Trans madison taking fem!reader’s virginity? Maybe Madison’s used to hooking up with random girls and being as rough as she wants but now she has this inexperienced girlfriend who she actually loves and she has to learn how to be gentle and take her time during sex??
"You're sure, babe?" Madison's forehead rested against yours, her voice coated in that softness she reserved just for you. You'd let her know almost from the beginning that you'd never had sex, figuring it would be fair to temper her expectations.
Madison hadn't taken issue with it, had barely batted an eye after the first few seconds she spent trying to figure out if you were serious. When she gathered that you were, she had her question or two, and that had been it. Now, that felt like a long time ago, as you lay on your back with your legs wrapped lazily around her waist.
"Yes," you promised, brushing your lips against hers. Another kiss followed, and you felt some of the tension drain from your girlfriend. "I need you, Madison," the words came out soft and breathless, and you squeezed her lightly with your thighs to drive your point home.
She didn't need further encouragement, granting you a lingering kiss before pulling away to gaze down at you as she pulled her shirt off. Leaving Madison to her own clothes, you took it upon yourself to shed the tank top you'd worn to bed. That left you in just your underwear, which you knew had a damp spot just from spending the morning making out with your girlfriend.
Your focus found Madison again, her hands resting on either side of your head as she descended for another kiss. "Perfect," she breathed into your lips before hers were painting a trail across your jaw and down your neck.
Your girl sucked and bit her marks onto your skin, eager to show off who you belonged to, and your fingers threaded in her hair to pull the heat of her mouth closer as each brush of her tongue pulled a low moan from your throat. You could feel Madison's smirk, and your breath hitched when she dropped her hips to press flush against you, toying with you as she ground her cock along your still covered cunt.
It made your hips rise, made them roll against her eagerly, but she pushed them into the mattress to still you, a flash of her instinctive response before her grip loosened slightly.
"Mine," she murmured against your breast before her mouth was making your back arch into her attention.
"I'm all yours, Maddie," you affirmed, breathless and whiny under her. She rewarded your devotion by hooking her fingers in your underwear and pulling them down your thighs.
Before you had the chance to feel shy about being exposed to her hungry gaze, Madison was kissing you again, hovering over you as your legs wrapped around her once again. You felt her fingers spread you, heard her breathless swear at how ready she found you. A breath later and she was lining her cock up with your needy pussy, rubbing your clit with the tip just to hear you moan again before she slipped lower.
"I'll go slow, just let me know if it's too much," Madison vowed, and true to her word, she was gentle as she began to press her hips forward. A low, filthy moan pulled from your lips as she sank into you gradually. You were soaked enough that she glided smoothly, and there was fullness without pain.
You barely realized your nails were biting into her shoulders until you took a slow breath and told yourself to relax, opening your eyes to find Madison panting slightly, her cheeks flushed.
"I— Fuck, you feel so good," her hips rolled gently, shifting the angle inside you without pulling out. "If you keep clenching like that, I'm not sure how long I can control myself."
"Can't help it," you said, as your cunt massaged her cock tighter. That earned a chuckle, and slowly Madison pulled out almost entirely, letting you remember what it felt like to be empty, before pushing back in. She started a slow, steady rhythm, carefully fucking you open as she squeezed your breast, her palm brushing against your nipple.
The sound that left your mouth was something between a gasp and a whimper, your back pressing into the mattress as she found a rhythm that had your toes curling. Madison watched you like you were something sacred, something she couldn't quite believe she'd been trusted with, and that look alone made your chest feel too small for everything beating inside it.
"That's it," she murmured, her voice frayed at the edges. "You're taking me so well, baby."
Your nails dragged down her shoulders, leaving pale trails that would bloom pink in a few minutes. The stretch of her was something you'd imagined more times than you'd admit, but nothing in your head had prepared you for the reality of her—the weight of her, the heat, the way she seemed to know exactly where to press to make your thighs shake.
"You can—" you started, then had to stop when she angled her hips differently and your sentence dissolved into a moan. "You can go faster. If you want."
Madison's forehead dropped to yours, her breath coming harder now, the control she was so proud of visibly fraying. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." You meant it. You'd never been more certain of anything. "I trust you."
Those three words did something to her. You saw it happen—her pupils blowing wider, her jaw tightening, a shudder running through her that had nothing to do with the physical. She kissed you then, deep and claiming, and when she started moving again, the pace was different. Harder. More desperate.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds spilling from your throat. Madison's hand slid down your stomach, her thumb finding your clit with an accuracy that made you cry out, and she swallowed every sound like she was starving for them.
"Close?" she asked, though she clearly already knew the answer from the way you were trembling around her.
"Yes— Maddie, please—"
"I've got you." Her voice was steady even as her hips stuttered slightly, even as her composure finally started to crack. "Let go. I want to feel you cum on my cock."
That was all it took. The orgasm crashed through you without warning, without mercy, your body arching off the bed as waves of heat radiated through your form. You were vaguely aware of Madison swearing softly above you, her rhythm breaking as she followed you over the edge, buried deep inside you with her face pressed into your neck.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe.
Madison lifted her head first, her expression soft and wondering in a way that made your heart clench. "You okay?"
You laughed, breathless and a little delirious. "I'm perfect."
More of fiona and madison rivalry + reader? 👀 i love the last one sm!!
"Again," Fiona had instructed, so you cast the carved stones again across the table, one rolling outside of the circle that had been laid.
You studied them for longer than necessary, as performing for the Supreme was a daunting task, even if she had an inclination towards you. Divination had always come easily to you, and you had the impression from Madison's blatant disinterest that it wasn't among her powers. That was likely why Fiona was currently toying with you with it.
"Again," Fiona repeated, her voice silk wrapped around steel, and you didn't dare look up from the scattered runes. The one that had rolled outside the circle—Ansuz, the mouth, the message—lay like an accusation on the worn oak table.
You steadied your breath and read them properly this time, not for Fiona's test but for your own clarity.
"Someone here is lying," you said quietly. "Not about the reading. About what they want." You didn't like being called out, even if you were lying to yourself about being in the middle of this game.
Fiona's lips curved, slow and satisfied. She leaned forward, the scent of expensive perfume and older magic pooling between you. "Now that's more like it, darling. You see."
From the doorway, a sharp laugh cut through the mounting tension.
"Please. She's just guessing." Madison Montgomery pushed off the frame and sauntered inside, her platinum hair catching the candlelight like a warning. "You're teaching her to read rocks while I'm out actually using my gifts."
"Your gifts," Fiona said without turning, "are a wrecking ball looking for a house. Crass. Effective, perhaps, but utterly without nuance."
Madison ignored her entirely and walked straight to you. She stopped close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off her like a fire, and tilted her head, examining the rune circle like it was a bug under glass.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Madison said, softer now, meant only for you. "She's just showing you off because you're mine."
Your throat tightened. "I'm not anyone's—" You protested, not wanting to be pushed into this forming argument.
"Not yet," Madison agreed, and her fingers brushed your wrist just once, lingering. "But you will be."
Fiona rose from her chair with the slow, terrifying grace of a snake uncoiling. She didn't raise her voice, she didn't have to.
"Darling," she said to Madison, saccharine and deadly, "the last girl who touched what was mine lost her tongue. She learned to write quite poetically with her remaining hand, I'm told. Do you feel poetic tonight?"
Madison smiled, sharp and perfectly cruel. "I feel like burning this whole house down with both of you in it."
Neither of them looked at you. But you could feel their attention like a physical thing; two different hungers, two different cages, both with your name on the lock.
HIIII I LOVE UR WORKS. If you have time can u do jealous madison x reader x fiona? maybe the two passive aggressively fighting over reader but obv fiona always has the upper-hand lol
Thank you so much and thanks for your patience!! 💜
The New Orleans heat had a way of making cruelty feel languid. It draped over the Robichaux mansion like a silk shroud, muffling the screams from the basement and turning every whispered insult into a humid caress. You were the newest thing in the house, a rare natural talent whose power had yet to fully manifest, and both the reigning queens had decided you were their favorite new toy.
Dinner was a tense affair.
Fiona Goode sat at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald silk, her martini glass sweating condensation onto the mahogany. She watched you over the rim as you ate, her gaze a velvet rope; inviting, exclusive, and meant to remind you of your place. “Darling,” she drawled, not looking away from you, “pass the salt. And tell me. Are you sleeping well? The spirits can be so restless this time of year.”
Madison Montgomery, seated to your left, stabbed a cherry tomato with enough force to make the plate jump. She wore a vintage band tee and a scowl that could curdle milk. “She sleeps fine,” Madison said, answering for you. Her voice was flat, a kicked-in television set. “When she’s not being summoned to the greenhouse for midnight lessons.”
Fiona’s smile didn’t flicker. She accepted the salt shaker from your hand, her fingers brushing yours for a beat too long. “Jealousy is a stench. It lingers.”
“It’s not jealousy.” Madison’s fork clattered. She turned in her chair to face you fully, blocking Fiona from your peripheral vision. Her eyes, bright and glacial, searched your face for something—loyalty, maybe. Or the crack in your resolve. “It’s concern. You looked exhausted this morning. Dark circles.” She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture so possessive it felt like a brand. “Maybe you should take a nap. In my room. Away from… drafts.”
The air thickened and Fiona laughed, a sound like shattered crystal. “How sweet. The B-movie actress plays nursemaid.” She leaned forward, her cleavage a weapon, her focus solely on you. “She’s not tired, Madison. She’s hungry. For knowledge. For power. For something you wouldn’t understand, because you’ve never had to earn a single thing in your life.”
“And you have?” Madison shot back, her voice finally rising to match Fiona’s chill. “You inherited a throne, got bored, and tried to burn it down for the insurance money. Don’t lecture me about earning.”
The candlelight flickered. A low, subsonic hum vibrated through the floorboards. Both women were staring at you now, waiting. The unspoken question hovered in the air between them like a blade: Whose side are you on?
hey! can you write a fiona goode x fem!reader fic where fiona returns to the coven and reunites w reader who is pregnant w their bb?
Fiona had always been good at knowing when to walk away. It was a quality you had admired until you had cause to resent it just a little. You had found out about your pregnancy after she'd already disappeared for a month, and your only reassurance that she'd return was the occasional postcard she'd send. You were the only one to ever receive mail from her, and that seemed like a good sign.
It had taken you another week after finding out to decide whether or not to tell Fiona about the matter at hand. For starters, it was difficult to pin down where exactly she was at any given moment. You'd been forced to resort to more creative methods, surrounded by a circle of candles as you sat cross-legged on the floor and focused your energy on finding hers, one of her necklaces in the palm of your hand to help you. When you found her, she was mercifully asleep, allowing you to slip into her dreams to ask her to call you.
She made you wait two days before she did, but her voice was soft and warm when she said your name, and you forgave her instantly. Your own voice was less steady as you shared your news, quiet when you confirmed it was hers. Fiona had been so quiet you thought maybe she'd hung up, but after an agonizing pause, she resolved to be back soon.
The line had gone dead before you could ask what “soon” meant in Fiona Goode time. You’d learned, over the years, that her definitions were flexible—sometimes a week, sometimes a season, sometimes the span between one cigarette and the next. So you waited, the way you always did, with your hand resting absently on your belly and the weight of her necklace still cool against your palm.
Five more weeks passed. You stopped checking your phone obsessively after the first ten days. The postcards kept coming, though—New Orleans this time, then Savannah, then a crumpled one from a roadside diner in Mississippi that smelled faintly of coffee and regret. Thinking of you both, she’d written on the back, the letters elegant and hurried.
You were in your third month when the front door of the swung open just as you were settling into the couch, a cup of herbal tea gone cold in your hands and a book open in your lap that you hadn’t turned a page of in an hour. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air changed first, sharpened, sweetened with the ghost of expensive perfume and the faint, earthy undertone of spent magic. Then came the deliberate click of heels, unhurried but certain.
Fiona Goode stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
She looked thinner than you remembered. The angles of her face seemed sharper, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper, but her posture was immaculate, her red lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More like a question she was afraid to ask. A leather duffel bag hung from one shoulder, and she let it drop to the floor with a soft thud, never breaking eye contact.
“You’re showing,” she said. Not an accusation. An observation, soaked in wonder.
You set the cold tea aside, your hand moving instinctively to the swell beneath your loose sweater. “You’re late.”
“I’m always late.” She stepped forward, then stopped, as if some invisible tether held her back. Her eyes dropped to your belly, and you watched the Supreme’s composure crack; just a hairline fracture, but enough. Her gloved fingers twitched at her side. “Three weeks. I know. I—” She exhaled a laugh that held no humor. “I got to Biloxi and I couldn’t make myself leave the hotel room for two days. Pathetic, isn’t it? The most powerful witch of my generation, undone by a telephone call.”
You rose slowly from the couch, one hand braced against the armrest. All you felt was the pull toward her, magnetic and maddening.
“You’re scared,” you said.
Fiona’s chin lifted, a reflex as old as she was. “I don’t get scared.”
“You ran.”
“I took a detour.” She closed the distance then, closing the last few feet like a woman stepping off a ledge. Her hand rose, hovering just above the curve of your stomach, not quite touching. “May I?”
You nodded, throat too tight for words.
When her palm finally pressed against the cashmere of your sweater, warm even through the glove she still hadn't removed, you both gasped. You saw her eyes widen, saw the precise moment she felt the faint, fluttering presence beneath her hand—not a kick, not yet, but something. A heat. A hum. Magic recognizing magic.
“She’s strong,” Fiona whispered, and her voice cracked on the last syllable. “God help us all, she’s already strong.”
“You don’t know it’s a she.”
Fiona’s gaze snapped up to yours, and there it was—the old fire, the imperious certainty that had drawn you to her in the first place. “I know everything, darling. Haven’t you learned that by now?” But her arrogance softened immediately, crumbling into something rawer. She pulled off her glove with her teeth, a gesture so unconscious and intimate it made your heart clench, and pressed her bare palm against your belly. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know how to come back,” she continued, quieter now. “I’ve walked away from everything. Lovers, responsibilities, whole goddamn lifetimes. But I’ve never had to walk toward something that mattered this much. Toward someone who—” She stopped, jaw tightening. “You could have kept it from me. You could have raised this child without me, and part of me thought you should. Part of me still thinks you should.”
You reached up and cupped her face in your hands. Her skin was cool as porcelain, and she leaned into your touch like a cat starved for warmth. “I didn’t tell you because I needed you,” you said. “I told you because I wanted you. There’s a difference.”
Fiona’s eyes glistened, though no tears fell; she was far too proud for that. But she turned her head just slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your palm, and that was more vulnerable than any weeping.
Slightly insane request. Set in Gen V season 1, before Golden boy explodes in the sky. Cate is in a relationship with him (canonically), yet cheats on him with reader. It’s pretty casual for Cate, but not for reader who has strong feelings for her, and not enough self respect to break it off. All it does is reinforces the rivalry between Luke (ranked 1 at Godolkin) and reader (ranked 2 at Godolkin). Except she can never outdo him, even in fighting classes, because compound v gave her ice manipulation, and there’s nothing she can do against fire, it’ll always melt her ice 🤓 I have no explanation for this it just popped in my head
"I'll see you around," Cate said before she slipped out of your dorm, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You'd see her in an hour or two, hanging off Golden Boy's arm and fawning over him like she didn't come to you to cheat on him at least once a week, though it had been growing more frequent as of late.
You muffled a sigh into your pillow, the familiar bitterness rising in your throat and making you irritated. A part of you thought it would be easier if he were anyone else, if he were someone with a power that didn't negate yours. Not that that would matter, you didn't exactly get the impression that Cate was trying to instigate for you to fight over her, but it would do something for your pride. Being stuck ranked one place behind Luke for over a semester felt humiliating, even moreso now that you were getting complicated feelings for his girlfriend.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as the faint scent of Cate’s perfume lingered on your sheets—something floral and expensive, the kind of thing Luke probably bought her. The thought made your jaw tighten when it had no right to.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. When Cate first started showing up at your door with that careful, apologetic look—“Just need to talk. You get it, right? You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m made of glass”—you’d told yourself it was harmless. A secret between girls. A pressure valve for someone whose power meant she could never fully let go around anyone else.
But somewhere along the way, talking turned into her hand on your knee, her mouth on your neck, her breathless whisper of “Don’t stop” while Luke was at practice. And now here you were: aching, angry, and stupidly addicted to the way she said your name when she thought no one was listening.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Cate: Same time Thursday? Luke has a press thing.
You read the message twice, thumb hovering over the keyboard. No sat on the tip of your fingers, sharp and clean. But you knew yourself better than that. You’d type okay in thirty seconds, after you’d convinced yourself you were just blowing off steam, just getting back at the guy who made you look second-best every single ranking drop, every single spar.
But the truth was uglier than that. You were falling for her. Even worse, you were starting to think she knew it.
You typed: Sure. Don’t keep me waiting this time.
The read receipt appeared almost instantly.
Cate: Wouldn't dream of it.
You tossed the phone aside and closed your eyes, already counting the hours until you would let her ruin you again. Because she would, and you still wouldn't learn to walk away.
"Do you trust me?" Victoria asked you, her voice soft and the question pointed.
"Yes, but-" she kissed you before you could protest that you liked seeing her. You melted under her lips, your protests dying away as you kissed her. The brush of her tongue made your thoughts fuzzy for long moments before she pulled away.
"May I?" She murmured, and you nodded slowly, lifting your head from the pillow to allow her to fit the blindfold over your eyes. Darkness blanketed you, and you closed your eyes and told your muscles to relax. There was a new anticipation in the air, charging the spaces between the two of you before Victoria's fingertips made contact with your skin, running down your arm slowly.
The darkness amplified everything. The whisper of silk against her skin as she moved. The soft creak of the mattress. Your own heartbeat, already thrumming a low, desperate rhythm in your ears.
Her fingers traced back up your arm, feather-light, raising goosebumps in their wake. You felt the heat of her body near, but not touching, a phantom warmth that made you ache to close the distance.
“So responsive,” Victoria murmured, her voice a low, velvet caress coming from somewhere to your left. “I can feel you trembling.”
You couldn’t deny it. Every nerve ending was firing, tuned solely to her. “Victoria…”
“Shh.” Her breath ghosted over your shoulder, and you felt the barest press of her lips against your collarbone. She didn’t kiss, just breathed you in, a slow, deliberate inhale that made your stomach clench. “I want to take my time with you. You’re always so impatient to see.”
Her hand drifted lower, skimming over your stomach. The touch was maddeningly light, a suggestion of pressure that had you arching up off the bed already. A soft, knowing chuckle escaped her.
“Patience, love.” The endearment sounded like a promise and a threat all at once.
Your protests, your worries, your need to see her, all of it dissolved slowly. There was only sensation. The cool silk of the sheets. The heat of her palm. The sound of her breathing, slow and perfectly controlled.
Her hand slid lower, fingernails grazing the waistband of your underwear. She didn't remove them, just traced the edge, back and forth, back and forth, a hypnotic rhythm that had you panting.
“You’re wet for me already,” she observed, not a question. She didn't need to ask. You could feel the truth of her words in the slick heat gathering between your thighs, an undeniable, shameless ache. “Good girl.”
The praise, whispered so close to your ear, sent a jolt straight to your clit. You whimpered, hips twitching, seeking more of her touch. Her fingers stilled tucked just under your waistband.
“Ask me,” she breathed. The pressure intensified for a split second, a gentle but unmistakable command. Not to force you, but to free you. To strip away any last shred of hesitation.
“Please,” you heard yourself say, your voice thick and unrecognizable. “Please, Victoria. Touch me.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
Her fingers hooked into the elastic of your underwear and slid them down your legs in one slow, purposeful motion. The cool air hit your heated flesh, and you gasped. Then her hand was there, cupping you, one long finger parting your glistening folds, toying with you so lightly it was maddening.
She didn't move for a moment. Just held you, her palm pressed against you, her fingertip just barely dipping into your pussy. The intimacy of it, the complete vulnerability, stole your breath.
“Look at you,” she whispered, and you could hear the smile in her voice even though you couldn't see her face. “So beautiful. So open. All for me.”
She pushed inside, just one knuckle, and your whole world narrowed to that single point of connection. The pressure in your head pulsed in time with your racing heart. Her power wasn't just in her hands, it was in your blood, making every sensation a thousand times more intense.
“More,” you begged, shameless now. “Please, more.”
“Tell me what you want,” she purred, sliding her finger deeper, then pulling it almost all the way out. The teasing was exquisite torture. “Use your words.”
You swallowed hard, your voice a broken whisper. “I want… I want you to fuck me. Please, I need you filling me.”
A sharp intake of breath from Victoria. The sound of her own control slipping, just a little. And then she gave you what you asked for.
She pushed two fingers inside you, deep and sure, curling them just right. Your back arched off the bed, a cry torn from your throat. There was no more teasing. She set a rhythm, firm, relentless, perfect; her thumb circling your clit with every thrust. The wet sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and beautiful.
The pressure built low in your body, your hips rolling to meet her fingers. You were climbing, spiraling, lost in the dark and the heat and her.
“Let go,” she commanded as her thumb massaged firm circles against your clit, her voice raw. “Now.”
And you did. The orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of light behind your eyes even through the blindfold. You sobbed her name, your body shaking, your inner walls clenching around her fingers as she worked you through it, slowing but not stopping until you were limp and gasping beneath her.
She withdrew slowly, carefully, and you felt her lips press softly to your forehead. The tension in your muscles eased, leaving behind a warm, hazy contentment.
When she finally removed the blindfold, her face was the first thing you saw, her eyes dark with want, her lips slightly parted, a faint flush high on her cheeks. She wasn't as composed as she pretended to be.
“Good girl,” Victoria whispered again, and this time it sounded closer to worship.
if you’re comfortable could you write trans madison x fem!reader where they’re both part of the coven and have this secret fwb thing going on and everything is great until reader ends up pregnant. when she tells madison, she FREAKS. I mean, this is madison we’re talking about, I don’t imagine she’d take news like that well. they get into a huge fight (maybe madison even tries to claim that the baby isn’t hers? just real messy shit) and quit talking to each other. but eventually, after seeing how stressed out the reader is and how torn she is about what to do, madison steps up and apologizes, saying she’ll support the reader no matter what she decides to do, and they end up together officially. just angst with a happy ending. totally get if you don’t want to write this as i can see how this could be an uncomfortable subject, but if you do, thank you in advance!
The worst part of being Madison's friend was the constant hunger for something more. It had become a monster in your chest until the first time she made out with you, which led to the first time you slept together. The worst part of being Madison's lover was the knowledge that she didn't love you; this was strictly casual, and you had told yourself you could handle that.
Maybe you could have, because you had for a year. A year living under the same roof, eating your meals together, and having sex in her king-sized bed. You were still somehow hopelessly falling even further each day, but that wasn't what became a problem. Maybe it would have in another six months, but what came first were two pink lines on a test you'd been dreading. The confirmation meant you had to talk to Madison, to sit her down and make her acknowledge what was between the two of you. Neither thought made you particularly excited; Madison would feel cornered and lash out like anything else when scared.
When you caught her, it was when she was already unbuttoning your shirt, having yanked you into her room seconds ago. "Wait, Mads, I need to tell you something," you gently pushed her away, deflecting her kisses until she paused and graced you with an expectant and only mildly irritated look.
Your heard hammered in your chest, cool dread prickling at the nape of your neck. "Before we," you gestured to her bed with a nod, your fingers messing with the fabric of her shirt to ground yourself, "...I'm pregnant." It came out gracelessly, because you didn't know what to wrap it up in, not when every time you thought about it, it gave you another wave of panic.
"No you're fucking not," Madison rolled her eyes, but her tone was serious. When you didn't budge, a scowl pulled at her features, her fingers curling and uncurling as she sought a way to discharge her own nervous energy.
"I found out this morning," you offered in means of explanation, and Madison's hands fell away from you. Your gaze returned to her face, but her usual mask was already back in place, looking almost bored if it weren't for the tension in her jaw.
"So whose is it?" Any warmth had drained from her voice, but the question dug at you more than her tone did, making you bristle as your own hands fell to your side.
"Yours, you asshole, what do you mean?" You bit the inside of your cheek as she looked you over, her expression unchanged.
"You know you're just a side piece to me, are you telling me I'm not the same? That's just stupid."
The words hit you like a slap. You flinched, not physically, but somewhere deeper, that raw place you'd been trying to ignore for a year. Your vision tunneled, focusing on the sharp line of her jaw, the way her lips curved into something cruel and careless.
"A side piece," you repeated slowly, as if tasting each syllable for poison. "Is that what you call someone who sleeps in your bed five nights a week? Who comes every time you have a nightmare? Who held your hair back when you had the flu last month?"
Madison's expression flickered—there, then gone. She crossed her arms over her chest, a barricade. "Don't get dramatic. That's called being roommates with benefits."
"You don't make your other 'roommates' breakfast," you shot back, and your voice cracked on the last word. Humiliation burned behind your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You refused to cry. Not in front of her. Not now.
She paced to the window, her back to you, and when she spoke again, her voice had gone flat. "Get rid of it."
The words hung in the air between you, detached and precise.
"What?" You barely recognized your own voice.
"You heard me." She turned, and there it was, the mask cracking at the edges. Not boredom. Not irritation. Something rawer. "I'm not doing this. I'm not—" She gestured vaguely toward your stomach, her hand shaking slightly before she shoved it into her pocket. "I'm twenty-three. I'm a recovering addict. I can barely keep a plant alive, and you want me to what? Co-parent? Push a stroller through the fucking Farmer's Market?"
"I'm not asking you to marry me," you said, and the lie scraped your throat on the way out. You may have imagined it. Stupidly. Pathetically. You'd imagined her softening, imagined this forcing the conversation you'd been too scared to start. "I'm telling you what's happening. What we're going to figure out."
"We?" She laughed, but it was hollow, nothing like the sharp, practiced sound she used on red carpets and talk shows. "There is no 'we.' There never was. I told you from the beginning—"
"That you don't do feelings. Yeah, I remember." Your hands were shaking now, so you pressed them flat against your thighs. "But feelings don't seem to care what you told me, Madison. And neither does biology."
She moved then, quick and electric, stopping inches from your face. You could smell her perfume, that expensive French shit she ordered from Paris. You'd memorized the name of it six months ago, just in case she ever asked if you noticed.
"You're trying to trap me," she hissed. "That's what this is. You got tired of waiting for me to love you back, so you—"
"So I what? Sabotaged my own birth control?" The accusation made you see red, made you forget to be gentle with her, to handle her like something breakable. "I'm not your mother, Madison. I'm not trying to control you by getting knocked up. This happened because we were careless, and we have to deal with it."
The mention of her mother landed like a live grenade. Madison went absolutely still, the way she did before a detonation. Her eyes, that pale blue you'd drowned in a hundred times, went glassy and remote.
"Get out," she said quietly.
"Mads—"
"I said get out of my room." She didn't yell. That was worse. Yelling meant engagement, meant she was still in the fight. This—this was her shutting down, sealing off, retreating somewhere you couldn't follow.
You stood your ground for three heartbeats. Four. Then something in your chest caved, and you turned, and you walked out.
The door slammed behind you so hard the pictures rattled in the hallway.
You made it to your own room—your room, not hers, separate, always separate no matter how many nights you spent tangled in her sheets—before your legs gave out. You slid down the door, pressing your palm flat against your still-flat stomach, and let the tears come.
Somewhere down the hall, you heard something shatter against a wall.
And then, somehow worse than the shattering, you heard silence.
---
That afternoon was the last time you talked to Madison. If you could have helped it, it would have been the last time you'd seen her altogether, but instead you had to share the dining table with her twice in the following week. You'd stopped going to the classes you shared with her, then any classes. As shameful as your situation was, you shared enough of it with Cordelia to be given some slack while you considered your options. Alone.
Maybe you shouldn't have told Madison after all, she had reacted exactly how you'd feared she would, then worse. The time alone gave you a chance to reflect far too often on the venom in her words, the tremor in her hands, and the anger in her throat.
Cordelia had been kind. Infuriatingly, impossibly kind, the way she was with everyone who came to her broken and bleeding. She'd asked what you needed, and you'd said "space," and she'd given it. She hadn't pushed about Madison. Hadn't asked why the screaming you'd both done that first night hadn't been followed by anything except the cold, awful politeness of strangers who shared a lease.
But space, you were learning, was just another word for loneliness with a better reputation.
You'd spent the week making phone calls you never thought you'd make. Researching things you'd never thought you'd Google at two in the morning, curled around a pillow that still smelled faintly of her shampoo because you were too pathetic to wash the sheets. You'd cried so much your eyes felt sanded raw, and then you'd stopped crying entirely, because there was something almost peaceful about the numbness that followed.
You hadn't decided anything. That was the truth. You'd gathered information like a person gathering stones, unsure if you were building a wall or a grave.
It was Thursday night, or maybe Friday morning—the hours had started bleeding together—when you heard the knock.
Soft. Almost hesitant.
When you opened the door, she was leaning against the frame like it was the only thing holding her up. Her hair was down, no product in it, falling around her face in a way that made her look younger. Vulnerable. She was wearing one of your hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuffs that you'd been looking for all week—and the sight of it made your throat close.
"Hey," she said. Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been screaming or not speaking at all. You couldn't tell which.
You didn't say anything. You couldn't. You just stood there in the doorway, blocking the entrance, your hand still on the knob like a shield.
"I brought you something." She held up a paper bag, the kind from the bodega on the corner. "It's not—I don't know if you're eating, because you haven't been at dinner, and I know you haven't been to the kitchen because I keep leaving your mug there and it's still there every morning, so I just thought—" She stopped, pressed her lips together, and thrust the bag toward you. "Just take it."
You took it. Inside was a container of the soup you always ordered when you were sick, and a blueberry muffin from the bakery you'd dragged her to once, months ago, after she'd complained about the paparazzi and you'd told her the muffins were worth being seen. You remembered her eating half of yours and pretending she hadn't.
Your eyes burned. You looked down at the floor instead of at her.
"Can I come in?" she asked. The humility in her voice was almost unrecognizable. Madison never asked permission.
You stepped aside.
She moved past you slowly, carefully, like she was afraid you'd shatter. She stopped in the middle of your room—the room that had never really felt like yours, because yours was wherever she was—and turned in a small circle, taking it in. The untouched textbooks on your desk. The nest of excess blankets on your bed that you'd been sleeping in because you couldn't stand the emptiness. The framed photo of the two of you at some party, your arm around her waist, her smile actually reaching her eyes for once.
She stopped when she saw that photo. Her shoulders rose and fell with a breath that seemed to cost her something.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The words were so small. So inadequate for everything that had happened, everything that hung between you like smoke. But they were also the words you'd been waiting what already felt like a small taste of forever to hear, and the sound of them cracked something open in your chest.
You closed the door. Leaned against it. "Which part are you sorry for?"
She turned to face you, and for once, her mask was nowhere to be found. She looked exhausted. Hollowed out. Like someone had taken her apart and put her back together wrong.
"All of it," she said. "The part where I called you a side piece. The part where I asked whose it is. The part where I—" Her voice cracked, and she looked away, her jaw working. "The part where I've been pretending for a year that you weren't the only person who's ever made me feel like I wasn't completely fucking broken."
The air left your lungs.
"I'm not good at this," she continued, her hands moving like she didn't know what to do with them. She shoved them in the pockets of your hoodie, then pulled them out, then crossed her arms. "I'm not good at any of this. You know my mom. You know what she was like. And I told myself I'd never—that I wouldn't—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "When you told me, I just. I panicked. And I said every horrible thing I could think of because I wanted you to leave before you could leave on your own. Does that make sense?"
It did. It made terrible, awful sense.
"No," you said, because you weren't ready to give her that comfort yet. "It doesn't. It sounds like you decided I was going to hurt you, so you hurt me first."
Her face crumpled, just slightly, just at the corners. "Yeah," she whispered. "That's exactly what I did."
The silence stretched between you, taut as a wire. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, could feel the shape of the paper bag in your hand, the warmth of the soup bleeding through.
"I haven't decided what I'm doing," you said finally. "About the—about any of it."
Madison nodded, slow and careful. "I know. Cordelia told me. She also told me to stay the hell away from you until you figured it out, but I—" She laughed, a broken little sound. "I've never been good at listening."
"Why are you here, Madison?"
She looked at you then, really looked, and you saw something in her eyes that you'd never seen before. Something raw and terrified and aching.
"Because I don't want to lose you," she said, and her voice shook on every syllable. "Not the baby, not the idea of the baby. You. I don't care what you decide to do. I'll support it. I'll pay for it. I'll drive you to the appointment and hold your hand and never mention it again if that's what you want. But I can't—" She pressed the heel of her palm against her sternum, like she was trying to hold herself together. "I can't go back to the way things were before you. I can't eat breakfast across from an empty chair. I can't sleep in that bed alone. I've tried, this week, I've tried, and I just keep reaching for you and you're not there and I—"
She stopped. Swallowed. Her eyes were wet, and Madison Montgomery didn't cry, except you'd seen her cry exactly three times before, always in the dark, always with her face pressed against your shoulder like she was drowning.
"I love you," she said. "I love you, and I'm terrified, and I'm sorry."
The words landed like blows, one after another. You gripped the paper bag until your knuckles went white.
"You have a funny way of showing it," you managed.
"I know." She didn't defend herself. Didn't deflect. Just stood there, taking it. "I know I do. And I know I don't deserve you asking me to stay. But I'm asking anyway. I'm asking you to let me try. To let me be better. To let me—" She gestured vaguely at the space between you, at the impossible tangle of everything unsaid. "To let me figure out how to do this. Whatever this is. Whatever it turns into."
You thought about the past year. The way she'd look at you sometimes when she thought you weren't paying attention. The way she'd trace patterns on your skin after sex, infinite and aimless, like she was memorizing you. The way she'd gotten defensive when anyone flirted with you at parties, claiming it was annoyance when you knew, you'd always known, it was something else entirely.
You thought about the two pink lines. The weight of them. The way they'd felt like an ending and a beginning all at once.
"I'm scared too," you said quietly. "I've been scared since I found out. Not just about the pregnancy. About telling you. About losing you. About finding out that I meant nothing to you."
Madison winced.
"You're not nothing," she said. "You've never been nothing. I just—" She pressed her fingers to her temples, frustrated with herself, with her own inability to find the right words. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be soft. Nobody taught me. But I want to learn. For you. For—" She glanced at your stomach, quick and frightened, then back to your face. "For whatever happens."
You set the paper bag down on your desk. Turned to face her fully.
"Madison." You said her name carefully, like testing ice. "If we do this. If we try. You can't keep shutting me out. You can't keep using words like weapons every time you get scared. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works."
"I know." Her voice was small. "I know. I'll—" She hesitated, then pulled something from the pocket of your hoodie. A small spiral notebook, the cover bent and creased. She held it out to you. "Cordelia gave me this. It's for... journaling, or whatever. For when I want to say something horrible, I'm supposed to write it down instead. And then when I'm not freaking out anymore, I can decide if I still want to say it."
You stared at the notebook. Then at her.
"You're seeing Cordelia?"
"Couple's counseling," Madison said, and the words came out strangled, like she was confessing to a crime. "She said she'd see us together, if you want. Or separately. I have an appointment on Monday anyway. She's making me do anger management, which is—" She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it. "Fine. Whatever. I'll go."
You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. You did a little of both, a wet sound escaping your throat that was somewhere in between.
"Can I—" Madison took a step toward you, then stopped, uncertain. "Can I touch you? I've been going crazy not touching you."
The question undid something in you. Madison Montgomery, asking permission. Madison Montgomery, waiting.
You nodded.
She closed the distance slowly, like you were a wild animal she didn't want to startle. Her hands came up to your face, cupping your jaw, her thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. She was warm, and she was real, and she was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"I'm sorry," she said again, softer this time. "I'm so sorry."
"I know." You placed your hands over hers, pressing them closer to your face. "I know you are."
Your writing is amazing. I really liked the last Neuman fic with the interviewer reader, could you do something where the reader is kind of a private detective sent to investigate Neuman, but obviously they fall in love instead
Thank you very much!
You'd been hired to keep a very close eye on Victoria Neuman, and you kept your end of the bargain very well. What hadn't gone well was the way your gaze was starting to linger on the pictures you'd taken before you made contact. In each of them, Victoria almost seemed to be looking into the camera, though you knew there was no way she could have seen you when you took them.
It was enough to stay with you as you skimmed her call records, finding nothing overtly of interest to your client as you marked out her patterns nonetheless. You found the coffee place she liked to stop at, and you watched her make her order as you waited in line. After you both had ordered and were waiting, you angled yourself closer to her.
"Miss Neuman, if you have a second?" Your voice was just a pitch higher, light and tentative.
She turned to face you, and you weren't prepared to experience her so close. Dark eyes regarded you with a measure of warmth that immediately lowered your defenses a good deal. "Yes?"
"I know you're a busy woman, I've just been following your campaign and was hoping I could ask you about your position on redistributing school funding? For them, I mean." You let your words fall clumsily, and you thought you caught a hint of a smile on Victoria's lips.
"Why don't we sit down?"
You'd both finished your coffees before she revealed her hand. She'd answered all of your questions, and you'd gotten lost in easy conversation. As you set your empty cup down, her gaze found yours, a sly smile curving her lips.
"Was there anything else, detective?"
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but she tilted her head as she assessed you from across the table.
"I won't ask who hired you, but I'd much prefer you to cut to the chase." Victoria's eyes sparkled. "Unless you're planning on taking me on more dates."
"Is that what this is?" You felt yourself smiling despite the twinge of unease.
"You're the one who bought me breakfast."
"Okay, no, I bought you a muffin in exchange for your time, that's basically a bribe." You crossed your arms, but the smile was lingering.
When she called you a week later with a dinner reservation, you didn't think twice.
The restaurant was the kind of place where the waiter knew her name and her usual order, which she ignored in favor of asking your opinion on a few dishes. You watched her across the candlelight, the way she held her wine glass by the stem, the way she laughed at your stories like she actually meant it. You knew better. You should have known better.
But when her hand brushed yours as she reached for the salt, she left it there.
"You're staring," she said, not accusingly.
"You're worth staring at."
That crooked smile. The one that made your stomach drop like you were seventeen again. "Careful, detective. I might start to think you're not here for the investigation anymore."
"What investigation?" The lie came easy. Too easy.
She didn't call you out on it. Instead, she squeezed your fingers once, then pulled away to flag down the check.
Three weeks later, you'd stopped reporting to your client. You told yourself you were being careful, professional even, that you'd inform them once you had something concrete. But the only thing you'd gathered was the sound of Victoria's laugh, the weight of her head on your shoulder during late nights at her apartment, the way she said your name like it meant something.
Tonight, you were on her couch. A half-empty bottle of red sat on the coffee table, and some documentary played unwatched on the television. Victoria had her legs draped over yours, heels discarded somewhere by the door, and she was tracing patterns on your forearm with a single finger.
"I know what you were hired to find," she said quietly.
The room didn't spin, but it felt like it should have. "Victoria—"
"I'm not going to hurt you." Her eyes met yours, and for once, the warmth wasn't a weapon. It was just her. "I need you to know that. Whatever you think you know about me—"
"I don't know anything," you admitted. "I stopped looking."
She blinked, genuinely surprised. It was the first time you'd seen her caught off guard. "Why?"
You turned your hand over, catching hers. Her palm was soft, her fingers cool against your skin. "Because I didn't want to find something that would make me leave."
The silence stretched. Outside, the city hummed; distant sirens, the rumble of the subway. Inside, Victoria Neuman looked at you like she was seeing something she'd never encountered before, something she didn't have a plan for.
"You're a terrible private investigator," she said finally, but her voice cracked on the last word.
"I know."
She leaned in, and when she kissed you, it was slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.
hiii ur fics are peak 😭 can i request one where reader & jordan li are casual but then reader gets badly hurt and jordan confesses?
Thank you so much!
You were having a hard time remembering the details of what happened, which maybe meant that you weren't as fine as you were trying to convince everyone, yourself included. The paramedics kept saying you'd lost a lot of blood, and you didn't remember any of the ride to the hospital.
All things considered, you felt pretty calm, but that was probably due to whatever was in the IV you were connected to. Until this point, your visitors had been contained to hospital staff, but after a knock, the door swung open to reveal a more familiar face.
Jordan slunk into the room like a wounded animal, their brow furrowed in immediate concern as they took you in. Their muscles were tight, and the image of a pacing tiger flashed through your mind.
"Hey," you offered softly, your voice coming out raspier than you intended until you cleared your throat. The sound seemed to break Jordan's stillness, her breath leaving her in a heavy exhale as her feet remembered how to work and began to bring her closer. They circled the hospital bed until they were at your left side, opposite all the machines you were connected to, and sank into a chair. "It's nice to see someone out of uniform."
She didn't quite smile, though she tried for your benefit. It felt more like a wince, and your hand reached out to rest on top of hers on the thin blanket you'd been given. Jordan flinched at the contact, not pulling away, but a sharp, almost imperceptible recoil, like your touch had sent a current through them that was too much to process all at once. Their hand turned over beneath yours, fingers threading together in a grip that was almost too tight.
"You almost died." Jordan’s voice cracked on the last word, splintering into something raw and unrecognizable. She wasn't looking at you anymore, her gaze fixed somewhere on the beige hospital wall, jaw working like she was physically chewing on the words before spitting them out. "You almost died, and I—I couldn't—"
"Jordan."
"No, let me—" They cut themselves off with a sharp exhale, their free hand coming up to press against their mouth, thumb digging into their lower lip. When they finally turned to look at you, their eyes were glassy, rimmed red in a way that suggested they'd been crying long before they walked through the door. "I was there. Do you understand? I was right there, and I still couldn't—"
"But you did." You squeezed their hand, the motion sending a dull ache up your arm. "You got to me in time."
"You were on the ground and there was so much blood and I couldn't tell if you were breathing." The words tumbled out faster now, unstoppable, like a dam breaking. Jordan's chest heaved. "For one second—one second, I thought—and I realized I never told you. I never said anything, and if that was it, if that was the last moment, you would have died not knowing—"
"Knowing what?"
Jordan went very still. The machines beeped steadily, filling the silence. Their thumb traced small, frantic circles against the back of your hand.
"I think I'm in love with you."
The words hung in the sterile air, fragile and terrifying. Jordan immediately looked away, shoulders hunching like they were bracing for impact. Her other hand came up to scrub roughly at her face, a shaky laugh escaping her that held no humor at all.
"God, that's—you're in a hospital bed. You almost died. This is the worst timing in the history of anything, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I can leave. I can pretend I didn't say anything. We can go back to—"
"Jordan." Your voice was steadier now, stronger. You tugged at their hand until they were forced to look at you, and when they did, you smiled, small and tired and genuine. "I've been in love with you for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up. Or hoping you would, at least." You'd always been bad at casual, and you'd been hopelessly enamored before you fell into Jordan's orbit.
Jordan stared at you. For a long, agonizing moment, they didn't move, didn't breathe, and you watched the words ricochet around inside their skull like they were trying to find a place to land.
Then their face crumpled.
Not into tears exactly, but something close, a raw, overwhelmed relief that poured out of them in a shuddering exhale. She leaned forward, forehead coming to rest against your shoulder, careful of your injuries, and you felt her tremble against you.
"You're an idiot," they mumbled into the hospital gown, voice muffled and thick. "You almost died, and you're still an idiot."
"Yeah well, I'm not the first idiot to fall for your irresistible charms now, am I?" You nudged Jordan gently, playfully, and you felt gentle laughter shake through them. "Jordan, I'm going to be alright. I'll even be marginally more careful from now on, if that'll make you happy."
"You better," came the muffled response, their hand squeezing yours firmly just once.
It had started on set, fabricated as any other scene was. You were brought in to play Starlight's love interest, and your first scene together was to be a nod to Gone Girl. You didn't mind, you had your share of fondness for the film, and you certainly didn't mind showing up to work to kiss Starlight. The set was prepared, the pastry truck brought in, the streetlights humming their quiet song, and everything faded away as you stepped into your role.
Starlight's eyes were soft when she looked at you, and you could almost believe the fondness in them was actually for you. Powdered sugar kicked up in the air like snow flurries, and she kissed you, trapping tiny flakes of sugar between your lips. It's possible that that's where she got the idea, but all you knew was that at the end of the evening, when everyone was wrapping up, she'd circled back to you and invited you to her place in a couple of days.
"We should get to know each other better, considering..." She trailed off as she gestured around, and you could swear you caught a blush creeping onto her features.
You gave her an easy smile, "Anything you say, Starlight."
"Annie. Please," her smile was earnest, and you were agreeing before you had even processed her words.
When you knocked on her door, Annie answered in jeans and a simple sweater that made you feel a little overdressed, but her smile was soft and warm and the way she seemed genuinely pleased to see you did something unexpected to your heart. You patiently waited until after she had given you the mini-tour to ask your questions.
"What did you have in mind for today?" Your voice was soft, you were in no rush to spend your time with Annie. If she was a good hostess, you wanted to savor her company, and you'd enjoyed the easy chemistry between the two of you in front of the camera.
"You can't laugh," Annie said first, holding a stern finger in your direction, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the smile she was fighting. Once she had your word, she led you back to the kitchen, where a few bowls were already waiting on the counter. "I was thinking we could just hang out and bake some cookies. You know, listen to music, maybe have some wine while they're in the oven, just get to know each other."
The late afternoon light spilled through her kitchen windows, catching the dust motes floating lazily above the counter. You leaned against the doorframe, watching as Annie busied herself pulling ingredients from the cabinets—flour, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla extract—lining them up like soldiers preparing for battle.
"Baking cookies," you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips. "That's... actually really sweet. And deeply domestic for someone who can shoot light lasers from her hands."
Annie ducked her head, that same blush from the set creeping back up her neck. "See? You're already laughing."
"I'm not laughing," you said, and you weren't, not really. There was something disarmingly genuine about this whole thing—the way she'd rolled up her sleeves to her elbows, the way her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail with a few strands escaping to frame her face. The Starlight you'd seen on billboards and talk shows was always polished, always camera-ready. This Annie was someone else entirely.
"You promised," she reminded you, pointing the vanilla extract bottle in your direction like she was wielding a tiny glass weapon.
"Okay, okay. Cookies it is." You pushed off from the doorframe and rolled up your own sleeves. "Where do you want me?"
The question hung in the air a beat longer than you'd intended. Annie's eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a moment, the kitchen felt very small. Then she cleared her throat and gestured to the bowl of dry ingredients.
"You can mix the flour and sugar and baking soda together while I melt down the butter?"
"Sure. I can handle that."
She'd already queued up a playlist—something soft, with a folksy undercurrent that matched the golden light stretching across her countertops. You fell into an easy rhythm, the scrape of her spatula against the mixing bowl punctuated by the gentle thunk of the spoon in your hand hitting the side of your own bowl. Every so often, your shoulders would brush as you reached for the same ingredient, and each time, Annie would murmur a soft apology that you pretended not to notice her leaning into.
"So," Annie said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "tell me something. Something real. Not the IMDB fun facts version."
You paused, considering as you poured some of the flour mixture into her bowl. "What do you want to know?"
"I don't know." She scraped down the sides of the bowl as she folded the dry ingredients in, her movements methodical, almost nervous. "What's your favorite memory?"
"That's a big question for a first date."
The word slipped out before you could catch it—date—and you felt your own cheeks warm. Annie's hands stilled on the mixing bowl, and when you risked a glance at her, she was looking at you with something soft and unreadable in her expression.
"Yeah," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I guess it is."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it was charged, the kind of silence that happens when two people realize they've accidentally stumbled into something neither of them was quite prepared for. The music played on, some song about stars and highway lines, and you found yourself wondering if she'd chosen it intentionally.
"Favorite memory," you said finally, returning to your bowl to give your hands something to do. "I think... probably sitting on my grandmother's porch swing during a thunderstorm. She'd make hot chocolate, and we'd just sit there, watching the rain come down, not saying anything. Just... being."
When you looked up, Annie had stopped stirring entirely. She was just watching you, her expression soft, the kind of soft that made you feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with cameras or scripts or the version of yourself you showed the world.
"That sounds nice," she said. "Really nice."
"Yeah." You cleared your throat. "What about you?"
Annie turned back to her bowl, but not before you caught the way her eyes had gone a little distant, a little sad. "I don't know if I have one. A favorite, I mean. Most of my memories feel like they belong to someone else. Starlight's memories, not Annie's."
The honesty of it landed somewhere in your chest, heavy and unexpected. You set down your whisk.
"Then maybe we should make a new one," you said. "Right here. Right now."
Annie's gaze returned to you, just as soft but now the subtle sadness was replaced by curiosity, and you felt yourself smiling. Gently, you took hold of her hand, and she let go of the spatula as you guided her a few steps away from the counter, to the small open space in her kitchen between furniture and structure.
The music was on the softer side, but that was perfectly fine. Annie's fingers laced with yours, and her other hand came up to your shoulder when your own hand found her waist. "Dance with me?" You murmured, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
The song shifted to something slower now, a cover of an old classic with just a guitar and a woman's voice that seemed to wrap around the two of you like the afternoon light. Annie's hand tightened slightly in yours, and you felt her exhale, a soft release of something she'd been holding onto.
"I'm not very good at this," she admitted, her voice soft and quiet.
"At dancing?"
"At... this." She gestured vaguely with her chin, encompassing the kitchen, the cookies, the way you were holding her. "Being normal. Being Annie. Most people don't want that version. They want the costume, the smile, the lines I've memorized."
You swayed gently, not leading so much as suggesting, and Annie followed your movement like she'd been waiting for someone to show her the steps her whole life. Her hand on your shoulder was warm through your shirt, and when she looked up at you, the kitchen light caught something in her eyes that made your breath catch before you could catch yourself.
"I'm not most people," you said.
"No," she agreed quietly. "I don't think you are."
The dance wasn't really a dance, was more of a slow rocking motion, the two of you turning in lazy circles on her kitchen floor. Flour dusted the counter behind her, the forgotten cookie dough waiting patiently in its bowl, and somewhere in the other room, a clock ticked softly. It was the most ordinary moment you'd had in years, and somehow, standing here with a superhero in her cozy little kitchen, it was starting to feel like the most extraordinary thing you'd ever done.
Slow minutes passed that way, in a quiet that held you spellbound and was making something protective grow in your chest over a woman who could easily destroy you if she felt the inclination. The song was ending, the last chords fading into something more upbeat, but neither of you moved to let go. Annie's hand stayed on your shoulder, your arm still loose around her waist, the space between you filled with something that felt suspiciously like possibility.
"I should probably finish those cookies," she said, but she didn't step back.
"You probably should."
Neither of you moved.
Then Annie laughed, a real laugh, unguarded and bright, and ducked her head again, her hair falling forward to hide her face. "This is ridiculous," she said, but she didn't sound like she minded. "I invited you over to bake cookies and get to know you, and instead I'm just..."
"Just what?"
She looked at you through her lashes, and whatever she saw in your expression made her cheeks flush pink. "Just falling for you a little bit," she admitted. "And that's terrifying, because we filmed one scene together, and I don't even know your middle name or whether you take your coffee with sugar or if you're secretly working for Vought or—"
You kissed her.
It wasn't like the kiss on set, choreographed and lit and performed for cameras. There was no powdered sugar between your lips this time, no director calling cut, no audience waiting to judge the angle of your face. It was just you and Annie and the warm kitchen and the way she made a small surprised sound before melting into you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like she was afraid you might disappear.
hiiii! i absolutely love your writing!!! do you think you could do a story with victoria neuman and a fem poc plus size reader? im open to the plot! i would loooove it of the character was playing hard to get with neuman and shes def not used to it! steamy and flirty vibes!!
You were one of the more seasoned members of the team, which was why you were lucky enough to snag the big ticket interview; one with Victoria Neuman. As the other woman quickly rose in success, so too did the demand to know more about her. People wanted something tangible to confirm and show their peers look, I was supporting the right one all along. It was your job to get that tangible evidence.
On your notebook were a list of neatly scrawled pre-approved questions, the page hidden underneath holding a few more adventurous ones that you hadn't entirely gotten a yes for but didn't think you'd be in too hot of water for trying. Now that you were halfway through the interview and in a brief water break, you flipped to those questions.
You caught the shift in her posture before she even said a word. Victoria Neuman—immaculate suit, hair like a silk curtain, smile that could disarm a jury—leaned back in her chair and let her gaze drop to the edge of your notebook. The water bottle paused halfway to her lips.
“You’ve been hiding a second page from me,” she said, not accusing. Amused. Her voice had that buttery quality that made you forget she regularly eviscerated people in congressional hearings. “I saw you flip to it earlier when you thought I was looking at the window.”
You laughed, and it was just a little too warm for a professional setting. “Old reporter habit. Gotta keep the subject on their toes.”
“And here I thought I was the intimidating one.” She set the bottle down and folded her hands on the table. The movement pulled the fabric of her blouse taut across her shoulders—not in a leering way, but in a way that made you hyperaware of her physicality. She wasn’t small, exactly. But next to you, settled comfortably into your own frame, she looked compact. Deliberate. Like something coiled and posed to attack if the need arose.
“Let me see them,” she said.
“The questions?”
“The daring ones.” She tilted her head, and a strand of dark hair slipped across her cheek. “Come on. Off the record. Just between us.”
You hesitated for half a second, that was defeating the entire point of an interview, but then turned the notebook around.
Her eyes skimmed the page. Slower than necessary. Her smile didn’t drop, but it changed. Softened at one corner, sharpened at the other.
“You ask your other interviewees about their ‘first instinct when pressure mounts’?” she murmured.
“Only the ones who vote on national security.” You kept your gaze on her, but you remained leaned back in your chair to encourage her to take her time. "We have to know that their vote is coming from a place of rationale."
Victoria’s laugh was quiet, almost private—like she’d forgotten the microphone was still clipped to her lapel. She slid the notebook back across the table with one finger, slow, deliberate.
“And what’s your first instinct when pressure mounts?” she asked, turning the question around on you. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’re the one asking the hard questions. Surely you’ve had a few close calls.”
You shrugged, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel like a choice. “Depends on the pressure. And the company.”
She smiled at that. Really smiled. Not the polished, camera-ready version—the one that crinkled the corner of her eye and made her look like she knew something you didn’t.
“I like that,” she said. “You don’t fold.”
“I’ve been told I’m stubborn.”
“I didn’t say stubborn.” Victoria reached for her water again, but didn’t drink. Just held it, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle like she was considering whether to twist the cap off or put it down. “I said you don’t fold. There’s a difference. Stubborn breaks eventually. You just… pivot.”
You arched an eyebrow. “That a professional observation or a personal one?”
The air between you shifted. Not dramatically—nothing so clumsy as a record scratch or a dropped pen. But something settled into place. A recognition. The kind that happens when two people who are very good at reading others suddenly realize they’re being read back.
Victoria set the bottle down. Leaned forward just slightly. Her perfume drifted across the table—something clean and warm, like bergamot and cedar. Expensive. Intimate.
“Let’s say both,” she murmured. “Off the record.”
“This isn't going to bode well for my notebook,” you replied, keeping your voice light. Teasing. But you didn’t look away.
Her gaze flicked down—just for a second—to where your arm rested on the table. The soft curve of your bicep pressing against the sleeve of your blazer. Then back up to your face. She didn’t apologize for looking. Didn’t pretend she hadn’t.
“You’re good at this,” she said.
“At what?”
“Making someone want to answer your questions.”
Your skin warmed pleasantly, and you had to remind yourself not to get distracted, which was a little hard when it was a stunning woman whom you respected greatly saying those words to you. "I guess that's why I found this job," you offered with a smile.
"You still haven't really answered my question," Victoria tried you again, that easy, calm smile never leaving her features. "Tell me your first instinct, and I'll tell you mine."
"It was my question first," you shot back with a little grin, but you leaned forward a little as you considered your answer and how honest to be. "But I suppose my instinct is to lock down. I need more information before I can react. Your turn, Ms. Neuman."
"Victoria, please," she corrected you almost immediately.
The correction landed like a dropped match on dry grass. Victoria. Not Ms. Neuman. Not the Congresswoman. Just Victoria.
You nodded, once, slow. "Victoria."
Her name in your mouth seemed to please her. She let the silence hold for a beat, then two, before answering your question. "My first instinct," she said, "is to find the pressure point and push back. Hard." She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes this time. Or maybe it did, and that was the problem. "You'd be surprised how few people expect it from someone who looks like me."
"Looks like you?"
"Polished. Safe." She gestured vaguely at herself, the impeccable suit, the careful hair, the unthreatening smile she'd worn for the first half of the interview. "People see what I want them to see. That's not a secret. But knowing something and feeling it are different things, aren't they?"
You considered that. "Is that why you agreed to this interview? Because you want to know if I'd see past it?"
Victoria tilted her head, and you caught it—the faintest flicker of something behind her eyes. Not surprise. Interest.
"Maybe," she said, but didn't elaborate further. Instead, she let her gaze linger on you. "Before we go back on the record, I could use some recommendations for dinner. Consider it a chance to ask the questions you haven't even dared to write down."
---
Another hour was all it took, and you were in the backseat of her car with her. An hour and you had given the names of a few restaurants, taken the bait, and gone right back into the official interview. Now you were at the restaurant she had chosen, watching her as the waiter walked away, leaving you with menus that neither of you had even glanced at.
"So what's your first question?" Victoria sounded amused, and her eyes were dancing in the low lights.
"Why would you suggest a potentially invasive interview when you're trying to relax and enjoy a meal?" It was the one that had been lodged in your thoughts since she invited your company.
"Maybe the questions you ask tell me more about you than you realize," she countered. "Or maybe I just find you interesting."
You weren't sure which you wanted her answer to be. You only shook your head slowly, a smile lingering on your features despite yourself.
"What do you want to eat?" You asked instead, reaching over to nudge her menu in front of her.
“You’re deflecting,” she said, but she picked up the menu anyway. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it, not quite accidental. The contact was brief, barely there, but your skin remembered it longer than it should have.
“I’m being polite,” you corrected, pulling your hand back to your own menu. “You invited me to dinner. Presumably so you wouldn’t eat alone.”
“Presumably.” Victoria didn’t look at the menu. She held it like a prop, her eyes still on you over the top edge. “And if I said I invited you because I wanted to see how you handle a room that isn’t a sterile conference space?”
You let out a low laugh, finally glancing down at the options. “You’d be admitting you planned this.”
“I always plan.”
“That’s not the same as admitting it.”
She smiled. That crinkled-corner one again. The one that made you think she was enjoying herself more than she’d expected to.
The restaurant was quiet, tucked away in a part of the city that didn’t advertise itself to tourists. Low ceilings, exposed brick, candles on every table. The kind of place where conversations stayed at a comfortable murmur and no one answered their phone.
You ordered first—something simple, something you didn’t have to think about—and watched as Victoria gave her own order without glancing at the menu once. She’d already decided. Of course she had.
“You memorized the menu before we walked in,” you said.
“I memorized the menu before I suggested the restaurant.” She set her menu aside and folded her hands on the table. The candlelight caught the edge of her jaw, softened the sharp line of her cheekbone. “I like knowing what I’m walking into.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“It can be.” She said it lightly, but something underneath it flickered. A crack in the polish. “But it’s better than the alternative.”
You didn’t ask what the alternative was. You had a feeling you already knew.
The waiter returned with a bottle of wine you hadn't heard Victoria order—a deep crimson that caught the light like stained glass. She nodded once, barely a gesture, and he poured two glasses before disappearing into the dimly lit quiet of the restaurant.
"You didn't ask if I wanted wine," you said, watching her lift her glass.
"You wanted wine." She took a slow sip, her eyes on you over the rim. "You've been glancing at the table to your left since we sat down. They're drinking the same vintage."
You blinked. Then laughed—soft, genuine, a little unsteady. "That's either very observant or very unsettling."
"Both." She set the glass down and dragged her finger along the stem. "I told you. I notice things."
The wine was good. Rich and dark, with a finish that lingered on your tongue like a secret. You took another sip just to have something to do with your hands, because Victoria was looking at you again—not the way interview subjects look at journalists, with careful calculation and guarded warmth. This was different. Slower. Like she was reading something written in a language only she understood.
"You're staring," you said.
"I'm admiring." She didn't flinch at the accusation. Didn't apologize. "There's a difference."
Your pulse did something unprofessional and you tried to ignore it. "Admiring what, exactly?"
Victoria let the silence stretch. Her gaze traveled—not leering, never leering, but deliberate. From your face to the curve of your shoulder where your blazer had slipped slightly, down to your wrist resting on the tablecloth, then back up. When her eyes met yours again, they were darker than they'd been in the conference room.
"The way you take up space," she said finally. "Most people try to make themselves smaller around me. Unconsciously. They pull their elbows in, soften their voice, angle their body toward the door." She tilted her head. "You haven't done any of that."
"Should I?"
"No." Her voice dropped, just a fraction. "I like it."
The word like landed differently than it would have an hour ago. Heavier. More charged. You reached for your wine again, partly for courage, partly because your throat had gone dry in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
"You're very good at this," you said.
"At what?"
"Making someone feel like they're the only person in the room."
---
When the waiter brought the check, Victoria reached for it before you could.
"I invited you," she said, pulling a card from her wallet. "My treat."
"That's not—"
"Let me." Her eyes met yours, and there was something in them that made your argument die in your throat. "Please."
You nodded. Swallowed. Watched her sign the receipt with a quick, practiced flourish.
Outside, the night air was cool against your flushed skin. Victoria's car waited at the curb—same black sedan, same tinted windows, same driver who didn't look up when you approached.
"I'll take you home," she said. Not a question.
"You don't even know where I live."
"Then you'll have to tell me."
The backseat was warm, dim, intimate. The partition was up—you hadn't seen the driver raise it, but it was there now, a dark wall between you and the rest of the world. Victoria sat close enough that her knee brushed yours when the car turned a corner. She didn't move it away.
"So," she said, her voice lower now, meant only for the space between you. "What's your real first question?"
You turned to look at her. The streetlights painted stripes of gold across her face, her shoulders, the curve of her hand resting on the seat between you.
"What happens now?" you asked.
Victoria smiled. Slow. Deliberate. And reached over to lay her hand on your thigh; not high, not low. Just there. A question of her own.
"That depends," she murmured. "Are we still off the record?" The murmur was teasing, her fingers giving your thigh a gentle squeeze.
Is it ok to request Marie x reader at an arcade date :3
Of course! 💜
The place Marie took you to was smaller, a bar with a retro arcade theme. You were already intrigued and immediately grateful for the less rambunctious environment. Game cabinets lined the corridor leading you inside, where there was a sitting area to eat themed menu items and drink. In the corner, you could see two racing games, complete with immersive seats.
"What do you think?" Marie nudged you lightly with her elbow, a small smile lingering on her features.
"I like it," you smiled back, leaned closer to kiss her cheek. "So come on, show me your favorite game here."
The request had her leading you by the hand into another room, old movie posters on the walls as you passed a dark room with what sounded like space themed games in it. The two of you ended up at a shooting game, zombies staggering around the loading screen.
"Try to keep up," she teased you lightly, handing you one of the guns.
"Oh, don't you worry," you grinned back. "I was killing zombies before I was even born."
Marie snorted, a real, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Doesn't have to," you shot back, taking the plastic gun from her hand. It was lighter than you expected, the orange tip worn from years of use. "It's about the energy."
The screen flickered, a countdown appearing in pixelated blood-red numbers. 3... 2... 1...
The first wave shambled out from the sides of the screen—slow, groaning things in tattered bowling shirts and cocktail dresses. You both opened fire immediately. The guns gave satisfying thwack sounds with each shot, coupled with the hollow pop-pop-pop of the game's internal speakers.
For the first minute, it was chaos. You both went for the same zombie more than once, and Marie accidentally shot a civilian holding a box of pizza. A sad tone played, and a message flashed: INNOCENT KILLED! -500 POINTS.
"Oops," Marie muttered, not sounding sorry at all, which made you laugh.
There were other couples scattered around, but not so many that you couldn't get lost in your pocket of space with Marie. She'd accuse you of letting her win, but you couldn't help the way your gaze kept wandering back to her to admire little details of her; her focus, the way she bit her lip, the way she was all but glowing in her element, carefree and just enjoying herself.
The game ended far too quickly, and so did the second one. You slipped away to get you both a drink, and when you returned, Marie had acquired one of the laminated menus to ponder. She tilted it so you could see it as well, accepting her glass with a murmured thanks.
"What are you thinking?" You asked her, skimming the different options with a mild interest as you felt your stomach rumble at the thought of hot food.
"I mean they do have a Street Fighter burger that sounds pretty tempting," Marie pointed it out, her shoulder resting against yours.
"Ask and you shall receive," you answered, plucking the menu from her hands playfully and heading to the counter to order. As you waited in line, you watched your date edge over to the pinball machines. A dumb smile clung to your lips as your gaze lingered on her, and the employee at the counter only had to try to get your attention twice before you realized it was your turn to order.
You placed the order, deciding on another round of drinks as well, then leaned against the counter while you waited, your eyes finding Marie again like a compass needle finding north.
She'd gotten the pinball machine going, swaying slightly as she worked the flippers. Every now and then she'd give the machine a sharp nudge with her hip, muttering something you couldn't hear when the ball ricocheted in a direction she hadn't intended. It was absurdly endearing, watching her get competitive with a piece of machinery older than both of you combined.
"Your girlfriend's pretty good at that," the employee said, sliding a tray across the counter toward you.
You didn't correct him. The word girlfriend sat warm in your chest like a shot of something smooth and strong. "Yeah," you said, surprising yourself with how easily it came out. "Yeah, she is."
The tray loaded with food and drinks, you made your way back toward the pinball machines. Marie was mid-round, brow furrowed in concentration, and she held up one finger without looking at you—just a second—before slapping the side of the machine with a triumphant laugh as the ball launched into an impressive sequence.
"Flashy," you teased, setting the tray down on a nearby table.
Marie turned, cheeks slightly flushed from the win, and shot you a grin that made your stomach do something complicated. "Flashy wins, baby."
Baby.
She was already reaching for a fry before you'd even fully set the tray down, stealing one and popping it into her mouth with zero shame. You watched her chew, watched her eyes close briefly in appreciation, and felt something dangerously close to too much bloom behind your ribs.
"So," Marie said, wiping her hands on a napkin before picking up her burger. "Rate the date so far. Be honest. No pity points."
You took a bite of your own burger, buying yourself a second to think. Chewed. Swallowed. Marie was watching you with an expression that tried very hard to look casual but wasn't quite pulling it off.
"Solid nine," you said finally.
Her eyebrows went up. "Nine? What's it gonna take to get to a ten?"
You set your burger down, wiped your hands, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed her temple. "Ask me again at the end of the night," you murmured against her skin. "I have a feeling you're gonna earn that last point."
Marie went still for half a heartbeat, and when she pulled back to look at you, there was something softer underneath the playful bravado.
"Careful," she said, voice quieter now, the teasing edges sanded down to something warmer. "Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me."
You reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear, letting your fingers trail down the side of her neck. "Marie."
@unity-rae
part three of being the center of attention with Marie, Emma, and Cate
The confession hung in the steam-thick air between you, fragile and electric all at once. Cate's forehead remained pressed to yours, her breath steady and warm against your lips, and you could feel Emma's arm still snug around your waist, Marie's fingers still interlaced with yours beneath the churning water.
For a long moment, no one moved. The only sounds were the soft hum of the jets and the distant whisper of wind through the pines outside the fogged glass.
Then Emma shifted, her lips brushing the curve of your ear again, but this time she didn't speak. Instead, she pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tender spot just below your earlobe, and you felt the tremor that ran through you echo in her own body.
"Emma," you breathed, and her name came out like a question you didn't know how to finish.
"She's good at that," Cate murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, her hand still warm on the back of your neck. Her eyes traced the line of your jaw, the flush spreading down your throat. "Aren't you, Em?"
"I'm excellent at that," Emma corrected, and you could hear the smile in her voice even as her lips found a new spot, just below your jaw this time, softer than before. "But you already knew that."
You hadn't, actually. Or maybe you had suspected, in the way she always found reasons to touch you, the way her hand would linger on your lower back when she passed you in hallways, the way she looked at you sometimes like she was cataloging every small detail of your face. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things, and right now, with her mouth tracing a slow path down the side of your neck, you were learning a great deal very quickly.
Marie squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to her. She was watching you with those soft, dark eyes, and there was something in her expression that made your chest tighten—not desire, exactly, though that was certainly present, but something closer to wonder. Like she couldn't quite believe you were here, like she was savoring every second of it.
"You're doing so well," Marie said quietly, and the praise washed over you like the warm water, loosening something you hadn't realized was still clenched tight. "Just let yourself feel it."
Feel what, exactly? There was too much to name—the heat of Emma's mouth on your neck, the press of Cate's fingers against your scalp, the way Marie's thumb was tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand. The weight of three bodies surrounding you, caging you in but not trapping you, holding you like something precious and fragile and wanted.
Cate shifted, her knees pressing against the outside of your thighs beneath the water, and her free hand came up to rest on your other side, so that she was bracketing you completely, her arms on either side of your shoulders, her body a warm wall in front of you. She was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the way the water beaded on her collarbone and dripped slowly down her chest.
"You can touch us, you know," Cate said, and her voice was lower than before, rougher at the edges. "You're not just supposed to sit there and take it. Unless you want to."
The implication hung in the air, heavy and sweet. You swallowed hard.
"I want to," you said, and your voice was steadier than you expected, firmer. "Touch you, I mean. I just—"
"Don't know where to start?" Emma finished, and you felt her smile against your skin. "That's cute. That's really cute."
"Don't tease her," Marie said, but there was no heat in it, and when you looked at her, she was smiling too, soft and fond.
"I'm not teasing, I'm observing," Emma said, and she pulled back just enough to look at you, her chin resting on your shoulder, her hazel eyes bright with something that made your stomach flip. "She's adorable when she's overwhelmed. Look at her face."
"Stop looking at my face," you said, but you were laughing now, breathless and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to break something open in the space between all of you.
Cate laughed too, a low, easy sound that vibrated through the water. "There she is," she said again, and this time it felt like a benediction. "There's our girl."
Our girl. The words settled into your chest like they belonged there, like they'd been waiting for a place to land.
Marie lifted your joined hands again, but this time she didn't kiss your knuckles. Instead, she pulled your hand toward her, guiding it slowly, deliberately, until your palm was pressed flat against her stomach, just above the line of the hem of her bikini. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath your fingers, and you could feel the subtle flutter of her breathing, the way it hitched when your thumb moved without your permission, tracing a small arc across her navel.
"See?" Marie whispered, her eyes never leaving yours. "That's not so hard."
Your hand on her felt impossibly intimate, more intimate than anything that had happened so far, maybe because it was your choice, your movement, your skin against hers. You could feel the fine tremor in her muscles, the way she was holding herself still, waiting.
"She wants to touch you too," Emma said, and her hand found your other one, lifting it from where it had been resting on your own thigh. She guided it to her own body, placing your palm on her hip, just above the curve where her bikini bottoms sat low on her skin. "We all do. We've been wanting this for a while."
"How long?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, small and wondering.
Cate answered. "Longer than you think." She reached down, her fingers wrapping around your shoulder to lightly squeeze.
"You have no idea what you do to us," Marie said, and her voice was barely above a whisper now. "Do you?"
You shook your head, because you didn't. You couldn't. You were just you. The one who always faded into the background, who never quite knew what to say, who had spent so long feeling invisible that you'd started to believe it was true.
But here, now, with steam curling around your faces and warm water lapping at your skin and three pairs of eyes looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, invisible was the last thing you felt.
"Stay with us tonight," Emma said, and it wasn't a question. "In the big bed. All of us."
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure they could feel it, could see it in the pulse jumping at your throat. "I—"
"We'll behave," Cate said, and the look she gave you said the opposite. "Mostly."
"Mostly," Marie echoed, and she was smiling now, that shy, beautiful smile that always made your chest ache.
"We'll take care of you," Emma said, and her hand squeezed your wrist gently, reassuringly. "Whatever that looks like. Whatever you need."
You looked at each of them in turn—Emma's bright, eager eyes; Marie's soft, steady gaze; Cate's intense, searching look—and you realized, with a clarity that felt like your chest breaking open, that you trusted them. Completely. Implicitly. In a way you hadn't trusted anyone in a very long time.
"Okay," you said, and your voice was small but sure. "Okay."
Emma whooped, loud and jubilant, and the sound was so unexpected, so perfectly her, that you couldn't help but laugh. Marie laughed too, and even Cate cracked a smile, that rare, genuine one that transformed her whole face.
"Finally," Emma said, and she pressed a kiss to your shoulder, quick and exuberant. "I've been waiting to get you in that bed since we got here."
"You've been waiting since we got her," Marie corrected, but she was still smiling, still holding your hand.
"Same thing," Emma said dismissively.
Cate leaned forward again, and this time she didn't stop short. Her lips brushed yours, soft and questioning, and you answered by leaning into her, by letting your hand rise to come to the back of her neck, by grazing her tongue with your own.
One of her hands came up to cradle your jaw, angling your head gently, and she kissed you deeper, slower, like she had all the time in the world.
When she finally pulled back, your lips were tingling and your head was spinning and you were very, very glad you were already sitting down.
"Okay," you said again, breathless. "Okay, wow."
"Wow," Emma agreed, and her voice was slightly strangled. "That was—yeah. Wow."
Marie was staring at Cate with an expression you couldn't quite read, something complicated and hungry and fond all at once. "You've been holding out on us."
"Had to make sure she was ready," Cate said, but her eyes were still on you, bright and warm and full of promise. "She's ready now."
The water lapped gently against the sides of the hot tub, and outside, the snow continued to fall, silent and soft, blanketing the world in white. Inside, cocooned in steam and warmth and the impossible, overwhelming presence of three women who wanted you, you let yourself relax for the first time in what felt like years.
Emma's arm was back around your waist. Marie's hand was still on yours. Cate's knees were still bracketing your thighs, her body a warm, solid presence in front of you.
"So," you said, and your voice was steadier now, stronger. "About that bed."
Emma grinned, bright and sharp and delighted. "Thought you'd never ask."
You were the first one to actually make it into the bed, dry and warm. Now you were sprawled across the massive bed in the main loft, surrounded by a chaos of pillows and the lingering scent of cedar from the fireplace downstairs. The sheets were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat still humming beneath it, and you listened to the sounds of them moving through the cabin—the creak of floorboards, the distant murmur of voices, the soft thud of a drawer closing.
You should have felt nervous, probably. Maybe even scared. This wasn't something you did—this wasn't something you'd ever done, not like this, not with three people who looked at you like you were the answer to a question they'd been asking for months.
But instead of nerves, you just felt... quiet. Settled. Like the chaos in your head had finally stopped spinning, if only for a little while.
The bathroom door opened, and Marie emerged first, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, her dark hair twisted up in a towel. She caught your eye and smiled, that soft, private smile that always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
"Emma's having a crisis about which pajamas to wear," she said, padding over to the bed. "I told her she doesn't need pajamas, and now she's having a different crisis."
You laughed, low and warm. "That tracks."
Marie sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that you could feel the heat still radiating off her skin from her shower. She smelled like honey and something floral, and you watched as she reached up to unpin her towel, letting her hair fall in damp waves around her shoulders.
"You okay?" she asked, and the question was simple but not simple, heavy with all the things she wasn't saying.
You nodded, reaching out to catch a strand of her hair between your fingers. It was still wet, cool and silky against your skin. "I'm good. Really."
"Good." She turned her head, pressing a kiss to your palm, and the gesture was so tender, so achingly gentle, that your throat tightened. "Because if you're not—"
"I'll tell you," you finished for her. "I know."
She held your gaze for a long moment, searching, and whatever she found must have satisfied her, because she squeezed your hand and then let it go, shifting to settle back against the headboard beside you.
The bathroom door opened again, and this time it was Cate. She'd changed into a simple black tank top and soft shorts, her damp hair pushed back from her face, and she looked almost... relaxed. The sharp edges that usually defined her seemed softer here, in the low light of the cabin, away from the weight of everything she carried.
She didn't say anything. Just crossed the room and climbed onto the bed on your other side, settling in with an easy familiarity that made your chest ache. Her shoulder pressed against yours, solid and warm, and you felt some of the last remaining tension in your body drain away.
"Emma's coming," Cate said, tilting her head toward the bathroom. "She's apparently decided on 'sexy but not trying too hard,' which is a category I didn't know she had."
"Everyone should have a plan," Emma's voice floated out from the bathroom, and then she appeared in the doorway, and whatever words you'd been about to say died in your throat.
She'd gone with an oversized band t-shirt—something vintage and faded—and nothing else. The shirt hung off one shoulder, slipping low enough that you could see the delicate curve of her collarbone, the shadow of something softer beneath. Her legs were bare, long and pale in the dim light, and her hair was loose around her face, still damp at the ends.
"What?" she asked, but she was grinning, because she knew. She absolutely knew what she was doing.
"Nothing," you managed, and your voice came out rougher than you intended.
Emma's grin widened. She crossed the room in a few quick strides and launched herself onto the bed, landing somewhere between you and Marie with an uncoordinated bounce that made all of you laugh. She ended up sprawled across your lap, her head in Marie's lap, her legs tangled with Cate's, and she looked up at you with those bright, hazel eyes and said, "Hi."
"Hi," you said back, and you couldn't stop smiling, even though your heart was pounding and your skin was buzzing and you had absolutely no idea what you were doing.
This was good, though. This was right.
Emma reached up, her fingers brushing your cheek, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. "You're so pretty," she said, and it wasn't a compliment, not exactly. It was just a fact, stated simply, like she was remarking on the weather or the color of the sky.
Before you could respond, Cate's hand found your thigh, resting there with a casual weight that made your breath hitch. "She's not wrong," Cate said, and her thumb traced a slow circle against your skin. "I've been thinking that since the first time I saw you."
"At orientation," you said, because you remembered. You remembered everything when it came to Cate. "You were wearing that leather jacket."
Cate's eyebrows rose. "You remember what I was wearing?"
"I remember everything about that day," you admitted, and the confession felt less scary now, surrounded by all of them, held in the warm dim light of the cabin. "I remember thinking you looked like someone who'd break my heart."
"And now?" Cate asked, and her voice was quieter.
You turned to look at her, really look at her—the slight tension in her jaw, the way her hand had stilled on your thigh, the careful blankness in her eyes that you'd learned to see past.
"I'm still thinking about what you do to my heart."
Something shifted in Cate's expression, something raw and unguarded, and then she was leaning in, kissing you with a ferocity that stole your breath. Her hand slid up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer, and you went willingly, eagerly, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of her neck.
Someone made a sound—it might have been you—and then Emma was tugging at your shirt, and Marie was pressing kisses to your shoulder, and there were hands everywhere, gentle and certain and wanting.
"Wait," you gasped, and they all stopped immediately, frozen.
Cate pulled back, her eyes searching your face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you said quickly, because nothing was wrong, everything was right, almost too right. "I just—I want to see you. All of you. Can we—"
You didn't know how to finish the sentence, but you didn't need to. Marie understood. She reached for the tie of her robe, pulling it loose slowly, deliberately, and you watched as the fabric fell open, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the gentle curve of her stomach, the smoky grey fabric of her underwear beneath.
Your mouth went dry.
"This is what you wanted?" Marie asked, and her voice was steady, but you could see the flush spreading across her chest, could hear the slight tremor beneath the words.
"Yes," you breathed. "God, yes."
Emma sat up, pulling her shirt over her head in one fluid motion, and then she was bare before you, all smooth skin and sharp collarbones and soft, perfect breasts. She was grinning again, but softer now, almost shy. "Your turn," she said, and her hands found the hem of your shirt.
You let her lift it over your head, let her pull it away and toss it somewhere into the darkness beyond the bed. The air was cool on your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, and you felt exposed and seen and somehow safer than you had in years.
Cate's hand came up to trace the line of your bra, her fingers following the edge of the fabric where it curved over your ribs. "Beautiful," she murmured, and the word settled over you like a blessing.
You reached for her, for all of them, pulling Marie closer and Emma closer and Cate closer until you were a tangle of limbs and breath and warm, bare skin. Someone's hand was on your stomach, someone's lips were on your neck, someone's thigh was pressed between yours, and you couldn't tell where you ended and they began. You didn't want to.
Marie's lips found the hollow of your throat, soft and open-mouthed, and the sensation sent a jolt straight down your spine. You arched into her without thinking, your hips pressing against the thigh wedged between your legs—Emma's, you realized, because she made a pleased sound against your shoulder and pressed back.
"That's it," Cate murmured, her breath hot against your ear. Her fingers had found the clasp of your bra, working it open with practiced ease. "Let us hear you."
The fabric went slack, and Marie pulled it away, her knuckles brushing your ribs as she did. The contact was light, almost incidental, but your body reacted like she'd touched something electric—nipples tightening, breath catching, a pulse of heat low in your belly.
"Oh," Emma breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her eyes traced down your chest, lingering, and her tongue wet her lower lip. "Oh, you're even prettier than I imagined."
"You imagined this?" The question came out breathless and teasing, half-lost against Cate's shoulder.
"Constantly." Emma didn't blink. "In vivid detail. Sometimes in the shower. Sometimes in class, which was a problem, because Professor C definitely noticed I wasn't paying attention."
Marie laughed, soft and warm, and her hand came up to cup your breast, her palm cool against your heated skin. "She's not the only one. Remember the night we all ended up in the common room after that party, and you fell asleep on the couch?"
You remembered. You'd been exhausted, tipsy, and Emma had draped a blanket over you before curling up at your feet. Cate had sat in the armchair, watching you with an expression you hadn't known how to read. Marie had pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading to bed.
Then Emma was kissing you, her mouth hot and insistent, her body pressing you back into the pillows. Her leg pushed harder between yours, and you moaned into her mouth at the friction, your hips rocking against her thigh of their own accord.
"That's new information," Cate said, and her voice had gone rough. Her hand slid down your side, over your ribs, your waist, the flare of your hip. "That's very good information."
Marie shifted, her mouth finding your breast, and the wet heat of her tongue made you gasp against Emma's lips. Emma took advantage, deepening the kiss, her hand coming up to cradle your jaw, her thumb stroking your cheek.
You were being surrounded, consumed, and you never wanted it to stop.
"Bed," Emma said finally, pulling back, and her lips were swollen, her eyes dark. "We said something about the bed."
"You're already in the bed," Marie pointed out, but she was smiling, and her hand was still on your breast, and she didn't seem inclined to move.
"The point of the bed," Emma said, with exaggerated patience, "is that it's horizontal. And big. And we can—" She gestured vaguely, her hand waving in the air. "You know. Spread out."
"Romantic," Cate deadpanned, but she was already shifting, pulling you gently until you were lying flat on your back, surrounded by pillows and warm bodies and the scent of all of them.
Emma immediately draped herself over your left side, her leg hooking over yours, her arm slung across your stomach. Marie settled on your right, more tentative, her head propped on her hand so she could look at you. Cate stayed where she was, at the foot of the bed, her eyes roaming over the three of you with an expression that made your chest ache.
"What?" Emma asked, catching Cate's look.
"Nothing." Cate's voice was soft. "Just looking."
"Look closer," you said, and you surprised yourself with the words, with the confidence in them.
Cate's eyes met yours, and something passed between you—something that didn't need words, something that had been building since that first day at orientation, since the leather jacket, since the way she'd looked at you like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
She crawled up the bed, slow and deliberate, and when she reached you, she didn't kiss your mouth. She kissed your stomach, just above your navel, her lips pressing softly against the skin there. Then lower. Then lower still, until she reached the waistband of your shorts.
Her fingers hooked into the fabric, and she looked up at you, waiting.
You nodded, breathless.
She pulled them down, slow, an inch at a time, her knuckles dragging against your hips, your thighs, your knees. Now you were in just your underwear, the thin cotton suddenly feeling unbearably inadequate, and Cate was looking at you like you were something sacred.
"Tell me if you want to stop," Cate said, and it wasn't a question. It was a promise. "Tell me if anything feels wrong."
"I will," you said, and you meant it, though you felt confident that nothing would feel anything but very, very right.
Cate lowered her head, and her mouth found you through the fabric, and the world went white for a moment—just sensation, just heat, just the impossible reality of Cate's tongue pressing against you where you were almost embarassingly wet and most wanting.
Your hips bucked, and Emma held you down, her hand flat on your stomach, and Marie was whispering something in your ear—"Good girl, that's it, just feel it"—and Cate was pulling your underwear aside, and then there was nothing between her mouth and you, nothing at all.
You cried out. You couldn't help it. Her tongue was hot and skilled and relentless against your clit, and she knew exactly what she was doing, exactly where to press, exactly how to make your thighs shake and your hands fist in the sheets. She had little intention of taking it easy on you, if the thought had crossed her mind at all.
"Fuck," Emma breathed, and you felt her hand slide down your stomach, felt her fingers find your clit when Cate's mouth moved lower to toy with you, felt the way they worked together like they'd done this before, like they'd planned it. "You're so wet. You're so fucking wet for her."
"For all of you," you gasped, because it was true. Because Marie's hand was in your hair, tugging gently, and Emma's fingers were circling you, and Cate's tongue was doing something that was threatening to make you see sparks. "You're all killing me."
Cate's lips left your pussy, moved to tease kisses and soft bites on your inner thighs instead, and Emma's fingers slid lower, pressing inside you. Marie kissed you hard, swallowing your moans, and you were drowning in them, in the sheer overwhelming presence of them, in the way they touched you like you had already belonged to them from the moment you got in the car.
The orgasm built slow and deep, something seismic, something that started low in your stomach and radiated outward until your toes curled and your back arched and your vision blurred at the edges.
"Now," Cate said against you, returning to your clit to abuse you sweetly with her tongue, and it was permission and a command all at once.
Your climax hit and took your breath away in a sharp, high sound.
It went on forever—waves of it, each one stronger than the last, pulling sounds from you that you didn't recognize, that you'd never made before. Emma's fingers kept moving, gentle now, drawing it out. Marie's lips pressed against your forehead, your closed eyes, the corner of your mouth. Cate's tongue softened, licking you through it, patient and sure.
When it was over, you lay there gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked.
"Holy shit," Emma said, and she sounded almost awed. "Holy shit."
Marie was smiling, that soft, radiant smile, and she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with infinite tenderness. "You okay?"
You couldn't speak yet. You nodded, and Emma laughed, bright and breathless, and Cate crawled up your body to press a kiss to your mouth—soft now, almost chaste, a stark contrast to what she'd just been doing.
You could taste yourself on her lips, and somehow that was the most intimate thing of all.
"Told you," Cate murmured against your mouth. "Told you we'd take care of you."
A/N: Fully based on the dynamics from Lost Girl. Set in AHS Coven. Beta read by @madisonmontgomeryimagines <3
Masterlist | AO3
It's late at night when you come home.
As you approach the last step, you spot a shadow cast on your door. Your ears perk up and every hair on your body raises in alarm.
A pale, frail silhouette appears in your line of vision, making you stand down and greet the intruder with little emotion, "Hello."
"Hi," she replies in a small voice.
"I told you not to come here—"
"I know," she cuts you off, "but I didn't know where else to go. I’m desperate."
It's a delicious sight, having Madison Montgomery pleading before you, but you don't believe her—you can't, "You didn't find a single human to snack on on your way here?"
She weakly crosses her arms, "If Cordelia found out I fed off a human, she would kill me."
"And that's worse than dying of starvation?" you smirk and with her little energy, she manages to flatten her expression.
"You're not funny."
"Oh, please—you come to my house and ask to fuck me, at least have the decency to laugh at my jokes."
She's never been one to beg, simply standing in place, helpless, but with faux indifference written on her face, so you give in.
"Come." You unlock the door and open it to let her in, she pulls you into your bedroom and makes quick work of your clothes and hers.
Everything happens too fast for you to react.
By the time she leaves, you can barely support your own weight. You feel like you just ran a marathon and came in last place, but she looks good as new strutting out of your room.
"Glad I could be of service," you mumble before sinking into the mattress.
A metallic taste coats your tongue through your nostrils when you reach your apartment building, it makes you rush up the stairs following the source.
Once you get to your door, you find Madison leaning on the wall, gently clutching her side. Giving her a once over, you conclude that she looks fine, if a little worn, but you remain alert.
Her expression tells you all you need to know, and you can't fight the urge to oblige. Without a single word, you open the door, and she wastes no time in pinning you to it once you're both inside.
A brutal kiss drives a part of your soul through your throat and into her awaiting mouth, her eyes glowing an icy blue in satisfaction. Her balance falters after she releases you and you instinctively jump into action, holding her still and carrying her to the bedroom.
You take the time to undress her and that's when you see the source of the strong scent—a gaping wound right underneath her ribs, it takes you by surprise.
It's one thing when she comes to you for a casual feed, but coming as a last resort for life saving treatment is completely different. It raises all kinds of red flags in your mind, making you unable to mask your unease, "What the hell happened to you?"
"No talking or I might bleed out on your bed," she manages in her feeble state.
It doesn't take her long to steal what she needs in order to completely heal and then some.
You come back to your senses after a minute and when you open your eyes again, she's sitting by the edge of the bed, putting her top back on like nothing happened.
"Mads, I'm worried about you," you croak, but she ignores your concern.
"Don't be."
"I thought you had a good feeding situation at home."
You can practically hear her eyes rolling, "I said, don't worry about it."
"Maddie, I’m serious." She attempts to get up, but you hold her down by the wrist, making her scoff.
"I don't have time for this."
"You showed up at my doorstep begging for food, even though I've asked you not to do that anymore. You definitely have time for this."
She rolls her eyes again and sits back down.
"What happened to Zoe? I thought she was helping you." Granted, the last time you actually talked to Madison, was a while ago.
"She bailed out, it's fine."
Her indifference makes you frown, "Then, who's helping you feed now?" The silence that follows makes your anguish burst out, "Are you feeding!"
She hesitates before responding, "I’m kind of...in between meals right now, but I'm fine, it's not a big deal."
"Yes, it is! You can't just show up here whenever you want."
"You think I’m here because I want to?" she bites back without even thinking.
Your features grow dull as a cynical chuckle escapes you, "Nice one."
"I didn't mean that." There is a hint of real remorse in her tone, but she lost her chance.
"Every time you come here and fuck me, all of the feelings I've kept bottle up come back to the surface, and I can't just lay here and pretend I’m okay with it, when you can't even spare me a second thought." Your anger dissolves into defeat, knowing full well that regardless of your attempted convictions, you could never stop yourself from giving Madison what she wants. You hope your strict tone is enough to stop her from asking in the first place, "I can't keep doing this."
Her eyes pierce into yours, seeking to tell you something her lips can't, "That's not—" Her phone buzzes with a message, making her sigh at the interruption. "It's Cordy, I have to go. I’m sorry."
A few days later, you knock on the door of Miss Robixous.
A tall, curly blonde answers, "Can I help you?"
"I’m looking for Zoe."
She gives you a once over and asks, maintaining her charming accent, "And you are?"
"A friend."
The girl in question walks past the door and returns after recognizing your voice, "Madison's not here."
"I was actually hoping to talk to you."
Zoe looks around the house briefly before gesturing outside, "Let's take a walk."
As much as you try to conceal them, your mischievous thoughts get the best of you once you're down the block, "Who's the blonde?"
"Misty," Zoe responds flatly.
"She's cute."
Zoe smirks, finally showing you some emotion, "She's also dating Cordelia, so steer clear."
"Hmm, I knew something had to be wrong with her."
"That's your type," she muses, making you take a defensive stand.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means." You let your silence speak for you, and she presses after a beat, "So, you wanted to talk?"
You decide to get right into it, "Why did you stop helping Maddie feed?"
Even though she was expecting the subject, she's taken aback by your bluntness, it makes her think for a moment and hesitate, "She was taking too much, too fast, too often, my body couldn't keep up."
You have noticed Madison's increased appetite, so that makes sense...almost, "But why cut her off, why not keep her on a diet? So to speak."
Zoe lets your question dissolve into the air as you both continue walking.
You stroll a couple of blocks quietly, Zoe chewing on her lip, before deciding to confess, "It wasn't just that. She and I used to date, remember?"
"That was so long ago, I thought you were over it."
"I was—I am. It just never gets easier hearing her moan someone else's name." You freeze in place and she follows suit, having foreseen your reaction.
"What? Who's?" Your question comes undeservingly jealous, too quick for you to restrain yourself.
She pins you with her gaze, soulful and drowning in something you don't recognize, "Yours."
The revelation shakes you to the core.
You're coming home after a long day, a familiar scent reaching you from the ground floor.
You walk up the stairs with a mixture of dread and excitement in your chest, and once you reach your door, you find Madison. She barely scrambles for an excuse, when you're already unlocking the door and letting her in.
This has become your routine with her, and what happens afterwards, you don't always remember, but it tends to leave you with a sense of regret—or at the very least, foolishness.
In the middle of today's encounter, you ask the question that's been on your mind for a while, "Why do you moan my name?"
Maddie slows her movements in confusion and mocks, "Because I’m here, fucking you."
You realize it's a stupid thing to ask without context, so you clarify, "Why do you moan my name when you're not here fucking me?"
"What are you talking about?" She fully stops her rhythm.
"I spoke to Zoe..."
"You idiot!" She pinches the bridge of her nose, but you're quick to retaliate.
"Do not try to insult your way out of this one."
Her hips attempt to pick up their motion, but you hold her still by the waist, making her groan in frustration, "I moan your name because I think of you. Is that what you wanna hear?"
You are left speechless for a moment, and choke on your words, "But why?"
"Because it helps—do I need to explain sex to you?" She's clearly losing her composure.
The wolf in you grows impatient and inadvertently shows up with a growl, "Stop playing dumb!" You shake it off, your labored breathing winding down as you return, "Sorry."
Madison finally gets off your lap, an amused tinge on her face, "Jesus, if that's what it takes to get you riled up, I should've done it a long time ago." She seems completely disaffected by your reaction and your whole conversation. She leans in for one last kiss, taking a long drag of your energy along with it, and letting out a satisfied sigh afterwards, "That's a good girl," she coos before standing up and exiting the room.
You notice she left most of her clothes behind, so you follow her steps until she's out of sight and you have to stand up to go after her.
You reach her in the kitchen with her head buried in the fridge. It's definitely a strange scene.
"Are you looking for a snack? You just had one." You are, of course, referring to your intense encounter.
"And you were a great dinner, but now, it's my turn to feed you." She takes a container out that makes you worried.
"Please be careful with those, they're very expensive."
She rolls her eyes, dismissing your concern, "Just shut up and let me make you the one thing I know how to cook." She takes out a cutting board and begins slicing some veggies with a technique so poor you're sure she'll chop a finger off.
"Is that you cooking?" you retort playfully, but she's completely immune to your snark and responds in a genuine tone.
"This is me sparing you a second, and even a third thought."
That's when it hits you—Maddie could never say it out loud, so this is her way of showing you she actually cares about you. You watch her in awe as she makes her way through the kitchen awkwardly.
When she serves you a plate and you try it, you only grow more surprised. It's actually quite good, "How did you learn to cook?"
"Don't ask questions you don't wanna know the answer to."
"No, I really wanna know the answer."
She considers it for a beat and concedes, "Zoe taught me. It's her favorite."
Instead of making you jealous, it warms your heart, but she doesn't stay long enough to see it, going back to your room and coming out fully dressed this time.
"Okay, I got what I wanted, so bye." Her tone doesn't quite reach the cynicism she aimed for as she heads for the door.
"Wait, hold on," you muster with your mouth full, getting up and handing her a set of keys, "so you don't have to wait outside…"
Her eyes glimmer and her lips curl up gently when she grabs them, "Thanks for dinner."
"Yeah, same."
She jiggles the keys a few times and opens the door before taking one last look at you, "I'll see you next time."
hiii i saw u taking requests for vicky and this fandom is in a really big need for victoria neuman content so i was wondering maybe female reader x victoria, some hurt/comfort for our congresswoman that have been through shit and reader being there for her, the plot is all up to you besides that
thank you!!
Victoria Neuman could do many things; reduce a room to silence, sway a crowd, pop a man's head in the blink of an eye, but as far as you knew she couldn't push people with her words. Despite this certainty, your experiences were inclined to say just maybe she was hiding a second power. When Victoria spoke, people listened, yourself included, but the only one who didn't seem to believe her words was the woman herself.
When you got home, Victoria was nursing a glass of scotch, and you draped your jacket over the back of a chair on your way to her. Circling behind her chair, you leaned down to wrap your arms around her and brush your lips against her cheek.
"Long day?" You asked, feeling her body relax minutely against your own. One of her hands rested over top of yours, her fingers absently toying with your own.
"What if I can't actually make the difference I want to?" Her voice was low and subdued. "For Zoe, for us, for anyone. What if all of my fighting means nothing?"
You didn't answer right away. Instead, you pressed a slower, more deliberate kiss to the curve of her jaw, then another just below her ear. She smelled like expensive perfume and the faint, bitter ghost of campaign-trail coffee.
"That's a heavy question for a Tuesday," you murmured against her skin.
Victoria huffed a soft, humorless breath that might have been a laugh in another life. "It's Wednesday."
"Even worse."
You let go of her just long enough to round the chair and sink onto the ottoman in front of her, knees nearly touching. Up close, the cracks in her armor were always more visible—the faint bruise of exhaustion under her eyes, the way her mouth held tension even when she wasn't speaking. She looked younger like this, and somehow older all at once.
"You're not going to give me the speech," she said. It wasn't a question. "The one about how I've already made a difference. How many people I've helped."
"You hate that speech."
"I do."
"So no." You reached out and took the scotch glass from her hand, setting it aside on a coaster you knew she'd never use. Then you took her hands instead. They were cool, elegant, lethal; and trembling, just barely. "I'm going to ask you something else."
Victoria watched you with that unnerving focus she usually reserved for debates and donor dinners. "What?"
"When you were a little girl—before all of this, before you knew what you could do—what did you think making a difference looked like?"
Her expression flickered. For a second, you saw something raw and unguarded pass behind her eyes. She looked down at your intertwined fingers.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "I think I just wanted someone to stay."
The words landed softly between you, heavier than any confession she'd ever made on a stage.
You lifted one of her hands to your lips and kissed her knuckles. "Then stay. Right here. With me. With Zoe. That's not nothing, Victoria. That's not even close to nothing."
Her throat moved as she swallowed. "And the rest of it? The bill, the committee, the—" She gestured vaguely with her free hand, encompassing all the ugliness she waded through daily. "The heads."
"You keep showing up," you said simply. "You keep fighting. And when you can't, I'll be here. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."
Victoria stared at you for a long, suspended moment. Then, slowly, she pulled one hand free and cupped your cheek. Her palm was warm now. Steadier.
"You're terrifying," she said, but her voice had softened at the edges.
"You're one to talk."
The ghost of a real smile tugged at her lips, brief and fragile, but there. She leaned forward and kissed your forehead, a gesture so tender it ached.
"I love you," she said, like it was a secret she'd just decided to trust you with all over again.
"I know," you replied, echoing words she'd heard a thousand times in a thousand contexts, but never quite like this. "That's why you're going to be fine. I love you too, Victoria."
