now," you slurred, "Piet can fill you in. I miss you, doll. I'll see you soon." You hung up the phone, letting it drop onto the hospital bed. Your eyes drifted closed, the weight of the briefcase and the pain in your shoulder suddenly seeming like a distant memory. You began to nod off as the nurse came back in, and before you knew it, you were out.
Part 15 - Y/N moved to escape some of their looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs?
TW: Just angst. Layin it on thicccck
Word Count: 2.2K
Read Pt. 1 HERE Read Pt. 2 HERE Read Pt. 3 HERE Read Pt. 4 HERE Read Pt. 5 HERE Read Pt. 6 HERE Read Pt. 7 HERE Read Pt. 8 HERE Read Pt. 9 HERE Read Pt. 10 HERE - Read Pt. 11 HERE - Read Pt. 12 HERE - Read Pt. 13 HERE- Read Pt. 14 HERE
You Might As Well Be Six Feet In Dirt
It was about a week before Val reared her head again. You had been working hard to win back Wanda's trust, helping her around the house, cooking dinner, and slowly incorporating date nights further out of town to avoid any potential run-ins. Wanda had started to come around, her laughter filling the house again, and her eyes no longer filled with doubt. But you had the gut feeling that the calm was only temporary.
And then the call came. It was a Tuesday evening, and you were both sitting in your living room, Wanda engrossed in a book, her lips stained from her glass of cabernet left over from dinner. While you were scrolling through potential projects on your work laptop, your thoughts wandered to the weekend plans you had made. The phone vibrated on the coffee table, and Wanda looked at you expectantly as you picked it up. The name on the screen made your heart sink.
Wanda watched as your demeanor changed, and quickly bookmarked her spot, setting the hardback on the table next to your recliner before leaning forward towards you. "Who is it?" she asked, her voice tentative. You didn't answer, your thumb hovering over the 'ignore' button, not wanting to burst the bubble you had worked so hard to create.
"It's Val," you said finally, your voice tight with tension. Wanda's eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening. "What does she want?"
You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice calm. "I'm not sure if I want to know." You looked over at her, hoping she could read the silent plea in your eyes. "I should probably take this."
Wanda nodded, her jaw tight, and you settled the phone between Wanda and yourself. Sliding your finger to hit 'answer' with a trembling hand. "What do you want, Val?" you snarled into the phone.
Her voice was sweet and sickening, like honey over rotten fruit. "I just wanted to see how my favorite person was doing," she said, her tone mocking.
You clenched your fist. "What do you want, Val?"
"Oh, I just wanted to remind you of our little agreement," she sang into the phone, her voice echoing with malice.
Your stomach dropped. The agreement was a part of your past that you had hoped to keep buried, but Val had always had a knack for digging up your darkest secrets. "What are you talking about?"
Wanda's eyes bore into you, her grip on the blanket tightening.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Val purred. "You owe me, Y/N, and I've come to collect."
You felt the walls closing in, the warmth of the room suddenly stifling. "Val, I can't—"
"You can and you will," she interrupted. "You know the rules of the game."
You looked over at Wanda, her gaze unwavering, filled with a mix of fear and curiosity. You knew you had to get off this call. "We're not playing that game anymore," you said firmly.
Wanda's eyes widened at your words, and she sat up straight, her grip on the blanket turning white-knuckled.
"Oh, but we are," Val said, a chuckle escaping her lips. "If you don't hold up your end, I'll make sure everyone knows the truth about what you really did in Westview. And let's not forget about the little...incident with the police."
The room grew colder, the warmth of the fireplace suddenly forgotten. Wanda's eyes searched yours, desperation etched into her features.
"I'll think about it," you managed to say, trying to buy yourself some time.
"You do that," Val said before hanging up.
The silence was deafening as you set the phone down on the coffee table. Wanda looked at you, her eyes filled with unspoken questions. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm in your chest.
"What game?" she whispered, her voice shaking slightly.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "It's complicated," you began, hoping she would understand without you having to say too much.
"Complicated?" Wanda's voice grew louder, the hurt and anger returning. "Is this about me? Or did you make a deal with her to stay away from Piet?"
You shook your head, "It's not like that. It's about protecting you and Pietro."
Wanda's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"It's nothing you need to worry about," you said, trying to reassure her.
"Apparently it is," Wanda retorted, the hurt in her voice palpable. "What kind of deal did you make with her?"
You took a moment to collect your thoughts, the weight of your past threatening to crush you. "It's complicated," you repeated, trying to find the right words. "But I need to handle this first, for you, and Piet."
Wanda pulled away, her eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. "I want to trust you, Y/N, but you're not making this easy. Like at all."
You nodded, understanding her frustration. "I know. And I'm sorry." You took her hand in yours, feeling the warmth of her skin against your cold palms. "But I have to do this. Unfortunately, past me didn't have much foresight."
The following weekend, you found yourself back in Westview, standing outside the dilapidated bar where you had spent too many nights with Val. The neon sign flickered ominously, casting a garish light on the puddles of rainwater on the pavement. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come.
Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap liquor. The same faces that had watched you and Val's tumultuous relationship unfold were now watching you with a mix of curiosity and contempt. Val was at the bar, looking up at you with a smirk that made your blood boil.
"You're late," she said, sipping on a neon-blue cocktail that matched her mood perfectly.
"I had things to do," you replied, keeping your voice low and even.
"Oh, I bet you did," she sneered, sliding off the barstool. "But I'm not here to talk about your new life in Foxwood."
You clenched your fists, trying to keep your cool. "What do you want?"
Val sauntered closer, her eyes gleaming. "I want what you promised me," she purred, her voice like a knife sliding against your nerves. "I want my cut of the action."
You knew what she was referring to—the deal you had made with her to keep your past in the shadows. A deal that had kept you in her clutches for so long. "That's over," you said firmly. "I'm not playing your games anymore."
"Is that so?" Val's smile grew wider, revealing a set of teeth that could cut glass. "What if I told you that I've been keeping tabs on your little neighbor?"
Your heart stopped. "What have you done?"
"Let's just say that if you don't start playing ball, sweet Wanda might get a little surprise from her past," she sang, her eyes gleaming with malice.
The blood drained from your face. You had to protect Wanda at all costs. "What do you want?"
"A favor," Val said simply, her eyes never leaving yours. "One little favor, and I'll leave you and your precious Wanda alone."
The thought of Wanda getting hurt made you sick to your stomach, but you couldn't let Val win. You had to find a way to outsmart her without compromising your new life. "Fine," you gritted out. "What's the favor?"
Her grin was victory incarnate. "I'll tell you tomorrow," she said, turning to leave. "And don't be late, this time."
The drive back to your hotel was a blur of anger and fear. You couldn't believe you had allowed Val to hold this power over you again. But as you pulled into the parking lot, you imagined pulling into the driveway in front of Wanda's house. She would be waiting for you to come home, curled into the corner of her patio swing with a cup of hot tea and a book, her luminous smile greeting you as you walked up to her.
You wanted that. Needed that. You could not let Val take that away. Nor could you let her harm or affect Wanda in any way. The thought of Wanda in pain was more than you could bear.
The next day was a blur of nausea and dread. You met Val at the same time in the same bar, feeling like a pawn in her twisted game of chess. She sat there, legs crossed, sipping a drink with a little umbrella in it, looking every bit the villainess she was. "Ready to play?" she smirked as you slid into the booth across from her.
You nodded tersely, your jaw clenched so tight it hurt. "Lets get this bullshit fucking over with." You growled, sitting yourself across from the foul woman. She tisked at your statement, shaking her head.
"Now, now, Y/N, is that any way to speak to your old flame?" she smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement.
"I think you need to emphasize the 'old' part a little bit more, Val," you leaned in, steeling your gaze towards the woman. "But then again, you've never acted your age."
Val's condescending smile never faltered, "Alright, cut the shit, Y/N," she said, setting the drink down with a clack. "I need you to do a little job for me. Nothing too difficult, I promise."
"Well, you were known for being easy," you muttered, trying to keep the contempt out of your voice. "What job?"
Val leaned back, a smug expression on her face. "Just a little errand. I need you to pick something up for me. It's a...package, let's say. It's at an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. You remember the one?"
"You're going to need to be a little bit more specific, Val. There's a whole ass district of them on the outskirts of town. Or has your Alzheimer's begun to set in at your age?"
Val rolled her eyes at your sarcasm, but the twitch of her lips suggested she was slightly amused. "Very funny," she said, sliding a crumpled piece of paper across the table. "Here's the address. You'll know what to do when you get there. Do not, whatever you do, try and get cute. There will be hell to pay if you do."
You took the paper, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. "What's in this package?"
"What did I just say, Y/N? Don't get cute." Val's voice was like a whip crack in the tense silence of the bar. She took a long drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling around her fingers like a serpent waiting to strike. "You just pick it up and bring it to me. That's all. What's in the package is none of your concern."
You clenched your fists, trying to hold onto your anger. "Alright," you forced out. "But if it has anything to do with hurting Wanda or Piet—"
"It doesn't," Val cut you off. "It's just business. But if you want to keep playing house with Wanda, you'll do exactly as I say."
You took a deep breath, feeling the paper in your pocket like a ticking time bomb. "Fine. I'll get the package."
Val's smile widened as she stood, walking around to where her perfume invaded your senses. She patted your cheek before leaning over and grazing her lips against your ear. "Good girl," she said, patting your hand. "You always did know how to make a woman happy."
You resisted the urge to throw your drink in her face, instead nodding and watching as she left the bar with a sway of her hips that had once made you weak. But not anymore. Now, it just made you sick. Your phone vibrated in your pocket, and you pulled it out to see a text from Wanda.
This is when you were glad you told Wanda your plan and that you were coming out here to deal with Val. It was a risky play, but you trusted her. And if you had lied to her about coming here, you could only imagine the guilt you would feel and the hurt it would cause her.
"How did your meeting with the she-devil go?"
"About as good as I expected, to be honest, Wands."
Those familiar three dots popped up, then disappeared, and showed up again.
"Please, be careful. I don't trust this situation. I have a bad feeling about this."
Your stomach sank at the thought of her sitting alone in the house, wondering what you were up to.
"I'll be careful," you texted back, trying to keep the anxiety out of your voice. "It's just a package, I'll grab it and be back before you know it."
Wanda's response was quick. "I would say to not do anything stupid, but you already are."
You couldn't argue with her, so you sent back a thumbs-up emoji, with "I'll be back soon, I promise." The dots appeared again, before disappearing.
With a deep sigh, you left the bar, the cold Westview air a stark contrast to the stuffy warmth you had just left. The drive to the warehouse was tense, the GPS in your phone the only noise in your car. Rain pattered against the windshield, the rhythmic sound adding to the anxiety building in your chest.
Part 14 - Y/N moved to escape some of thier looming troubles from Westview, to the place that their best friend said would make a difference. New job, new digs, will Y/N make a change for the better, or leave another city with their tail between their legs?
TW: Angst
Word Count: 3K
Read Pt. 1 HERE Read Pt. 2 HERE Read Pt. 3 HERE Read Pt. 4 HERE Read Pt. 5 HERE Read Pt. 6 HERE Read Pt. 7 HERE Read Pt. 8 HERE Read Pt. 9 HERE Read Pt. 10 HERE - Read Pt. 11 HERE - Read Pt. 12 HERE - Read Pt. 13 HERE
You Run Away When You Just Can't Face It
You knew you had to handle this as soon as possible. After leaving Wanda's late Thursday night, you got into your car and called a half-asleep Pietro. "Hey, man, I need to talk to you. Can we talk?" You hoped the urgency in your voice was enough to convince him without alarming him.
"What's wrong? Can't it wait till tomorrow?" He sounded sleepy, and you felt guilty for waking him up.
"It can't," you said firmly. "It's about Val."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. He finally broke the silence with a groan. "Dammit," he said, the sleepiness evaporating from his voice. "How did I know this bitch was gonna ruin everything?" he mumbled to himself. "Come over, Y/N."
You drove through the dark, empty streets of the city, the light rain tapping against the windshield like a persistent drumbeat, echoing the anxiety pounding in your chest. The warmth of your tea with Wanda was long gone, and you felt cold, despite the heat blasting from the vents. When you arrived at his penthouse, you took a deep breath and stepped out into the cold, damp air. The walk to his door felt like an eternity as you rehearsed what you were going to say, trying to find the right words to explain your messed-up past with Val.
Pietro answered the door with a weary look, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice tight with tension. You stepped inside, the stark contrast of the modern, well-lit room highlighting the shadows under his eyes.
"Are you going to invite me in, Piet?" you laugh nervously, scratching at the back of your neck.
Pietro's eyes narrow, "This better be good." He steps aside, gesturing for you to enter, and you follow him into the living room. The space is sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline, but you can't appreciate it. The anticipation of what's to come is a heavyweight in the pit of your stomach.
You sit down on the leather couch, your heart racing as you take a deep breath and begin to explain. The words come out in a rush, spilling over each other as you recount your tumultuous history with Val, the way she manipulated you both, and the guilt that's been eating away at you for years. You leave nothing out, not even the parts that make you cringe with regret. You watch his expression shift from surprise to anger, and finally, to something that looks a lot like pain.
You detail the conversation you had with Wanda, telling him about her reaction, Natasha, and everything that happened tonight. The anger in his eyes is a living, breathing thing. You watch as he sits, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched tightly.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, feeling like the words are insufficient. His expression faltered, and he looked at you with dusky eyes.
Pietro remained silent for a long moment, his fists clenched at his sides. "I know, Y/N. I can see it. And, frankly, you wouldn't have uprooted your life if it wasn't a necessary change. But I can't say I'm not upset. Do you know how much I've lost because of her?" he finally said, his voice strained.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I'm sorry, I truly am. I never wanted any of this to happen. I just... I didn't know how to tell you."
"I get it, Y/N. This is far from ideal." Pietro ran a hand through his hair, his eyes still on the floor. "But you need to understand that Val... she's toxic. She'll ruin everything she touches if she gets the chance. And now, that includes my sister."
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "I know, and I'm going to do everything I can to stop her. To make sure she doesn't come between us."
"I understand your desire to do that, Y/N. But it may be best to lay low for a little bit. Val is like a predator. She gets bored when you don't give her something to engage with."
Pietro's words echoed in your mind as you nodded slowly. He had always had a way with words, a way to cut through the bullshit and get straight to the point. "What do we do then?" you asked, feeling a little lost.
"It's best you give Wanda some time. But, just know that I am extremely proud of you for telling her right away. The Y/N I knew in Westview wouldn't have."
You nodded, feeling the warmth of his words, even though the situation was far from ideal. "Thank you, man. That means a lot."
Pietro looked at you, his expression a mix of anger and concern. "But you can't keep hiding shit like this, Y/N. It's not good for you, or us. You need to be honest with Wanda, and me. She deserves that much, and I'm supposed to be your best friend."
You nodded, feeling the sting of his accusation. "I know, and I'm sorry." You paused, trying to gather your thoughts. "But Val, she's dangerous. She's going to cause trouble, and I don't know how to stop her without dragging everything else into it."
"Y/N, just lay low. Don't feed into her bullshit. You'll only give her ammunition. And you will likely hurt someone in the process. Now, please. Get home and mind your own for a while. I, frankly, don't want to see you for a little bit myself."
The words stung, but you knew he was right. You had to give Wanda time and space to process everything you had just told her, and him too. The drive back to your house was a blur, the rain now coming down in sheets. You felt like you were driving through a never-ending tunnel of guilt and regret. When you finally pulled into your driveway, you sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to gather the courage to go inside.
Stepping out of the car and into the cold embrace of the night, you wiped the rain off your face and made your way towards the house. The porch light flickered, casting eerie shadows across the lawn as you made your way to the door. You glanced over, noticing only one light on at Wanda's, making your heart clench at the thought of her in there, alone.
Once inside, you kicked off your drenched shoes and hung your coat on the rack, the quietness of the house almost deafening. You felt a pit in your stomach, a mix of dread and hope, as you made your way to the bedroom. You knew you had to give her space, but the thought of not holding her was like a knife twisting in your gut.
You slipped into bed, the coldness of the sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of the tea Wanda had made you. You could still smell her perfume lingering on the fabric of your pillows, and it was like a cruel reminder of the closeness you shared a few nights ago. You rolled over, burying your face into the pillow she had used, inhaling her scent, and trying to hold onto the last vestiges of comfort it provided.
Your Friday was a blur, burying yourself in work, completing a flurry of projects before thier deadlines. You stayed late, and your boss commented on you being here far after even the janitors. But you needed the distraction, the mind-numbing repetition of work. It kept you from spiraling into the dark pit of your thoughts, the echoes of Wanda's anger, and the fear of losing her, echoing in your mind.
When you got home that night, you were met with silence. The house felt eerie and empty, it didn't feel like home. You tossed and turned, unable to shake the feeling that you had made an irreparable mistake. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:15 AM, and you hadn't slept a wink. Your mind was racing with thoughts of what Val could be planning, and how you could fix this mess without losing the people you cared about most.
Deciding that sleep wasn't going to come easily, you snuck downstairs, the cold wooden floorboards creaking underfoot as you made your way to the kitchen. You grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf of the pantry, the amber liquid glinting in the moonlight. You poured yourself a generous glass, the smell of oak and smoky warmth filling your nose as you took a deep breath. You downed it in one go, the burning sensation a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil you were feeling.
You felt the effects of the alcohol almost instantly, having not cracked open a bottle in months. You grabbed a wooden box hidden next to the bottle, cracking it open to display the emergency stash of joints you kept, in the instance that you needed to unwind, and nothing else was helping. You took one out, lighting it with the lighter that had been in your pocket all evening. The sweet, pungent smell of the weed-filled the room as you took a deep drag, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around your head like a warm hug.
You grabbed the jacket that was lying over the back of one chair in the dining room, pulling it on before opening the back door and stepping onto your patio. The cool, humid air hit you as you walked over to one of your patio chairs, taking a seat and leaning back. The rain had stopped, leaving a gentle mist that kissed your skin and the smell of wet earth wafting up around you. You took another deep drag from your joint, letting the smoke billow around your face like a foggy shroud. The silence of the night was occasionally broken by the distant sound of a car driving down the wet streets.
You sat there for a while, just smoking and thinking, trying to figure out your next move. The whiskey had helped to dull the pain, but it hadn't done anything to solve the problem. You knew that you had to tread carefully with Wanda and Val. The last thing you wanted was to lose Wanda, and the thought of her being hurt because of your past with Val was unbearable.
As the night grew colder, you realized you needed to come up with a plan. You couldn't just sit around and wait for the situation to blow over; you had to be proactive. You needed to find a way to protect Wanda and her family from Val's toxic influence. You thought about leaving for a while, hoping things would blow over, but deep down, you knew that wasn't the right answer. You had to face this head-on.
"Can't sleep?" a familiar rasp startles you out of your thoughts. You jump, dropping your joint into the ashtray, and look up to see Wanda standing at the edge of your patio, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She's wearing your oversized t-shirt that barely covers her thighs, her feet bare and cold-looking against the damp concrete. The puzzled look on your face turns into one of concern as she takes a few steps closer to you, her eyes never leaving yours. "I, uhhh...smelled the weed. I looked outside to see where it was coming from, and saw you out here." She runs a hand through her hair, looking lost. "I thought you quit drinking?" she motioned at the now empty glass next to you.
You stood, peeling off your coat before bringing it over to her. "Not quite, just cut back significantly," you said, holding it out. She took the warm jacket gratefully, pulling it around her shoulders with a small shiver. "I've had a lot on my mind."
Wanda nodded, her eyes never leaving yours. "I know," she murmured. "I can say the same."
You led her over to the chair, sitting down beside her, the plastic cushion cold and damp from the rain. She curled into the warmth of your jacket, the silence between you heavy and pregnant with unsaid words. You took a deep breath, the scent of mint and rain mixing with the lingering aroma of whiskey. "Wanda," you began, "I know you're hurt, and you have every right to be. But I need you to know that I never wanted to hurt you. I've been trying to be the person you deserve."
"Y/N." Wanda's voice was barely a whisper, the name a question and a plea all rolled into one. "I know. I know you're sorry." She took a shaky breath, her eyes searching yours. "I also know you're trying to change from that person back in Westview."
You nodded, feeling the weight of her gaze. "But it's hard to trust you," she continued, her voice cracking a little. "Everything I've been through with her, with my family... I just can't handle any more betrayal."
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the coolness of the night air seeping into your skin. "I get it," you said softly. "But I'm not asking you to trust me blindly. Just... give me a chance to prove it to you. To show you that I've changed, that I'm not that person anymore."
"I know you're not that person anymore, Y/N." Wanda's voice was softer now, the anger from earlier giving way to something more vulnerable. "But the thing is, I don't know if I can trust that Val won't drag you back into her mess." She looked away, staring out into the night. "I just don't want to get hurt again."
"Wanda," you whispered, taking her hand in yours. It was cold and trembling slightly. "I understand your fears. But I won't let that happen. I'll do whatever it takes to protect you and Piet."
Wanda's gaze returned to yours, searching for sincerity in the depths of your eyes. For a moment, you could see the walls she had built around herself start to crack. "I know you mean it," she said, her voice small. "But what if you can't?"
"We will kill ourselves with the 'what if's', Wands." You took a deep breath, feeling the coolness of the night air fill your lungs. "But I won't let that happen. I promise."
She looked down at her hands, playing with her fingers in her lap. You kneeled next to her, grabbing onto her hands to still her movements. "Even if it means that I need to leave you alone, I will do it. I mean it. Whatever it takes."
Wanda sighed heavily, "Y/N, I don't want you to leave." Her eyes searched yours, a silent plea for understanding. "I just... I went through a lot. With my ex. And I don't want to do it again."
You nodded, feeling the weight of her words. "I know you did. But I'm here, willing to work on this, willing to face whatever comes our way."
Wanda took a deep breath, the chilly air visible in the moonlight. She leaned forward, pulling herself closer to you. "Okay. I still need some time, but we can do this," she whispered. A small smile crept across your face.
"But you have to promise me one thing," she said, her gaze intense.
"Anything," you vowed, feeling the warmth of hope begin to fill the void that had been growing in your chest since you told her about Val.
"Promise me," Wanda's voice was steady, "that you'll never make me cry like this again," she let out a watery chuckle.
You felt a pang of guilt in your chest, "Wanda, I swear to you, on everything that I am, I will never intentionally let this happen again. You have my word," you vowed, your voice thick with emotion. "I cannot promise that I won't make you cry, but my only goal is that you cry from laughter and happiness."
Wanda's smile grew a little, a spark of hope in her eyes. "That's all I ask," she murmured, leaning into you. You wrapped your arms around her, feeling her shiver slightly from the cold. "Come inside," you whispered, "It's freezing out here."
"Y/N?" Wanda's voice was a whisper, a question and a plea all rolled into one. She stepped closer, stopping your movement as the scent of rain and mint washed over you. She stepped up to you, wrapping her arms around your neck, as you engulfed her in your warmth.
You felt her tremble in your embrace, whether from the cold or the weight of her emotions, you weren't sure. But you knew that she needed you, and you were there for her. "I've got you," you whispered back, pulling her closer. Before you knew it, she was standing on her tiptoes, her eyes closed as she kissed you softly. It was a kiss filled with pain, confusion, and a desperate need for reassurance. You kissed her back, gently, your hands rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm her up.
You stood up, taking her hand, "Come on," you said, leading her back inside. The warmth of the house wrapped around you both as you entered, the silence of the night replaced by the comforting hum of the heater. You guided her to the couch, tucking her into a blanket before you started a fire in the fireplace. The flames began to dance, casting a warm glow across the room, and illuminating the tears on her cheeks.
You sat next to her, leaning back and opening your arms, allowing her to curl into your chest. The crackle of the fire was the only sound that filled the room, the warmth of her hand in yours the only thing keeping you grounded. Wanda looked up at you, her eyes searching for the truth in your gaze. You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the whiskey spreading through you.
