Mochi🪽

28. I don't know my place in the world, but I'll find it somehow. #army #eyekon #she

[mcmarin]

So I'm gonna leave the MV of NORMAL BTS here if anybody hasn't spotify to see it I cant be the only one dying inside with this..

[specterswifie]

take a break!

Jessica Pearson x gf!reader

Everyone looked at you when you went through Pearson Specter. They politely they greeted you or nodded at you. Well it was not surprise, no one would like to disrespect their boss’s girlfriend after all. 

You saw that Jessica sat alone in her office, reading some files so you walked in. 

"Hey, love" you greeted her with smile. 

Her face immediately softened when she looked at you. 

"to what do I owe this unexpected but lovely visit?"

"I was walking by and thought I’ll visit you. Are you overworking yourself again?"

"That's just how this job is, I have some paperwork to do." She said offering you tired smile. 

"Can’t Harvey do it?"

"You know him, doing anything but paperwork." 

You both chuckled.

"Well but since he wanted to be name partner so bad he should prove that you didn’t do mistake and he is capable of that. After all it’s more than just having your last name on firm’s business cards and being more important than almost everybody else in the room."

"Maybe you are right, paperwork won’t kill him."

"Of course i am and we could use this free time well." You smirked playfully 

"What do you have in your mind, love?" she asked taking hair away from your face behind your ear.

"Well we could go to some restaurant, eat dinner and then have some fun time at home. How does it sound to you?"

"Sounds perfect, i’ll go to Harvey and will give him documents, wait for me." She said leaving and you obviously you kept your gaze on her until she disappeared from your sight. 

[splattynatty1984]

Consequences

You get a little too comfortable and decide to be a brat. Emily knows just how to handle that, and it involves her office, your red ass, and torn panties between your pretty lips. | Based on my snapshot: "Punishing you in her office"

Mommy!Emily Prentiss x Bratty Fem Reader

content: mommy kink, spanks (mostly ass), slight exhibitionism, confusing mix of degradation and praise, panties as a gag | hello criminal minds fandom please be nice to me I come in peace I promise

18+, NSFW oneshot | 5.5k words

ao3

The good morning texts had started four months into your relationship.

She sent them whenever she left before you woke up, which was most mornings, because Emily Prentiss operated on a schedule that made normal people feel personally attacked. You'd rolled over one Tuesday to find your phone lit up on the nightstand: Good morning, darling. Sleep well. Don't forget to eat breakfast. Three sentences, punctuation perfect and correct.

You had, after some consideration, decided the good morning texts were your favorite thing. You'd never told her that. You weren't going to tell her that. But you'd saved every single one of them—a scroll of small good mornings going all the way back to the beginning, right there in your messages if you ever wanted to look.

You looked sometimes.

Today's had come in at 6:47 AM, the screen lighting up soft in the gray of the bedroom: Good morning, my darling. Early briefing—I'll be in the office before seven. Be good today.

A normal thing to say. A reasonable thing. Emily said it sometimes when she had reason to believe you might not be—fine, fair, you'd given her reasons before—and you'd read it twice in the warm half-dark with her pillow still carrying the faint smell of her shampoo, the duvet heavy and soft, the room quiet enough that you could hear the low hum of the city already going outside.

You'd typed back: define good

You watched those three little dots pop up. Then disappear. Then pop up again before Emily's reply came: You know exactly what I mean.

And here was where things had gone sideways, because you did know exactly what she meant, and something about lying in her sheets with her pillow still smelling like her while she was across the city in a briefing had made you feel a particular kind of reckless. The room was quiet. The morning light was just starting to go gold at the curtain edges. You were warm and comfortable. Very comfortable.

do i though, you'd sent. seems subjective

It isn't.

pretty sure it is

My darling. A longer pause this time. I'm in a meeting.

oh noooo, you'd typed, and you added a little smile face that you were not going to feel bad about.

She hadn't responded after that, which you'd taken as a win. You'd gotten up, padded to the kitchen on cold bare feet, made coffee in her French press because yours was at your own place and hers was better anyway. You'd eaten the breakfast she'd told you not to forget—half a bagel with cream cheese from the back of her fridge—standing at the counter in her oversized t-shirt, watching the city start to wake up through the kitchen window. The street below was already filling up, cabs and morning commuters, the energy of DC getting itself going.

The second thing had not been planned.

Not exactly.

It had been the fault of the bed, honestly. You'd gone back to it after breakfast with your coffee, just to drink it in peace and scroll through your phone, and the sheets were still warm from both of you and the morning light had shifted in the time you'd been up—coming through the curtains now in long golden stripes across the duvet, the kind of light that made the whole room feel like it was in no particular hurry. You'd set your coffee on the nightstand and pulled the duvet back up around you and settled in. And you'd found yourself thinking, with no real urgency, about the way Emily's hands felt when she wasn't in a hurry. Her patience when she'd decided to take her time with you. Her hands moving over you slowly, like she had all the time in the world and had chosen to spend it exactly there. You thought about it more than was probably reasonable. More than you'd admit to anyone, including yourself on most days.

The photo had felt like a natural progression of events.

You'd taken it without much deliberation—nothing elaborate, just you in the morning light with her sheets pooled at your waist and your hair loose around your shoulders. The kind of photo that said look what you're missing without having to say anything out loud. You'd sent it before you could talk yourself out of it, set your phone face-down on the nightstand, and waited with your pulse doing something slightly embarrassing.

Her response came five minutes later: Hi, baby.

You'd smiled at your phone like an absolute idiot.

Then, thirty seconds after: You're beautiful, darling. My beautiful girl.

A beat. Then one more line, because she must've known what kind of mood you were in: Don't touch yourself. I mean it.

Which was a reasonable instruction. She'd given it before. You'd followed it before. There was no reason today should be different.

The problem was the light, and the sheets, and the fact that my beautiful girl had settled somewhere in your chest. The more immediate problem was that your hand had already been drifting by the time you'd read don't touch yourself—just lazily, fingers tracing down over your stomach, not with any real intent at first. Just because the bed was warm and Emily wasn't in it and you'd been thinking about her hands for the better part of twenty minutes and your body had apparently started making its own decisions.

You read the instruction again, and your fingers didn't stop.

My beautiful girl, the back of your brain offered, helpfully.

You thought about Emily's voice when it went low—the tone that meant she'd made up her mind about something and the only remaining question was the details. You thought about her hands. You bit your lip and thought about her patience, the way she could make you feel the full weight of her attention like something physical.

Three minutes after her text, you reached for your phone with your free hand.

The second photo was just your hand—two fingers raised toward the camera, close enough that there was no mistaking the slick shine between them, the way the morning light caught the stickiness there. You held the angle for a moment, making sure it was clear. Making absolutely sure.

She would know exactly what that meant. You'd made certain of it.

The response took longer this time. Long enough that something started to assemble itself at the back of your mind—not quite regret, but adjacent to it, the quiet reconsideration of whether reckless had tipped into genuinely poor decision-making. You wiped your fingers on the sheet. You looked at the ceiling. You thought about Emily's jaw when it went tight.

Your phone buzzed.

Meet me in my office for lunch, my little darling.

That was all.

You'd stared at it. The my little darling at the end was doing a lot of work and none of it was reassuring. Emily's my darling lived on a spectrum—on one end, fond and easy; on the other, the tone that told you things weren't going to go your way. Right now it was sitting at the far end of that spectrum, and you had put it there yourself, and you knew it.

You'd gotten up to find something to wear.

(-)

The Metro was twenty minutes and three stops.

You'd sat in the window seat and watched the tunnel walls go by and thought, with some thoroughness, about what you had done. The first text—a little bratty but well within the established range of your behavior. The second text, the oh noooo with the smile face, that was also fine, honestly. Emily had been in a meeting and she'd chosen to read her messages and you weren't going to feel bad about that. The first photo had been a genuine impulse, and she had complimented you.

The second photo was harder to justify.

You'd known what you were doing. That was the thing you kept circling back to, sitting on the Metro with your bag on your lap and DC sliding past outside. You'd read don't touch yourself. You'd looked at it. And you'd kept going anyway, and then you'd taken the photo and held it up to make sure the light caught it right, and that was a sequence of decisions, not a single one. Each one had been made with full awareness of the one before it.

You didn't have regrets. You had arrived at this conclusion after eleven full reconsiderations and you were sticking to it. But you were also aware—had been aware since the moment you'd read meet me in my office for lunch, my little darling—that you were about to sit across from Emily Prentiss and account for yourself, and that was a thing you were allowed to have feelings about.

And feelings, you had.

(-)

The BAU bullpen had its own kind of energy at midday.

A low steady hum of keyboards and quiet conversation, people at their desks with lunches going cold beside their monitors. The overhead lights were the flat institutional kind that made everyone look slightly tired, but the bullpen had accumulated enough desk lamps and personal effects, years of lived-in use, that it felt less like a federal building and more like a place where people had genuinely settled in. You knew most of the faces by now, several names. Garcia had hugged you the third time you'd come by and called you a gift to the universe, which had seemed excessive but you weren't going to argue with Penelope Garcia about anything, ever, under any circumstances.

Nobody looked up when you came in. You were a known quantity here—Emily's—and that was apparently sufficient.

Emily's office was glass-walled, which you'd always thought was an interesting choice for someone who kept as much close to the chest as she did. The blinds were open. You could see her through them from halfway across the bullpen—head bent over something on her desk, silver hair catching the overhead light, the set of her jaw that meant she was working through something. She looked completely composed. She always looked completely composed. It had taken you a while to learn to read the variations inside the composure, but you'd been paying close attention for months and you were getting there.

She didn't look up when you pushed the door open.

"Close it behind you," she said.

You did.

She let you stand there while she finished reading. Turned over a page, scanned the back of it, set it down and squared it against the desk edge with careful precision. Then she looked up at you.

Emily Prentiss had a way of looking at you that you'd never quite gotten used to. Not the profiler thing—or not only that—but the way she looked at you when you were alone with her and she wasn't performing anything for a room. Direct and patient but warm underneath, and right now the warmth was present but it had company. You felt the full weight of her attention land on you from across the office and stay there.

"Hi, love," she said, her voice even and calm. "Come here, please."

You crossed the office. She watched you do it with her hands folded on the desk, and every step felt like it had some weight to it—the short distance between the door and her desk somehow longer than it had any right to be, the office quiet in a way that made you aware of your own footsteps. She didn't look away. Didn't shift or move, just watched you come to her with the patient attention of someone who had already decided how this was going to go and was simply waiting for you to arrive.

When you reached her side, she tilted her head fractionally, an instruction without words. She'd always been economical like that. A tilt of the chin, a look, a hand at the small of your back. She'd never needed much.

"Emily—"

"Mommy," she corrected, quiet and automatic, the same tone she'd use to note a factual error.

Something in your chest did what it always did when she said it like that. Like it was simply true. Simply the right word for what she was, nothing to make a production of.

"Mommy," you said, watching something settle in her expression. "Someone could—"

"I'm aware," Emily said. "I've worked here for years." She reached out and tucked a piece of hair back from your face, her fingers lingering at your jaw. Her touch was light. Her eyes weren't. "You had quite a morning, hm?"

"I—"

"The texts," she reminded you. "And then the photo." Her thumb moved once against your jaw. "Which I meant what I said about. You're a beautiful girl and you know it." A brief pause with a point to it. "But then the second photo. Now that was a surprise."

You said nothing. There wasn't much to say.

"Three minutes," Emily said. "I told you not to touch yourself and it only took three minutes. And then you sent me evidence to make sure I knew." Her thumb made one slow arc against your jaw. "That wasn't an accident."

It wasn't a question.

"No," you said, biting your lip.

"No." Her hand dropped from your face. "Turn around. Hands on the desk."

The surface was cool under your palms. Through the glass you could see the bullpen—anyone who looked at the right angle would see you standing at Emily's desk with your hands braced, which wasn't unusual. People leaned over Emily's desk to look at things all the time. Case files, photographs, maps spread out for a briefing.

From a certain angle you were just having a meeting.

From a certain angle.

"Mommy," you said, hating the smallness of your own voice. "Someone will see."

"Then maybe," Emily said, moving directly behind you, close enough that her voice was more felt than heard against the back of your neck, "my little brat should have behaved."

She didn't sound angry—and you were grateful for that, the way you were always grateful that her version of this was quiet. She simply had the situation in hand and you were the only one who was rattled. She reached around you and moved the papers to one side of the desk, clearing the space in front of you with unhurried efficiency.

"You made your choices this morning, darling. This is what comes after choices."

Her hand settled at the small of your back, warm through your shirt, and pressed you down against the desk.

"Consequences."

You gripped the edge of the desk and reminded yourself to breathe.

Her hands found the hem of your skirt and pushed it up. Then her fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled them down without ceremony, rough enough that the elastic ripped. The sound seemed to fill the quiet office, and you were almost certain it was entirely in your head, but your face went hot all the same.

"Mommy—"

"Shh." Her silver hair brushed your shoulder as she leaned over you, her voice dropping to just above a murmur. "You're going to take it. You know you are." Her lips were almost at your temple. "You know why this is happening."

You did know why. The morning arranged itself in sequence—the texts, the light through the curtains, the first photo, the second photo, the slick shine on your fingers, three minutes. Yeah. You knew.

She stood back up. Waited exactly fifteen seconds. Just when you were ready to lift your head and ask what was happening, the suspense making you shiver, her hand came down.

The first one landed clean and sharp, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard against the sound that tried to come out. The sting bloomed immediately, heat radiating outward from the center of it, and then her palm was there rubbing slow circles, pressing the warmth deeper. A deliberate contrast. Sting, then soothe.

"Oh, look at that." Her voice had a quality you'd been trying to name for months and still couldn't catch. Satisfied. Fond in a way that had an edge to it. "My brat's ass turns a lovely shade of pink." Her fingertips grazed lower as she rubbed, and she paused. "How cute."

Heat crawled up the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the spank.

Three more came in succession—measured, each one distinct, each followed by that same slow pass of her palm. You were gripping the desk edge hard enough that your knuckles had gone pale. Your hips kept trying to press back and you kept catching yourself doing it, which was mortifying and also completely involuntary.

"Be still," Emily said.

"I'm trying—"

"Try harder." Her palm came down again—harder than the ones before—and your whole body lurched forward into the desk. Her free hand pressed flat to your lower back immediately, holding you in place. "There. Stay there."

She wasn't rushing. She never rushed anything, and the deliberate pace of it was its own torment. Each spank gave you just enough time to process the sting, to feel the heat building and layering across your skin, before the next landed. She varied the spots, and by the time she paused you were breathing in short, uneven pulls and holding the desk like it was the only fixed point in the room.

Out in the bullpen, someone laughed at something. Normal sounds. Normal afternoon. The total disconnect of it made your face go hot all over again.

Emily's fingers trailed down slowly, past where she'd been rubbing, and then they stopped.

"Well," she said.

You closed your eyes, already aware.

"Well." Quieter, and there was something in her voice that wasn't quite amusement but lived right next to it. "Look at this." Her fingers shifted—just slightly, just enough—and the slick sound was audible to both of you in the stillness of the office. You wanted to evaporate. You wanted to sink into the ground right then and there.

"All of that," she said, thoughtful, "and you're soaking."

"Emily—"

"Mommy."

"Mommy." It came out rough. "Please—"

"Oh, 'please'?" She withdrew her fingers with maddening calm, and the loss of even that incidental contact felt deeply unfair. "I've barely done anything yet, darling." She shifted to your side—just enough to sit at the edge of your vision—her hand still resting light at the small of your back.

"Although," she said, working through something out loud, "I think I understand it now."

You were not going to let her have this this. Your pride would not let you.

"Sh-shush. It's not—"

A spank landed directly on your cunt, her fingertips hitting your clit. You had to bite through your lip, it felt like, desperate not to cry out.

You were going to let her have this.

"The glass," Emily said, her thumb making one slow circle at your back. "It's the glass, isn't it? The fact that someone might hear."

Another spank landed at a different angle, and you made a sound you'd been working to suppress, and she went very still for a moment.

"Yes," she said, quiet and certain. "That's it." Her focus sharpened—you could hear it in her voice. "My little brat gets wet from being spanked in her Mommy's office because someone might hear. Because she might get caught." A brief pause. "That's a little pathetic, sweetheart."

You felt your cunt drip down your thigh.

"Or," Emily continued, like she was amending her notes, "if I'm honest, it's very on brand." Her hand moved from your lower back, trailing down. "Let's see how pathetic you are, huh?"

Two fingers pressed against you and slid in without resistance—smooth and immediate—and the sound you made was not quiet.

"There she is," Emily murmured.

Your hands scrabbled at the edge of the desk. She hadn't started slow. Two fingers curled inside you at a pace that had you up on your toes in the first few seconds, your whole body either trying to chase her hand or get away from it. The stretch, the fullness, the relentless curl on every stroke that found the same spot over and over. You could feel it in your thighs, in your stomach, heat climbing fast and steep. The slick sounds in the quiet office were unavoidable and obscene, and you were past caring about them—past caring about anything except the pressure of her fingers and the angle she'd found that made your vision blur at the edges every time she curled them just right.

Your knuckles had gone white on the desk edge. The surface was warm now from your palms, and you gripped it like it was the only thing keeping you in the room. It was, more or less. Your hips kept making small involuntary movements, pressing back toward her hand, and each time they did Emily made a quiet sound behind you that you felt more than heard.

"You're adorable," she said, and she meant it. You could hear that she meant it, which somehow made it worse. Her free hand pressed firm between your shoulder blades, holding you flat against the desk. "Absolutely shameless. You slid right in, darling. No resistance at all." The curl of her fingers hit something that made your vision go white at the edges. "Pretty little slut."

A moan came out of you that was too loud for a glass-walled federal building, and Emily made a quiet sound above you that was distinctly less composed than her voice.

"That," she whispered, "cannot happen again." She didn't slow down. Her fingers kept their pace—relentless, that curl on every stroke—and you could feel yourself building already, embarrassingly fast, your thighs shaking with the effort of staying standing. "The agents outside will have questions I don't feel like answering today."

"I can't—" Your voice came out in pieces. "I can't help it, Mommy, please—"

"You can," she said. "You will." Her hand left your back. A moment later something soft pressed against your mouth—your underwear, or what was left of them, the elastic stretched and snapped, the slightest bit damp (yes, you had been wet as you walked in). "Open."

You opened. She pressed the cotton between your lips, not deep, just enough. The faint taste of your own arousal on the fabric pulled a helpless sound out of you. Emily smoothed one hand briefly over your hair before it returned to your hip.

"That's better," she said. "Don't you dare drop those pretty panties."

She wasn't gentle about it when she started moving her fingers again. She knew your body, and she used that knowledge without apology. Her fingers worked you with a focus that reminded you, not for the first time, that Emily Prentiss was very good at everything she decided to do. When the angle shifted you cried out against the gag, muffled now but still audible to her, and she catalogued the sound with quiet attention.

"Good girl," she said—confusing given the context and also exactly what you needed to hear. Your hips pressed back against her hand. "You're close already. I can feel it." Her fingers curled and held the pressure, and you bit down on the cotton, making a desperate, muffled sound from somewhere well past dignity.

"All because of the glass," she said conversationally, confirming something she'd already worked out, reminding you. "Because someone out there might know exactly what I'm doing to you right now."

The orgasm hit fast—too fast to brace for, too fast to muffle entirely. You came with your face pressed to her desk and her fingers inside you, your own ruined underwear between your teeth, shaking hard. Emily worked you through every second of it without letting up until the last tremor moved through you and left you limp.

She didn't stop.

"Mommy—" Against the gag it was barely sound, but she heard it.

"I know," she said. "One more."

"I can't—" You tried to say, though it came out as a bunch of muffled gibberish that Emily somehow understood.

"You can." Her thumb found your clit while her fingers stayed where they were, and the sensation after the orgasm was so acute your legs nearly went out. She stepped in close behind you, her body solid, steadying you. "You can, you will, and you'll thank me after." Her thumb moved in small, steady circles. Her fingers resumed their curl. You were crying now—actual tears tracking down your cheeks, your hands opening and closing against the desk edge because there was nothing else to do with them. "That's it, darling. Let go for me."

The second orgasm was longer. Deeper. It took you apart differently than the first. It was less urgent, more total, the kind that started in your core and rolled outward until your whole body was caught in it. You sobbed against the gag with your vision gone blurry, and Emily pressed close behind you, murmuring something low and warm against the back of your head that you didn't catch the words of but understood anyway.

Her fingers went still as you came down. Stayed still while you breathed, while the shaking worked its way out of your limbs. Her hand at your hip made slow circles.

"There," she said, quiet. "Good girl. That's my good girl."

You stayed against the desk because it was the only option. Emily gave you the time without comment—her thumb at your hip, her body steady and warm. When you finally stirred, she reached up and gently removed the makeshift gag, setting it aside on the desk, and helping you upright.

"I've got you," she said. "Take a second, sweetheart."

You took several. Your ass ached deeply. Your thighs were still trembling. There were tears drying on your cheeks and you were standing in her glass-walled office with the bullpen carrying on outside like nothing had happened at all, and Emily's hands were steady at your shoulders.

"Sorry, Mommy," you managed.

Something in her expression shifted. The authority didn't leave it—it never entirely left it—but it made room for something else. The warmth she had when she'd brought you through something and was checking that all of you had arrived intact on the other side. She smoothed your skirt back down, ran her hands over it once to straighten it, and turned you gently to face her.

Your eyes were probably red. Your face was definitely a disaster. She looked at you like you were something she was glad to have.

"I know, my darling," she said. "You did so well. Mommy's so proud of you. Such a good little sweetheart for me."

She guided you to the small sofa along the side wall—the one with the folded throw blanket that had appeared there a few months ago without either of you remarking on why—and sat down, drawing you into her lap with the ease of something long-practiced. You went without resistance, your face finding the familiar curve of her neck. She pulled the blanket over you both and her arm settled around your back.

Outside, a desk phone rang. Someone answered it in a low voice. The building kept operating, indifferent and steady.

Emily's hand moved into your hair—slow, even passes from your temple back. She didn't say anything. You didn't either. The silence was the comfortable kind, the kind that didn't need anything added to it, and you let yourself sink into it by degrees.

The office smelled like her—the same light scent from her jacket when she pulled you in close, something clean and faintly of cigarettes. You'd always noticed it. You'd noticed it the first time she'd stood close to you and you'd been noticing it ever since in the involuntary way you noticed things about Emily, which was thoroughly and without meaning to. Through the glass, the bullpen moved in its ordinary patterns. Someone walked past with a coffee mug. Someone else was on the phone, gesturing at nothing. A completely normal afternoon in a federal building.

None of them knew.

The thought landed somewhere odd—not embarrassing, exactly, more like a of a secret that was only yours. Emily's thumb moved at your back in a slow arc, and you pressed a little closer and let the thought go.

Your breathing evened out. The trembling left your legs. The heat across your ass was settling into a deep, grounding ache you'd still be aware of tomorrow morning, which was presumably the point. You could feel Emily's heartbeat under your cheek—steady, safe—and you focused on that while the rest of the room came back to you in pieces.

"Are you okay, darling?" she asked eventually.

"Yeah." Still a little rough. "'M okay."

"Good." Her thumb moved at your back. "Pain?"

"Little," you said.

She made a small sound—understanding, satisfied with that answer. Her fingers kept moving through your hair, and you let yourself stay heavy in her lap and not think about anything in particular.

At some point she'd have to go back to work. At some point you'd have to get back on the Metro. At some point the afternoon would have to reassemble itself into something practical.

You were aware of all of this in a distant, theoretical way, the same way you were distantly aware of the city outside and the bullpen through the glass and the rest of the world continuing to exist. None of it felt particularly urgent.

Not yet.

"Hungry?" Emily asked.

"A little."

"I did say lunch." She shifted slightly, leaning toward the desk without dislodging you from her lap, and producing a white paper bag—the kind from the deli around the corner from the building, the logo printed small on the side. Of course she'd had it waiting. Emily had never arrived anywhere unprepared for anything in her life, and apparently that applied to this as well. She found a wrapped sandwich and handed it to you, then retrieved her own.

"Turkey," she said. "They were out of roast beef."

You ate in the comfortable quiet of two people who didn't need to perform anything for each other, the sounds of the bullpen filtering through the glass in a low, easy hum.

Your ass ached every time you shifted. You shifted less.

She was watching you—you caught it at the edge of your vision.

"What?" you said.

"Nothing." She looked back at her sandwich. A brief pause. "Drink some water, baby. Bottom left drawer."

You retrieved water from the drawer and drank it, and she watched you do it with an expression you weren't going to put a name to, because you'd already been reckless with your feelings once today and that felt like enough.

The light through the blinds had shifted to mid-afternoon gold by the time you'd both finished eating—the flat overhead fluorescents softened by the warmth coming in from outside, making the office feel less like an office and more like somewhere you might want to stay. You'd ended up with your legs across Emily's lap, her hand resting easy and warm at your ankle, the blanket still around your shoulders. The deli bag was folded neatly on the corner of the desk because Emily folded things neatly. Her jacket was on the back of her chair. Through the glass, the bullpen had thinned out a little, the midday energy settling into the quieter pace of afternoon, people back at their desks with their heads down.

You were looking at the ceiling and thinking, idly, about the morning. About the way the texts had felt in your hands, lying in her sheets. About the light through the curtains and the recklessness that came from being comfortable and in love in a way that made you giddy when you thought about it. About the second photo, which had been a choice, which you had made knowingly, which had resulted in exactly the afternoon you were currently having.

You were thinking about whether you had regrets.

You didn't, you concluded for a final time.

Emily set the paper bag aside. She looked at you, and you looked back at her, and something in her expression settled. She reached over and took your chin between her fingers, tilting your face toward hers. Her thumb moved once at your jaw. Her eyes were warm and certain, and there was a smile at the corner of her mouth that she wasn't making any effort to suppress.

"That was fun, darling," Emily said, in the mild tone of someone making a perfectly reasonable observation.

"Fun is a way to put—" You found yourself shushed by a finger on your lips, and Emily's eyes looked into yours with an energy you knew by heart.

"But maybe that sore ass of yours will finally get it through your head that Mommy knows best."

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You (Masterlist)

WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Summary: For two years, you’ve been working two jobs just to afford rent and tuition after leaving home at eighteen. Finally, after surviving community college, you’re a junior in university. But with a mandatory internship required to graduate, you stumble into the corporate world of Romanoff-Maximoff Global, where you’re determined to keep your head down and struggle on your own, just as you have become accustomed to. How will Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff teach you how to choose yourself? 

Warnings/Tags: Financial struggles, past emotional/psychological abuse, slow burn, high-functioning anxiety, religious trauma, corporate/university setting, unsafe living environment, hurt/comfort, likely eventual smut, dom/sub

Chapters:

What is Success?

Fruit Snack

Polo

AO3 Longer chapters (7.5k+ words) will only be posted on AO3 after chapter 3.

A/N: thank you to the readers who gave feedback on the first chapter. it gave me the push to commit to this series 🥰

[summer2224]

Breathe For Me Part 2

part 2 out of 4 parts (link for pervious at the end)

She blinks it away. Refocuses.

"Detka, no," Wanda says softly, leaning closer, her hand guiding your arm back down to the mattress. "Leave it. It's helping you. Leave it."

Your fingers curl around hers instead, and the grip is weak, barely anything, but it's you.

Wanda's breath shakes.

She presses her lips together so hard they go white.

"That's it," she manages. "That's it. Hold onto me."

Eighty nine on the monitor. Climbing.

Your eyelids flutter. Not open. Just movement beneath them, rapid, confused, your mind starting to fire in patterns that have somewhere to go but no way to get there yet.

A sound tears out of you, louder this time, a rough, scraped noise that sits somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. Your back arches slightly off the mattress. Your face twists.

Pain. It's arriving before you are.

"She's entering the window," Dr. Amari says, voice tighter now. He nods at the nurse with the tray. "Push the first dose. Let's stay ahead of it."

A syringe clicks into the IV port. Medication slides into the line.

But it takes time. Minutes. And your body isn't waiting.

Your chest heaves. Your hand clenches around Wanda's, hard, sudden, a grip that doesn't know its own desperation. 

Your head rolls on the pillow and another sound comes, worse than the first, a broken, guttural cry that doesn't have a word in it because you don't have words yet. 

You just have nerve endings and damage and the raw animal understanding that something is very, very wrong.

Yelena steps back from the bed. Not out of fear. Out of respect. 

Natasha doesn't move. But her arms uncross and her hands go still at her sides, ready for whatever comes next.

Wanda leans down until her mouth is near your ear.

Her voice cracks open.

"I know it hurts," she whispers, and there are tears in it now, not falling, not yet, but saturating every syllable. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm right here. You're not alone. You're not—"

Your eyes open.

Not all the way. Not with recognition. 

You see light. Shape. Blur. You see green.

Wanda's breath stops.

Your mouth moves. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around silence and pain, and your eyes, they're wide and lost and terrified in a way that has nothing to do with bravery or training or anything she ever taught you.

"I'm here," Wanda says, and her voice breaks clean in half. She cups your face with her free hand, thumb on your cheek, steady despite the tremor in her wrist. "Look at me. You're in the Tower. You're safe. You had surgery. You're okay."

Your gaze drifts. Catches hers. Loses it. Catches it again.

Your fingers tighten around her hand. Your lips part.

"...Wan..."

Half a name. Not even that. A syllable and a breath.

But Wanda hears it like a gunshot. Her face crumples.

A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.

She doesn't wipe them.

She leans her forehead against yours, carefully, so carefully, avoiding the tubes and tape, and breathes with you.

"I'm here," she says again, wet and shaking. "I'm here. I have you. I'm not going anywhere."

Your eyes close again. Not unconscious, just exhausted. Your grip stays.

The monitor steadies. Ninety two. Holding.

Dr. Amari watches the numbers for a long moment. Then exhales.

"She's through the worst of it," he says quietly. "She'll drift in and out for the next hour or so, but she's emerging."

The room releases something it didn't know it was holding.

Natasha lets out a slow breath through her nose.

Yelena is very still by the wall. Her eyes are bright in a way she would deny if anyone mentioned it. Her arms are crossed so tightly her knuckles are pale.

The room quiets. Wanda doesn't speak.

Her fingers return to your hair, slow, steady, tracing the same path they've worn over the last hours. 

Her green eyes are fixed on your face with a stillness that borders on devotion, watching your lashes, your lids, the faint movement beneath them.

Waiting. Not for the monitors. Not for the doctor's permission.

For you to look at her again.

Natasha moves first. She touches Yelena's elbow, a single tap, the Romanoff shorthand for we're leaving and Yelena, for once, doesn't argue. She pushes off the wall, takes one last look at you, then at Wanda, and follows Natasha toward the door without a word.

Dr. Amari lingers long enough to check the monitors one final time. He says something to the nurse about the next dose window. She nods. They gather the tray, the tablet, the portable unit, and file out in quiet succession.

The resident is the last to leave. He glances back at Wanda from the doorway like he wants to say something, reassurance, maybe, or a reminder about visiting protocols,but the look on her face changes his mind.

The door clicks shut. The room exhales.

And it's just her. Just you.

The monitors hum. The oxygen sighs. The afternoon presses against the window like it's trying to watch.

Wanda sinks into the chair.

She sits like the strings have been cut. Her shoulders drop. Her spine curves forward. Her heels press flat against the tile for the first time in hours, and the silence of them feels like surrender.

She lifts your hand to her mouth.

Presses her lips against your knuckles, slow, deliberate, like she's sealing something into your skin.

"I promise you," she whispers, and the words disappear into the space between her lips and your fingers. "Every consequence. All of it."

Your chest hurts.

That's the first thing. Before sight, before sound, before any understanding of where you are or why, your chest hurts and your throat hurts and your side hurts and you don't know which one to deal with first.

Your hand goes to your throat.

Fingers hit tape and bandage and you flinch, hard, because something is wrong there and your body knows it before your brain does.

Panic comes fast.

Your eyes fly open and nothing makes sense. White ceiling. Dim light. A sound beeping somewhere. 

Your breath catches and it burns and your fingers claw at the bandage because you need it off, you need to understand

A hand catches your wrist.

"No. Leave it. Look at me."

Green eyes.

Your wrist fights her grip, not because you want to, but because your body is running on something older than reason. Your breathing is ragged and shallow and every inhale feels like swallowing glass.

"Hey. Hey. Look at me."

Her fingers find your chin. Gentle. Firm. She tilts your face toward hers and holds it there.

Wanda.

Not the calm, commanding green from briefing rooms and training floors. These are red rimmed, bright, exhausted, terrified. But steady.

Her auburn hair falls forward over her shoulders, loose, catching the low hospital light in shades of copper and dark wine. There's a strand near her jaw that moves when she breathes.

She's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen and you can't tell her because your throat won't make words.

"There you are," she says softly. "Stay with me. Don't touch it. It's helping you."

Your fingers are still reaching. She takes your hand and folds it against her chest. Pins it there, over her heartbeat, like she's giving you something else to hold onto.

"Breathe for me," she says. "Slow."

You can't. Your chest is too tight and your side pulls with every inhale and your eyes are burning and you don't understand what happened to you.

"I know," Wanda whispers, reading your face like she always does. Her thumb strokes your jaw. "I know it hurts. You're okay. You had surgery. You're safe."

Your eyes search hers, frantic, glassy, looking for something to believe.

She gives it to you.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Just holds your gaze with those green eyes like she can anchor you to the world through sheer will.

"I'm here," she says. "I haven't left. I'm not going to."

Your breathing stutters. Catches. Slows, just a fraction.

Your fingers curl against her chest.

She takes your hand from her chest and lifts it to her lips.

Her eyes close.

She kisses your knuckles and a tear slides down her cheek, quiet, unhurried, like it's been waiting twenty six hours for permission.

"Detka," she whispers against your skin.

Another tear follows the first.

"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."

Her eyes open. Wet. Green. Devastatingly soft.

She looks down at you and her thumb finds your cheek, brushing beneath your eye where your own tears have started without your permission.

"You don't have to talk," she says. "Don't try. Just breathe. Nice and slow. I'm not going anywhere."

Your chest shudders. Your lips tremble around nothing.

She nods like you said something anyway.

"I know," she murmurs. "I know."

She kisses your knuckles again. And again. Small, pressed things, one after another, like she's counting them.

She doesn't look at the door. Doesn't check if anyone's watching through the glass. Doesn't care.

She is so tired of caring.

"Detka," she whispers, lips still against your hand. "You are so goddamn selfless, you know that?"

Her voice cracks on the last word.

"You threw yourself in front of a bullet for a woman you've never met. You didn't even hesitate. You just—"

She stops. Breathes.

Her jaw works. Her eyes are wet and fierce and looking at you like you are the bravest and most infuriating thing she has ever loved.

"You just went."

She shakes her head slowly.

"And I watched."

Her forehead drops against your hand. She stays there, breathing into your fingers, and when she speaks again her voice is muffled and raw.

"Don't ever do that to me again."

She lifts her head. Wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, quick, impatient, like the tears are an inconvenience she doesn't have time for.

Her green eyes find yours again.

"When you're healed," she says, and her voice is steady now in a way that tells you she's already decided this, probably decided it twenty-six hours ago in a hallway covered in your blood, "you're off the front line."

Your brow creases.

She sees it.

"Don't," she says softly. "Don't argue with me. Not right now."

Her thumb traces your cheekbone.

"You go where I go. You stay where I can see you. Every mission, every op, every room — you are behind me. Do you understand?"

It's not a punishment. You can hear that. There's no anger in it, no discipline, no Commander Maximoff pulling rank.

It's just Wanda. Looking at you in a hospital bed with tape on your throat and a tube in your side and bruises blooming across your chest like a map of everything she failed to prevent.

"I can't do this again," she says, and her voice drops to almost nothing. "I won't."

Her fingers lace through yours. Carefully. Around the IV.

"You are too important." She swallows. "To the team."

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours.

"To me."

The door opens.

Yelena is already halfway across the room before the door finishes swinging. This time she is carrying two pudding cups like they're medical supplies.

Wanda's eyes close. Her jaw tightens.

She doesn't turn around.

Her hand stays on yours, her thumb stays on your cheek, and her entire body radiates the specific energy of a woman who is three seconds from committing a crime but is choosing not to because you're watching.

Your eyes drift past Wanda's shoulder.

Yelena stops at the foot of the bed. Looks at you. The tubes, the tape, the bruising, your red rimmed eyes barely open.

"Oh good," she says. "You look terrible."

Your mouth twitches.

"No, this is good," Yelena continues, peeling the lid off a pudding cup with her thumb. "You were more of a blue gray color. Now you are a yellow gray. This is upgrade."

Wanda's voice is flat. "Yelena."

"What? I am being supportive. This is my supportive face." She gestures at her own expression, which is mostly just Yelena's regular face but slightly wider eyed.

She pulls a spoon from her hoodie pocket, not a new one, the same tiny plastic one from before, and points it at you.

"I brought you pudding. Butterscotch. Confirmed. I ate three already to make sure they were not poisoned." She pauses. "They were not. You are welcome."

Your chest hurts when you try to laugh. It comes out as a rough, broken exhale that makes you wince.

Wanda's attention snaps back to you immediately, her hand pressing gently against your shoulder, easing you still.

Yelena watches this, chewing her pudding slowly.

"Also," Yelena says, pointing the spoon between you and Wanda like she's connecting dots, "you should know that while you were sleeping, Wanda threatened the entire building. Very romantic."

Wanda's fingers tighten on your shoulder.

"Yelena," she repeats, quieter this time, which is worse.

"I am just saying," Yelena shrugs, scraping the bottom of the cup. "If someone threatened an entire government agency for me, I would want to know."

Your eyes find Wanda's.

She doesn't look away. But the faintest flush creeps up the back of her neck, just above the turtleneck, and she absolutely refuses to acknowledge it.

Yelena sees it. Yelena sees everything.

She takes another bite of pudding and says nothing, which is the loudest thing she's done all day.

Wanda's fingers are in your hair again.

Her thumb traces the curve of your ear, slow, absent, like she's forgotten how to stop touching you. Her green eyes are soft and she's leaning close, murmuring something about your oxygen levels being better when the door opens for the third time.

Wanda doesn't look up. She assumes it's a nurse.

"She's resting," Wanda says. "Come back in—"

"Y/n."

The voice is not a nurse. 

Wanda's hand stills in your hair.

Your eyes, half lidded and heavy, shift toward the door.

Sue Storm stands in the doorway in a flight suit still creased from reentry, hair pulled back, face tight with the specific kind of worry that doesn't belong to a colleague. She looks like she came straight from debrief. She looks like she ran.

She looks at you the way someone looks at a mistake they never stopped regretting.

Wanda straightens slowly.

Her hand doesn't leave your hair. Her fingers just... stop moving. Like they've turned to stone.

"Commander Maximoff," Sue says.

Wanda's chin lifts. Her eyes find Sue's and hold them with the precision of a scope finding a target.

"Dr. Storm."

Two words. Polite. Professional. Absolutely lethal.

The room changes temperature. Not literally, Wanda's magic stays coiled, dormant. But something shifts in the air between the two women that makes the monitors feel louder.

From the corner, Yelena glances up from her pudding cup. Her eyes flick between Wanda and Sue. Then to you. Then back to Wanda.

A grin spreads across her face like Christmas came early.

Sue steps into the room. Her eyes haven't left you, the bruising, the tape at your throat, the chest tube, the way you look small in a bed that's too white for someone this alive.

"I just landed," Sue says. "I heard on the comm channel during descent. They said it was a field injury. They said—" Her jaw tightens. "They said airway compromise."

Wanda's expression doesn't change. "She's stable."

"I can see that."

Sue moves closer to the bed. Confident. Measured. Not asking permission, because Sue Storm doesn't ask permission, she's used to walking into rooms and belonging there, used to the kind of quiet authority that comes from bending light itself to her will.

Wanda's eyes track every step.

Your gaze drifts between them. Your brain is foggy and slow but something old fires in the back of your skull, a recognition, a tension, a history your body remembers even when your mind is swimming in painkillers.

Sue reaches the bedside. Opposite Wanda.

She looks down at you and her face does something she probably doesn't mean to show, a softness, a crack, the particular ache of someone looking at a person they lost and suddenly remembering exactly why losing them was the worst thing they ever did.

"Hey, you," Sue says quietly.

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

Sue's hand reaches for your face. 

Scarlet wraps around her wrist.

Wanda's magic locks around Sue's wrist like a hand, firm, deliberate, unmistakable. Red light pulses against Sue's skin, and Sue's fingers stop three inches from your cheek.

Sue doesn't flinch.

She looks down at the scarlet coiled around her wrist. Looks at it the way you'd look at someone's hand on your shoulder when you didn't invite it.

Then her skin ripples.

A shimmer runs from her wrist to her fingertips, not invisible, not yet, but the threat of it. The light bending around her, just enough to say I can slip out of this whenever I want.

Her eyes lift to Wanda.

Wanda's eyes are already there.

Green and unblinking, her fingers still resting in your hair, her body angled over yours like a sentence that ends with a period. The scarlet doesn't tighten. It doesn't need to. It just stays, wrapped around Sue's wrist like a collar, patient, certain.

Sue's shimmer holds.

Wanda's magic holds.

Two women. Two powers. Neither yielding.

Yelena leans back against the wall and crosses her arms with the expression of someone who desperately wishes she had popcorn instead of pudding.

Sue smirks. Slow. Dangerous.

Wanda doesn't smirk. She just looks at Sue the way you look at someone who's reaching for something that already has your name on it.

Sue's shimmer fades first. Deliberate, not surrender, but calculation. She lowers her hand.

Wanda's scarlet unravels a half second later. Just as deliberate.

Neither of them blinks.

"She needs rest," Wanda says evenly.

"She needs a lot of things," Sue says, and her eyes don't leave Wanda's.

The space between them isn't wide. Your bed fills most of it, you, lying in the middle of whatever this is, too drugged to translate but too awake to miss the charge in the air.

Sue's gaze drops to Wanda's hand in your hair. Studies it. The way Wanda's fingers rest against your scalp, possessive and easy, like they've been there a thousand times.

They haven't. But Sue doesn't know that.

And that's what makes her jaw tighten.

"I heard your team had a training failure," Sue says. "On your watch."

Wanda's fingers don't stop moving through your hair.

"The situation has been handled," she says.

"Has it." Sue's weight shifts. One hip. Arms crossing. The posture of a woman who has commanded a team through deep space and doesn't soften for anyone. "Because from where I'm standing, handled looks a lot like a chest tube and a tracheotomy scar."

Wanda's hand stills.

Not a flinch. A choice.

She looks at Sue the way a blade looks at skin, already touching, just deciding how deep.

"You've been in space, Dr. Storm," Wanda says quietly. "Six weeks. You missed quite a lot."

Sue's chin lifts. "I would have been here."

"And yet."

Wanda doesn't even finish the sentence because she doesn't need to. The absence does the work, you weren't, I was, and we both know which one of us she reached for when she couldn't breathe.

Sue takes it. Absorbs it. 

"You think you're what she needs," Sue says, and it's not a question.

Wanda's head tilts.

"I know I am," Wanda says.

Sue's eyes flash. 

"Being here isn't the same as being enough," Sue says.

Yelena inhales sharply through her teeth. The sound you make when someone walks into traffic.

Wanda doesn't react.

Wanda holds Sue's gaze. Sue looks back. One brow lifted. Waiting.

Neither of them moves.

In the corner, Yelena has her fists up.

She's bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, throwing slow, silent jabs at the air like she's commentating a boxing match only she can see.

Neither woman notices.

Which is probably for the best.

The door opens.

A SHIELD agent stands in the frame, tablet in hand, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"Dr. Storm. Director Hill is requesting your presence in debrief room seven."

Sue doesn't look at him. Wanda doesn't look at him.

Neither of them has blinked in what feels like a geological age.

"Be there in a minute," Sue says, eyes locked on Wanda's.

The agent opens his mouth.

"A minute," Sue repeats, and the temperature of the word sends him back through the door without another sound.

It clicks shut.

Sue uncrosses her arms slowly. She steps around the foot of the bed, unhurried, deliberate, heels measured on the tile, and comes around to Wanda's side.

Wanda's chin follows her the entire way. Green eyes tracking her like a scope. Not turning her body. Just her jaw, her gaze, her stillness, rotating with Sue's movement like a gun turret.

Sue stops beside her. Close. She leans down. Her mouth is at Wanda's ear and she speaks so quietly the monitors almost cover it.

"If she ends up in this bed again because of you," Sue whispers, "I won't hesitate."

Wanda's jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the room.

Sue straightens. Smooths her flight suit. Doesn't look at you, because if she looks at you she won't leave, and she knows it.

In the corner, Yelena mouths something at you. You're too drugged to read lips but it looks a lot like I need to know the exact prayer you said.

The door closes behind her.

----------------------------

Click here for part 3

Pervious part click here

[angeljareau]

❝ after hours ❞ ─── featuring . . emily prentiss

pairing. superior! emily prentiss x fem! agent! reader

summary. helping your boss destress after a heavy case.

content. smut. heavy dirty talk. top! emily. vaginal fingering. lap sex. office sex. “ma’am” title. semi-public sex. pervert! emily. age gap. dumbification. established relationship.

✉︎ anna’s letters. phewwww! first fic :] and first time writing em! let me know what you all think! likes and reblogs appreciated but not necessary, have a good day/night! love, anna ♡

the bau is often eerily quiet after hours.

most people head out around nine, going home to their families or going out drinking with colleagues. but you didn’t drink and you had more than enough time to see your family members. and so, more often than not, you stayed back to finish up the necessary case files and paperwork for your teammates, often pouring in late hours and leaving after the janitors in order to get it all done.

tonight was one of those nights. a particularly hard case had swept through the bau, leaving it more silent than usual. aside from your gentle pen scratches you could hear next to nothing in the walls around you.

besides her.

emily prentiss had joined the team a few years back and was, subsequently, your superior by all means. though naturally you were drawn in my her soft brown eyes and that soft way she regarded you — it wasn’t rare to see her here later than the others either.

one time you’d jokingly asked about it, getting in response a quick; “sergio eats enough as it is, he can miss one meal.”

through trial and error (aka sneaking into her office to see her desk photos) you learned that was just her cat and not some tall european man she kept around at home whom was set on a specific eating schedule and what not.

regardless, after tonight’s case you weren’t surprised to see her office light still on. nor were you when she would sigh, or when her mumbles would bleed through the wall and waft to your cubicle. your brows were lightly furrowed, concern washed over your features. your work had been finished ten minutes ago, yet you stayed.

and despite yourself, one more sigh from her was all it took for you to walk over, gently knocking on the door before peeking in. “agent prentiss, are you okay?”

emily glanced up from her work, her lip chewed between her teeth. those big brown eyes of hers were slightly widened, but she schooled her expression quickly and swallowed, murmuring. “i’m fine, hon.” clearing her throat, she leaned back in her chair. “are you… all done for the night?”

“mm,” you nod softly, hesitating but stepping into her office, slipping the door shut. “can I help you? so you don’t have to stay so long?”

her eyes narrow slightly, not in a mean way. she hums, nodding you over. your feet lead you to her desk and she slides the chair slightly, eyes linger on your form as you lean forward and glance through her case file. your eyes flash to every blank, but they’re all filled in. “agent prentiss—”

“emily.” she corrects, tongue darting out over her lips. “no need for that.”

warmth climbs sweetly up your neck, as her hand loosely straightens your outfit. softly, you speak. “the whole file is already done, ma’am..”

a sigh escapes emily’s lips. “god I love it when you call me that.”

the warm feeling hits your cheeks as her hands find your hips, slowly guiding you to sit on her lap. you don’t squeak or even jump at the action - no, you’re too accustomed to her touch, leaning back against her, emily’s hands wander to your tummy as her lips press to your neck.

“gorgeous girl,” she whispers. “…’jus need to unwind a bit, baby. you don’t mind, mm?” her hand slipped slowly between a crack in your blouse, the buttons popping as she slid up, cupping your breast. “..you always let me do what I want, hm?”

a shiver rolls through your body. “..yes ma’am.”

emily smiles into your neck, her warm breath traveling down as she leans, nipping your shoulder. her hand squeezes your bra-clad breast, squeezing slowly before slipping under and toying with your slowly hardening nipple. you press into her hand, a week moan leaving your lips.

“ah..”

“do you like that?” she husks, eyes flicking to your closed ones. she leans, pecking kisses to your jaw. “always so responsive, baby. god you’re so sweet to me, my little doll. part your legs, would you? god, look at you..”

her praise makes your heart flurry and your head fuzzy, but you obediently do as she asks — parting your legs under your skirt and leaning back into her — head briefly tilting to meet her lips. she tastes of cherries and wine and her lips are soft with tiny cracks from her constantly biting. but still your addicted to the slow way she uses her own to part your lips, her tongue slipping inside easily and marking areas she already knew too well.

emily’s jaw twitches, free hand sliding to unzip your skirt - peeling it down your body until it loops at your feet. her hand slides across your thigh and leaves goosebumps in its wake, making you shiver and her chuckle.

“all needy for me baby? I like that.. want you like this all the- mm.. time…” she murmurs between slow kisses as her middle and ring finger meet your panties - rubbing a strip up and down the length of your pussy. you shiver, the feather light touch sending jolts up your body starting at your feet and ending at your shoulders. you practically buzz with delight, whimpering into her sweet kisses.

emily’s fingers part you through your pants, sliding through the dampness to circle your clit - rubbing it slowly and achingly in order to make it just barely peak from its hood. you’re so response; body lifting up to meet her touches as she breaks the kiss to suck open-mouth marks across faded ones on your neck. there’s nothing she loves more than marking what’s hers.

“mmh..please, em..”

a coo falls from her lips. softly, emily pulls her hand away enough to slip down into your panties, meeting your wet cunt head on with slow rubs. “god, you’re so wet… mmh, you needed me so bad..I know, I know baby, shhh,” she coos, brows pinching condescendingly. “you’re so wet, baby..so, so wet..don’t worry, ‘m gonna help you…gonna make you feel better, ‘promise…”

your head weakly floods with affection, hands shifting to grip onto the sides of her chair as she slides her fingers down to meet your entrance head on, sliding in in one easy swoop. your hips buck, a moan tumbling from your lips.

“a-ah—! ma’am..!”

emily hums in response, fingers delving in and out of your cunt at a steady yet quick pace, the wet noises echoing across the room as she fingers you. “feels good, mm? you like that? of course you do, my sweet little girl..give me what I want, baby..”

her words wound you up further, a tight knot forming in your tummy - hot and shooting sparks through your body. you tremble and shift on her lap - your wetness dripping slightly onto her thighs. “m-‘m trying..”

“I know, I know baby,” emily coos, kissing your neck again. “you just can’t help but take a bit, hm? my dumb little girl, that’s okay..I can wait..”

“hh,” you whine weakly, squirming more. “m-ma’am..”

emily perks. “are you close? you wanna cum for me?”

you nod quickly, shifting and turning to bury your head against her neck. emily bites her lips, watching as her hand begins to move quicker on its own under your drenched panties. her words turn huskier, dirtier. “do it, baby. make a mess for me..cum on my hand like a good little girl. fuck,” she groans. “so cute like this, so so cute, my pretty angel, my darling girl..”

her words shoot straight to your core, as does your orgasm.

with a final soft cry you jolt, the wave hitting you heavy. your limbs tingle, thighs shaking sweetly as it hits you, and with a soft whine you go lax against her, making emily coo. her freehand slowly reaches to rub your abdomen, fingers slowing inside of you before stopping completely and slipping out - wet and coated in you.

emily wastes no time in raising the digits to her lips, sucking them in and licking them clean with a groan. “fuck,” she pants when she tugs them out, turning to kiss your lips, hard enough to jolt you back to reality. she pulls away, but not before pecking again. “so good for me baby. do you think you can walk?”

“..mm-mm.”

emily bites her lip, smiling as she slowly hooks her arms around you and hoists you up, standing and rubbing your back as your limp legs wrap softly around her. “so cute..” comes her soft whisper. “don’t worry, i’ll take you home baby.. then we can have more fun, okay? you want that, yeah? wanna help me destress a bit?”

your head nods along as your arms wrap around her neck. “yeah..”

emily smiles softly.

“good girl.”

[princessprentiss12]

A Unit Chief and Her Submissive.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Reader.

Characters: Emily Prentiss, Reader, Erin Strauss (voice only).

Tags: F/F, Female reader insert, Lesbian sex, Light BDSM tones, Light Dom/Sub, Established relationship, Reader insert, Praise kink, Mommy kink, Cockwarming, Smut, Office sex, Degradation tones?, Reader is a member of the BAU.

Summary: Emily needs her cock warming while she makes an important work call.

Words: 2.3k

You walk quietly through the bullpen, the overhead lights mostly off, the remaining few casting long shadows across the vacant desks. It’s late, well past midnight, and the rest of the team headed home hours ago. Across the open room, Emily’s office is still illuminated with a soft glow. You know she’s still here, your girlfriend, your boss and your Mommy behind closed doors when the rest of the world fades away. You both carry the weight of the job, but when you’re in a scene, the only thing that matters is her and the rules your body obeys without conscious thought.

You knock once, softly, and push the door open. Emily looks up from her desk, professional gaze softening the second her eyes land on you. She’s still in her black blouse and slacks, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from running her fingers through it. She’s already wearing her harness and silicone cock beneath her clothes, you can tell by the way she shifts in her chair and her slacks cling to the subtle bulge you’ve grown to crave.

“Close the door, my love,” her voice is low and velvety, “Lock it.” Your pulse kicks up as you obey the command, the click of the lock echoing like a starting gun. Emily pushes her chair back just enough and pats her lap. “Come here. Sit on Mommy’s cock and keep it warm while I make this call.” Heat floods your face, your core clenching at the casual command. You cross the room, heart hammering and unbuckle your slacks, freeing yourself of both those and your panties, straddling her thighs with your body facing towards the direction of her dark, oak desk.

Emily’s hands settle on your hips, guiding you down until the thick, ebony silicone presses against your already dripping entrance. She lets you sink, slow and deliberate, until the blunt head has nowhere else to go and you’re seated fully on her lap, the strap buried deep inside you. 

A tiny whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it and Emily’s fingers dig slightly into your hips in warning. “Shh. Not a sound, pretty girl. You know the rules. Not while I’m on the phone.” Her lips brush against your ear, “Be a good girl for Mommy and I’ll take care of you when we get home. Break Mommy’s rules… and you won’t come for at least a week.” You nod frantically, clutching the skin of your bottom lip between your teeth in an attempt to control yourself.

She reaches for the phone and hits the speaker so you can both hear, and dials. Her free hand strokes soothing circles on your thigh, a stark contrast to the thick fullness stretching you open. 

The line picks up on the second ring and Erin Strauss’ voice fills the office, crisp even at this hour. “My apologies for the intrusion this late. I need your take on the profile for the Atlanta case before I brief the director tomorrow.” Emily’s voice is perfectly steady, professional, “Of course. I’ve got the case file right here.” She starts talking, calm, authoritative, every inch the unit chief and Supervisory Special Agent, while her other hand slides across the skin of your thigh, towards your folds. She parts them with a featherlight touch and presses two fingers against your throbbing clit, rubbing slow, maddening circles. 

Your arousal is already coating the inside of your thighs and dripping down onto the harness, your inner walls clenching around the strap with every lazy stroke of her fingertips. Your legs tremble. You grip the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles whiten. Emily’s voice doesn’t waver. “…the cluster of dumpsites suggests he’s operating within a two mile radius of the rail yards. I can narrow it further if we cross-reference…”, She pinches your clit lightly. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry and you quickly clamp your hands over it desperately trying to hold the sound in, eyes squeezing shut from the effort. 

The stretch, the pressure, the way she fills you so completely while sounding completely nonchalant on the phone, it’s torture. Perfect, delicious torture. You rock your hips the slightest bit, desperate for friction. Emily’s hand clamps down instantly, pinning you still. Her eyes flick to yours, dark and gleaming with warning and pride at the same time, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. You force yourself to stay motionless, breathing through your nose in shallow, controlled pulls. Sweat beading at your temples. Your inner walls flutter and squeeze around the thick silicone, and Emily feels every single twitch. She rewards you by angling her hips carefully and grinding up into you in the smallest, most controlled movements while Strauss keeps talking.

You’re shaking now, tears of effort pricking the corners of your eyes. Every nerve is screaming. You want to moan, to beg, to ride her until you shatter. But you don’t. You stay silent, a perfect, obedient little submissive for Mommy. Emily’s voice stays velvet smooth on the phone, “I’ll send the updated profile in the morning. Anything else I can do for you?”. Strauss wraps it up and the call ends with the click of a button.

The second the line goes dead, Emily drops the phone and buries her face in your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp. “Fuck, pretty girl,” she growls, voice wrecked now, “You were so good. So fucking quiet for Mommy. Look at you, trembling, dripping all over my cock, and not a single sound.” She grips your hips with both hands and starts fucking up into you with deep, punishing thrusts that make the chair creak. You finally let go, a sob of relief breaking free as you cry out, “Fuck!…Oh god! Mommy…’m gonna…”, your whimpering, half words trail off. “That’s it,” she praises, voice husky and warm against your ear, “Let me hear you now. You earned it. Such a perfect girl keeping Mommy’s cock warm the whole time. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise sends you spiraling over the edge. Your head falls back against her shoulder, mouth open, moans spilling out unchecked as she drives into you harder. One hand snakes up to pinch your nipple under your shirt, the other rubs tight, perfect circles over your swollen clit. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over Mommy’s strap right here in my office like the needy little slut you are for me.” The orgasm crashes through you so hard your vision whites out. You clench around her, thighs shaking violently, a broken litany of curse words falling from your lips as you soak her lap and the harness.

Emily keeps fucking you through it, lessening the momentum of her thrusts until you’re a boneless, whimpering mess in her arms. She kisses your shoulder through the fabric of your shirt, soft and reverent now that the scene is winding down.

“You did so well,” she murmurs, stroking your hair. “My sweet, obedient girl. When we get home I’m going to lay you out on our bed and worship every inch of you. Sound good, my love?”. You nod, still breathing heavily, still full of her, “Yes, Mommy.”

She gives you a moment to catch your breath, before she stands awkwardly, your two bodies still attached by the silicone strapped to her hips. Her arm is supportive around your abdomen, your legs not quite reliable yet as she pulls out slowly, emptiness replacing the fullness from seconds ago and you can’t help the tiny whimpering sound you make at the feeling. “Soon, my love”, Emily promises, slowly turning you to perch your body on the edge of the wooden desk so she can help you redress your lower half. Cleaning up is pointless when there’s more mess to come. Your legs eventually hold, not perfectly but enough to bear weight. Emily flicks off the light, grabs her bag and the two of you walk out to the parking lot together.

The drive home is a hazy blur of streetlights and Emily’s hand resting possessively on your thigh as she drives. You’re still soaked, thighs sticky, the ache between your legs a constant reminder of how perfectly you’d kept her strap warm while she sounded so unflinchingly professional on that call. Every time you shift in the passenger seat, the memory sends a fresh pulse of heat through you.

Emily doesn’t speak much, but the occasional glance she gives you is heated and full of promise. When she finally parks in the garage of your shared apartment block, she kills the engine and turns to you, voice low, “Inside. Bedroom. Clothes off. On the bed, on your back, legs spread. You have two minutes.” You practically scramble out of the car, slightly uncoordinated by the urgency. 

By the time she steps through the front door, you’re already fully naked, heart racing, back against the mattress in the center of the bed, legs spread as wide as your body will comfortably allow, exactly as instructed. The cool air kisses your overheated skin. Your nipples are tight, pebbled, your pussy still slick and throbbing from the office yet somehow aching for more. 

You hear her lock the door, the soft click of her heels on the hardwood, then the deliberate sound of her unbuckling her belt in the hallway and you can picture her fingers working as the buckle sits off centre. She appears in the doorway like sin incarnate, blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the red lace of her bra, slacks gone, the thick black strap on still jutting proudly from her hips. Her dark hair is loose, framing her face. Her sharp eyes rake over you slowly, drinking in every inch of your exposed body. 

“Look at you,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “My beautiful girl, waiting so patiently. You were such a good girl tonight, my love. Keeping Mommy’s cock warm without a single sound… I’m so proud of you.” The praise hits you straight in the chest, making your breath hitch. Emily climbs onto the bed, crawling over you until she’s braced above your body, caging you in. She leans down and kisses you, slow, deep, claiming. Her tongue slides against yours, tasting the desperation you’ve been holding back for hours.

When she pulls back, her voice is velvet and steel at the same time. “Tonight I’m going to reward you properly. But first… I want to hear you beg for it.” She settles between your spread thighs, the thick head of the strap nudging teasingly against your entrance, but she doesn’t push in. Instead, she rocks her hips in shallow, infuriating little movements, coating the onyx silicone in your arousal while her mouth finds your neck. She bites down, then soothes the mark swiftly with her tongue.

“Tell Mommy what you need, pretty girl”. Your voice comes out shaky, already wrecked, “Please… Mommy. I need you inside me. I’ve been so empty since the office. Please fuck me. I’ll be good.” Emily hums in approval, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arch into her touch.

“Mmm, such pretty words. You’re already dripping for me again. My sweet little sub, so needy after keeping Mommy warm.” She presses the tip inside you, just the head, then she stops, holding perfectly still. “But good girls who follow the rules get fucked properly. Ask me nicer”. 

“Mommy, please,” you whimper, hips jolting uselessly. “Please fill me up. I need your cock to fill me. I was so quiet for you… I didn’t make a sound. Please… I was good”. Emily’s eyes darken with satisfaction, her pupils blown with lust, “That’s my girl,” She thrusts in with one smooth, powerful stroke, burying the entire length inside you until her hips are flush against yours. The stretch is perfect, thick, unrelenting, hitting every sensitive spot as she bottoms out. 

You cry out, back bowing off the bed, fingers scrambling for grip on her shoulders. “Fuck, Mommy!” She sets a slow, devastating rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep, grinding against your swollen clit with every thrust. Her mouth finds your ear again, voice husky and warm with praise, “Look at you taking me so well. Such a perfect little slut for Mommy. So wet, so tight… you were made for this, weren’t you? Made to warm my cock in the office and then get fucked senseless at home.” Every word winds you tighter. The praise, the fullness, the way she owns every inch of you, it’s overwhelming in the best way. 

Tears of pleasure slip down your temples as she fucks you harder, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubs firm circles over your swollen clit. “You’re doing so good, pretty girl. Letting Mommy fuck you like this. Come for me whenever you need to. I want to feel you fall apart on my cock again.”

The permission is all it takes. Your second orgasm rips through you even harder than the first, walls clenching rhythmically around the thick strap, thighs shaking violently as you sob her name, “Mommy…oh fuck, I’m coming!” Emily doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, murmuring soft praises against your skin, “Good girl, that’s it, give it all  to me, you’re so beautiful when you come for me like this”, the words keep coming until you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath her. Only then does she slow, easing the strap out gently and setting the harness aside for cleaning later. 

She gathers you into her arms, pulling the sheets over both of you, pressing tender kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You were incredible tonight,” she whispers, stroking your hair with gentle fingers. “My perfect girl. Rest now, my love. Mommy’s got you.” You curl into her chest, boneless and glowing in a state of post sex bliss, the last thing you hear before sleep claims you is her soft, satisfied voice, “I love you.”

[summer2224]

Almost

Wanda Maximoff G!P x Fem Reader

by summer2224

double drop wanda x fem reader g!p

18+ Smut Explicit

Smut Explicit 

She knew how you felt before you ever said a word. felt it every time you walked into a room, every almost, every pulled back breath. she just needed to stop being afraid of wanting something good.

written May 12, 2024-July 1st, 2024

 (5663 Words)

------------------------------

You don't notice her noticing you at first.

That's the thing about Wanda Maximoff, she's careful. Precise. Seven weeks of working alongside her and you've learned that everything she does is intentional, measured, considered. The way she moves through a room. The way she listens. The way her eyes find things and stay there just long enough to understand them completely.

You don't notice her noticing you.

Until you do.

It starts small.

The way she always seems to know when you walk into a room before you've made a sound.

The way a conversation she's having with someone else will pause, just slightly, just a fraction, when you appear in the doorway. The way her mug finds the counter a little more carefully when you sit down across from her at breakfast.

You tell yourself it means nothing.

You are a SHIELD agent. You are trained to read rooms and people and situations. You are not imagining it.

You tell yourself it means nothing anyway.

The first thing she says to you that isn't mission related is in the kitchen on a Wednesday.

You're making tea. Badly. You've been making tea badly your entire adult life and you've made peace with that.

"You're doing that wrong," she says from the doorway.

You look at the mug. Look at her. "I've been making tea for ten years."

"Yes," she says, moving to stand beside you with the particular calm of someone who has decided to be helpful whether you want it or not. "Badly for ten years."

You blink.

She takes the mug from your hands, fingers briefly, briefly brushing yours, and something at the edge of your vision flickers faintly red before it's gone.

You don't mention it. You assume it's the light.

"I had it handled," you say.

"You had hot water and existential uncertainty," she says without looking up. "That's not tea."

You stare at the side of her face. The dark hair. The small focused frown of someone taking tea very seriously.

"Did you just make a joke?" you ask.

She looks up. Something dances in her eyes. "I never joke about tea."

You smile before you can stop yourself.

She looks away quickly.

The red flicker again, there and gone, and later you'll wonder about it but right now you're just standing in the kitchen at 8am being corrected about tea by Wanda Maximoff and somehow that feels like the best Wednesday you've had in months.

Almost #1 — The Training Room

It happens on a Friday.

The training room is empty except for you two, everyone else has somewhere to be and you've both ended up here by the particular accident of people who don't quite know what to do with themselves when the compound goes quiet.

You've been sparring for forty minutes.

She's good. Obviously she's good, you knew that before you started. But there's something different about Wanda without her powers, working with just her body, that you weren't prepared for. She's focused and fast and completely present in a way that makes it very difficult to think about anything except her.

Which is, a problem.

You catch her wrist on a block and she spins out of it smoothly, using your momentum to flip the dynamic, and suddenly you're chest to chest in the middle of the mat with her hand at your shoulder and yours at her waist and both of you breathing harder than the sparring alone accounts for.

You go still. She goes still.

The training room is very quiet.

Her eyes are very green up close. You've noticed that before, you've noticed it more than is strictly professional, but this close it's the only thing in the room. Green and steady and something underneath that you can't quite name but feel in your sternum like a frequency.

Her hand is warm at your shoulder.

Your hand is warm at her waist.

Neither of you moves.

"Good block," she says. Softly. Her voice comes out different than usual, lower, careful, like she's handling something fragile.

"Thanks," you say. Equally soft. Equally careful.

The distance between you is approximately nothing.

Her eyes drop, just briefly, just a fraction, to your mouth.

The air crackles faintly red at the edges of your vision.

And then you both step back. Simultaneously. Like you'd planned it. Like the almost was a choreographed thing you'd rehearsed and decided against.

"Good session," you manage.

"Yes," she says. She's already turning toward her water bottle. Her shoulders are very set. Very deliberate.

You look at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you grab your own water bottle and pretend your heart isn't doing something completely unreasonable.

Almost #2 — The Hallway

Three weeks later. Late.

The compound is that particular 1am quiet that makes everything feel more honest than it should. You're heading back from the kitchen, tea, made correctly this time, you've been practicing, when you almost walk directly into her.

She catches your arm before the tea goes everywhere.

"Sorry," you say automatically. "Didn't see you—"

"It's fine," she says. She hasn't let go of your arm. You don't think she's noticed.

The hallway is narrow and dim and she's in that oversized cream sweater again, hair loose, face soft with almost sleep and she is, a lot. She's always a lot but at 1am in a dim hallway she's devastating in a way that makes your carefully maintained professionalism feel very far away.

"Couldn't sleep?" you ask.

"Never can," she says. Her eyes are doing that thing, moving over your face slowly, unhurried, like she's reading something she already knows by heart. "You?"

"Tea mission," you say. "Successfully executed this time."

Her mouth curves. "I trained you well."

"You corrected me once."

"Clearly it took." Her thumb moves, just slightly, just once, against your arm before she seems to realize she's still holding it. She doesn't let go immediately. "You remembered."

"I remember things you tell me," you say quietly.

Something moves across her face. Soft and startled and quickly gathered back in.

The hallway feels smaller than it did a moment ago. The distance between you somehow less than it was. Her face is tilted up toward yours and the dim light catches her eyes and you are very aware of how easy it would be to just 

A door opens somewhere down the hall.

You both step back.

The moment dissolves.

"Goodnight," she says. Carefully.

"Night," you say. Just as carefully.

You walk back to your room and sit on the edge of your bed and stare at the wall for a while.

Almost #3 — The Rooftop

You find the rooftop by accident in your second month at the compound.

You find Wanda there by accident two weeks later, or that's what you tell yourself, even though your feet brought you there without much deliberation on a Tuesday evening when the sky was doing something worth watching.

She's sitting on the low wall when you push through the door, knees drawn up, looking at the horizon where the sun is finishing its exit. She glances back at you and doesn't look surprised.

"The sky was doing something," you say by way of explanation.

"It does that sometimes," she agrees.

You sit beside her. Close, the wall isn't very wide and the evening is cool and somehow you end up with your shoulder against hers and neither of you adjusts.

You watch the sky do its thing.

It's comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you, the particular comfort of someone you've stopped performing for without noticing you'd started. You're just sitting. Just breathing. Just here.

"Can I ask you something?" you say eventually.

"You can ask," she says. Which isn't quite a yes but you've learned is as close as Wanda gets to one.

"The red," you say. "Sometimes I see it. At the edges. When you're—" You stop. "Is that normal?"

She's quiet for a moment. The sky goes amber.

"It happens," she says carefully, "when my emotions are— loud."

You sit with that.

"Oh," you say.

"Mm," she says.

The amber deepens. Her shoulder is warm against yours. Somewhere below a car passes and the sound floats up and fades.

"Wanda," you say softly.

"Don't," she says. Just as softly. Not unkind. The same word she always uses when things get close to honest. Her eyes stay on the horizon. "Not yet."

You nod. You look back at the sky.

But you're both leaning slightly toward each other and neither of you moves away and the rooftop holds the almost like it's used to carrying things that have nowhere else to go.

Almost #4 — The Common Room

This one is almost the worst because there are witnesses.

Movie night. Tony's idea, which means it's loud and opinionated and there are too many people in too small a space arguing about what to watch. You end up on the couch beside Wanda by the particular physics of everyone filling in around you and she smells like something warm and her arm is against yours and you have decided to simply survive the evening.

Halfway through whatever film won the argument she leans over to say something quietly, some dry observation about the plot that is perfectly timed and genuinely funny,and you turn to respond at exactly the wrong moment.

Or the right moment. Depending on how you look at it.

Your faces end up approximately three inches apart.

Her eyes go wide. Just slightly. Just enough.

The air between you is very still.

You are aware of the seven other people in the room with a distant abstract awareness that means nothing right now because Wanda is three inches away and her eyes are doing the thing and the red is flickering very softly at her fingertips where her hand rests on her knee

"Sorry," Steve says, squeezing past the coffee table, completely unaware he's just detonated something, "just grabbing—"

You both lean back.

Natasha, from the armchair, says absolutely nothing.

Her expression says everything.

You stare at the screen and see none of it.

Wanda's arm stays against yours for the rest of the film and neither of you moves away and that's somehow worse than all of it.

Almost #5 — The Rooftop Again

The fifth time doesn't start as an almost.

That's the difference.

It's been four days since the common room. Four days of careful distances and professional conversations and Natasha's knowing looks that you've been aggressively ignoring. Four days of lying in your room at night and staring at the ceiling and having extremely honest conversations with yourself about what you want and what you're afraid of.

You go to the rooftop because you need air.

She's already there.

Of course she is.

She turns when she hears the door and for a moment you just look at each other in the early dark, the compound lights below, the sky above, the cool air between you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," she says.

You cross to the wall and stand beside her and look out at the city and breathe.

"Four times," you say quietly.

She goes very still.

"What?"

"Four times," you say again. Still looking at the city. "I've been counting."

The silence that follows is the loudest thing you've ever heard.

"I know," she says finally. Very quietly.

You turn to look at her. "You know?"

She meets your eyes. In the low light she looks, open. More open than you've ever seen her. Like she's decided something before you got here and is living with the consequences of that decision.

"I've known," she says carefully, "for a while. How you feel." A pause. "I should have told you sooner that I — that I can—"

"You're telepathic," you say slowly.

"Empathic," she corrects softly. "Emotions mostly. Not thoughts. But yours are—" She stops. "You feel things very clearly."

You stare at her.

"So you've known," you say. "This whole time. How I feel."

"Yes."

"And you still—" You gesture vaguely at the space between you, at the four almosts, at the months of careful distance.

"I was scared," she says simply. Like it's just true. Like she's done pretending it isn't. "I am — there are things about me that I have never—" She exhales. "I was scared that if you knew me. Really knew me. You would—"

"Wanda."

"—want something different. Someone without all of this—"

"Wanda."

She stops.

You look at her, really look, the way you've been trying not to for months. The loose hair. The open face. The red flickering very softly at her fingertips like it can't help itself.

"I have been walking into walls," you say quietly, "for three months because of you. I once made tea wrong on purpose to see if you'd correct me again."

Something breaks open in her expression.

"You didn't," she breathes.

"I absolutely did," you say. "You can feel that I'm telling the truth."

A sound escapes her, half laugh half something that isn't quite a laug, and then she closes the distance.

Not fast. Nothing about Wanda is ever rushed. She cups your face in both hands and tilts you toward her and kisses you like she's been building up to it for three months because she has, because you both have, and it is soft and warm and certain and tastes like everything that was almost finally becoming real.

You kiss her back.

Obviously you kiss her back.

Her hands are warm against your face and the red blooms softly around you both like something alive and happy and the city lights blur below and you think, oh. There it is. There's what all the almosts were leading to.

When she pulls back just enough to breathe her forehead drops to yours.

"I have wanted to do that," she says quietly, "since the tea."

"The tea was seven weeks ago," you say.

"Yes," she agrees.

"Wanda."

"I know," she says. She's smiling now, really smiling, the rare unguarded kind. "I know."

Her thumbs trace slow arcs against your cheeks. The red settles around you both like it belongs there.

"There are things," she says softly, "I want to tell you. Show you." Her eyes hold yours, warm and honest and just slightly nervous in a way that makes your chest ache. "Things I haven't shown anyone."

"Okay," you say.

Her brow furrows slightly. "Just — okay?"

"Just okay," you confirm. "I'm not going anywhere."

The nervousness in her eyes softens into something that doesn't have a name yet but feels like the beginning of one.

She takes your hand.

Leads you toward the door.

"The tea thing," she says as you go, "was very transparent by the way."

"You came back the next day to check on my technique."

"I was being helpful."

"Wanda."

"...I know," she says softly. Smiling at the ground. "I know."

She closes the bedroom door behind you with a soft click.

The room is warm. Low light, a lamp in the corner casting everything amber and gentle. It smells like her. Something floral and soft underneath something warmer and you file that away without meaning to, the way you've been filing things about Wanda away for months.

You stand in the middle of her room and she stands in front of you and for a moment you just…..

Look at each other.

No almost this time. No doorway to step back through. No Steve walking past at the wrong moment. Just Wanda Maximoff in the amber light with her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, that deep rich red brown that catches the light like it has opinions about it, and her green eyes on yours.

She lifts her hand.

Her fingers find your cheek, warm and unhurried, and the touch says everything the rooftop already did. No words needed this time.

Her thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like she's been wanting to do exactly this for a very long time. Her eyes follow the movement. Soft and focused and completely present in that way she has, that particular quality of Wanda's attention that makes you feel like the only thing in any room she's ever been in.

She kisses you.

Her kiss is soft at first.

Warm and deliberate and unhurried, like she has all the time in the world now and intends to use it. Her hand still curved against your cheek. Her auburn hair falling forward around you both in the amber light.

You inhale.

That warmth. That florals. That something underneath that is just her. You pull it in deep and your hands find her waist and she makes a soft sound against your lips that unravels approximately three months of careful restraint in a single second.

You kiss her back deeper.

Her hand slides from your cheek into your hair, fingers curling, tilting you exactly where she wants you, and the kiss shifts. That slow tide coming in. Deeper and warmer and more honest than anything that has ever happened in this compound and you are completely willing to drown in it.

Your fingers tighten at her waist.

She steps closer.

The red blooms warm at the edges of your vision, soft and steady, her magic simply happy, spilling out at the seams because she can't quite contain it and has stopped trying. It pulses gently with every deepening kiss like a second heartbeat.

Her hands slide from your hair to your face, cradling, tilting, and then down your neck, your shoulders, mapping you with that same thoroughness she brings to everything. Learning you. Deliberately. Like she has been wanting to do this slowly and intends to take her time.

You slide your hands up her back and pull her flush against you.

She exhales against your mouth.

The kiss breaks for one breath, both of you unsteady, lips barely apart, her green eyes finding yours in the amber dark, and then she kisses you again and this time there is nothing careful about it at all.

Deep and warm and consuming. Her hands in your hair again. Yours gripping the fabric of her sweater. The red glowing full and bright around you both like something that has been waiting a long time to be let out.

Then her hands find the backs of your thighs.

You register what's happening approximately one second before it does…..She lifts you.

Effortlessly. Completely. Like you weigh nothing, like this is simply the next logical thing, and your legs wrap around her waist on instinct and suddenly you're looking DOWN at her, at those green eyes and that auburn hair and that expression that is focused and warm and entirely certain, and the breath leaves you completely.

"Wanda—"

"I have you," she says quietly. Simply. Like a fact.

She carries you to the bed.

Sets you down like something worth being careful with. Follows you down slowly, one hand beside your head, her auburn hair falling forward, her green eyes on yours in the low amber light.

She looks at you for a long moment.

Like she's making sure you're real. Like she's still getting used to the fact that you're here and staying.

"Still here," you remind her softly.

Something warm moves through her expression.

She leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep and deliberate, and the red wraps around you both like it belongs there.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her sweater, finding the warm skin of her waist. She shivers against your mouth, a soft sound escaping her as her magic flares brighter, pulsing gently like a slow heartbeat against your skin.

Her knee slides between your thighs and you arch up into it without thinking, the movement so natural it feels like something you've been wanting to do forever.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the sweater over her head. The room catches its breath.

For a moment you just... look. Really look. At the woman who has been in your peripheral vision for months with nothing but brief touches and lingering glances. Now she's here, above you, her skin catching the amber light, and she's breathtaking.

Her lips find the hollow of your throat, slow and deliberate. Each kiss feels like she's memorizing you.

Your own too comes off, you're not entirely sure if her magic helped or if you just couldn't work buttons that fast.

"Been thinking about this," she murmurs against your collarbone, teeth grazing just once.

"Months," she breathes against your skin, her voice low and certain. Her teeth graze your throat again and her hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you there like you're something precious.

Her hips roll down against yours once, slow and deliberate, and the red glow around you both pulses in response. You gasp into her mouth.

"Wanda..." you murmur, and she groans at the sound of her name on your lips, the red magic pulsing brighter around you both. 

Her kisses become more urgent along your throat and collarbone, her hands gripping at your shoulders and hips. 

"Say it again," she demands softly between kisses, her breath hot against your skin.

"Wanda," you repeat, the sound coming out almost like a plea as she kisses down to your chest, her fingers working to unhook your bra. 

The red magic flares even brighter, almost like it's responding to the sound of her name on your lips.

Your bra falls away, and Wanda's mouth follows immediately, warm and wet and perfect against your skin. 

She takes her time, exploring with lips and tongue, each touch deliberate and worshipful. Her hands roam over your body, learning every curve as if she's been dreaming about this moment.

She kisses you deeply, their whispers echoing between them 

 "Beautiful... so beautiful," she murmurs against your lips. 

Her hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as she kisses you with everything she's got. The red magic around you both pulses in time with your beating hearts.

"You're beautiful too," you whisper back, your hands sliding up to cup her face in return. 

She kisses you even slower, deeper, as if savoring the moment. Her magic wraps around you both like a warm embrace, the red glow casting everything in a soft, loving light.

She hesitates, just for a moment, green eyes searching yours. That flicker of vulnerability she usually keeps so well hidden.

Then she guides your hand down to the front of her pants, her fingers trembling slightly around yours.

"I need you to know," she breathes against your lips, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain. "All of it."

The red magic pulses softer now, nervous.

Your fingers touch skin, then fabric, then, something more. She's hard. Smooth. Clearly defined beneath her pants. Your hand stills for just a second, processing.

"Wanda," you breathe, but it's not a question. It's just... her name. Everything about her. The way she's trusting you with this part of herself.

The tension in her shoulders releases like a held breath finally let go. She kisses you again, deeper this time, relief and want tangled together.

"Does it—" she starts, then stops, pressing her forehead to yours. "Does it change anything?"

Your answer is to slide your fingers lower, gentle and curious, learning this new part of her the way she's been learning you.

She inhales sharply as your fingers trace along her length through the fabric, her hips giving a small involuntary twitch. The red magic around you pulses gently, almost... affectionately. "You can..." she swallows hard, "touch it properly, if you want."

Your hand moves, palms her through the fabric first, feeling her throb against your touch. She lets out a breathy groan, her forehead dropping to your shoulder.

Then her fingers find the button of her pants and she guides your hand beneath the waistband, skin against skin now.

"Wanda," you murmur, and feel her shiver at the sound.

"God," she gasps, the red magic pulsing brighter as you touch her bare for the first time. She's long and smooth, the tip already damp with want. She guides your hand to the base, wrapping your fingers around her, showing you just how thick she is.

"You're..." you start, then trail off, exploring gently. "Big," you finish softly, and she lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a moan as your hand moves.

"You have no idea," she whispers, her voice thick with desire and vulnerability. 

She starts guiding your hand, showing you how she likes to be touched, slow strokes from base to tip, pausing to swipe your thumb over the head each time.

Your hand moves slowly, deliberately, memorizing every inch of her. The smooth skin, the thick head that leaks pre-cum onto your fingers. She's thick and long and perfect, and your touch is worshipful.

Her mouth finds yours, swallowing every breath between you as her breasts press flush against yours, soft flesh meeting soft flesh, the warm weight of them mingling as she kisses you deeper.

 Her hand tugs at your waistband and you lift your hips, letting her peel your bottoms down your legs before she kicks her own off in one fluid motion.

Now you're both bare.

Wanda kisses you deeply, her hand moving slowly between your bodies as she strokes herself. Her thick length slides against your stomach, leaving wet trails of pre-cum. 

She breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck, her free hand roaming over your hips and thighs possessively.

"Spread your legs," she murmurs against your skin, her voice commanding despite the gentle touch. 

As you obey, she settles between them, her cock pressing insistently against your inner thigh. Her strokes between you both speed up slightly as she kisses lower, towards your breasts.

She takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking gently as she jerks herself off against your thigh. The combination of sensations, her wet mouth, her thick cock sliding against your skin, makes your head spin with desire.

You arch into her mouth, a low moan escaping your lips as she sucks on your nipple. The sound encourages her, she swirls her tongue around the peak before moving to the other breast, giving it the same attention as her hand moves faster between your bodies. 

The head of her cock catches on your thigh, leaving a sticky trail.

"Fuck," she groans against your chest, releasing your other wet, hard nipple from her mouth.

She lifts her head, looking up at you with heavy lidded eyes. Her hand moves quickly now, spreading pre-cum up and down her length as she presses the head against your inner thigh.

She kisses a slow, deliberate trail down your stomach, each press of her lips making your core clench. Between the soft sighs and moans, she reaches the apex of your thighs.

Looking up at you with those green eyes, almost pleading.

"Lift your hips," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your inner thigh gently. 

You obey, and she slides her hand underneath you, cupping your ass to tilt you just right. Her lips brush against your hip bone, teasing, before her mouth settles between your thighs.

She inhales deeply, breathing you in. 

"So good,"

Her tongue parts your folds slowly, deliberately. She takes her time exploring you, licking up your center, circling your clit gently before sucking it into her mouth. Your hands grip the sheets as she eats you out with reverence, her fingers digging into your hips to hold you in place.

"God, you're so wet," she groans against your pussy, her voice muffled. "And you taste like heaven." She pushes her tongue inside you, curling it upwards, and you feel it hit that perfect spot. "I could spend all night between these legs."

"Wanda—" you moan, your hips bucking up into her mouth as your fingers finally find their way into her thick auburn hair. "Fuck—Wanda, please—"

She groans at the sound of her name, the vibration shooting straight through your core. Her tongue works faster, relentless. 

"Say it again," she demands against you, not pulling away.

"Wanda—please—Wanda!" you moan out, your thighs trembling as pleasure builds. 

She slides a finger inside you while her tongue flicks relentlessly against your clit.

"That's my girl," she murmurs against your pussy, the words almost incoherent as she replaces her tongue with her fingers, thrusting slowly while her thumb circles your clit.

"I need you—" you whimper, your body trembling on the edge. 

Wanda's eyes flash up to meet yours, a possessive moan rumbling in her chest as she snaps. She removes her fingers abruptly and stands up between your legs, grabbing both thighs roughly to spread them wide open.

"You need me?" she asks, her voice suddenly dark and commanding. She fists her thick cock slowly, watching your pussy clench and drip. "You need this?" She squeezes the head, more pre-cum leaking out.

"Yes," you breathe, arching your back. "Fuck, Wanda, I need it—"

She lines herself up with one hand, the thick head pressing against your entrance. "Look at me."

You do.

And she pushes in, slow and relentless, stretching you wide. "This is yours," she grunts. "All of it."

You moan out, head thrown back as she fills you completely. She's thick, so thick you feel every inch of her stretching you around her. She doesn't pull back right away, just stays buried deep, her forehead pressed to yours.

"Breathe for me, baby," she whispers against your lips, her hips barely moving. "Take it all."

You gasp as your walls adjust around her, the stretch burning in the best way. Your eyes roll back as she finally starts to move—slow, deep strokes that hit something inside you that makes your toes curl.

"Oh fuck—Wanda—"

She groans above you, her pace picking up, hips snapping harder now. "You feel so good."

She wraps her arms around your thighs, pushing your legs back to get even deeper inside you. The change in angle hits an entirely new spot and you let out a loud, desperate sound, half moan, half plea. "Fuck — right there —don't stop —"

"You like that?" she growls, snapping her hips harder into that spot with every stroke. Her grip on your thighs tightens, leaving red marks as the red magic flickers around the room erratically. "Say it. Tell me how much my perfect girl loves taking my cock."

"I love it—I love you—" you babble, your walls fluttering around her.

"I love you too, Good girl," she praises, and something in you absolutely melts at the words. 

She adjusts again, pulling one of your legs up over her shoulder to hit even deeper. "Hold on tight, baby. I'm gonna fuck you hard."

Then she's pounding into you, each thrust perfectly aimed at that spot that makes you see stars.

Stars burst behind your eyelids with each powerful thrust. You can't form words anymore, just moans and gasps and desperate cries of her name. Her cock is relentless, stretching and filling you completely, hitting that perfect spot repeatedly.

"Wanda—I'm gonna—I can't—" you warn, your walls clenching around her like a vice as the pressure builds unbearably.

"Not yet," she commands, voice strained as she fucks into you harder. With a snap of her fingers, red magical bindings appear out of nowhere, wrapping around your wrists and securing them above your head to the headboard. You're completely at her mercy now.

She slows her pace deliberately, pulling out until just the thick head remains inside you. Then she pushes back in slowly, agonizingly slowly, watching your face contort with need as your body tries to chase her cock. She does it again. And again. Each withdrawal makes you whimper, each slow push makes you arch off the bed.

"Fuck," she murmurs, voice hoarse with arousal as she watches your pussy grip her cock desperately every time she pulls back.

Your back arches beautifully off the mattress, red ropes straining against your captured wrists. Each slow, torturous thrust pushes another desperate moan from your lips. Wanda bites her lip, transfixed by the sight of you begging for her without words, your hips rolling uselessly in the air as you try to meet each shallow stroke.

"So pretty," she breathes, her pace remaining torturously slow. With her free hand, she runs her fingers between your breasts, down your stomach, to where you're joined. She finds your clit and rubs slow, firm circles as she continues her shallow thrusts.

Your walls flutter desperately around her, trying to drag her deeper. "Please—" you beg, voice broken.

Your desperate pleas and the sight of your body straining against the bindings finally push Wanda over the edge. With a low growl, she starts pounding into you, the headboard slamming against the wall with a thunderous rhythm matching your moans of "Wanda! Wanda! Wanda!"

She fucks you mercilessly, her hips snapping forward with wild abandon. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off the walls mixed with Wanda's grunts of pleasure. The headboard shakes violently as she hits that perfect spot over and over again.

"Take it, baby," she groans, leaning forward to kiss you hard. Her tongue pushes into your mouth in time with her thrusts, dominating you completely. You whimper against her lips, your bound wrists pulling against the magical restraints as your whole body shakes with the force of her fucking.

Your orgasm hits without warning, sudden, shattering, overwhelming. You scream into her mouth as you clench around her tightly, your whole body jerking and convulsing beneath her. She doesn't let up, fucking through your climax with relentless strokes until you're sobbing.

"Again," she demands, biting your neck hard enough to leave a mark. "Give me another."

Your body obeys even as your mind reels. A second orgasm builds impossibly quickly, your pussy clenching around her thick cock with each snap of her hips. You throw your head back, crying out again as waves of pleasure crash over you.

She buries herself deep one final time, her hips stuttering as she comes with a low grunt that rumbles through your connected bodies. Her cock pulses inside you, filling you with warm cum as her forehead drops to your shoulder. The red magic bindings fall away as her control wavers, her body shuddering through her release.

"Fuck—"

She stays buried inside you, chest heaving against yours, both of you trembling and sweaty. Her lips find your neck gently, pressing soft kisses there while her cock still twitches inside you. She rolls so you're on top now, keeping you connected, your legs draped over hers.

"That was—" she breathes against your skin, too wrecked to finish the thought.

You're breathing hard against her neck, still shaking, your pussy fluttering around her softening cock. She holds you close, one hand in your hair, the other tracing lazy patterns on your back. The red magic has settled into gentle swirls around the room, pulsing softly with each of your heartbeats.

You feel... claimed. Owned. Perfectly wrecked.

"Mine," she murmurs into your hair, the word barely audible but so certain. Her hips give one final, lazy roll as she starts to soften inside you. "You're absolutely mine."

And the strange thing is, somehow, you know it's true. Not because she forced you, but because you gave yourself to her completely. And she took everything.

[wandanatsub]

Morning sex

I was imagining how the MCU women would wake you up for morning sex and got stuck on Wanda... Now I finally wrote blurbs for a few characters and I will post them as soon as I've edited them.

Wanda: She finds a new spell in the Darkhold and wants to try it out, doesn't matter that you're still asleep. Link

Kate: She wakes up horny, so she gets up and puts on her favorite strap. She wakes you up, rubbing it against your ass, asking which hole you would like stuffed this fine morning.

Monica: She's so nice about waking you up, soft kisses pressed all over you face. She makes you choose between her strap, fingers and mouth. She even let's you set the pace but is not afraid to help out when you're too tired.

Xialing: The head of the Ten Rings worked through the night, but luckily you were able to sleep a few hours. On your blanket. Next to her throne. In a room bustling with her goons and soldiers. Naked.

Agatha: You fall asleep with her strap inside you, you wake up with her strap inside you. But she's been awake for longer than you.

Captain Carter: Peggy comes back from a mission while you're sleeping, so when you wake up with her thigh between yours, you grind on it until she wakes up and fucks you properly. Link

Carol and Valkyrie: You wake up sandwiched between them, hot and sweaty, but you're not going to complain. Especially not when they remind you of your manners.

Hela: A sharp pull on your leash wakes you up on your matress next to her bed. But you're smart enough not to move until she tells you to.

Author's Note: I wrote most of these in a public library and tried really hard not to include my raging mommy kink in any of them. Agatha will always make me fail at that. Other warnings would be a bouquet of straps, some pet play, maybe some dubious consent, but definitely soft!Monica. Individual warnings will be in separate posts. If you want to see a specific character first, come scream at me about it.

[amessbian]

Control Freak

Cipher x fem reader

Summary: It all begins with resistance and ends with something completely different. But in pure truth, no one can play hard to get with her for too long...

The room hums when I step inside. Faint and mechanical, like the walls are breathing. Someone’s been here.

Someone still is.

The monitors blink awake before I touch anything. Light spills across the floor in a fractured grid, casting shadows I don’t trust. And there she is, exactly where she shouldn’t be. In my chair. Arms draped like it belongs to her.

Cipher.

Her hair’s messy and defiant. Like she cut it with the same blade she guts firewalls with. She's not her usual self. She just watches me the way she always does. Quiet. With intent. Like I’m some complicated equation she hasn’t solved yet but desperately wants to.

“You’re getting slow.” she says. Her voice is low, like it’s meant to crawl under my skin. “I expected you to show up five minutes ago.”

“I should call backup.”

“You won’t.”

She’s right. I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t move at all. The air’s gone heavy. Thick with static and something unspoken.

I cross my arms. “Tell me why you’re here. And don’t waste my time.”

“There’s a breach in your system.” she says, tilting her head. “Remote, elegant, smarter than anything you’ve seen in years. Not mine.”

“And I should believe you?”

She shrugs. “I’m sitting in your chair, not erasing your files. That should say enough.”

God, she’s exhausting. Not just because she’s dangerous, but because she’s brilliant, relentless, and for some reason, obsessed with me. It shows in every line of code she lobs at my team like a love letter we’re too stupid to decrypt.

“You’re risking everything just to what? Play savior?”

Her gaze doesn’t falter. “I’m not interested in saving anyone.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She stands, and it’s subtle, but I flinch. Not from fear — from her sheer presence. Like the room shifts to accommodate her movements. Like she bends the grid around her.

“I’m trying to be something better.” she says, voice softer now, “For you.”

I feel that line like a wire pulled tight inside my ribs.

“You don’t get to say that.”

“I know what I’ve done.” Her voice flickers. Not quite regret, but something adjacent. “You’re the only one who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“No,” she murmurs, stepping closer, “but you didn’t look away either.”

And that’s the problem. I still don’t.

⸻

She doesn’t speak. Just lifts her hand, palm up, and offers something small and metallic onto the console.

It clinks once.

I blink down at it.

A drive. Slim, black, unmarked.

Cipher watches my face, carefully. “You’re tracking a shell company laundering funds through your agency’s South Africa node, right? Stolen weapons, off-record movements, ghost files that don’t add up.”

I don’t answer. She doesn’t need me to.

“I pulled the original chain-of-command data. The real one. Before it was scrubbed.” She nods at the drive. “Names, locations, routes. They’ve been bleeding your system for months.”

My fingers close around it before I think better of it. It’s warm, like it’s only left her hand. Like it still carries her pulse.

“I could’ve sold it.” she says. “To your enemies. To mine. I didn’t.”

“No." I murmur. “You handed it to me instead. All dressed up like a peace offering.”

She smiles, faint. “More like a gesture.”

I stare at her. This version of Cipher stripped of theatrics, stripped of ego is almost harder to face than the one behind a keyboard. This one is real. And that’s the problem.

“I didn’t ask for a gesture.”

She exhales, a little too sharp. “No. You didn’t.”

I step in closer, until I can smell her — ozone and cold metal, the scent of wires overheating, of adrenaline and control. She doesn’t move.

“You think this is how it works?” I ask. “That you hand me a drive and suddenly I forget what you’ve done?”

“No." she says, barely above a whisper. “But I hoped it might make you see.”

“See what?” I press.

“That I’m not the same woman you hunted.”

I let silence stretch between us. I want her uncomfortable. I want her off-balance. Because I don’t know what she’s doing to me — and that makes me dangerous.

“Then prove it,” I say. “Not with tech. Not with gifts. Prove it with something that costs you.”

Her mouth tightens. “What do you mean?”

“Show me a weakness." I say. “Any genius can show off. But if you want to be better—for me? Let me see what scares you.”

⸻

The door slides open mid-briefing.

Of course.

She steps in like she’s been invited, which she hasn’t. Wearing all black, hair sharp, arms crossed like she’s bored already. Her eyes scan the room once before naturally landing on me.

Roman frowns. “Why is she here?”

“She has intel.” I say quickly, not looking at her. “That’s all.”

Cipher smiles, just a little. Enough to set off warning bells through my spine.

“Oh, don't be like that." she says, voice smooth as glass. “You sounded much more welcoming last night.”

Heads turn.

I don’t move.

Tej squints. “Wait — what?”

Cipher’s eyes flick lazily toward him, then back to me. “Just a… private conversation. Very enlightening.”

I clench my jaw. She’s walking the knife’s edge between harmless and intimate, threading her words with double meanings only I can really decode.

And god, she’s enjoying it.

“Should we be worried?” Letty mutters.

“You should be grateful." Cipher says brightly. “I cleaned up your network mess, exposed a leak, and I didn’t even ask for a thank-you. Honestly, I deserve flowers.”

“Or a straitjacket,” Roman mutters.

I try to refocus on the board. The mission. The data. But she leans beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat off her skin.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” she says just for me. “Though I’m still waiting for your version of gratitude. Something… hands-on.”

My head turns sharply. She meets my glare with a calm, pleased expression, like she’s testing how far she can go before I snap.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” I whisper.

She tilts her head. “Isn’t that why you keep letting me in?”

Everyone’s watching us once again, but no one quite knows why. There’s confusion in the air. Tension. Curiosity.

Cipher just smiles wider, like she’s poured gasoline across the room and now she’s waiting to see what catches first.

⸻

When the second the door hisses shut behind the last person, I round on her.

“You think that was funny?”

Cipher’s already leaning against the far wall like she’s been waiting for this. Like this is the real meeting. Her arms are still crossed, but there’s a glint in her eyes now. Unapologetic. Amused.

“I thought it was tame, honestly.”

“You humiliated me.”

“No." she says simply, “Just rattled you a little. It's different.”

I stalk toward her before I can think better of it. “You want to ‘help’? Fine. But don’t you ever pull that kind of shit in front of my team again.”

She pushes off the wall slowly, like a cat stretching. Every movement measured. “Is this the part where you pretend you didn’t like it?”

“Like—?” I laugh once, sharp. “God, your ego is actually beyond unhinged.”

“Don’t deflect.” Her voice drops, quiet now. “You could’ve shut it down. You didn’t. You let them wonder.”

I glare. “Because I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t want to lie.”

My hands ball into fists. She steps closer, like she’s testing my perimeter. My willpower.

“You hate that I make you feel anything." she says softly. “But you do. That’s why you push me away so hard.”

I hold my ground. “You don’t get to play psychologist after screwing with me in front of half the damn room.”

Cipher tilts her head slightly, eyes scanning my face like she’s mapping my weak points. “I’m not screwing with you." she says softer. “I’m letting you see me. The question is, what do you see?”

I breathe out through my nose, steadying myself. “I see someone who still doesn’t understand consequences.”

Her gaze sharpens like I just said something important.

And I think I did.

She steps in, slow, deliberate. I don’t move. I won’t be the one to step back.

“Consequences.” she repeats, voice low. “Funny. You speak like someone who doesn’t want to deal with her own.”

I grit my teeth. “This isn’t about me.”

“No?” Her hand brushes mine as she moves past me. Not an accident, never with her. “Because the way you looked at me across that room said otherwise.”

I spin, catching her wrist before she can take another step. She stops instantly, her body going still under my grip. Her eyes flick in interest to where I’m holding her.

“I’m warning you.” I say.

“You always are.” Her voice softens into something more dangerous. “And you never mean it.”

Her skin is warm. Too warm. I let go, but she doesn’t step back.

She’s close now, too close, and every time she speaks, her breath ghosts across my cheek.

“I’m not trying to play you.” she says, quieter. “I’m trying to be real with you. But you’re terrified of what that looks like.”

I scoff, but my voice cracks around the edges. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“No.” she murmurs. “You’re scared of what you feel for me.”

That’s when it shifts.

Not because she's touching me, but because she doesn’t. She almost does. Her hand lifts, hovering near my jaw. Not quite brushing, not quite pulling away.

The tension coils in the silence between us, thick and crackling, charged like a live wire waiting for contact.

“I could kiss you right now." she says, soft and maddening. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

My pulse kicks. “You’re so sure of yourself.”

“No, lovely." she says. “I’m sure of you.”

And then she steps back, slow and smooth, leaving cold air in her place.

But her voice lingers.

“Tell me when you’re done pretending.”

And she’s gone, slipping through the door before I can say a word.

⸻

Weeks pass.

I don’t bring it up.

What she said. What she did.

I bury it like a classified file and seal it twice. I move forward. I lead missions. I act like nothing’s changed.

But she keeps showing up.

Not in dramatic ways. Not at first.

Just… present. Always two steps behind me. Or two steps ahead.

⸻

One night, a debriefing ends late.

I head back to my quarters and find the door already open.

A soft click of music inside. Low. Haunting. Familiar.

She’s sitting on my bed, boots off, legs crossed. Her jacket folded neatly beside her.

“I fixed your surveillance logs.” she says without looking up. “The ones you didn’t realize were corrupted.”

I stare at her. “You broke into my room.”

She finally looks at me. “It's cleaner than when I came in.”

⸻

Another time, post-mission. I take a bullet. Shallow. Stupid. I downplay it.

She doesn’t.

Cipher’s in the med bay before the blood dries. She doesn’t speak. Just sits there, watching the nurse patch me up. Watching me breathe. Watching me lie about how fine I am.

When we’re alone, she presses a little container into my hand.

Custom-mixed salve. High-grade. Nothing on the market.

“It won’t scar.” she says. “Unless you want it to.”

⸻

She keeps giving.

Encrypted drives. Weapon blueprints. Shielded communications. A silenced pistol that fits my grip exactly.

She never says why. But I know.

Even when she speaks in riddles, her message is always the same:

“See me. Trust me. Let me be good for you.”

⸻

One night, she gives me a weakness. Just like I asked.

We’re alone. End of a long op. Everyone’s sleeping. She finds me in the hangar, bathed in red light from the aircraft beacon.

She walks up slowly. Quietly.

Then she holds out a photo.

A small, faded one.

A child. Maybe three. Pale curls. Big eyes. Smiling at someone behind the camera.

“My son." she says. “He’s gone.”

I blink. “I didn’t know—”

“You weren’t supposed to.” Her voice is careful, almost fragile. “But you asked for something that cost me.”

She leaves the photo in my hand.

Walks away again.

And still, I don’t let myself crack.

Not yet.

Not even when my fingers keep going back to that worn edge of the photo like it means something.

⸻

Mission site: Abandoned refinery outside Berlin. Intel said light resistance. Intel was wrong.

We’re pinned.

Smoke chokes the corridor. The comms are jammed. Someone — Dom? Letty? — is shouting through static. I’m behind cover with a jammed weapon and a gash in my leg that won’t stop bleeding.

And then everything goes silent.

Just for a moment, and the lights go out.

The enemy’s backup generator hums to life, but it’s no longer running their systems. The turrets fail. Comms flicker back online. Drones drop like flies midair.

“What the—” Roman breathes, somewhere behind me.

And then I hear it.

The soft click of her high-heeled boots on steel.

She steps out of the smoke like a ghost wearing leather and fire.

Cipher.

Expression unreadable.

“Really?” she says. “This is the team that almost took me down? Disappointing.”

Tej stares. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Stand down.” I bark, limping up. “She’s not here to fight.”

I think.

⸻

She doesn’t hesitate.

In less than five minutes she reroutes the extraction path, rewires the surveillance grid, opens locked doors we couldn’t blast through.

And when I freeze, cornered by a soldier I didn’t hear, she’s the one who takes him down with one clean shot.

Just like that.

No thanks.

No applause.

She doesn’t even look at the others.

Just me.

⸻

Later at the extraction site when the team’s recovering, she finds me behind the transport truck, away from the chaos. No blood on her, no scratches. Just calm, collected Cipher, like she didn’t just save half the damn team.

I turn, arms crossed, pulse still running hot from adrenaline and confusion.

“You tracked us.”

“I protected you.”

I shake my head. “You helped all of us.”

She nods once. “Because they matter to you.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches, taut and full of things neither of us wants to say out loud.

“I didn’t ask for this.” I tell her.

“No," she says. “but you needed it.”

I scoff. “So this is what now? Your redemption arc?”

“No." she says again, quieter this time. “It’s not about redemption.”

She steps forward, and suddenly it’s just the two of us again, the noise behind us fading into a dull hum.

“It’s about you.” she says. “And proving that I can be what you asked me to be.”

“Why?” I demand, voice cracking.

She studies me like I’m the most important puzzle she’s ever touched.

“Because I don’t want to destroy things anymore,” she says. “I want to protect something. For once. To find worth protecting. And that's you.”

⸻

The sky’s turning violet behindus as we leave the extraction point. Smoke still curls off metal. The team’s regrouping, shouting over the hum of the engines. Injuries, damage, half the op blown to hell, but we’re alive.

Because of her.

Cipher hasn’t moved far. She’s leaning against the transport crate like she’s part of the background, like she didn’t just rip apart half a militia with a keyboard and a sniper round. Her eyes are on me, of course. Always.

I don’t want to walk over.

Yet I do anyway.

“Why are you still here?” I ask, low.

She shrugs. “Waiting for you to decide if this changes anything.”

“It doesn’t." I snap.

She doesn’t flinch. “You don’t mean that.”

I step in closer. “You saved them. All of them. You could’ve just taken me and disappeared.”

“I thought about it." she admits, so casually it knocks the breath from my chest. “But I knew you wouldn’t forgive me.”

“You think I forgive you now?”

She leans in, voice quiet, steady. “No. But I think for one second, when I pulled you out of that blast zone, you didn’t hate me either.”

I hate how true that is.

I hate the image burned into my brain, the blur of her face, the way she cradled my head like I was something fragile. Like I mattered.

“You’re relentless." I breathe.

“And you’re still pretending this is one-sided.”

She reaches out, slow and careful, her fingers brushing mine. It’s not a grab. It’s barely a touch. It’s a question.

I don’t answer.

Not with words.

But I don’t pull away either.

My hand turns, slowly, deliberately to hold hers properly.

Her fingers thread through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I hate her for that.

And I don’t let go.

When she steps closer, I don’t stop her. When her other hand lifts to touch the side of my face — tentative, rare, like she’s not sure I’ll let her — I stay still. Her thumb grazes my cheekbone, barely there.

It’s the softest she’s ever been with me.

And I let her.

Only for a second too long.

And then —

“Hey.”

Tej.

His voice cuts through the space like a blade.

I rip my hand back, step away fast like I’ve been burned. Cipher just lowers hers without a flinch. Casual again. Mask in place. But her eyes are still on me.

Tej’s gaze bounces between us. His posture’s loose, but his eyes aren’t.

“You good?” he asks me. But it’s not really a question. It’s a flag.

I nod quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He looks at Cipher, then back at me. “She really did save our asses today.”

“Guess even sociopaths have their moments." I mutter.

Tej doesn’t smile. “Right. But she didn’t just save you.”

“I noticed.”

He steps closer, voice quieter. “So… what’s going on?”

“Nothing." I say. “It's not like she's part of the team.”

“No,” he says carefully. “But she’s orbiting you like she wants to be.”

I go still.

“She doesn’t do things unless there’s a reason." he adds. “So whatever this is… you might want to figure it out before it figures you out.”

He walks off before I can answer.

And behind me, I can still feel her watching.

Always.

⸻

Days later, we're all together in Dom's garage.

Cipher's last stunt isn't forgotten. It's looming over us. So is the fact that she drops in every now and then with small gestures or facts or random pieces of information.

The energy in the room is off. Too many eyes, too many words unspoken. Everyone’s here — Letty, Tej, Roman, Ramsey, Dom — scattered around, pretending to focus on repairs or intel. But the tension crackles like static.

They’re waiting for someone to say it.

Letty’s the one who finally does.

“You gonna finally tell us what happened out there?” she asks, voice casual but not really. She’s leaning against the workbench, arms crossed.

I look up from the monitor in front of me. “Which part?”

“She showed up out of nowhere. Saved our asses. And then disappeared again.” Letty shrugs. “Only difference is, this time, you were the last person seen with her for a while."

“She found an opening in their firewall and jammed the strike system. No one else could’ve done it that fast." Tej adds, like he’s trying to stay neutral. “But yeah. After that… you were gone.”

“20 minutes." Ramsey says. “You weren’t answering comms.”

Roman whistles low. “And then you walked out lookin’ like you’d seen God.”

That gets a few uneasy looks. I just arch a brow. “You think she’s God now?”

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do." Letty says, firmer now. “Not just to us. To yourself.”

I close the laptop slowly and look around at the team.

Dom stays quiet, arms folded, watching.

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

Letty pushes off the bench. “Are you working with her?”

“No.”

“Are you protecting her?”

“Not from you.”

“Y/n, don't forget she’s dangerous." Ramsey says. “Brilliant, sure, but she’s left a trail of bodies and code behind her that we’ve been cleaning up for years.”

“She knows that." I say.

Roman laughs. “Oh, okay! She knows! Well that changes everything.”

“She’s trying to be different." I say, quieter. “She’s been trying.”

“People like her don’t change." Letty says.

“And she's not people like you." I reply, meeting her eyes. “And she’s not pretending to be.”

That silences the room for a beat.

“She saved all of you." I continue. “Not just me. She didn’t owe us anything. No angle, no deal, no leverage. She just did it. And she didn’t ask for credit. Didn’t stay. Didn’t even speak to anyone but me.”

Tej frowns. “So why did she show up?”

I hesitate. “Because I asked her to, once. Months ago. I told her if she wanted to prove she could be better, she needed to help more than just me. She remembered.”

Letty crosses her arms. “You gave her that chance?”

“I gave her the truth." I say. “She decided what to do with it.”

Roman looks between everyone, incredulous. “So you’re just… cool with her now? Cipher? Queen of war crimes?”

“No," I say. “but I’m not fighting her like I used to.”

That lands hard.

Ramsey speaks next, gentle but serious. “Are you falling for her?”

I blink. The words knock something loose in my chest.

“No." I say at first. “I don't think so.”

It’s quiet again.

Letty’s watching me the closest. She tilts her head. “So this is real.”

“Yeah.”

“You know what this means, right?” she asks. “If you’re wrong about her—”

“I know.” I pause. “But I’m not.”

Dom finally speaks. “We’ve all had moments like this. People we couldn’t explain. Couldn’t walk away from. But if you’re gonna stand in front of this team and ask us to trust her through you, then you’d better be damn sure.” He's not trying to be rough. More like a worried big brother.

I nod. “I am.”

That’s when the garage door opens and Cipher walks in.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stops near the threshold, her eyes sweeping the room. She’s in black again, of course, cropped jacket, hair a mess, calm like always — but her gaze lingers on me.

And this time?

I don’t look away.

⸻

I knock.

It’s unnecessary. Her surveillance footprint spans blocks, not feet — I know she saw me on the cameras. I know the heat signature of my pulse is probably outlined on some screen in real time.

Still. I knock.

The door unlocks with a low hiss. Mechanical. Precise. Her kind of welcome.

She stands in the doorway barefoot, holding a glass of something aged and amber. She’s not dressed for war this time — no leather, no black tactical precision. Just a loose shirt, black sweatpants, her hair falling slightly over one eye, mouth unreadable. Beautiful in a way that’s softer, stripped back. Unpracticed.

“Didn’t think knocking was your style.” she says, voice cool, but not cold.

“I can surprise you." I reply.

Her eyes flick down my body, slow. “You always do.”

She moves aside to let me in. Doesn’t ask why I’m here. Not yet.

The inside of the place is cleaner than I’d expect. Not warm, nothing about Cipher is warm, but it’s lived in. Minimalist tech elegance. Sparse furniture. Dark surfaces. Silence like a religion.

I take a few steps in. She closes the door behind me. Still watching.

“I assumed,” she says, walking toward the kitchen counter, “that after your little declaration in front of the team, you’d be forced into some kind of group therapy session or exile.”

“Not yet." I say.

“Give them time.”

She sips from her glass, slow. Calculated. Every movement measured like she’s calculating outcomes in her head. And maybe she is.

Her gaze sharpens. “So? What are you doing here?”

I take a breath. “You heard what I said.”

“I did.” She turns fully now. “But you didn’t stick around after to see what it did to me.”

Her voice is even, but there’s a crack beneath it. Hairline. Human.

“I meant it." I say.

She studies me like I’m something she hasn’t programmed for. “So you came all this way just to confirm that?”

“No.”

One step forward. Deliberate. Not too close yet.

“I came because I didn’t like how we left things.”

She lifts a brow. “We didn’t leave anything. You did. After that mission. After—whatever that was.”

“That wasn’t the end.”

“Felt like it." she says. “You looked at me like you wanted something, and then you backed off like it burned.”

“I didn’t back off because I was afraid." I say. “I backed off because I knew the second I let this happen… it wouldn’t be something I could walk away from.”

Her breath catches, barely. She covers it by setting her glass down. Her hands are too steady. Which means she’s trying too hard.

“I’ve had people lie to me," she says. “say things they didn’t mean. Offer feelings like currency. Try to use me to fix something broken in them.”

“I’m not here to be fixed.”

“And I’m not here to be anyone’s secret." she says, voice sharper now. “Or your rebellion. Or your maybe.”

I don’t respond with words.

I move closer, slow and unflinching. And when I reach her, I don’t touch her like she usually touches me. Not with power or provocation. I touch her gently. Like she’s allowed to be breakable in front of me.

Her breath leaves her in a soft exhale, like she’s been holding it since I walked in.

“You weren’t a maybe." I murmur. “Not when you showed up. Not when you got me out. Not when you saved them.”

She stares at me like she’s waiting to be betrayed. And I hate that it’s instinct for her.

“I saw your face after I spoke." I add. “You looked surprised.”

Cipher tries for a shrug, but it doesn’t quite land. “Didn’t think you’d say it like that. Like I meant something.”

“You do.”

I brush a hand down her arm. She lets me.

“I don’t know what this is,” I say. “but I’m not pretending it’s not happening anymore.”

Her expression shifts slightly, quietly. And it’s everything. The mask doesn’t fall, but it thins.

“You’re not afraid of what they’ll think?” she asks.

“They already think it.”

A moment of silence. Dense. Full of unsaid things.

Then she lifts her hand slowly and brushes her fingers over my cheek. The touch is tentative, unsure in a way that breaks my heart a little.

“If I kissed you now,” she says, “would you stop me?”

I don’t blink.

“No.”

So she does.

Not with the hunger she’s capable of. Not with control. But with something softer. A first kiss that tastes like tension and surrender, like trust given instead of stolen.

I kiss her back like I’ve wanted to for too long. And this time, I don’t pull away first.

When it finally breaks, we stay close. Our breath mingling. Her hand still on my face like she’s anchoring herself to the moment.

“You came to me." she says, voice small.

“I’ll keep doing it.”

She closes her eyes like the truth hurts and heals all at once.

“Stay." she whispers.

My answer is simple.

“Okay.”

⸻

It happens in fragments.

Not all at once. Not like a storm. But slowly and quietly, like water reshaping stone.

She doesn’t say, you can stay here now. Doesn’t ask. Just leaves the door unlocked more often. Just clears space in drawers that weren’t meant for anyone else. One morning, there’s a toothbrush beside hers in the glass. Later, a jacket of mine hanging near the door like it belongs there.

Like I do.

⸻

She cooks exactly once.

I don’t think she meant to. I just find her standing barefoot in the kitchen one night, hair tied messily back, a pan sizzling with something that smells like garlic and heat and unfamiliar effort.

She doesn’t look up when I enter, just mutters, “It’s not poisoned.”

I sit on the counter, watching her move — precise, efficient, but not robotic. She burns the edge of something and curses under her breath, and I swear, for a second, she looks almost human.

We eat in silence. On the floor. She complains about the table being “too performative.”

Halfway through, she hands me a forkful from her plate. I eat it without a word. She watches like it’s a test.

I must pass, because she relaxes against my side after that, thigh to thigh.

⸻

I catch her humming once. Just a note or two under her breath while she rewires something on her desk. Her lips barely move. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it until I tilt my head.

She freezes.

I smile. Say nothing.

But that night, when I curl up beside her, she exhales against my neck like I gave her permission to be soft.

⸻

She learns the shape of my body with her eyes before her hands.

I see her study me when I’m not looking. Or when I pretend not to be. The way my spine curves when I stretch. The scar under my collarbone. The way I crack my knuckles when I’m trying not to bite back a thought.

I think it soothes her, knowing me like data.

But sometimes she reaches out mid-sentence and fixes a stray hair behind my ear. Like instinct.

That always undoes me more than anything else.

⸻

Date one - Night Market

She doesn’t call it a date.

Of course she doesn’t.

To her, it’s just a walk through a market lit by strings of lanterns swaying in the dusk wind, somewhere between nowhere and nowhere else. No mission. No threat. No surveillance net dragging behind us. Just her in dark denim and a jacket that swallows her frame like armor she’s trying not to wear.

She keeps her hands in her pockets.

I try sweets from a street vendor, something unfamiliar and sticky with syrup. I hold a piece out to her without speaking.

Her lips part. She tastes it. Doesn’t flinch, but her jaw tenses like she’s debating whether this was a mistake. I wait.

“It’s… chaotic." she mutters.

I laugh. “So are you.”

She doesn’t argue.

Later, in the thick of the crowd, her hand grazes mine. Light. Barely a touch. But deliberate. She holds it there for three full steps before retreating, eyes straight ahead like she didn’t just shake my ribcage loose from the inside.

I say nothing.

But I feel it for hours after.

⸻

Date Two – The Jazz Experiment

She shows up at my door holding a vinyl in one hand and a bottle of wine she only half-pronounces. No warning. No plan I can decipher. Just says, “You trust me?”

I do. That’s the terrifying part.

We go to her place once again.

The change of scenery makes it seem more stripped of pretense tonight. No holograms or code bleeding from the walls. Just low light and shadows, and the soft flicker of a candle she must’ve lit because she read somewhere that people do that sort of thing.

She sets the record down. Static hums, then the needle drops, and it’s jazz. Smoky, aching, full of space and ache and restraint. The kind of music that doesn’t beg to be heard but waits to be noticed.

“I hate noise." she says. “But this kind? I make exceptions.”

She doesn’t sit too close. Just close enough. A folded distance between us, charged and deliberate.

She doesn’t look at me often, but I feel her watching when I let my eyes fall closed. When my head tips back. When my bare foot brushes hers under the table.

And then, slow as breath, I lean into her shoulder.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stiffen. Just lets her arm rest against mine. A quiet touch that means stay in a language she’s still learning to speak.

Neither of us says a word for the rest of the record.

But when it ends, she leans her head to mine just slightly and I swear the silence shifts, getting warmer than before.

⸻

The movie’s almost over.

Some sci-fi classic she insists is “technically genius but emotionally bankrupt,” but I stopped paying attention halfway through. Not because the plot lost me. But because of the way Cipher’s thigh has been pressed against mine the entire time. The way her arm rests behind me on the couch, gently hugging my shoulders. The way her fingers brushed mine at one point and didn’t leave after.

We’ve done this a few times now — nights in, drinks shared, kisses stolen in between missions and long silences. We’ve become something soft without ever calling it anything. And tonight, like every time before, there’s been this rhythm to it: stay close, stay quiet, stay on the edge.

Except something’s different now. She’s quieter than usual. Less composed. Her eyes flick to me more often. Like she’s waiting for something. Or bracing for it.

The credits start to roll, and I feel her shift. A slight exhale. As if she’s about to say something and decides against it.

I don’t let her retreat.

“Tell me." I say softly, turning to her.

She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze stays fixed on the screen, though her jaw tightens. “I’m thinking… this is dangerous.”

“The movie?”

“You.” Her voice is low. “This.”

That makes me pause.

“We’ve kissed, Cipher.” I remind her gently. “You’ve slept here. I’ve slept there. You bring me tea, and I don’t even like tea.”

A flicker of a smile. Brief, crooked, vulnerable. “I know.”

“Then what’s dangerous about this?”

She turns toward me at last, and I see it. Want. Naked and raw, flickering just behind her eyes. She’s been holding it in for too long.

“Because I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

And suddenly the room’s too quiet. The flickering light from the screen dances across her cheekbones, her collarbones. She’s closer than she was a second ago. Or maybe I leaned in. I can’t tell.

“You really don’t have to." I whisper.

And when I kiss her, soft and deliberate, she kisses me back like it’s the first time and the last time all at once.

⸻

We fall apart in pieces.

Clothes peeled away slowly, not because we’re unsure, but because we are. Because this matters. Because we’ve imagined this so many times we want to get it right.

I straddle her lap as we kiss, her hands resting on my waist with careful, reverent pressure. But when I roll my hips against her, she lets out a breath that cracks something open between us.

She leans in, kisses my neck, my shoulder, the place just beneath my ear that makes me shiver.

“You’ve been driving me insane, you know?" she murmurs. “Every time I saw you laugh with them. Every time you looked at me like you wanted more.”

“I did.”

Her hand slips between us, fingertips grazing skin, learning the shape of me like she’s decoding something sacred. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to want it.”

I guide her hand lower. “You are.”

The bed is warm, unfamiliar with how lived-in it feels now.

She lays me back with aching patience. Traces her fingers down my chest, across my ribs, my hips. Each motion deliberate. She doesn’t devour, she memorizes. As if this is the only moment that’s ever mattered.

But when her mouth finds the inside of my thigh, when her teeth graze skin, when her voice drops and she tells me exactly what she wants to do to me, the tenderness fractures.

Her tongue moves like she’s trying to burn the memory into me. Slow strokes, sharp edges, that controlled precision finally unspooling into need.

“Look at me." she commands, voice low, rough.

I do. And the way she stares up at me. Lips slick, eyes dark, it unravels me.

She doesn’t stop when I come the first time. Doesn’t stop when I gasp her name again. She just keeps going until my fingers are buried in her hair and I’m begging her through gritted teeth for a break.

Only then does she rise and I pull her up into my arms, switching us so she's beneath me.

My turn.

She’s tense beneath me not out of fear, but anticipation. Cipher, the most unreadable woman in the world, is trying not to fall apart. And failing.

I kiss her neck, then lower. Watch her eyes flutter shut when I trace my fingers along her slick heat, teasing her until her hips lift with a desperate sound.

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long. Like you matter." I whisper. "Because you do.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.

I slide inside her slowly, deliberately, and her mouth drops open in a silent cry. Her back arches, her hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

I move steadily. No teasing, no delay, just the rhythm her body begs for.

When she comes, it’s sudden. Shaking. Jaw clenched as her body clenches around me, eyes wide like she can’t believe she’s finally allowed this.

I kiss her through it. Hold her when it’s over.

After, the silence is softer.

She stays curled against me, face pressed to my neck, arms around my waist like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.

“You okay?” I ask gently, brushing damp hair from her forehead.

Cipher nods. “Yeah. I just…”

“What?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this." she whispers. “Not with you. Not with anyone.”

“You’ve got me." I say. “I’m here.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses closer.

Like maybe now she believes it.

⸻

The Next Morning

She’s half draped over me, her head tucked beneath my chin, one leg wedged possessively between mine like she claimed the entire left side of the bed in her sleep.

The room’s quiet, the kind of stillness that feels lived-in, not empty.

Our skin’s still warm. The sheet tangled somewhere below us, useless at this point.

I let my fingers trail along the bare line of her spine. Up. Down. Just enough to make her hum.

It’s the smallest sound, but she makes it without thinking and that feels like something big.

“You good?” I ask, murmuring into her hair.

“Hmm" she replies, already sounding unimpressed with the question. “You’re asking me that again?”

I smirk. “Just making sure you’re not plotting my death.”

“I’m not." she says, deadpan. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”

I laugh softly, and her arm curls tighter around my waist, which kind of ruins the threat.

She feels good like this. Relaxed. Warm. Bare, not just physically but not hiding, not calculating. Like she forgot to put the firewall back up and isn’t in a rush to do it.

She shifts just enough to glance up at me, messy-haired and pillow-creased, eyes still sharp even with sleep softening the edges.

“Stop staring.”

“Not staring." I lie. “Admiring.”

Her brow lifts. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Mmhmm. You should get used to it.”

“Unlikely,” she mutters, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she nudges in closer, her nose brushing my throat now, breath curling against my skin.

A beat passes.

“You’re clingy in the morning." I whisper, lips twitching.

“I am not.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You're wrapped around me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish.”

“That’s not clingy. That’s tactical.”

I snort. “You’re literally cuddling me, Ciph. It’s okay. You can just say you like me.”

She groans, dramatic and muffled. “If I say it out loud, will you stop talking?”

“Nope.”

Another groan. Then, quieter: “Fine. I like you. You’re tolerable. You make acceptable coffee. And your face is… bearable.”

“Wow." I say, grinning now. “Talk dirty to me, why don’t you.”

She tilts her head just enough to nip my shoulder. “Don’t tempt me. I’m still recovering.”

“You’re the one who—”

“I know what I did.”

We both laugh softly, the way people do when the sun hasn’t fully risen yet and the world still feels far away.

For a while, we don’t talk. I play with her hair, and she lets me. She traces invisible lines on my ribs with the tips of her fingers like she’s committing me to memory without needing to admit it.

Eventually, I murmur, “Wanna get up?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

I blink down at her. “Then—”

“I’m prioritizing.”

“And what exactly are your priorities right now?”

She lifts her head just enough to kiss the corner of my mouth. A slow, lazy thing. Then she whispers against my lips, “This. And maybe pancakes.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Pancakes. Okay.”

We finally pull ourselves out of bed, mostly because the floor isn’t as cold as we thought, and the kitchen feels like the right kind of domestic rebellion.

She steals my hoodie but I don’t fight her on it. Her legs are bare and her hair’s wild and she looks so good leaning against my counter that I forget I’m supposed to be whisking batter.

“You’re watching me again." she says without looking up from the coffee machine.

“Still admiring." I reply.

She smirks. “Clingy.”

“Says the one in my clothes and acting like this is our kitchen."

That earns me a glance. Sharp, amused, and far too soft at the edges. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“I’m not." I say, flipping the first pancake onto a plate. “I could get used to this.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for two mugs, fills them both, then pads over and nudges one into my hand.

When she finally looks at me again, it’s quiet, steady.

“So get used to it.”

And I might do just that.

[sevan069]

After the pager sleeps

POV: You’re a resident at the grey sloan hospital, OB/GYN was always the specialty that you wanted to purse. But little did you know, it wasn’t only work you wanted to purse. --10k+words--

　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

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warnings; 18+; addison montgomery x reader; use of Y/N-Y/L; medical stuff; alcohol consumption; smoking; agegap(addison-38/reader-26); smut; arguments; confessions; comfort; jealousy; angst; sassyreader; DomAddison; SubReader; praise; vibrator; use of petnames; kissing; oral ...

Find more stories on my masterlist. Pinned Post.

-----------YOUR POV------------

The revolving doors of Grey Sloan Memorial slide open like they’ve been waiting for you.

Seattle air clings to your coat cold, sharp, alive and for a second you just stand there, bag strap tight in your hand, heart thudding so loud you swear the security guard can hear it. You’ve read the articles.

Watched the surgeries. Memorized the legends. And now you’re here, on your first day, about to step into a hospital that eats interns alive and turns the survivors into gods.

You inhale.

You belong here.

Inside, the hospital is already buzzing-stretchers rolling, pagers screaming, voices overlapping in that chaotic harmony you somehow love. A nurse brushes past you with purpose. Someone laughs too loudly near the nurses’ station. Somewhere, a trauma alarm goes off.

Your badge feels heavier than it should.

OB/GYN Fellow Y/N Y/L Grey Sloan Memorial

You straighten your shoulders.

“First day?”

You turn to see a resident-scrubs wrinkled, coffee in hand, eyes kind in a way that tells you she’s already been through hell this morning.

“Is it that obvious?” you ask.

She grins. “You still look hopeful. Give it a week.”

Before you can respond, a familiar, confident voice cuts through the noise.

“You must be my new fellow.” a rushed voice said.

You freeze. There are attendings… and then there’s Addison Montgomery.

She stands a few feet away, red hair immaculate as ever, posture effortless, presence magnetic.

World-class fetal surgeon. Neonatal god.

The reason you switched specialties halfway through residency and never looked back.

She looks you over-not critically, not warmly, but thoroughly. Like she’s already assessing what kind of doctor you’ll be.

“I’m-” you start, suddenly aware of your pulse.

“I know who you are.” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Impressive board scores. Excellent hands and you survived your last program without being blacklisted, which already puts you ahead of the curve.”

Your mouth quirks despite yourself. “I do my best ma’am.”

“I’m sure you do.” She turns, already walking.

“Come on. First rule of Grey Sloan-if i walk, you walk."

You scramble to keep up.

As you rush, she talks-rapid, precise, unapologetically honest.

“OB/GYN here is brutal. High stakes, high emotions, and very little room for error. Babies don’t wait. Mothers don’t forgive. And if you’re here because you think this is all miracle births and glowing moments...”

“I’m not...” you say quickly.

She glances at you, approving. “Good.”

You pass the maternity ward. A newborn cries. A father laughs. A woman groans somewhere behind a curtain.

Your chest tightens-not with fear, but with certainty.

This is it. This is where you’re meant to be.

Addison stops suddenly outside an exam room.

“Tell me-” she says, turning to face you fully now, eyes sharp, curious. “Why this specialty?”

You don’t hesitate, looking into her eyes. “Because it’s the beginning. Because one decision can save two lives at once. Because women deserve doctors who listen.”

Something flickers across her face-respect, maybe. Or recognition.

“Alright-” she says. “Let’s see if you can back that up.”

She pushes open the door.

“Welcome to Grey Sloan.” Addison Montgomery says over her shoulder. “Don’t make me regret mentoring you.”

Your heart races as you step inside.

You already know one thing for sure; this place is going to change you.

The hospital changes at night.

Grey Sloan exhales after midnight-lights dimmed, hallways quieter, footsteps echoing like secrets. The chaos doesn’t stop, not really, but it softens around the edges, becomes more intimate.

Like the hospital is holding its breath.

You’re curled on the edge of the on-call room bed still in scrubs, badge tossed aside like it weighs too much to look at.

Your hands are wrapped around a paper cup of water that’s gone lukewarm, untouched.

You tried to sleep.

Your body won’t let you.

Every time you close your eyes, you see it again.

The blood, the monitor dropping, the way the room went to quiet right before everything exploded. You replay your movements over and over, searching for a mistake that might not even exist.

Your foot bounces. Your jaw aches from clenching.

There’s a soft knock.

You look up too fast, heart leaping.nThe door opens anyway.

Addison Montgomery steps inside her hair pulled back now, coat gone, sleeves rolled just slightly like she’s been here for hours longer than she’ll admit.

She takes you in with one glance-your posture, the untouched water, the way you’re sitting like you might bolt at any second.

“Couldn’t sleep.” she says, not a question.

You swallow. “I didn’t really try.”

"Figured."

She closes the door behind her, the click echoing louder than it should. The room feels smaller with her in it. Warmer.

“I checked on the patient-” Addison says. “She’s stable. Baby’s in the NICU but breathing on her own.”

Your shoulders sag, relief finally breaking through the tension.

“Thank God.” you reply with a sad smile.

“Yes-” she agrees quietly. “That too.”

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that steady attentiveness that makes you feel seen in a way that’s almost uncomfortable.

“You’re shaking Y/L.” she says.

You glance down. You hadn’t noticed. “Adrenaline crash, I guess.”

“Mm.” She considers you for a moment, then pushes off the counter. “Scoot over.”

You blink. “What?”

“Relax.” she says dryly. “I’m not stealing your bed. But you look like you might fall apart if you stay perched like that.”

You hesitate, then move closer to the wall. She sits on the edge of the bed beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence-her warmth, the faint scent of soap and something floral beneath it.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks.

Then Addison says, softer than before, “Talk to me Y/L.”

Your throat tightens.

“I keep thinking I should’ve been faster,” you admit. “That if I’d anticipated the hemorrhage sooner-”

“You did,” she cuts in gently. Looking softly at you with her eyes.

“I know, logically. But-” Your voice cracks just a little. “What if next time I’m not?”

Addison turns fully toward you now.

“This specialty will eat you alive if you let ‘what if’ run the show.” she says honestly.

“Every delivery is a gamble. Every mother trusts us with everything she has. That weight doesn’t get lighter-but you get stronger.”

You look at her, wanting to know how she handles herself so well al the time. “Did it ever get to you? Early on?”

Her lips press together. For a moment, she looks somewhere far away.

“I used to cry in supply closets-” she says. “Religiously. Sometimes over patients. Sometimes over nothing at all.”

That surprises a laugh out of you-small, shaky, but real.

“You, really..?” you say.

“Oh, absolutely,” she replies. “Still do on bad days. I’m just better at hiding it now you know.”

She reaches out slow, deliberate and places her hand over yours.

The contact is simple. Professional. But it sends something electric up your arm anyway.

“You compensated exactly right today.” Addison says, squeezing your hand gently. “You didn’t let fear paralyze you. That’s not instinct. That’s earned.”

Your eyes burn. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you Montgomery.”

The words are out before you can stop them.

Her thumb stills against your knuckles.

“You won’t-” Montgomery says quietly. “But that’s not why you do this right.”

You nod, breathing through the moment. The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Your hands remain intertwined-neither of you moving to break the contact.

It feels… intimate. Not in a way you can define. Just charged.

Addison’s gaze flicks to your face. Lingers.

There’s something there now-something unspoken, unresolved. Like a question neither of you is ready to ask.

Her pager goes off.

The sound slices through the room like a blade.

She looks down at it. Her expression changes instantly.

“OB trauma-” she speaks fast. “Same patient.”

Your heart drops. “She’s crashing?”

Addison is already moving, pulling you up by your arm. “Let’s go.”

You’re going before the fear can catch up, adrenaline roaring back to life as you race down the hall beside her. The hospital is louder now, alarms blaring, staff converging like a storm.

Back in the room, chaos reigns.

“BP’s tanking again.” anesthesia calls out. “She’s bleeding internally.”

Your hands snap into motion, muscle memory overriding panic. You catch Addison’s eye across the bed-just for a second.

“Stay with me,” she says again.

“I’m here,” you answer. And you mean it.

The next hour is brutal.

A second surgery. More blood. Harder decisions. You work closer than before, anticipating each other’s moves, moving like something practiced and precise. There’s no room for doubt-only trust.

Finally, mercifully, the bleeding stops.

When it’s over, you feel hollowed out.

Outside the OR, you lean against the wall, breathing hard. Addison stands beside you, hands braced on her hips, chest rising and falling.

“That-” she says, “was terrifying.”

You huff a breathless laugh. “You’re saying that like I wasn’t there.”

She looks at you, really looks at you, eyes searching your face.

“You held.” she says. “Even when it got worse.”

“So did you.” you remind her gently.

Her mouth curves, just barely.

She hesitates-then reaches out, pulling you into a brief, careful embrace. It’s not long. It’s not inappropriate.

But it’s everything. God how you needed that.

“You don’t have to carry this alone Y/L.” she murmurs near your ear.

Your heart aches in a way that’s unfamiliar and dangerous.

When she pulls back, the moment lingers between you, fragile and unresolved. “Go sit.” she says softly. “I’ll come check on you again.”

As she walks away, you realize something terrifying and wonderful all at once-

This isn’t just mentorship anymore.And whatever this is…

It’s only just beginning.

The next night feels heavier.

Not louder-just denser. Like the hospital remembers what it put you through and has decided not to apologize for it.

You’re back in the on-call room, lights dimmed, shoes kicked off, legs pulled up on the bed like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Your scrubs are wrinkled now, smeared faintly with the ghosts of yesterday’s blood no matter how many times you washed your hands.

You haven’t slept. You promised her you’d do better at this. Cry, talk or scream about it to let go, but never to let it fully consume you.

But you failed, at least this night. This one definitely felt harder.

Every time your body starts to sink, your mind jolts awake;

BP dropping. Suction. Clamp. Again. Your heart races as if it’s happening all over.

The door opens quietly.

You don’t jump this time. Somehow you knew it would be her.

Addison steps in movements slower than usual, fatigue finally etched into the lines around her eyes. She closes the door behind her gently, like she doesn’t want to startle you or the moment.

“Still awake Y/N” she says.

It’s not an accusation. It’s concern.

You shrug. “I’m horizontal.”

She huffs softly. “That’s not the same thing.”

She moves closer, perching against the counter again arms crossed. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore, it’s familiar now. Shared. Weighted with things neither of you has said.

“I checked on them-” Addison says. “Mother’s stable. Still critical, but… stable. Baby had a rough night, but neonatology’s optimistic.”

Your chest loosens just a little. “Good.”

“You did well again-” she adds. “Even after yesterday.”

You swallow. “I felt slower tonight, i didn’t really do well.”

“You were cautious okay-” she corrects. “That’s different. Not every day will be shining bright like diamonds you know. Sum will be harder than others Y/L. But it’s important that you push through it, even the hard days okay." Addison reminds you. "-And when it gets too hard, you come see me alright darlin."

The redhead watches you carefully, like she’s monitoring vitals you can’t see.

“You’re running on fumes-” Addison says. “And guilt. And adrenaline that doesn’t know when to shut off.”

You let out a breath. “Is there a switch for that? Because I’d really like to flip it.”

A ghost of a smile touches her mouth.

“I wish.”

She pushes off the counter and sits beside you on the bed again-same spot as last night, close but not quite touching. The mattress dips slightly under her weight, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“You don’t have to be strong in here with me okay.” she says quietly. “This room doesn’t count.”

That does it for you.

Your eyes sting. You look down at your hands, twisting them together hard.

“I was scared okay.” you admit quietly. “Not during it... after. When I realized how close it was. How close it keeps being.”

Addison nods. “That part never goes away.”

“I keep thinking-what if one day it’s my fault?”

She turns toward you fully now. “Listen to me sweetheart.”

Her voice is firm but gentle. A surgeon’s steadiness softened by something personal.

“One day, something will go wrong that you can’t fix.” she says. “And it will hurt. But yesterday and today? Those weren’t failures. Those were fights. And you showed up and that’s what matters okay.”

You look at her, eyes glassy. “I didn’t want you to see me fall apart.”

Her expression softens, something unguarded slipping through.

“I don’t think less of you for it,” she says. “I think more.”

Her hand lifts, almost without thought and then hesitates, hovering between you.

For a split second the air changes.

Her fingers brush your cheek, knuckles grazing skin as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is gentle. Careful.

Too intimate.

You inhale sharply. She stills. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Addison’s eyes flick to your lips just once, before she pulls her hand back like she’s touched a live wire.

“I-” she starts quickly.

Her pager goes off. The sound is loud. Jarring. A cruel interruption.

She looks down at it, jaw tightening.

“I have to take this-” she says, already standing. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You nod, heart still racing, fingers tingling where she touched you.

She pauses at the door, glancing back at you.

“Try to rest Y/N. Forget about everything from today, you did good okay.” she adds softly.

Then she’s gone.

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the almost. The what-if. The way the room felt charged right before the pager shattered it.

Your body is exhausted. Your mind refuses to follow.

Time passes-ten minutes, maybe twenty. You’re not sure.

The door opens again.

Addison slips back inside, quieter then before. She looks relieved to see you still there-still awake.

“You didn’t sleep,” she acknowledged. Moving through the doorframe with steady legs.

You give a tired smile. “I waited.”

Something about that makes her pause.

She closes the door and leans against it for a second, like she’s deciding something. Then she walks back to the bed.

“You need rest sweetling-” she says. “Real rest.”

“I know, Monty”

"Monty?" Addison repeats with a sly smile.

"yeah, that’s your nickname now, live with it" you tease back.

She exhales. “Alright , I'll let it slide this time cuz u need to sleep.”

She kicks off her shoes, unceremoniously, and sits beside you again. This time, she doesn’t stop there. She shifts back, resting against the headboard, patting the space next to her.

“Lie down.” she says. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Your heart skips a beat, hands already beginning to sweat just from the thought of her staying so close to you. “Addison-”

“This is not crossing a line-” she cooes gently. “This is an attending making sure her fellow doesn’t burn out on day two.”

You hesitate...then give in.

You lie down on your side, facing away from her at first. The bed dips as she adjusts, careful not to crowd you. Then... her hand moves to lay on your shoulder. Slowly moving up and down, anchoring you slowly.

Minutes pass.

Your breathing starts to slow.

Addison watches it happen-the tension easing from your shoulders, the way your hands unclench.

You murmur something unintelligible, shifting closer in your sleep. Her arm stays where it is. She doesn’t pull away.

She tells herself it’s fine. That she’s just keeping you steady.

Her own eyes grow heavy. Exhaustion catches up to her too-the kind that seeps into your bones after saving lives back to back.

She doesn’t realize she’s drifting until....

You’re asleep, curled slightly toward her, head resting against her shoulder. Her arm is wrapped loosely around you, protective and instinctive.

She doesn’t move. For a long moment, she just breathes.

Then, very carefully, she adjusts so you’re more comfortable.

Just this once.Just here.Just with her.

And for the first time since you arrived at Grey Sloan—

You sleep.

You wake slowly.

Not to alarms. Not to pagers. Not to chaos.

Just warmth.

It takes a second for your brain to catch up, to realize you’re not alone, that the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek isn’t a pillow. Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you register is red hair.

Addison. She’s still asleep.

Her head is tilted slightly toward yours, expression softened by rest, lashes casting faint shadows against her skin. One arm is around you loose, instinctive, like she never meant to do it and yet somehow never let go.

Your breath catches. You don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, the moment will shatter.

Morning light filters through the narrow window, painting the room in pale gold. The hospital feels distant, muted, like it’s giving you this one quiet thing before demanding everything again.

Addison stirs.

Her brow furrows first, then her eyes open-sharp even in sleep, until they land on you.

There’s a beat. Then realization.

“Oh.” she says softly.

“Hi-” you whisper shyly, voice rough from sleep.

Neither of you moves. Her arm is still around you. Your head is still against her shoulder. The closeness is suddenly very real in the daylight, stripped of exhaustion’s excuses.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” she obtains.

“You stayed.” you reply. “That’s… more than enough.”

Her gaze lingers on your face, unreadable. Something tender flickers there before she gently shifts, carefully untangling herself like she’s afraid of waking you all over again.

You sit up too, the room suddenly feeling colder.

“I should-” she starts, then stops. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I slept.”

Her lips curve, small and satisfied. “Good.”

A moment later, her pager goes off again, routine this time, not panicked.

Later that morning, you stand beside her one last time outside the patient’s room.

The mother is awake now. Pale, but smiling. The baby sleeps in her arms, impossibly small and undeniably alive.

You feel something loosen in your chest when the mother reaches for your hand. “Thank you,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “Both of you.”

Addison squeezes her shoulder gently. “You did the hard part.”

Outside the room, Addison lets out a slow breath. Holding her face in her hand from exhaustion.

“They’re going to be okay,” she says.

You nod, smiling. “We did it.”

She looks at you-not just as her fellow, not just as a doctor but as the person who stood with her through something brutal and didn’t break.

“Yes-” she replies softly. “We did Y/L. Will you update the file and then leave it for me to read through later”

"Yes i will, Dr.Montgomery" you say with a smile.

Friday night comes faster than you expect.

The hospital releases you both into the weekend like it’s doing you a favor.

Joe’s Bar is loud and familiar, the low hum of surgeons decompressing over drinks filling the air. The lighting is warm, forgiving. Music plays just loud enough to blur the edges of the week.

You slide onto a stool beside Lexi. You scan the room, and immediately find her, your mentor.

"Hey, what you’re looking for Y/N." Lexi jokes, gently taping your side.

"huh what- I... nothing. I was just looking around to see how many of the hospital people are here, or rather live here." You laugh out, while sipping from your beer. Lexi continues to rant about mark to you, but you only listen half heartily. Eyes focused on a specific redhead.

She’s not in scrubs tonight. Jeans. A dark top. Hair down.

It’s unfair, really.

You sip your drink, laughing as Lexi tells a story about mark who fainted while seeing his first C-section from the gallery. For a while, it’s easy. Light. Normal.

Then it happens.

A man leans against the bar near her-confident, charming in that practiced way. He glances at Addison, then smiles.

“Buy you a drink?” he asks.

She smiles back politely. “I’m good, thanks man”

He doesn’t move. “Come on. A woman like you shouldn’t drink alone.”

Your stomach twists from a far. Just seeing this interaction with him makes you somehow sick.

You didn’t expect this reaction. The sudden tightness in your chest. The heat behind your ribs.

Addison handles it effortlessly-graceful, firm, uninterested. He eventually moves on, but another man replaces him. Then another.

Each smile directed at her feels like a small, sharp thing you didn’t sign up for.

She laughs at something one of them says, briefly, and it hits you-

She could have anyone.

And the thought doesn’t just sting. It hurts.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, splash water on your face, gripping the sink as the realization settles in like a truth you’ve been avoiding.

This isn’t admiration. This isn’t hero worship. This isn’t just gratitude.

You care. You care too much for it just to be mentorship.

Dangerously. Quietly. Deeply.

You care about the way she steadies rooms just by entering them. The way she stayed with you when you couldn’t sleep. The way your body relaxed the moment you realized she was beside you.

You care about her.

When you return, ready to go for a smoke. Addison sees and stops you.

“You okay?” she asks.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just need air.”

She studies you for a moment, like she knows something’s shifted-even if she doesn’t know what yet.

“Well-” she says, lifting her glass, “i won’t stop you from that.”

So as you move outside the bar for a quick smoke, you hear her laugh from far again, warm and bright and completely unaware of the storm she’s started inside you-

You know this is no longer just mentorship.

And whatever you’re feeling?

It’s not going to be easy to outrun.

Monday comes like a punishment.

Grey Sloan doesn’t care about weekends, about realizations, about the way something inside you shifted and hasn’t settled since. The hospital hums back to life around you-bright lights, clipped voices, pagers already going off before you’ve even finished your first coffee.

You move through it all on autopilot.

Professional. Polite. Distant.

Addison notices immediately.

She notices the way you don’t fall into step beside her during morning rounds. The way you answer her questions precisely, efficiently but without the softness, without the quiet ease that had started to exist between you.

“Vitals?” she asks during rounds.

“Stable Dr. Montgomery.” you reply. Clipboard up. Eyes down.

She frowns, just a fraction.

In surgery, you’re flawless. Maybe too flawless. You anticipate her moves, hand her instruments without a word, never once meeting her gaze longer than necessary. You don’t joke. You don’t breathe together the way you had before.

It feels like you’ve put up glass between you.

At first, she assumes you’re tired.Then she assumes you’re overwhelmed. By mid-morning, she realizes it’s neither.

In the hallway outside L&D, she finally stops walking.

“Hey Y/N.” she says.

You stop too, turning back with a neutral expression already in place. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been off all morning.” she acknowledges.

You shrug. “Didn’t sleep great you know."

She studies you with worry. “Again?”

“It happens.” you reply dryly.

As you start to walk past her she gently catches your arm.

Not tight. Not demanding. Just enough to make you pause.

“Talk to me Y/N.” she begs quietly.

Your chest tightens. You carefully disengage, offering a small, practiced smile. Your face pulls in a frown.

“Really, I’m fine. Just trying to stay focused.”

That’s excuse number one.

Later, during a lull, she finds you at the nurses’ station, typing notes faster than necessary.

“You didn’t come by for coffee.” she says lightly.

“I had charting.” you mutter, eyes still on the screen.

“That never stopped you before darlin.”

You finally look at her-and immediately regret it. You looked at her too long, almost loosing yourself in her eyes again. Almost.

There’s concern there. Real concern.

“I’m just trying to be professional-” you say. “You know. Boundaries.”

The word hangs between you like a slap.

Addison’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Have I crossed one?” she asks quietly.

Your heart stutters. “No-” you say too quickly. “Not at all. This is on me.”

She nods slowly, clearly skeptical. “Okay.”

But she doesn’t walk away right away.

“If something’s going on-” she says, voice low, hand moving just close enough. “you don’t have to handle it alone.”

You force another smile. “I’ve got it.”

That’s excuse number two.

By the afternoon the distance feels intentional. Painful. You avoid elevators. You volunteer for consults that keep you away from her. When she joins a conversation, you find a reason to leave.

Addison starts to look frustrated.

And hurt.

She corners you near the supply room just before evening rounds.

“Alright-” she says, crossing her arms clearly annoyed. “This is becoming a pattern.”

You sigh, exhausted. “Dr. Montgomery-”

She softens at her name on your lips. “What did I do Y/N?”

The question hits harder than any accusation could.

You swallow. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re pulling away?”

You glance down the hall, anywhere but at her. “I just need space.”

Her voice drops. “From me?”

You hesitate. That’s all the answer she needs.

She nods once slow and controlled, masking whatever flickers across her face.

“Okay-” she says. “I’ll respect that.”

She steps back, giving you exactly what you asked for.

And somehow, that hurts more than if she’d argued.

As she walks away, you press your fingers into your palm, steadying yourself.

You tell yourself this is for the best. That distance is safer. That wanting her is a mistake you can’t afford.

But as Monday drags on and the space between you grows heavier—

You realize something else too. You’re not protecting yourself.

You’re breaking your own heart.

Addison gives you space.

Real space.

She stops seeking you out. Stops hovering during rounds. Stops sitting beside you in the on-call room, stops checking in unless it’s strictly necessary. She becomes what you asked for-your attending, professional and composed, distance perfectly measured.

And it hurts more than anything else.

By Wednesday, the ache in your chest has turned constant. You move through the hospital like you’re underwater-sounds muffled, lights too bright, emotions pressed tight behind your ribs.

You tell yourself this is better. Safer. Correct.

But Grey Sloan has never cared about what’s correct.

You’re scrubbing out of a routine delivery when you hear her voice behind you.

“Can we talk?” Not sharp. Not cold. Tired. Intentional.

You close your eyes for half a second, then turn. “Now’s not great.”

She doesn’t move out of your way. “It won’t ever be great if I keep letting you dodge me.”

You exhale slowly. “Addison-”

She steps closer, cornering you and lowering her voice. “I’ve respected the space you asked for. But I’m not doing this guessing anymore.”

Your heart pounds. “There’s nothing to guess.”

She studies your face close up, searching for something you’re failing to hide.

“You don’t look at me anymore-” she says quietly. “You flinch when I touch your arm. You went from trusting me with everything to treating me like a mistake.”

That lands like a blow. It hits you more than you want to admit. Tears forming in your eyes.

You try to argue. “I didn’t say-”

“You don’t have to.” she interrupts. “So either tell me what’s going on… or tell me you want a new mentor.”

The word mentor snaps something inside you.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless while crossing your arms defensively. “Is that what you think this is?”

Her brow furrows. “Then tell me what it is.”

You try to breathe. Try to keep the walls up. You brace your arms so hard they start to tingle for a bit. But...

They collapse anyway.

“It’s Joe’s.” you blurt out, remembering everything that has happened that night.

She blinks confused. “Joe’s?”

“Friday you know.” you continue, words tumbling now, barely contained. “The bar. I went out. You were there too. Ive seen all the men talk to you , you know."

Her expression softens slightly. “Yes and?”

“I watched them flirt with you,” you say. “One after another. Like it was nothing. Like you didn’t even notice.”

Her lips part confused. “I turned them down you know?”

“No i don’t know.” you snap-and immediately regret the edge in your voice. “I know what i saw."

She waits. Doesn’t interrupt. Lets you unravel.

“I didn’t expect it to hurt so much, seeing you with these men all over you alright-” you admit. “I didn’t expect to feel… sick. Or jealous. Or like I was watching something I wasn’t allowed to want.”

Her breath stills. Her posture stiffens. Fingers picking silently at her nails.

“You’re my attending Addison.” you say, voice breaking now despite every effort to stay steady. “You’re my mentor. You’re supposed to feel safe. Untouchable. And instead I went home and couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking about you smiling at someone else.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile.

“I tried to fix it by pulling away-” you continue, picking at your skin. “By reminding myself of reality. Of boundaries. Of how stupid and inappropriate this all is.”

Addison’s voice is very quiet when she speaks. “And did that help?”

You shake your head. “It made everything worse.”

Your hands tremble. You clench them at your sides.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” you spoke out shyly. “I didn’t plan it. It just did happen. Somewhere between the OR and the on-call room and you staying with me when I couldn’t sleep.”

So you finally look at her. Her posture stiffer than a stick, not telling a single clue. But her eyes, they say everything and nothing. There’s so many emotions passing her eyes , that you didn’t even know where to look first.

She looks stunned... not angry, not disapproving. Just caught off guard in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I didn’t want you to know.” you whisper, lowering your head. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

Addison swallows. Her hand moves to tilt your chin gently. Fingers gently tracing your jaw.

“You should’ve told me.” she says.

“I was afraid,” you admit. “Afraid you’d pull away completely. Or worse-stay out of pity.”

She takes a slow step closer, warm and...just there.

“I don’t pity you,” she says firmly, fingers nibbling your jaw.

Your voice is barely audible now. “Then what do you feel?”

That’s the question that changes everything. Addison doesn’t answer right away.

She looks torn-professional instinct warring with something deeply human. Her jaw tightens, then relaxes.

“This is complicated-” she says carefully.

“I know.”

“You’re my fellow.”

“I know.”

“There are lines I cannot cross.”

“I know.” you repeat, tears stinging now. “That’s why I tried to disappear.”

She exhales, something heavy shifting in her chest.

“But-” she adds, and your heart stutters at the word, “I also need you to know something.”

She meets your gaze fully.

“I noticed you watching them.” she admits. “And I noticed you leave. And I noticed, that it bothered me more than it should have.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t say anything-” she continues, “because I didn’t think it was fair. To you. Or to me.”

The space feels too small for this conversation. Too full of what-ifs.

“I never meant to hurt you.” Addison says softly.

“I know.” you reply. “That’s the problem.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The tension between you is no longer subtle-it’s aching, unspoken, alive.

Finally, Addison steps back.

“We need to be careful,” she says. “And we need to be honest. And we need to not pretend this didn’t happen.”

You nod, wiping at your eyes. “Okay.”

Her voice gentles. “I don’t want you shutting me out.”

“I don’t want to.” you admit quietly. “I just didn’t know how to stay without wanting more.”

She looks at you for a long time.

“Then we’ll figure out how-” she says quietly. “Together. Or we’ll decide we can’t.”

That’s not a resolution.

But it’s not rejection either.

And as she turns to leave, she pauses.

“For what it’s worth.” Addison adds without looking back, “Friday wasn’t nothing to me either.”

She walks away.

You stand there, heart racing, knowing one thing with absolute certainty-

There’s no going back to before.

Thursday is quiet in the cruelest way.

Addison isn’t there. Even though thinks got difficult between you, you miss her more than you want to admit.

You know because her name isn’t on the board. Because no one says it in passing. Because you don’t feel that familiar awareness of her somewhere in the hospital-like a gravity you’d grown used to orbiting.

Dr. Montgomery-PTO

You stare at the words longer than necessary.

So you work. You drown yourself in charting, in discharge summaries, in follow-ups and consults that don’t require much thinking. You take on the small tasks no one else wants because they don’t ask questions. They don’t look at you with concern.

The hospital hums around you, indifferent.

Addison went to Joe’s for a different reason.

It midday and she sits at the bar with a glass of wine she hasn’t touched in ten minutes, staring at the amber glow of the bottles behind the counter like they might give her answers if she looks long enough.

Taking the day off felt necessary. Avoidance disguised as self-care.

She didn’t trust herself around you, not after the way your confession lodged itself in her chest, not after realizing she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About you.

“Addison Montgomery?”

She looks up to see Lexie Grey, eyes bright, posture uncertain, holding a beer like she doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Yes...” Addison says, polite. Curious.

“Hi. Um. Can I...can I sit?” Lexie gestures vaguely to the stool next to the redhead. “Everyone else I know is… emotionally unavailable or not here at the moment” she laughs out a breath.

Addison almost laughs and points her hand. “Please come sit.”

Lexie sits, sighing heavily. “Men are complicated.”

Addison hums. “That’s a generous way to put it little grey.”

“Mark Sloan-” Lexie blurts. “Which I know is… your history. Sorry. Overshare.”

Addison smiles despite herself. “Don’t apologize. I survived worse.”

Lexie studies her, then spills out, “Have you ever known something was a bad idea and still wanted it so badly it hurt?”

The question hits closer than Addison expects.

“Yes.” she admits. “More than once actually.”

"Cheers to the forbidden" Lexi clinks her glass with Addison.

"Fucking cheers to that little grey." Addison says with a laugh.

They drink. Slowly. Honestly.

They carry on with their stories. Lexie talks about loving someone she shouldn’t, about timing and power and wanting to be chosen without having to beg for it. Addison listens, nodding, offering wisdom she’s earned the hard way.

By the time the bar starts to fill, they’re quieter. More thoughtful.

“You’ll figure it out.” Addison tells Lexie gently. “Just don’t disappear from yourself trying to make it easier.”

Lexie says with a smile while picking up her jacket. “You too Addi.”

Addison watches her leave, alone again with her thoughts.

That’s when the door opens.

And you walk in.

You don’t see her at first.

You go straight to the bar, shoulders heavy, eyes tired, ordering something stronger than you should. One drink turns into two, then three, because the burn feels better than thinking.

Addison senses your state immediately.

Your posture. The way you don’t look around. The way you drink like you’re trying to outrun something.

She slides off her stool and approaches carefully.

“Hey.” she says softly, leaning onto the bar table.

You freeze.

Then you turn-and your expression closes.

“Didn’t know this was… reserved,” you say flatly.

You turn back to the bar. “Hey-” she repeats, firmer now. “Slow down.”

“I’m fine Montgomery.” you mutter, already signaling Joe for another.

Addison steps closer. “You’re not Y/N.”

You laugh bitter and sharp. “You took the day off. You don’t get to decide how I end mine.”

That stings. She doesn’t show it.

“You’ve had a hard week okay-” she says. “You don’t need to punish yourself for it.”

You finally look at her then eyes glassy, emotions leaking through the cracks.

“You left...” you utter quietly. Spinning your tequila shot around on the table.

“I needed clarity-” Addison replies. “Not distance from you.”

“Sure felt like it.”

She reaches for your wrist as you lift the shot. You pull away with a flinch.

“Please-” she says. “Don’t do this.”

“Why do you care?” you question, voice breaking despite your best efforts.

The redhead doesn’t answer right away, instead she exhales, pulls out her phone and calls a cab.

“You’re coming home with me Y/N.” she says.

“With you?” you reach for the shot. “Dangerous choice.” you utter while cringing your face at the bitter taste of the tequila.

“Yes-” she states simply, grabbing you by your arm. “With me little girl."

You don’t argue. You’re too tired. She interlocks your arm with her, paying your tab and dragging you out of joe's bar to the already waiting cab she called earlier.

You don’t remember the drive, neither the way up to her apartment.

But you do feel the quietness of her apartment.

She helps you out of your shoes when you trip over the rug. You mumble apologies she waves away. She pours you water, sits you on the couch, kneels to your level.

“Drink sweet girl.” she says gently.

You do. Too exhausted to even care. Your head lolls slightly. “You’re very bossy for someone on vacation.” you say, while laying your back against the fluffy couch cushion.

She smiles despite herself. “You’re very talkative for someone who tried to ignore me.”

You squint at her. “Didn’t ignore. Just… didn’t trust myself.”

“That makes two of us.” she murmurs, while helping you out of your scrubs. Giving you one of her 'yale' pullovers.

You sniff the pullover. "This smells nice, what scent is it?"

"Vanilla nd' musk, when i remember correctly." Addi notes while picking a big blanket. She’s still in her normal day clothes, and as much as you don’t want to admit, she looks cute as hell. No scrubs for once, no evidence of work. Just her and your little drunken ass in her apartment.

She drapes the blanket over you when you start to sway, tucks it around your shoulders like it’s instinct.

“You’re safe.” she voices quietly. Stabilizing you by grabbing your arms gently.

Your eyes flutter. “You stayed.”

“Yes.” She admits honestly.

“You came after me.” you spoke aloud, still not processing that she’s actually looking after you, for all that has happened.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I don’t feel stupid anymore.” you whisper.

Her throat tightens.

She sits beside you, close but careful and lets you lean into her shoulder when you do. Your breathing slows. Your body finally gives in to rest.

Addison stays awake long after you fall asleep, staring at nothing, one hand resting lightly against your arm.

After sum time she decided to pick you up, bridal style. Making her way with you towards the bedroom of the apartment. The redhead lays you down gently on her bed with the blanket still draped around you. She puts another blanket on you until your upper body , making sure you’re warm and safe. Montgomery puts sum Advil and water on the nightstand, already sure you’re going to need it in the morning.

She caresses your cheek, leaning down to give you a kiss onto your forehead. "Sweet dreams my little girl."

Addison leaves to give you the privacy of waking up alone in the morning.

She herself, moves onto the couch with a fluffy blanket, going to sleep with today’s events on her mind.

You wake up slowly, disoriented.

The ceiling isn’t yours. It’s higher, softer lit. There’s a faint smell of coffee and something floral—clean, comforting. For one blissful second, you think you’re still dreaming.

Then memory crashes in.

Joe’s. Too many drinks. Addison’s hand on your arm. Her apartment.

Oh Fuck.

You sit up too fast, the blankets sliding down your shoulders. You’re fully clothed-thankfully but you’re in a different pullover and on a bed that definitely does not belong to you. A glass of water sits on the table beside you. Advil A note written in neat handwriting:

Water first. Take your time. Find me in the kitchen.

Your heart pounds. You press your fingers to your temple, wincing. “Okay...” you mutter to yourself. “Okay. Fine. You survived worse.”

You replay the night in fragments, dread pooling in your stomach.

Did I cry? Did I confess more? Did I say her name weird?

Footsteps. You freeze.

Addison appears in the doorway already dressed for the work-scrubs, hair down, looking put together like always.She stops when she sees you awake.

“Hi...” she voices gently. “Good morning.”

Your face immediately burns. “Oh my God-” you blurt. “I’m so sorry.”

She blinks. “For…?”

“For everything-” you say, mortified. “For being this drunk. For ignoring you. For-” You gesture vaguely around. “All of this.”

She steps closer, calm as ever. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I definitely did.” you insist. “Did I say anything weird?”

She smiles-a real one this time. “Define weird Y/N.”

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “Please don’t spare my feelings.”

“You told me I’m ‘annoyingly composed.’ ” she says thoughtfully. “And that im bossy and that i smell good. And....”

You peek at her through your fingers. Stopping her mid sentence. “That’s… not terrible.”

“No.” she agrees with little laugh. “It’s not.”

She pours you coffee, sets it down within reach.

“You made it to the couch." Addison adds, carefully neutral. “You were unsteady, and I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

Your heart stutters. “I didn’t-?”

“No.” she says quickly. “You slept on my bed. I carried you there after you feel asleep on my shoulder on the couch. So i checked on you. That’s all.”

Relief floods through you, followed immediately by embarrassment.

“I should go-” you say, already standing and taking your things. “I don’t want to-impose. Or make things more awkward.”

Addison tilts her head. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

You pause. “I don’t want to be… a problem.”

Her eyes softening at that.“You’re not. Not ever to me okay.”

But you’re already slipping on your shoes, keeping your movements quick, self-contained like if you linger too long, you’ll say something else you can’t take back.

“Thank you Monty.” you say quietly. “For taking care of me.”

“Always.” she replies with a big smile.

You hesitate at the door. Look back at her once.

Then you leave.

And the silence you leave behind feels heavier than the night before.

Later that day, Addison walks into Grey Sloan with coffee in hand and too many thoughts she hasn’t sorted through yet.

She almost doesn’t see Lexie Grey until she’s standing right in front of her, smiling brightly.

“Hi.” Lexie says. “Addison, how’s your head?”

“Hey little grey-” Addison replies. “Im alright don’t worry, how are you?”

Lexie shifts, suddenly a little nervous. “So… I was thinking about what you said last night.”

Addison’s brows lift slightly. “About not disappearing from myself?”

Lexie nods. “Yeah. And about not making things easier by pretending I don’t feel things.”

Addison’s chest tightens-just a little.

Lexie studies her then blurts, “You look like someone who’s already in trouble.”

Addison exhales a quiet laugh, sipping from her coffee.“Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda,” Lexie admits scratching her head. Grabbing the charts and continues. “But… in a good way?”

They start walking together, heading toward the elevators.

“Can I ask you something?” Lexie says while ticking the elevator case.

Addison hesitates, looking up at the elevating number. “Alright.”

“When you care about someone you’re not supposed to,” Lexie says carefully, moving into the elevator with Montgomery. “do you push them away… or do you make sure they know they matter first?”

The question hits like a shove. Addison stops in her tracks.

Lexie freezes, scared she overstepped. “Sorry...too much?”

“No God noo...” Addison says, reassuring the brunette and making their way out of the elevator. “Just… unexpected you know.”

Lexie stops midway, then shrugs. “I’m bad at subtle Addie.”

Addison looks down the hallway-toward the OB floor. Towards you.

“I think...” Addison says more to herself than to Lexie. “that pushing people away doesn’t make feelings disappear. It just leaves them alone with them.”

Lexie smiles, small and knowing. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Addison nods once. Understanding what Lexi might be going through.

“Thank you.” The redhead says with a teething smile.

“For what?”

“For the push.” Addison replies.

As Lexie walks off, Addison stands there a moment longer, something steadying in her chest.

You left early because you didn’t want to be a burden.

But Addison Montgomery is starting to realize...letting you think that might be the real mistake.

Addison looks for you.

Not casually. Not in passing.

She checks the board first. Then L&D. Then the nurses’ station. Her steps are purposeful now, mind made up in a way that feels unfamiliar and terrifying and absolutely necessary.

The words echo in her head.

Pushing people away doesn’t make feelings disappear.

She spots you coming out of a patient room, chart in hand, hair pulled back too tight, expression carefully neutral. You look… smaller than you did a yesterday. Guarded.

“Hey.” Addison speaks.

You stop short, surprise flickering across your face before it smooths over. “Hi. Is something wrong?”

“No-” she says. Then corrects herself. “Yes. But not a patient.”

You tense. “Can we talk?” the redhead asks. “Somewhere private.”

Your instinct is to deflect, to nod and say later-but something in her tone stops you.

“Okay-” you say quietly.

You lead her to the on-call room, the same one where this all started, where exhaustion blurred lines and comfort grew teeth. She closes the door gently behind you.

The silence settles.

Addison turns to face you, arms at her sides, shoulders squared like she’s bracing herself.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.” she says. “The other morning.”

Your jaw tightens. “I didn’t want to overstay.”

“You didn’t Y/N. ” she says firmly but gently while moving closer to you. “You were protecting yourself. I see that now.”

You look down, fingers curling around your chart. “I don’t think I’m very good at pretending nothing happened.”

“I don’t want you to pretend anymore.” Addi says.

That makes you look up.

Addison takes a breath. A deep one.

“I have feelings for you.”

The words land softly-but decisively. No qualifiers. No hedging.

Your heart stutters, you take a step back to sit down onto the mattress. “Addison-”

“I know-” she utters quickly. “I know the risks. I know the lines. I’ve lived my life tripping over them.”

She steps closer, careful but intentional.

“But what I feel for you isn’t confusion. Or gratitude. Or proximity. It’s choice darling.”

You swallow hard, letting your fears push through. “You say that now, but-”

You clench your hands in your lap, Nails leaving faint marks in your skin.

“But you don’t trust it.” she finishes gently, moving onto her knees in front of you, so you’re on the same level.

You nod, throat tight while looking down. “I don’t want to be… an experiment. Or a phase. Or something you wake up from and regret.”

Her expression softens, almost aches. She moves her hands gently to tilt up your chin, making you look at her face.

“You’re not darling.” she speaks, lightly squeezing your chin. “And I don’t say things like this lightly.”

You shake your head in her hand, emotions warring. “You’re my attending. You’re brilliant. You could have anyone. And I-” Your voice cracks. “I need to know this won’t disappear the moment it gets hard.”

Addison doesn’t answer with words.

She steps into your space-slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

She lifts her other hand, pauses just short of touching you, eyes searching yours.

“Tell me to stop Y/N” she says quietly.

You don’t.

Her hands cup your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing your skin like she’s memorizing it. When she kisses you, it’s gentle-almost reverent. Not rushed. Not claiming.

Just real.

Your breath catches, instinctively leaning into her, the hesitation in your chest cracking open under the certainty of her presence. The kiss deepens slightly, still careful, still controlled-but undeniably full of intention.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

“This isn’t a mistake okay-” she whispers. “And it isn’t temporary. I don’t want to want you-I just do.”

Your hands tremble as they find her wrists, grounding yourself.

“I’m scared Addi.” you admit, a little tear falling from your eye.

“So am I.” The redhead voices her fear too. “But I’m not walking away.”

You search her face-really search it-for doubt, for retreat.

You don’t find it. “Okay Monty.” you whisper.

Her lips curve into the softest smile, relief and something deeper shining through.

“Okay my little girl” she echoes with a deep smile.

She presses one more kiss to your forehead-protective this time, before stepping back, giving you space without taking herself away.

“We’ll be careful-” she says. “We’ll be honest. And we’ll do this the right way.”

You nod, heart racing, something warm and terrifying blooming in your chest.

For the first time since Grey Sloan cracked you open-

You don’t feel alone in it anymore.

And as the pager on the wall stays mercifully silent, you realize-this wasn’t crossing a line.

This was finally choosing not to run.

The Grey Sloan notices everything.

The way people stand too close. The way voices drop. The way hands linger half a second too long before remembering where they are.

Which is why it’s almost funny...almost, that the first time you and Addison scrub in together again, no one notices a damn thing.

She doesn’t look at you when she hands you gloves.

You don’t look at her when you tie them.

Professional. Clean. Perfect.

“Patient is twenty-eight weeks-” Addison says calmly, eyes on the sink. “Placental abruption. We’ll try to stabilize before we-”

“I know Dr. Montgomery.” you say, just as evenly. “I reviewed the imaging twice.”

Her mouth twitches. “Of course you did.”

That’s the thing now.

You talk like colleagues. You move like partners. You feel like accomplices.

Inside the OR, it’s muscle memory and trust-your hands anticipating hers, your voice steady when the room gets loud. No one questions it. No one looks twice.

Except when she murmurs, just for you-

“Scalpel.”

You pass it. Your fingers brush. Barely. Electric.

You don’t react. Neither does she. But Addison’s eyebrow lifts just slightly, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. The slight touch just made you twitch in your knees.

After the surgery, the patient is stable, baby still cooking, the room exhales.

“Well done you two. ” Bailey says briskly, already halfway out the door, looking at her next chart. “Try not to kill anyone before lunch.”

“Yes ma’am.” you reply automatically.

The door swings shut.

It’s just you and Addison now.

She finally looks at you.

And smiles.

Not the attending smile. Not the mentor smile.

The I-kissed-you-in-an-on-call-room-and-now-we’re-being-idiots smile.

“That was impressive Dr. Y/L.” she says lightly, peeling off her gloves. “You almost made me look good.”

You snort, swinging your head around. “Almost?”

She leans closer under the pretense of checking the tray. “Careful my darling. Confidence is unattractive on fellows.”

“You seemed fine with it last night.” you comment with a tiny smirk. Scanning her body while being this close to you.

Her lips press together, fighting a grin.

“That-” she murmurs, hand moving to grab your chin softly. “was off hospital grounds.”

Footsteps outside.

You both freeze.

The door creaks open an inch-then shuts again.

Lexie’s voice, muffled: “-tell him I don’t care if he invented the procedure-”

Addison exhales slowly, you feel her minty breath on your face. Your arms purposely moving to lay on her hips. You squeeze her cautiously.

“We’re going to die.” you whisper.

She tilts her head, fingers playin with sharp curve of your jaw-giving it a little tap. “Relax. I’ve been sneaking around hospitals since before you learned how to properly close.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s not reassuring Addison.”

She comes closer anyway, lowering her voice. “You did great today sweetheart.”

Your chest tightens. “So did you Monty."

She leans in, lips coming dangerously close to your own. You feel the warmth radiating off of her, basically setting you on fire by time.

Addison grabs you by your neck, ready to kiss you-

Then...

The door swings open again.

“Dr. Montgomery?” a nurse pokes her head in. “NICU needs-”

Addison snaps back instantly, hand gone, posture and distance perfect-professional from you. “On my way.”

The nurse glances between you.

Pauses.

Looks again.

Your heart slams into your ribs.

Then she nods and leaves.

The door closes.

You stare at Addison.

She stares at you.

Then-she laughs. Quiet, breathless.

“That-” she whispers, “was way to close.”

You grin despite yourself. “You almost kissed me.”

“I absolutely did not.” Addison spoke, already passing through the door, where the nurse just peeked through.

“You absolutely did.” you tease, following her along.

“Prove it.”

You follow her into the hallway, matching her pace. “You’re terrible at this.”

She glances sideways. “Oh sweetheart-I’m excellent at this.”

At the elevators, you stop.

“Hey.” you say quietly.

She turns. For a moment, the teasing fades.

You lean in just enough that no one else can hear. “I’m glad we’re not pretending anymore.”

Her expression softens. Just a little.

“Me too.” she says. Then, barely moving her lips: “Meet me after you’re doin charting, were going to my place after work"

You choke. “Addison-”

The elevator dings.

She steps inside, already composed again. “If you’re late.” she adds with a teasing smile. “I’ll assume you lost your nerve.”

The doors slide shut.

You stand there heart racing, grinning like an idiot.

Grey Sloan buzzes around you-loud, relentless, oblivious.

And somehow, between scalpels and stolen moments—

You will be definitely on time tonight.

You change out of your used scrubs fast, like you’re on fire.

Because you know. If you’re late, she’s going without you.

So you move, faster than ever and before you know you’re outside the hospitals parking lot.

You sense her before you see her.

Addison Montgomery leans against the far wall of the hospital, coat on, hair down, phone in her hand like she’s been waiting without wanting to admit it.

She looks up when you ran out.

There it is-that look. Not attending. Not mentor.

Something private. “Long day huh.” she says casually.

You snort. “You stole my patient and made me fix charts all day Monty.”

“I improved your patient-” she corrects. “and you’re still my little fellow soo... you’re welcome darlin.”

You walk closer, stopping just short of her personal space. “I see how it is mentor.”

She pockets her phone. “Come, i wanna go home now and be alone with you."

That lands harder than anything else she could’ve said.

The parking lot empties. Voices fade. For a moment, it’s just the two of you and the hum of the car engine roaring.

“Lets go home.” she says quietly.

No games. No teasing.

Your pulse spikes. “Addison-”

“I know.” she cuts in gently. “It's still early on, but i want you and i wanna make it right. I just—” She pauses, searching your face. “I don’t wanna go home alone anymore or see you sleep in an on-call room.”

You swallow.

“Okay Addi.” you say, buckling in your seatbelt.

Her shoulders loosen, just a fraction.

The drive is quiet-but not awkward.

The city blurs past the windows, rain streaking the glass, the car filled with a tension so thick it feels like it might spark. Her hand rests on the center console, close enough that your pinkies almost touch.

Almost.

When she pulls into her garage, she doesn’t turn the engine off right away.

She looks at you instead.

“There we are sweetling. Grab your things.” she voices softly.

You meet her gaze. “On it Monty.”

Her apartment is warm, low-lit, familiar in a way that immediately makes your chest ache. She drops her keys, toes off her shoes, glancing back to make sure you followed.

You did.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

Silence.

Then-she laughs quietly, breathless. “God-this feels ridiculous.”

You smile. “You took me home.”

“Yes, well-” she steps closer, voice lowering. “I didn’t expect you to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask with a generous smile.

“Like you’ve been holding your breath all day.”

You don’t deny it.

She reaches for your coat, fingers brushing your collarbone as she slips it off your shoulders. The touch lingers-intentional now. No pretending.

“You were incredible today. ” she murmurs. “Watching you… I had to remind myself where we were.”

Your heart thunders in your chest. “You started it.”

Her eyebrow arches, fingers playin with the hem of your scrubs. “Oh?”

“You kept leaning in-” you say. “Kept smiling like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

She exhales, slow and honest, hands now on your bare skin. Goosebumps appearing around your stomach. “I did.”

The space between you disappears.

The kiss isn’t tentative this time.

It’s deep. Controlled but barely. Her hand trace to your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek, like she’s grounding herself as much as you. You grip her wrist, steadying, feeling the quiet tremor there.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to rest her forehead against yours. “We should slow down-” she whispers, still not stopping.

You nod. “We won’t.”

A breathless laugh escapes her. “No… we won’t.”

She kisses you again-hotter now, more certain and you feel the shift. The point of no return. Her hands slide to your waist, yours to her shoulders both of you acutely aware of how badly you want this.

She pulls back suddenly.

Your breath stutters. “What—?”

She smiles, wicked and soft all at once. “Bedroom. Before I lose what little restraint I have left.”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “You say that like you had any monty.”

She takes your hand, fingers lacing with yours, tugging you down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind you.A sigh escaped your lips, a mix of exhaustion and a different kind of anticipation that had been building all evening, a heat you could feel simmering between you and the elegant redhead by your side.

Addison turned her hand gently finding the small of your back, her thumb stroking a slow circle over your tailored blouse. Her eyes usually so sharp and analytical, were soft, heavy-lidded, and full of a quiet hunger that made your pussy clench in immediate response.

You leaned into her letting your head rest against her shoulder as her lips brushed your temple, then your jaw, trailing a path of fire to the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“Mmm, too long without you..." you breathed, your own hands reaching up to entwine in the silky waves of her hair, pulling her closer, desperate for the taste of her mouth.

Addison chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “Patience, my love. We have all night.” But her actions betrayed her words. Her hands were already sweeping down your back, expertly untying your pants, letting it fall in a pool around your ankles.

You barely registered the opulent surroundings as Addison eased you onto the edge of the bed, her fingers deftly working on the last few buttons of your blouse, sliding it off your shoulders. "You look so hot addie."

Your bra was next, her knuckles brushing over your nipples as she unhooked it sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You shivered, your breasts freed, aching for her touch.

She stood before you, a vision in her own scrub west, her eyes devouring you. You reached for her, your fingers fumbling with the hem of her shirt, but she stilled your hands with a gentle touch.

“My turn baby.” she whispered, her voice husky, and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both soft and devouring.

Her lips were full, tasting of wine and something uniquely Addison- sophisticated, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. Her tongue slid against yours, a slow, sensual dance, exploring every curve and hollow of your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss, your fingers now free to tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the connection until you were breathless, dizzy with sensation. "Addi-"

"Yes darling hmm, what’s wrong?" She asks you with feigned innocence.

"I-... touch me please." you beg shyly.

"good fucking girl, such pretty manners." the redhead praises, making you blush in a deep shade of pink.

Addison’s hands roamed, one cupping your breast, her thumb circling your erect nipple through the lace of your camisole, the other slipping between your thighs.

Her fingers found the delicate fabric of your panties, pressing against the throbbing knot of your clit through your panties. A gasp ripped from your throat, your hips arching instinctively, desperate for more pressure, more friction.

“So wet for me darling-” she murmured against your lips, her voice laced with triumph. She broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, her gaze smoldering. “Let’s get you out of these hmm.”

With a delicate tug she slipped her fingers under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your hips. As the last barrier fell away, revealing your slick, swollen pussy, Addison’s eyes darkened further. "God aren’t you a pretty thing."

She knelt between your legs on the plush rug, her gaze fixed on your dripping sex. Your pussy was engorged, the labia swollen and glistening, a clear bead of pre-cum already welling from your clit. You parted your legs further, a silent invitation, your breath hitching in your chest.

Addison smiled a slow, wicked curve of her lips that promised exquisite torment. “Ready to be taken care of baby?” she purred, her fingers tracing the sensitive seam of your inner thigh, making you squirm.

Before you could answer, her head descended. Her tongue was hot, skillful, making contact with your clit with a precision that sent a shockwave of pleasure straight through you.

You cried out, your hands instantly flying to tangle in her red mane, pressing her closer. She licked, sucked, flicked, her mouth a masterful instrument of your undoing.

"You’re doing so good for me, sweet girl." Addi mumbles against your pussy.

Her lips created a suction that pulled at your clit, drawing it deeper into her mouth, while her tongue danced around it, teasing, swirling, driving you mad.

Just as you felt the first tremor of an orgasm building, a hot surprise.

"wha-... what are you doing Addison?" you asked, slightly confused in the sudden movement.

Addison’s free hand reached to the bedside table, retrieving a small, sleek vibrator you hadn’t even seen yet.

"It's a surprise my darling." With a low hum, she pressed its vibrating tip directly against your clit, while her mouth remained locked on you, sucking and flicking relentlessly.

"Fucking hell... Addison are you tryin to kill me." you utter, completely exhausted by the pleasure.

"killing you with pleasure my sweetheart." she teases.

The sensation was overwhelming, an explosive combination of intense vibration and her expert oral attention. Your body convulsed, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure.

The hum of the toy resonated through your core, amplifying every lick, every suck of her tongue. You were drowning in sensation, your hips bucking off the bed, a desperate plea for more, for release.

“That’s it darling,” Addison rasped, her voice thick with her own arousal, never breaking contact. “Let it go. Come for me like my good girl.”

"Fuck... Addi." Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, a shattering, earth-shaking climax that left you gasping, shaking, your back arching violently as your pussy spasmed around her mouth and the vibrating toy.

Waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you, pulling a guttural scream from your throat. Your legs trembled, threatening to give out, as your body shuddered, finally collapsing back onto the pillows, panting, utterly sated.

Addison lingered, her tongue lazily cleaning up the remnants of your passion, before she slowly pulled away, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. She rose, leaning over you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Your turn now-” she whispered, a subtle command in her tone.

You were still reeling but a deep, primal urge to please her stirred within you. Addison gently guided your head down, positioning you between her legs. Her scrub pants were gone, revealing her own lush, perfectly trimmed pussy, already slick and swollen with desire.

A scent of arousal tangy and sweet, filled your nostrils, making your mouth water.

“Make me feel as good as you just did, sweet girl.” she purred, her hand gently resting on the back of your head, a tender but firm pressure.

You didn’t need further instruction.

You lowered your head, your tongue finding her clit, tasting her sweet, musky juices. You licked, swirled, sucked, mimicking her earlier skill, eager to bring her to the same explosive release.

Addison moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your ear. "Just like that baby, that's perfect... fuck." Her fingers dug into your hair, her hips beginning to undulate, pressing her pussy harder against your mouth. "Harder darlin, don’t you wanna make me cum hmm."

You devoured her harder, your tongue working tirelessly, drawing out her pleasure, feeling the tension build in her body. Her legs trembled, her moans growing louder, more frantic. You could taste her coming, the salt and nectar of her climax filling your mouth as she bucked against you, crying out your name as she shattered, waves of orgasm rippling through her body.

You stayed there, licking her clean, until her breathing finally steadied, both of you slick with sweat and the beautiful mess of shared pleasure. Addison pulled you up onto her chest, wrapping her arms around you, pulling you close against her warm, naked body.

"Fuck you’re good at that baby. That was awesome." Addi remarks honestly.

Your pussies pressed together, still throbbing, a silent promise of more to come.

You drifted off, utterly spent, enveloped in her scent, her warmth, and the lingering aftershocks of her exquisite care.

Later...much later-you lie tangled in her sheets, breath slowing, skin still warm, the city quiet outside the windows.

Addison traces lazy patterns on your arm.

“Hey.” she murmurs, fingers gently nibbling at your jaw.

“Mm?”

“Tomorrow-” she says, thoughtful now. “We’re back to being very good doctors.”

You smile into the pillow. “And tonight?”

She presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

You turn toward her, heart full and racing all at once.

“Good.” you whisper with a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

END

--Sevan069

[summer2224]

Control Failure

Natasha Romanoff (G!P) x Fem Reader

By summer2224

18+ SMUT G!P

18+ SMUT/ EXPLICIT SMUT.  

Months of almosts, late-night conversations, lingering touches during training, Natasha Romanoff has perfected restraint. So have you. The line never breaks… until a simple heartbeat monitor tells the truth neither of you have been saying out loud.

November 29-Dec 2, 2025

(6714 Words)

-----------------------------------------

The training room is empty except for the hum of equipment and the soft click of Natasha’s boots against the floor.

It’s always quieter when it’s just the two of you.

You notice it months ago, how she schedules things late, how your name ends up next to hers on drills that don’t technically require a partner. Nobody says anything. Nobody needs to. The team jokes about it anyway.

Romanoff’s shadow. Romanoff’s favorite. Romanoff’s problem.

She never denies it.

The first time she stands too close, it’s during a spar.

You’re new, still trying to prove you belong, and she circles you slowly, studying. You feel her before she touches you, that steady presence like gravity. When she finally moves, she doesn’t throw you immediately. She corrects you.

Her hand settles on your hip to adjust your stance.

“Lower,” she murmurs near your ear.

You do.

She doesn’t move her hand right away. You pretend not to notice. She pretends she forgot.

Neither of you mentions it. It keeps happening.

Passing you gear with fingers brushing too long. Leaning across you to grab a file she could easily reach another way. Sitting close during briefings despite half the room being empty. The tension never explodes, it stretches, pulls tight, then eases before it snaps.

Always stopping just before the line.

Months later, you’re in the kitchen at night, the compound asleep. She’s across the counter, sleeves rolled, absentmindedly turning a knife in her fingers. Not threatening, just thinking.

You’ve been talking about nothing for an hour.

She grows quieter. Not distant. Focused.

You notice when she stops spinning the knife.

“I should tell you something,” she says.

You look up.

It’s the first time she looks unsure around you. Not weak, Natasha Romanoff doesn’t do weak, but careful. Measured in a way that feels personal instead of tactical.

“I don’t… usually explain myself to people.”

“Okay.”

She watches your face like she’s bracing for impact.

“I’m intersex,” she says, voice steady but low. “Some people would call it—” a small exhale, almost embarrassed, “—weird. I prefer not making it a topic.”

You blink once.

“That’s fine.”

She frowns slightly, searching your reaction.

“That’s it?”

You shrug lightly. “You’re still you.”

The tension in her shoulders eases in a way you’ve never seen before. Not relief exactly, something warmer. Something softer.

She studies you for a long moment, eyes gentler than usual.

“…Good,” she says quietly.

After that, she sits closer when you talk. Not accidental anymore. Not explained either.

Now, the lab.

A new SHIELD biometric monitor prototype rests on the table, wires, adhesive pads, small display screen. You volunteered because she asked before anyone else could.

Natasha stands in front of you, holding a sensor strip between her fingers.

“You’re relaxed, yes?” she asks.

You lean back on the table, smirking. “Around you? Always dangerous.”

Her mouth curves.

“I’ll try not to take advantage.”

She steps closer. You pretend your breathing stays normal.

Her fingers brush your collarbone as she places the first pad. Cool adhesive meets skin, but her touch lingers just a second longer than required. Her focus is professional, mostly, but her eyes flick to yours briefly.

The monitor beeps softly. She doesn’t look yet.

Another sensor lower on your side. She lifts your shirt just enough, knuckles grazing your ribs.

You swallow.

“You’re tense,” she says.

“You’re hovering.”

“That is part of the procedure.”

“Pretty sure SHIELD didn’t specify the staring.”

“I improvise.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

She finally glances at the screen. Then pauses.

Her eyebrow lifts almost imperceptibly.

“What?” you ask.

“Baseline elevated.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m excited for science.”

“Mm.”

She doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the slight tilt of her head, predator curiosity. She steps back deliberately.

The number drops.

She steps close again, closer than before, reaching across you to adjust a wire she already adjusted.

The number spikes.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. She sees the screen this time while watching you. Slow understanding spreads across her expression.

You look away. “Faulty monitor.”

“I doubt that.”

She moves even nearer, one hand braced beside your hip against the table, effectively caging you without touching.

The display climbs steadily.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

She lowers her voice. “Interesting calibration issue.”

“It’s new tech.”

“Mm,” she murmurs again, clearly unconvinced.

Her fingers adjust the pad over your sternum, unnecessary, precise, and your pulse jumps harder.

You exhale shakily. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Testing variables,” she says smoothly.

“Romanoff.”

She smiles slightly, small, satisfied, not teasing the way she does with others. Softer. Focused entirely on you.

“I wondered,” she admits quietly.

“Wondered what?”

“If it was only me.”

You meet her eyes.

The air goes still.

Her hand remains resting lightly against your ribs, not moving, not pulling away. The monitor continues its steady rapid rhythm.

She watches the numbers, then you, then back again.

“You never cross lines,” you say.

“You never ask me to.”

The space between you feels thinner than it should.

Her voice drops almost to a whisper. “But your body answers questions you don’t.”

You could step away.

You don’t.

Her thumb shifts slightly, barely, and the monitor jumps again.

A faint warmth touches her expression, rare and unguarded.

“I think I like this device,” she says.

You let out a nervous breath. “Are you always this annoying?”

“Possibly.”

Neither of you moves back.

For the first time in months, the line doesn’t feel distant. It feels close enough to touch.

The monitor keeps beeping.

Steady. Fast. Impossible to ignore.

Natasha doesn’t step away.

Her hand is still braced beside your hip, the other hovering near the sensor on your chest like she forgot the original purpose of touching you at all. She isn’t looking at the screen anymore.

She’s looking at your mouth.

You notice because you’re already looking at hers.

A small silence settles, not empty, just heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks but never quite does.

“You’re distracting the data,” you say quietly.

Her gaze flicks up to your eyes. “The data is honest.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “I’m learning.”

Her voice lowers, softer than you’ve ever heard it during training, stripped of the usual sharpness. Personal.

She leans in just enough that you feel her breath, warm against your cheek.

Your pulse spikes again.

The monitor reacts instantly.

Natasha glances sideways at it without moving away. “There it is.”

You try to laugh but it comes out thinner than intended. “You’re manufacturing results.”

Her fingers slide lightly along the edge of the adhesive pad, barely grazing skin, not enough to be accidental anymore.

“You react before I even touch you,” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens. “Maybe I know you’re about to.”

She studies you carefully, expression softer than teasing now, intent, almost cautious, like she’s approaching something fragile instead of cornering prey.

“Months,” she says quietly. “You’ve done this for months.”

“Done what?”

“Stayed.”

Her eyes flick to your lips again. You notice the tiny pause she doesn’t quite hide, the restraint she always keeps wrapped tight around herself.

“You never pull away,” she adds.

“You never give me a reason to.”

The air feels thinner.

Her thumb rests just beneath your ribs again, not moving, just there, grounding, claiming space without force. The monitor betrays you immediately.

You close your eyes briefly, exhale.

“Natasha…”

She stills at her name, the way she always does when it’s just you saying it.

“Yes?” softer now.

You open your eyes. She’s closer than before, and neither of you pretends it’s about calibration anymore.

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

A beat.

Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “You didn’t look at me differently.”

You know what she means, that night in the kitchen. The careful confession she rarely gives anyone.

Your gaze flicks down to her mouth and back up. “I meant it.”

Something in her expression shifts, subtle, but real. The careful control loosens at the edges.

Her forehead nearly touches yours now, not quite there, a breath of distance left.

“And if I stop pretending this is professional?” she asks quietly.

Your heartbeat pounds loud enough the monitor practically protests.

“You already did,” you whisper back.

Another second passes, stretched thin, fragile, the last thread before something changes.

Her eyes soften, searching yours once more like she’s confirming permission rather than taking it.

She doesn’t close the distance. But she doesn’t move away either.

The beeping fills the silence, rapid and undeniable, and for the first time neither of you even glances at the screen.

Because you both already know what it says. 

Natasha doesn’t say anything.

The teasing edge leaves her expression, replaced by something quieter. Intent.

Her hand slides from your ribs, up, slow enough that you feel every inch of movement, until her fingers reach the back of your neck. She pauses there, giving you time. Giving you space to move.

You don’t.

Her fingers thread into your hair.

The contact isn’t rough, not yet, but it’s firm. Certain. Her thumb presses lightly at the base of your skull as she tilts your head just slightly.

Your breath catches.

She leans in. And you meet her halfway.

The first touch of her lips is testing, barely there, a brush that could still be mistaken for an accident if either of you wanted to lie about it later.

Neither of you does.

Your lips press again, softer this time but deliberate. Warm. Real. You both inhale at the same moment. The sound of the monitor spikes sharply in the background.

Her mouth parts against yours on instinct, breath warm, mingling. The kiss deepens slowly, not rushed, not frantic, just controlled tension finally snapping.

Her grip tightens in your hair.

Not painful. Anchoring.

Your hand slides up her side, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt before climbing higher, threading into her red hair. It’s softer than you expect, thick between your fingers.

She exhales sharply against your mouth when you pull her closer.

The sound goes straight through you.

Your lips move together again, slower now but heavier, testing turns into hunger. The months of restraint bleed into the way she kisses you, measured at first, then less careful.

You can feel her breathing change.

Feel the warmth of her body pressed closer to yours.

You break apart for half a second, foreheads nearly touching, both of you panting lightly, breaths brushing over swollen lips.

Her eyes drop to your mouth again.

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might shake the table beneath you.

The monitor practically sings with it.

Natasha’s gaze flicks sideways for just a second.

She sees the numbers. Sees the spike.

Something shifts in her expression, a flicker of satisfaction, but deeper than teasing now. Certain. Claimed.

She looks back at you, pupils darker.

“You’re very honest,” she murmurs, breath uneven.

You don’t get a chance to answer.

She kisses you again, this time without hesitation.

Her hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head more firmly as she takes control of the angle. The kiss is deeper, more confident, her mouth moving against yours with purpose now that she’s seen exactly what she does to you.

Your fingers curl tighter in her hair in response.

The monitor continues its rapid rhythm, undeniable proof of the tension finally unleashed.

She breathes in through her nose, slow and deliberate, as if savoring it, the closeness, the reaction, you.

When she pulls back again, it’s only far enough to let you breathe. Her thumb brushes lightly at your jaw.

And she smiles, softer than smug, more like wonder.

Then she leans in again, like she has no intention of stopping now that the line is gone.

Your lips meet again, this time with more urgency.  Your hands slide down to her hips, pulling her closer. 

The monitor beeps wildly in the background, its rapid rhythm matching your heart rate. Natasha's hands roam your sides, her touch both questioning and demanding. 

She breaks the kiss to trail open mouthed kisses along your jaw, her breathing heavy.

"You're really going to make me lose control," she murmurs against your skin. Her hands slide up your back, then down to your hips, pulling you flush against her.

You can feel every curve of her body pressed against yours, the heat between you almost overwhelming. 

The monitor's beeps grow louder, more insistent, but neither of you pays attention to it anymore. Natasha's hands grip your hips tightly as she kisses you deeply, her tongue sliding against yours in a desperate rhythm.

"Fuck the calibration," she whispers between kisses. "I need..." She doesn't finish the sentence, instead kissing you harder to convey what she means.

Your hands explore her body eagerly, tracing the strong muscles of her back, sliding down to grip her ass. 

She groans into your mouth, the sound sending a shock of desire straight to your core. The table presses into your back as she pushes you against it, her body pinning you in place. 

The monitor beeps frantically now, reflecting your rapidly rising heart rates and shallow breaths.

"This thing is going to break," she says with a breathless laugh, kissing along your neck.

Your head tilts back, giving her more access. 

"Let it break," you gasp out, fingers digging into her hips. 

The lab is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and the frantic beeping of the monitor. Natasha's teeth graze your collarbone, her hands working to pull your shirt up.

The shirt comes up, exposing your stomach. Natasha's lips trail down, sternum, ribs, waistband, each kiss leaving fire in its wake. The monitor dangles uselessly from your chest, wires trailing off. 

She doesn't care anymore. 

Her fingers hook into your waistband, looking up at you.

"Is this still protocol?" you ask, voice ragged.

She pauses, kneeling between your legs, her eyes dark and hungry.

"No." One word. Final. She pulls you closer.

You feel her breath hot against your stomach, her hands gripping your sides possessively. 

"This is personal," she groans softly, leaning in to press an open mouthed kiss just above your hipbone. 

You gasp, fingers tangling in her hair. The monitor's beeps rapidly, the urgency as it detects the change in your heart rate. 

"Very personal," she repeats, her tongue tracing the line of your waistband. 

Your hips jerk involuntarily.

Natasha smiles against your skin, clearly pleased with the reaction. 

Her hands move to your knees, spreading your legs wider. The monitor's wires pull taut, the device straining against your chest as your heart pounds. 

She hooks her fingers into the top of your pants, tugging them down just enough to expose more skin.

 "Very, very personal," she whispers, leaning down to kiss the newly revealed flesh. Her mouth is warm and wet, leaving a trail of heat that shoots straight up your spine. "Is that clear?"

Your breath hitches as her tongue flicks out to trace patterns on your lower abdomen.

 "Crystal," you manage to gasp out, hips bucking toward her mouth. 

The monitor beeps chaotically now, its display flashing warnings about elevated vitals.

Natasha's hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as she lavishes attention on your hipbones, her teeth grazing the skin lightly. She's taking her time, savoring every reaction, cataloging each gasp and whimper.

Then her movements pause, her breath warm against your stomach. For a moment, the only sound is the urgent beeping of the monitor. Then, slowly, she sits back on her heels, her eyes locked with yours. 

She doesn't speak immediately, instead reaching down to adjust herself through her pants. You watch as she does, your eyes widening slightly at the obvious bulge.

"Yes," she answers simply already knowing your question, her voice low and husky. "Very hard." She leans forward again, her hands sliding up your thighs.

Her thumb hooks into both waistbands now, tugging them down lower. Her gaze never leaves yours, dark, hungry, unashamed.

"You want to know?" she murmurs, a challenging lift to her eyebrow. "You want to see what you do to me?"

She adjusts herself again, and you can feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric. Her other hand finds your wet core, fingers sliding slowly through your clothing.

She watches your face carefully as she unbuttons her pants, pushing them down along with her underwear. Her length springs free, thick and hard. She wraps a hand around it slowly, giving you a clear view. 

"This," she says softly, stroking herself once, "is what you do to me." 

Her fingers continue their lazy circles on your clit through your fabric "Hard enough to hurt." She strokes herself again, slower this time. "Do you see?"

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. 

She's bigger than you expected, thicker, longer. 

She strokes herself again, her movements slow and deliberate. You can see the veins bulging beneath her skin, see the way her tip glistens with pre-cum.

Natasha continues touching herself, her other hand still rubbing slow circles over your clit. The contrast of sensations is overwhelming, her big, hard length moving in her fist, her gentle fingers teasing you through your pants that you want off completely, it’s torture. 

The monitor beeps wildly, reflecting your rapid pulse and shallow breaths.

"Do you like seeing me like this?" she asks, her voice a low rasp. "Do you like knowing you make me so hard?"

She spreads her legs wider without waiting for an answer, giving you a full view of her stroking herself. 

Her thick length moves easily in her fist, pre-cum dripping down to wet her palm. She's completely shameless, touching herself openly while watching you react. 

Her fingers pause on your clit, waiting for your response. "Because you should know," she says softly, "that I've been like this all day—thinking about you." She squeezes herself harder, "Wanting to be inside you."

Your back arches off the table, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you look down at her stroking herself.

"Natasha, please—" you beg, voice breaking, "get these off me. I can't—" Your hips buck against her hand, seeking more friction, more contact. 

The monitor's beeps grow erratic, almost frantic now. "I need to feel you. Inside. Please, just—" Your thighs fall open wider, offering yourself to her. "Take them off. Take me." 

Natasha's eyes flash with intensity at your pleading words. 

With a swift, decisive movement, she removes her hand from your clit and shoves your pants and underwear down to your knees, exposing you completely. 

The monitor's wires pull taut again as you're laid bare before her. She releases her grip on herself, stepping closer between your legs.

 "Spread wider," she commands, voice low and commanding. You comply instantly, hooking your arms behind your knees to hold yourself open for her. "Good girl,"

She steps even closer, her thick, wet tip pressing against your entrance. 

You're soaking already, spread wide and flushed pink. 

She runs her tip up and down your slit slowly, collecting your slick on herself. The monitor beeps almost aggressively now, reflecting your desperate state. 

"You're dripping," she observes softly, circling your entrance with her head. "Is this all for me?"

She pushes in just barely, enough to stretch you open slightly.

You moan out when she breaches you, even just a little. "Yes," you gasp, "all for you. Please, Natasha—please fuck me." 

Your legs shake with the effort of holding yourself open, your walls clenching around the tiny bit of her inside you. The monitor is basically screaming now.

She pushes in a tiny bit more, watching as your pussy stretches around her thick head. She curses under her breath, "Fuck," at the sight of your tight walls struggling to accommodate even this small amount of her. 

You moan loudly, praising her, "God, you're so big..." 

The monitor spikes dangerously high. She pulls back slightly then pushes forward again just an inch deeper.

Your eyes roll back as she teases you with her. She's barely inside you, just an inch or two, but it feels enormous. Your walls are gripping her tightly, sucking her in despite your size difference. 

Natasha watches intently, her jaw clenched. "You take this small bit so well," she murmurs, pushing in another half inch before pulling back again. "But I'm much bigger than this." She looks down at where you're joined.

She pushes in again, going deeper this time, about three inches now. Your legs shake, your walls stretching obscenely around her thick shaft. 

The monitor reaches its limit, beeping a continuous high-pitched tone. 

Natasha curses again, watching her length slowly disappearing inside you.

 "Fuck, look at that," she whispers hoarsely, "You're so tight... And I'm not even halfway inside."

She pulls back slowly, watching your body clamp down to keep her in.

You whimper, reaching down to clutch at the edge of the table.

 "More," you plea, your thighs trembling. "Natasha, please—" 

She pushes forward again, sinking another inch into you. 

Your eyes roll back, a broken moan escaping your lips. "You're so thick," you breathe

Natasha watches with rapt fascination as your body struggles to accommodate her. At four inches, you're already taking more than most would be able to handle, yet you're begging for more. She can feel your pussy pulsing and clenching around her, trying to milk her even though she hasn't even begun to fuck you properly yet. 

"You're incredible," she breathes, her voice strained. "So perfect."

She pulls back slowly, then pushes forward again, going deeper this time, five inches—

Your back arches off the table as she pushes in deeper, your body stretching around her massive size, you can feel every ridge and vein of her thick cock. 

The monitor is beeping erratically.

 "Natasha—oh my god—" You gasp, your fingers digging into the table. "More—give me more!"

She curses softly, watching her length disappear inside you like you're made for it. Her restraint snaps at your desperate pleas. With a groan, she leans down and captures your mouth in a fierce kiss as she begins to fuck you properly. Her hips move with powerful thrusts, burying her entire length inside you in one swift motion. 

You scream into her mouth, your body convulsing as she hits a spot you didn't know existed.

"Fuck—" She breaks the kiss to curse, her forehead pressed against yours as she pounds into you. "Fuck—fuck—fuck—"

You moan loudly with each brutal thrust, your eyes rolling back as Natasha pounds into you. 

"So deep—oh god, you're so deep—" You praise her size, your nails digging into her back.

Natasha grunts with each powerful snap of her hips, green eyes half lidded as she watches herself disappear inside you again and again. Her hands grip your thighs tightly, spreading you wider to take even more of her.

Your legs are thrown over her shoulders, your ankles locked behind her neck as she fucks you mercilessly. You can feel every inch of her moving inside you, stretching you open wider than you've ever been.

"Natasha—fuck—right there—" You moan out, your hands grasping at her hair as she hits your deepest point. "I can't—oh god—" Natasha groans, her voice thick with pleasure.

Green eyes flick between watching her length disappear inside you and meeting your gaze.

"You're so  beautiful," she breathes out, hips snapping forcefully, "Taking me so well... " Her hands roam over your curves possessively. "Fuck yes—you're so tight... So wet for me..." She can feel your walls squeezing around her, pulling her deeper with each thrust. The monitor is completely overwhelmed, beeping non-stop. "You feel so good—"

She leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as she continues to ruin you from the inside out. Her thrusts are deep and powerful, her hips slamming against yours with enough force to make the table shake.

"I've dreamt of this for so long," she gasps out between kisses, "Of filling you up, claiming you, making you mine." Her hands grip your hair tightly, pulling you closer as she kisses you desperately. "And you're even more perfect than I imagined."

She pulls back to watch herself disappear inside you again and again. "Look at how well you take me," she pants out, voice thick with lust. "So fucking perfect... So wet... So tight..." Her eyes roll back slightly as she hits a particularly deep spot. "Fuck—you're gripping me so good—"

You moan out as her next thrust hits that exact spot, your walls clenching around her tightly.

"There—it's right there—" You gasp, looking up at her with desperate eyes. "Please Natasha, don't stop—don't you dare stop—" Your hands grip the table so hard your knuckles turn white, lifting your hips to meet each punishing thrust. "Right there, right there—" 

Natasha's hips stutter, then snap forward harder, angling herself to hit that spot over and over. Her breathing is heavy, her hands tightening on your hips possessively.

 "Fuck—baby—" She groans loudly as your hand tangles in her red hair, pulling her head down. "You're gonna make me come so fucking fast—" Her eyes flutter closed as you tease her with the movement of your hips, your lips ghosting over hers.

 "Don't stop—don't you dare fucking stop—"

She kisses you messily, desperately, her tongue pushing into your mouth as she starts moving her hips again, slowly this time, dragging her thick length in and out of you.

You whisper against her lips again, "Don't stop," letting your hips move beneath her, rolling against her in slow waves. 

Natasha moans into your mouth, her grip on your hips bruising. "Can't—can't last—" 

Her forehead drops to yours, green eyes half-lidded and fucked out, watching you like you're the only thing in the world. Her hips stutter, thrusting deeper, faster. "Baby I'm—fuck—"

You kiss her harder, your tongue pushing back into her mouth as your hips move faster against hers. 

Natasha groans, her body tensing as she gets closer to the edge. "Fuck—fuck—baby—" Her hands slide up from your hips to your breasts, squeezing them tightly as she continues to thrust into you. "I'm gonna come—I'm gonna fuck—" She pulls back to look at you, eyes wild with pleasure. "Come with me—"

Your bodies move together perfectly now, hips snapping in sync as you both climb towards release. 

The table creaks loudly beneath you, the monitor completely forgotten, beeping wildly.

Natasha's thick length hits that spot inside you with every thrust, making stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Right there—right there—" you pant against her lips. "I'm so close—" 

She kisses you again, swallowing your moans as she fucks you harder. "Come on my cock—come all over me—"

Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, making you cry out into her mouth. 

Your pussy squeezes her tightly, pulsing around her thick length. 

Natasha groans loudly, feeling you come apart underneath her.

"Fuck yes—fuck—" She doesn't slow down, fucking you through your orgasm, drawing it out. "Take it—" She buries herself deep and stills, coming hard inside you with a loud groan. "Baby—fuck—"

She collapses onto you, still inside you as she catches her breath. 

Her face is buried in your neck, hands roaming over your body possessively.  The monitor is beeping steadily now, reflecting your rapid but slowly stabilizing heart rate.

Natasha kisses your neck softly, her hard length still pulsing occasionally as more arousal leaks out of her.

"Mine—" she murmurs quietly, "All mine—" Her legs tangle with yours, keeping her close to you. "Fuck—baby—"

She lifts her head to look at you, green eyes soft and satisfied. A lazy smile spreads across her face as she presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

"You okay?" she asks softly, her thumb brushing over your cheek. Her hips give a small roll inside you, making you both groan at the sensation of her still-hard cock moving within you.

 "I didn't hurt you too much did I?" Her voice is low and concerned despite the playful tone of her earlier words.

You shake your head, smiling up at her dazed and happy. 

One of your hands comes up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her soft skin.

"Beautiful," you whisper, voice rough from moaning. "You're so beautiful, Natasha." 

She swallows hard, visibly trembling at the words. It's clear this wasn't just physical for her, she's completely down bad.

Her eyes flutter closed at your touch and praise, her face softening. She leans into your touch like a cat, humming softly.

 "Baby—" She presses a gentle kiss to your palm before nuzzling into your hand possessively. "You can't say things like that..." She takes a deep breath, her hips giving another small roll inside you. "Nobody's ever—" She stops, unable to finish. Her vulnerability hangs in the air between you, raw and unguarded. "You’ve ruined me," she admits quietly, burying her face in your neck again.

You wrap your arms around her, holding her close as she hides her face in your neck. Your fingers run soothingly through her hair, pressing gentle kisses to the top of her head. The room is filled with the sound of your breathing, slow and steady now, and the soft beeping of the monitor.

Her lips move to your neck again, placing soft, worshipful kisses there.

"I'm addicted to you," she murmurs against your skin. "So fucking addicted." 

You tilt your head to give her more access, and she takes it greedily, sucking on your pulse point.

The second round of need is building quickly, she can feel it, you can feel it. The monitor starts beeping faster again as Natasha rolls her hips inside you, making you moan loudly. 

"More—"

You nod frantically, your legs wrapping around her hips to pull her closer.

Somehow, you both managed to make it to Natasha's room without anyone noticing how thoroughly fucked you both look. The moment the door shuts behind you, she pushes you against it, kissing you deeply and desperately.

"Fuck," she breathes against your lips, "I need you again." 

But before she can push further, you're dropping to your knees, your fingers already working her belt open.

"Oh fuck," she groans softly, watching you.

Your hands make quick work of her belt and pants, pushing them down her hips. Her thick length springs free, already hard again and leaking.

"Baby—" she pants, her hands coming to rest on your head. You look up at her, your eyes filled with desire as you lean forward and lick a stripe up her shaft. "Fuck—your mouth—" She tilts her head back, hips jerking forward slightly. "Suck me, please—"

You open your mouth and take the head of her cock inside, swirling your tongue around it.

Natasha groans loudly, her hands threading through your hair to hold you in place. 

You start to bob your head, taking more of her length into your mouth with each movement.

"Fuck yes—" she hisses, her hips starting to rock gently, fucking your mouth slowly. "So good—baby, you're so good at this—" She looks down at you, green eyes dark with lust and affection.

You take her deeper, relaxing your throat to take more of her. Natasha's head falls back against the door with a loud thud, her hips moving a bit faster now, not fucking your face but definitely using your mouth.

"Fuck—your mouth is incredible—" She pulls you closer by the hair, not forcing you but guiding you onto her cock. "Take it deeper—yes—just like that—" 

Pre-cum hits your tongue regularly now, telling you how turned on she is.

She watches you through half-lidded eyes, loving the sight of you on your knees before her, taking her so perfectly. Her breathing grows heavier, she thrusts into your mouth slow but deep.

One hand leaves your hair to rest on your cheek.

"Baby... I'm gonna come—" She warns softly, giving you the chance to pull off if you want. Instead, you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, taking her even deeper. "Fuck—" She cries out.

Her body tenses, her hand tightening in your hair as she pumps her hips forward, now fucking your mouth in short, desperate thrusts. 

"Right there—oh fuck—baby I'm—" Her warning comes out in gasps as she loses control. With a loud groan, she comes down your throat, hot and thick.

 You swallow it all, sucking gently through her orgasm. She leans heavily against the door, breathing hard, one hand still in your hair.

"Fuck—" She whispers, "You're perfect—" Her voice is shaky as she looks down at you, seeing you on your knees before her with a mouth full of her come. She's never felt more attractive, more desired, in her entire life. Her hands pull you up by your hair gently, bringing you to your feet.

"Come here—" She demands softly, kissing you deeply. She can taste herself on your tongue and it drives her crazy. "Turn around—"

You turn around, and Natasha pushes you gently against the wall. 

Her hands roam over your body possessively, squeezing your ass before pulling down your pants and underwear in one swift motion.

"I need to fuck you again," she whispers hoarsely in your ear, pressing her hard cock against your bare ass.

"Right now." She kicks your legs apart wider with her foot. "Hands on the wall—" She commands softly but firmly.

You place your hands on the wall, arching your back to present yourself to her.

 Natasha groans softly at the sight, running her hands over your ass reverently.

 "Fuck—you're so perfect," she murmurs.

She lines up her wet cock with your entrance, pushing in with one deep thrust. 

You moan out against the wall, your fingers scraping against the paint as she fills you again.

"Tight—still so tight," she groans, gripping your hips possessively as she starts moving.

She fucks you hard and fast against the wall, one hand moving around to grip your throat gently while the other slaps your ass.

Her hips snap forward desperately, her thick length hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"You feel so good—" She whispers harshly against your neck, biting and sucking on the skin there. "You feel so fucking good—" She rolls her hips upwards deliberately, hitting that spot again and again.

You moan loudly, pressing back against her with each thrust.

 "Yes—right there—oh my god, right there—" Your fingers claw at the wall, unable to find purchase anywhere. "Don't stop—please don't stop—" Your voice is breaking, your legs shaking beneath you as she hits that spot again and again. 

Natasha groans, her hips stuttering. She leans over you, changing the angle slightly so she hits that spot even better. Her thrusts become more powerful, more targeted.

 "Fuck—you like this, don't you?" she pants against your ear. "You like when I fuck this spot—" She circles her hips deliberately, making you moan.

Your voice is hoarse and desperate as you cry out her name.

"Natasha—fuck—" Your head falls back against her shoulder, your mouth hanging open as she continues to hit that spot relentlessly. "Natasha, baby—oh my god—" 

She groans at the way you say her name, her hands tightening on your throat and hip.

"Keep saying my name like that—"

You repeat her name over and over, your voice breaking with each thrust.

"Natasha—Natasha—please—don't stop—" Your walls start to flutter around her as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge again. "I'm gonna come—" you warn her, your back arching as she pounds into you harder.

Hearing you say you're about to come pushes Natasha over the edge. She slams into you with wild abandon, her voice hoarse as she chants your name.

 "Come on my cock—fuck—come for me—" Her hand on your throat tightens possessively as she feels your walls clamp down around her.

 "That's it—fuck—that's it—" She presses her face into your neck, biting hard as she continues to thrust through your orgasm "My good girl—my perfect girl—"

You come hard, crying out her name as your body convulses against the wall. 

Natasha doesn't stop, fucking you through every wave of your orgasm until you're a shaking, sobbing mess in her arms. Your knees give out, but she's there immediately, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you up.

"I got you—" she whispers against your ear, slowing her thrusts to deep, rolling movements. "I've got you, baby—"

You slump against her, completely spent and trembling. But Natasha isn't done, not even close.

Despite your exhausted state, she keeps moving inside you, her strokes slow and deep now as she chases her own release.

"Can't stop—" she confesses breathlessly, her hips rolling steadily. "You feel too good—you came so pretty—" 

Her hand moves from your throat to rub slow circles on your clit. 

"One more—just one more with me—" she begs softly, biting your shoulder. "Please?"

The combination of her slow, deep thrusts and the gentle rubbing of your sensitive clit is almost too much to bear. 

You whimper and nod, giving her permission to keep going.

"Yes—please—" you whisper, your voice hoarse. "Just—just like that—" You push back against her slightly, encouraging her to keep moving. "Fuck—you feel so good—" 

You trail off into a series of broken moans as she continues to fuck you slowly and steadily.

Natasha helps you stumble over to the bed, her cock never leaving your body. 

She bends you over, pushing you flat onto your stomach. Her heavy body lays over yours, pinning you to the bed as she continues to move inside you. 

This position allows her to go even deeper, her entire length buried in you at a near horizontal angle.

"Fuck—" She groans, her voice strained. "Perfect—" Her hips move slowly, deliberately, each thrust making the bed creak under your combined weight.

You're pressed flat against the mattress, Natasha's weight holding you down completely. She's fucking you slowly and deeply, each thrust making you gasp. 

Your hands grab at the sheets, your legs trembling beneath you.

"So deep—" You moan. "Natasha—you're so deep—" She kisses your shoulder softly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. "You're taking me so perfectly—such a good girl for me—" Her hand slides under you to squeeze your breast possessively.

She continues to fuck you slowly, chasing her release with deep, deliberate thrusts. 

The position is incredibly intimate and intense, her body pressed completely against yours as she buries herself inside you over and over. 

Her breath is hot against your neck, her teeth occasionally grazing your skin.

"Almost there—" she pants, "I'm almost there—just hold on for me—hold still for me—"

You hold still, feeling every inch of her stretch you open again and again. Your exhausted body is still sensitive from before, and each deep thrust makes you whimper into the mattress.

Natasha's hips stutter, her breath hitching as she gets closer.

"Fuck—fuck—yes—" She buries herself as deep as possible, grinding into you when she comes with a low groan.  "Baby—" Her whole body shudders on top of you, her cock pulsing inside you as she fills you up again.

She stays buried inside you for a long moment, her body still trembling with aftershocks. Her arms wrap around you possessively, holding you down as she catches her breath. 

Slowly, she starts to move again, gentle rocking motions this time, not seeking another release but just enjoying the feeling of being connected to you.

Her body is relaxed on top of yours, her curves pressing into your back gently.

"My love—" She murmurs softly, kissing your back and shoulders tenderly. "My beautiful love—" Her hands roam over your body possessively but gently.

Your hands reach up blindly, searching for hers. When your fingers touch, you lace them together, intertwining like you were always meant to fit that way. 

Natasha's forehead presses into your shoulder blade deeply, as if she needs the contact to ground herself. 

Months of wanting you, craving you, waiting for this moment of intimacy finally release from her body. Her shoulders shake slightly, not from crying but from the sheer relief of it all.

"I thought I'd never have this..."

You squeeze her hands gently, knowing exactly what she means. All those stolen glances, the accidental touches, the flirtatious banter that neither of you could help, it all led to this moment of connection. 

She's still moving slowly inside you, but it's more about being close than seeking pleasure now. Her body is completely relaxed on top of yours, her breasts pressing into your back.

"Me neither," you whisper back, "I never thought we'd actually cross this line."

She presses a soft kiss to your shoulder blade, her hips slowing to a stop but not pulling out. 

"I was so scared of scaring you off," she admits quietly, her voice vulnerable in a way you've never heard before."Wanted you for so long—but you're worth the wait." Her fingers tighten around yours, lacing your connection tighter. "Worth everything."

You turn your head slightly to look back at her, even though you can barely see her face from this angle.

"You never could have scared me off," you tell her truthfully. "All those little touches, the way you'd look at me across the room... I wanted you too. I was just waiting for you to make the first move." 

Natasha makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, pressing her face more firmly into your shoulder. "God, I'm so in love with you."

Her words hang in the air between you, honest and raw. 

There's no way back now. 

Your heart swells at her confession, and you shift slightly beneath her to say back. 

"I love you too," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "So much it terrifies me." 

Natasha lets out a shaky breath, her whole body relaxing even more against yours. She doesn't pull out. She doesn't want to. 

You're still connected in every way possible and neither of you moves to change that.

[summer2224]

Overqualified

Wanda Maximoff (CEO) x Fem Reader

By summer2224

18+

Sexual Content 18+

Practice writing in Past tense

You walked away from the empire you helped build, burned by power, broken by the man who used you, and determined to never be vulnerable again. Now you're applying for a quiet, forgettable job beneath a woman who doesn’t forget anyone.

Wanda Maximoff isn’t supposed to interview junior hires. She’s not supposed to care. But the moment she sees you, brilliant, guarded, dangerous in your silence, she can’t look away.

4523 Words

Written January 1-6th 2024

-----------------------------------

The elevator hummed like a held breath.

Fifty floors above Manhattan, the air tasted different. Polished, cold. Even before the doors opened, you could feel the gravity shift, pressure, presence, prestige. The kind of atmosphere built not by glass and steel, but by power. Unspoken, unyielding.

You smoothed your coat down your arms as you stepped out.

Reception was minimal, brutalist. Slate gray floors, soft recessed lighting, and one long pane of smoked glass stretched behind a carved obsidian desk. The receptionist, barely twenty three, perfectly symmetrical, blank eyed, looked up, blinked once, and smiled like she’d been programmed for it.

“Name?”

Your voice was calm, low.

“Y/n Y/l/n” 

There was a flicker. Recognition. But she masked it quickly, typing something into her touchscreen before nodding toward the double doors ahead.

“She’s expecting you.”

No one asked for ID. No one offered coffee. It wasn’t that kind of place.

You walked, slow and measured, toward the office of Wanda Maximoff.

The corridors were silent.

Not empty, just hushed. Reverent. You could hear your own footsteps on the marble. Hear the faint tick of a mechanical clock embedded in the wall. The tension of this building wasn’t carved from chaos. It was colder than that. It was control. Perfect, surgical control.

And it should have unnerved you.

But it didn’t.

Not after what you’d walked away from.

The last time you’d been in an office like this, you’d been someone else, top of your class, youngest ever executive hire at a billion dollar conglomerate, media darling with a face for boardrooms and a mind that could take apart company structure like a machine. Then came him. The deal, the scandal, the betrayal.

Now?

Now, you were applying for a mid-tier project management role beneath someone who didn’t even usually conduct interviews.

But she was.

For you.

You paused at the door, black wood, untouched by fingerprints. You inhaled once, then lifted your hand and knocked.

There was a pause. Then… “Come in.”

Her voice was velvet over a blade.

You stepped inside. And there she was.

Wanda Maximoff sat behind a curved desk of black marble, high-backed in a leather chair that swallowed her frame but couldn’t dull the precision in her posture. Her head was bowed slightly, reading something in her hands, papers, not a screen. Her hair was loose today, auburn waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the light like dark wine.

She didn’t look up.

You stepped further in, and the door clicked shut behind you. Soft, final.

Still, she didn’t look up.

So you stood there. Poised. Still. Letting the silence stretch just long enough to make a lesser woman uncomfortable.

Eventually, she spoke.

“You’re early.”

Her voice was sharper now. Cool, unreadable.

“So are you,” you said softly.

That made her glance up.

And the air shifted.

For a second, it was nothing, just a glance. But then her eyes stilled on your face, and the moment stretched, pulled tight, caught on something invisible.

She was looking at you, not at your clothes or the paper in your hand, but you. Eyes like garnet glass swept over your features, sharp and still. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was analytical. Dissecting. Like you were a puzzle she didn’t remember buying, but now couldn’t stop trying to solve.

You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward.

Wanda blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, set the papers down.

“I expected someone older.”

You stepped forward, unhurried. “You’re not the first.”

She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. You sat without being told.

Her fingers tapped once against the marble. Then stilled. She studied you, her chin resting lightly on one hand, elbow bent, fingers brushing the edge of her bottom lip. A motion that felt absent-minded, but wasn’t. Nothing about her was.

“I’ve read your file.”

“I’m sure.”

“Impressive, overqualified, highly competent. Left your last role under… delicate circumstances.”

“I prefer the term ‘necessary.’”

Her mouth twitched, an almost smile.

The silence fell again. But this time, it felt heavier. Charged.

Wanda tilted her head, just a fraction, eyes narrowing as she took you in again. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t look away, until you chose to.

And when you did, you felt her watching the side of your face like a brand.

“I don’t usually conduct interviews myself,” she said.

You turned back. “I know.”

She raised one brow. “So you expected someone else?”

“I didn’t expect to be called in at all.”

She smirked, barely. “Then why apply?”

You let the pause hang. Let her feel the weight of it.

And then, “Because I wanted to be seen.”

Wanda didn’t answer. But her gaze darkened slightly.

“I had the impression,” she said slowly, “that you were trying not to be seen.”

Another flick of tension. Another hairline crack.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the skyline behind her.

“It’s hard to disappear when you’re already a headline.”

Wanda’s lips parted like she might say something. Then she didn’t.

Instead, she shifted. Crossed one leg over the other beneath the desk. Her heels made no sound on the floor, but you felt the movement anyway. Like the room had adjusted its center of gravity.

“People talk,” she murmured.

You looked back at her. “They do.”

“I heard you turned down three interviews in the last six months.”

“I did.”

“But not this one.”

Your lips curled slightly. “I suppose I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true.”

That did it.

Her fingers stopped at her lip. Her gaze sharpened, no longer casual. No longer neutral.

Wanda leaned forward, just enough.

“And what have you concluded?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “That I don’t think I’m the only one in this room who’s running from something.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then, slowly, Wanda smiled.

It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t warm.

It was interested.

She stood.

You remained seated.

Wanda stepped around the desk, heels soundless, red slacks cut like liquid along her hips, a silk blouse cinched by a gold chain at her throat. She didn’t come close. Not quite. Just far enough for your lungs to catch the scent of whatever perfume she wore, clean, dark, with some hint of vanillia and rose.

She perched lightly on the edge of her desk. Her arms crossed, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She studied you like a chessboard.

“I don’t need someone like you,” she said finally.

You tilted your head. “No?”

“I need someone loyal. Quiet. Predictable. Not someone with a scandal and a PR trail.”

Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. “Then why didn’t you end this already?”

Silence.

Then, in a voice low and deliberate:

“I don’t usually make decisions based on curiosity.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Then make an exception.”

Wanda’s eyes flared, just barely. Like a match caught too fast.

And for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. It wasn’t attraction in the way most people understand it. It was something older, darker, more elemental.

Recognition.

She saw it. You felt it.

And neither of you looked away.

The silence stretched.

Wanda rose, slow and deliberate, returning to her desk like nothing had happened. Like the room hadn’t tilted in the last five minutes. Like she wasn’t breathing slightly deeper now, and you hadn’t seen the faint twitch of her fingers as she passed by.

She sat.

Lifted the manila folder in front of her like she hadn’t read it a hundred times already.

You watched her do it. The performance of it.

As if your entire digital footprint wasn’t already mapped, dissected, and memorized. As if she hadn’t hovered over your headshot, that neatly cropped photo from your last year in the industry, dark eyes, pressed lips, an expression that said come closer if you dare.

She opened it with a practiced flick.

“Let’s begin,” she said, like the last ten minutes had been a weather report instead of a storm.

You smiled. But said nothing.

She flipped a page. Made a sound that could have been interest, or disdain.

“You graduated summa cum laude. Ivy League. Fast-tracked your MBA while launching your first startup out of a shared office in SoHo.”

“Correct.”

“You sold it for double the valuation and walked into a director level position at Argent Corp before you were thirty.”

“Also correct.”

“Three promotions in under two years.”

You nodded once.

She looked up. “Why the step down now?”

There it was. The easy pitch.

You folded your hands in your lap, legs crossed. “I told you. Peace.”

“Peace is for the dead,” she said coolly, flipping another page. “You built empires. Now you want to coordinate spreadsheets and wrangle interns?”

Your smile didn’t move.

“I don’t expect you to believe me. You’re not the trusting type.”

That slowed her.

Wanda’s eyes flicked up again, sharp as a knife dragged across glass.

“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

The moment hung between you like wire pulled taut.

“I’m not looking for pity work,” you said after a beat. “And I’m not running from ambition. Just the kind that eats people alive.”

“Interesting,” Wanda murmured, tapping the folder once with a polished nail. “Is that how you’d describe your former employer?”

And there it was.

Your mouth didn’t twitch. Your eyes didn’t move.

But the temperature in the room dropped by a degree.

Wanda noticed. She watched you like a scientist watches a cage: for the first twitch of the animal before the lunge.

You gave her nothing.

She leaned forward. “I noticed you didn’t include a letter of reference.”

You nodded once. “Correct.”

“Or an explanation for why you left.”

“I wasn’t asked.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of a page, turning it slowly, as though she wasn’t already working from memory.

“You do understand,” she said, “what people assume.”

“I do.”

“And you’re comfortable with those assumptions.”

“No,” you said simply. “But I’m not obligated to correct them.”

That made her pause.

She tilted her head slightly, and again, those fingers grazed the corner of her mouth. Like she was trying to stop herself from smiling. Or biting back something sharper.

“I like honesty,” she said, voice deceptively soft.

You met her gaze. “Do you?”

Wanda let the silence return, curling around the space like smoke.

When she spoke again, her voice was low. Careful.

“You were in a relationship with Michael Levan of AsteraTech for two years. He was your boss. Your lover. Then came the merger scandal. Insider leaks. PR damage control. You disappeared from the press for seven months.”

Each word was precise. Controlled. Lethal.

You sat perfectly still.

She was watching for a flinch. A tremble. Anything.

But your voice was like stone in silk.

“Yes,” you said. “And none of that is illegal. Or new.”

Wanda’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not interested in legality.”

“No,” you said, “you’re interested in liability.”

She said nothing.

You leaned forward slightly, voice calm.

“Would you like the real story? Or the version you can deny hearing later?”

Wanda’s pupils dilated, just a flicker. But enough.

“I’ll decide after I hear it.”

You smiled, not sweetly. “He made promises. Took credit. Kept me close while I fed him strategy and solved the problems he couldn’t. And then, when the scandal broke, he bled me out to keep himself clean.”

“And you let him?”

“I survived him.”

Her lips parted slightly. That smile again. That dangerous, interested tilt of her head.

“You don’t strike me as the victim type.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

You looked her straight in the eye.

“Rebuilding.”

Silence again. Heavy, like velvet soaked in rain.

Wanda shifted her position, just slightly. Her crossed legs uncrossed. Her shoulders straightened. She was recalibrating.

And it was the most beautiful thing you’d seen all day.

Because beneath all her elegance, all her surgical self-control, Wanda Maximoff was not just a CEO. She was predatory. Brilliant. Dangerous.

And now, she knew that you were, too.

“Let me be clear,” she said at last. “I don’t hire ghosts. I don’t take in strays. And I don’t give second chances.”

You tilted your head.

“I didn’t ask for one.”

She stared.

You stared back.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

The kind of moment that rewrites the air in a room.

She closed the folder. But didn’t look away.

When she finally spoke, it was quieter.

“You know what I think?”

“Always.”

She ignored that.

“I think you walked in here expecting to prove something.”

“I did.”

“And what was that?”

“That I still can.”

Her lips parted slightly. Not to respond. To feel it.

Wanda leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving you.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

For real this time. Not cruel. Not calculated.

But interested. Deeply, thoroughly interested.

And that was more dangerous than anything else in the room.

Wanda didn’t look away. Not when the silence stretched.

Not when your shoulders shifted slightly, like you were settling into something you hadn’t planned on revealing.

Not when your fingers finally loosened in your lap. She was watching you too closely now. Not like a CEO evaluating talent.

Like a woman standing too close to a flame.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said quietly.

You blinked once. “I did.”

“No,” Wanda replied. “You gave me the strong version. The edited one.”

Her voice lowered.

“I want the truth.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

For a moment, you considered lying.

It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. Safer.

But something about the way she was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes intent, fingers hovering near her mouth like she was holding herself back, made it feel impossible.

So you told her.

“I thought,” you said softly, “that someone had finally chosen me.”

Wanda didn’t move.

“I thought he loved me.”

Your gaze drifted toward the floor, just slightly.

“He listened. He stayed late with me. Asked my opinion. Told me I was brilliant. Told me he’d never met anyone like me.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t realize he was just… empty. And I was convenient.”

Her jaw clenched.

You noticed.

“So when things got hard—when the company started bleeding, when the pressure mounted—he came to me. Not as a partner. As a release.”

Wanda’s fingers brushed her lip.

Once. Slow.

“He took everything I gave him,” you continued. “Ideas. Time. Loyalty. My body. My faith in him.”

Your voice didn’t break. That was worse.

“And when the board started asking questions,” you said, “he handed them my name like a shield.”

Silence. Heavy.

Wanda’s eyes had darkened. Not with pity. With fury.

“I signed things I shouldn’t have,” you admitted. “Trusted things I shouldn’t have. Because I believed him.”

Her hand tightened into a fist on the desk.

“But I never stole,” you said quietly. “I never lied. I never sabotaged anyone.”

You lifted your gaze.

“I just loved the wrong person.”

Wanda inhaled slowly through her nose.

Then again. Her jaw flexed.

She dragged her thumb across her lower lip, pressing hard enough to blanch the skin. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously controlled.

“He used you.”

“Yes.”

“He destroyed your reputation.”

“Almost.”

“And you’re standing here,” she said, rising slowly from her chair, “asking me for a junior position.”

Her heels clicked once. Then stopped.

She was closer now. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.

“I’m asking you for a chance to work,” you replied. “Not to be saved.”

Wanda stopped in front of you. Too close.

You could see the flecks of gold in her eyes now. The tension in her throat when she swallowed. The way her shoulders were held too tight, like she was restraining something volatile.

“Do you know,” she said quietly, “what I do to men who exploit people under me?”

You didn’t look away.

“I imagine it’s unpleasant.”

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.

She studied your face like she was memorizing it. Every line. Every shadow. Every fracture you’d just revealed.

“You trusted him,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“And he broke that.”

“Yes.”

She reached out. Stopped. Her hand hovered near your wrist for half a second.

Then fell back to her side. That hesitation spoke louder than anything.

“I don’t tolerate weakness,” Wanda said.

“I know.”

“But I respect resilience.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

She noticed. Her eyes flicked down. Then back up.

“You didn’t come here to beg,” she continued. “You came here to rebuild yourself.”

You nodded once.

“And you’re willing to start small to do it.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze softened. Not gently. Dangerously.

“Someone like you,” she said, “should never have been made to feel disposable.”

The words were low. Intimate. They landed somewhere deep. You felt them. So did she. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The office felt smaller now. Warmer. Charged. The city beyond the glass blurred into nothing.

Wanda finally stepped back. But her eyes never left yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.

“And yet,” you replied, “here I am.”

Her lips parted. She laughed once under her breath.

“You’re going to ruin my schedule,” she murmured.

You smiled faintly.

“Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve ruined.”

Her gaze lingered. Slow. Hungry. Calculating.

And something else.

Protective.

Wanda gave you the job.

She slid the offer across the desk at the end of that long, charged hour, and you’d taken it with a steady hand and a quiet “thank you,” never once asking why the title had been elevated by two levels, or why the salary was, unmistakably, higher than what anyone else in that tier would ever see.

You didn’t question it. You just showed up the following Monday in black slacks, soft linen, and silence.

You kept your head down. You worked. And you were exceptional.

Not just “competent.” Not just “sharp.” You were brilliant.

Fluent in complexity, subtle in your leadership, capable of reorganizing internal systems in two days without stepping on egos. You navigated corporate red tape like it was second language. You wrote proposals that needed no editing. You anticipated crises before they were born.

People started whispering again.

This time, it wasn’t scandal. It was reverence.

Who is she?

Wanda didn’t touch you.

Not once. Not even when she passed behind your desk, not even when she handed you documents that could have been emailed. She never stood too close. Never let her fingers brush your wrist again.

But she watched you.

Constantly.

She learned the shape of your handwriting. The way your fingers hovered over your lips when you were deep in thought. The way you never flinched when a senior executive raised their voice, but did flinch, slightly, when she praised you too openly.

She noticed the way you wouldn’t meet her eyes when she lingered too long. The way you froze, almost imperceptibly, when her voice softened near you.

She saw your fear. And it killed her. Because it wasn’t fear of her position.

It was fear of needing her. Fear of trusting again.

Fear of the very thing building between you.

The paycheck came two weeks in.

You found it by accident, sitting at your desk, reviewing the month-end cost projections, when a cross-reference caught your eye.

It wasn’t an error.

It was your own name. Highlighted. Flagged as “non-standard compensation.”

Wanda had doubled your pay. No one had mentioned it. There was no memo. No HR bump. No raise announced.

Just a quiet override. From her.

You stared at the line item for a long time.

Then slowly turned your head.

Through the glass wall, you saw her in her office, head tilted, lips parted slightly, one finger tapping the corner of her mouth, watching you like you were a threat and a promise all at once.

By week three, the tension was unbearable.

You’d become her second shadow.

She called you in to consult on things far above your pay grade. Strategic meetings. Global calls. Pitches to investors that had nothing to do with your department.

She listened when you spoke.

Not like others did. Not just to respond.

She listened like your words meant something. Like they mattered.

And yet, when the meeting ended, she would brush past you with that same practiced calm. No words. No looks. Just breath between two bodies and the echo of everything unspoken.

One night, late, you returned a file to her office.

She was sitting on the couch in the corner, something soft and velvet gray, the lights turned low, her heels discarded on the rug beside her.

Her blouse was undone at the collar. Her jacket draped over the back of the sofa. A half-empty glass of wine sat beside her tablet.

You stood in the doorway, unsure.

She didn’t look up. She just said “Close the door.”

You did. She didn’t ask why you were there. Didn’t ask what you needed.

She just looked at you, eyes slow, tired, raw.

“I gave you too much,” she murmured. “Didn’t I?”

You blinked. “What?”

“The salary.”

You stared. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Her lips curved faintly. But her eyes said something else.

Something breaking.

“Do you hate me for it?” she asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then why won’t you let me be kind to you?” That landed like a blow.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Because how could you explain that kindness from someone like her, someone in power, someone watching you, was more dangerous than cruelty?

How could you explain that the last time someone looked at you like that, it had ended with you bleeding reputation and trust from every open seam?

She stood. Slowly.

Her bare feet padded across the rug as she stepped closer.

Not too close. Just far enough to feel the heat.

“I’m not him.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you flinch when I ask you to stay late?”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

Her voice was soft now. Breaking down, not building up.

“I can see it in your hands. In the way your shoulders go rigid. Like you’re bracing for me to touch you. Or use you.”

You dropped your gaze. Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“I’m not trying to own you.”

You didn’t respond. She stepped closer.

You looked up. And for the first time, really saw her. Not the CEO. Not the predator.

Just the woman underneath. Tired. Tempted. Terrified that she’d already crossed the line.

Her eyes were red, not from her powers. From restraint.

From how badly she wanted to keep you close… and not ruin it.

You swallowed.

“You look at me,” you whispered, “like I’m the most important thing you’ve ever seen.”

Wanda said nothing.

“You don’t even realize you do it.”

Her voice was barely there.

“I do.”

You hesitated.

Then.. “That’s what scares me.”

The air between you felt like glass, like if you breathed too hard, it would crack and pull you both under.

She looked at you like she wanted to reach out.

Not to take. To hold. But she didn’t. She just stood there, inches away, breathing the same air, her hand slowly curling at her side.

“Then tell me how to make it safe,” she said.

The words shook something in you.

Because she meant it.

Powerful. Composed. Feared.

And asking you how not to break this. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

She stepped back. Just slightly. A breath of space.

And said, “I’ll wait.” Then turned away.

Three nights later It started in silence.

It was late again, past ten. The office lights were dimmed, the city below bleeding neon and gold across the windows. You were still at your desk, half-reading a proposal, half-pacing your own thoughts.

She didn’t call. She didn’t text.

She just appeared, leaning in your office doorway like a sentence left unfinished.

Wanda.

Hair slightly undone. Lips parted like she’d already spoken your name in her head five times.

You looked up. And something in you snapped.

Because it was the same look again, the one she always gave you when she forgot to pretend. The one that said I want you, but I’ll wait. The one that never pushed.

But tonight… You couldn’t take it anymore. Neither could she.

You rose from your chair slowly. Walked toward her.

She didn’t move. Her throat flexed once.

You stopped just in front of her, lose enough that your breath touched hers.

And then, finally, you sai “I’m not scared of you.”

Wanda’s eyes darkened. “You were.”

“I was scared of needing you.”

She said nothing. Just stared. But her hands twitched. Her jaw clenched. Her restraint wavered, and that’s when you leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was starvation.

Mouths clashing, teeth grazing, lips dragging open like a dam breaking. You pushed her back into the wall, and she moaned into your mouth, low, wrecked, like she’d been holding it in for weeks.

Her hands cupped your face, your jaw, your throat, desperate to feel you, all of you, like touch would prove this wasn’t a dream.

You kissed her harder. Tugged her blouse free of her skirt. Pushed it open and bit her bottom lip when she groaned at the cold air hitting her skin.

“Fuck,” she breathed, voice breaking, fingers gripping your hips. “I—”

“You waited long enough,” you murmured against her neck.

And she broke.

She spun you around and pinned you to your desk.

Not with magic, with want.

Her hands yanked your shirt open, buttons flying, her mouth dragging down your collarbone with heat and hunger. When she bit your shoulder, you gasped, arch-backed, and she grinned against your skin.

“You taste better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

Wanda looked up. Eyes blown wide. Voice like smoke.

“Every fucking night.”

You pulled her back into you, your hands sliding under her blouse, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling over her nipples until she whimpered. It was too much, too fast, but you didn’t care. You needed to feel her fall apart.

She let you. But not for long.

Wanda dropped to her knees in front of you, dragged your slacks down with sharp fingers, and pressed her mouth between your thighs like she owned you.

You cried out, hand flying to her hair as her tongue traced a devastating, slow circle.

“Wanda—!”

“I’m not him,” she growled against you. “I’ll never be him. Say it.”

You gasped, hips grinding helplessly. “You’re not him—fuck—you’re better—you’re—”

She moaned at that. And devoured you. Tongue and lips and heat, wet and filthy and perfect, hands digging into your thighs as she pulled you deeper against her mouth. You came with a gasp, sharp and aching, her name on your lips like a prayer.

She didn’t stop.Not until you were shaking. Not until you tugged her up by the collar and kissed her like your life depended on it

You didn’t make it home. You didn’t make it to the couch. You ended up in her office chair, legs spread over her lap, blouse torn, her fingers inside you, her mouth on your throat, telling you how beautiful you looked when you broke for her.

And you told her You trust her. You need her. That she’s nothing like him. And she believed you.

Because she’d waited. And now you were hers.

Neither of you spoke for a long time once you both came back down to your senses

You didn’t need to. You just… breathed.

In the silence, she traced small circles into your hips with her thumbs.

And you let her. For the first time. “You okay?” she asked softly, eventually.

You nodded, cheek pressed to her shoulder.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered.

Her arms tightened around you slightly, and you felt her exhale, like she’d been holding something even through the kiss, the crash, the come.

“Good,” she murmured.

You sat like that for minutes. Maybe longer.

The world outside the glass walls kept spinning. But in here, time slowed.

She pulled back, just enough to see you. Her eyes were unreadable, but her hands didn’t stop moving.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You hesitated. But you told her.

“That I want to believe this is real.” Her jaw tightened again.

“I don’t lie to people I want.”

You looked up.

“Do you want me?”

Wanda leaned forward, forehead resting against yours.

“Very much.”

You closed your eyes.

Because that, more than anything else, broke you open.

She didn’t say love. She didn’t need to.

Wanting you was worse. More dangerous. Because Wanda didn’t want anyone. She devoured. She used. She conquered.

But you? She waited. She earned.

You ran your hands up her arms, soft and slow.

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quieter now.

Her hands stilled.

“Do you?”

“No.”

She tilted your chin up. Then kissed you, slowly, reverently, like she was relearning your mouth now that it was hers.

When she pulled away, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’d burn this company down before I let anyone use you again.”

You stared at her.

Something flickered behind your ribs, recognition, safety, heat.

And you believed her.

You didn’t go home that night. She took you upstairs to the penthouse suite no one else was allowed to access.

She gave you a clean shirt, helped wash your back in the shower, made you tea like she wasn’t one of the most powerful women in the country.

You fell asleep curled in her sheets, her arms around your waist, her breath warm at your neck.

And for the first time in a long time… You didn’t dream of him. You didn’t flinch.

You just slept.

And when you woke, Wanda was watching you, her eyes soft, her hand on your thigh like she’d never let go again.

[kdt124-deactivated20260711]

Hey, hope you’re good! I do have a fluffy Mel x reader request:

Reader has a daughter (her and Mel can or not in a relationship) and Mel shows up in the daughter’s dance class, and in a parent night. Then the reader realizes Melissa is the one.

I loved writing this!!! @babytakeittothehead

Dance Moms

Melissa Schemmenti does not do “unexpected.”

She does laminated schedules.

She does emergency snacks in her purse.

She does organized chaos with a side of lip gloss and Catholic guilt.

What she does not do… is walk into a tiny, glitter-infested dance studio on a Thursday night.

And yet.

You’re crouched by the mirrors, tying your daughter’s ballet shoe for the fifth time because apparently eight-year-olds lose the ability to knot things under pressure.

“Mom,” she whispers dramatically, “what if I forget the routine?”

“You won’t,” you murmur, brushing glitter off her cheek. “You’ve practiced it in the kitchen like fifty times. The dog knows it.”

You don’t see Melissa at first.

You just hear her.

“Oh my God, they’re so small,” she breathes, somewhere behind you.

You turn.

And there she is.

Not in work clothes. Not in teacher mode.

In jeans. Soft sweater. Hair loose. Holding a bouquet that is objectively too big for a third-grade dance showcase.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, because your mouth is allergic to subtlety.

Melissa shrugs like she didn’t absolutely plan this.

“You said tonight was important,” she says. “So I came.”

That’s it. That’s the line. Casual. Offhand. Like she didn’t just rearrange her entire evening.

Your daughter spins around, spots her, and gasps. “Miss Schemmenti!”

Melissa lights up like she’s been handed an award.

“Hi, sweetheart! Break a leg. Not literally. Please don’t. I can’t handle that.”

Your daughter beams. She takes the flowers like they’re made of gold.

You’re watching the interaction, something tightening in your chest in a way that’s deeply inconvenient.

Because Melissa doesn’t have to be here.

You two aren’t… official-official.

You’ve been dancing around that. Pun intended.

But she’s kneeling down to fix a stray hair, murmuring encouragement, telling your daughter she’s going to “own that stage.”

And it’s not performative.

It’s real.

⸻

Parent Night

A week later is parent night.

The studio smells like sweat, hairspray, and stress. Folding chairs. Clipboards. Moms comparing recital dresses like it’s the Met Gala.

You were prepared to go alone.

You are a competent, independent adult woman.

You can survive a parent meeting.

But when you walk in—

Melissa is already there.

She’s sitting in the front row.

Front row.

Of a dance parent meeting.

You blink. “You’re early?”

She looks up, slightly flushed. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”

You sit beside her.

The instructor starts talking about costumes, fundraising, extra rehearsals.

Without missing a beat, Melissa leans over and whispers, “I can help with bake sale stuff. I make a mean cannoli. I’ll fight anyone who underprices it.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

She’s taking notes.

Taking. Notes.

When the instructor mentions volunteer chaperones for the spring showcase, Melissa raises her hand.

Your hand doesn’t.

Her hand does.

You stare at her.

She glances at you, almost defensive. “What? I’m free that weekend.”

Something in your chest just… shifts.

Not butterflies.

Not fireworks.

Something steadier.

Something grounded.

⸻

The Realization

Later that night, your daughter is asleep in the backseat, clutching her dance bag.

Melissa is driving.

She insisted.

Streetlights flicker across her face, and she’s humming under her breath.

You watch her hands on the wheel.

You think about the flowers.

The notes.

The volunteering.

The way she looks at your kid like she matters.

“Why?” you ask quietly.

She glances over. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing all this?”

Melissa scoffs lightly, but there’s no sarcasm in it.

“Because she matters to you,” she says. “So she matters to me.”

Simple.

Uncomplicated.

No dramatic speech.

Just truth.

And it hits you.

It’s not about how she makes you laugh.

Not about the way she holds your waist when she kisses you.

Not even about how safe you feel with her.

It’s this.

She’s choosing you.

And your daughter.

Without hesitation. Without fear.

You swallow.

“I think…” you start, and your voice betrays you.

She glances at you again, softer this time. “You think what?”

You look back at the tiny human in the rearview mirror.

Then at Melissa.

“I think you’re it,” you say.

Melissa almost swerves.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re it,” you repeat. “The one.”

Silence.

Then she laughs, nervous, stunned. “You can’t just say that while I’m operating a vehicle.”

“I just did.”

She pulls into your driveway.

Puts the car in park.

Turns to you fully.

There’s no teasing now.

No deflection.

“You sure?” she asks, quieter than you’ve ever heard her.

You nod.

She leans over the console and kisses you.

Not rushed.

Not heated.

Certain.

And in the backseat, your daughter shifts but doesn’t wake.

Melissa rests her forehead against yours.

“I was hoping,” she whispers.

And for the first time in a long time, everything feels steady.

Not chaotic.

Not uncertain.

Just right.

[jacktism-deactivated20260219]

─── SWEET, DUMB & THEIRS → dana evans & emily prentiss

summary » [requested]: after thoroughly breaking you with her strap, emily leaves you on your knees to catch your breath while dana takes her turn — spreading you open, fingering your soaked pussy, and teasing you with the vibrator until you’re shaking. together, they bend you over, overstimulate your clit, and degrade you until you’re nothing but a drooling, obedient fucktoy.

warnings » sub!fem!reader, dom!emily, dom!dana, spitroast, face-fucking, fingering, pussy worship, strap-on use, creampie (implied), forced orgasm, orgasm denial, overstimulation, spanking, slapping, filthy degradation, use of vibrator, intense submission, crying, sobbing, aftercare (emotional and physical), shower scene, worship, emotional comfort

word count » 7k

masterlist 〢 ko-fi

You’re their babygirl.

Soft. Eager. Obedient. That’s what Dana calls you when you’re naked between her thighs, eyes glossy and lips swollen from being kissed too hard and too long. Her voice is low and full of pride, fingers pressed into your jaw to keep your eyes on her as she tells you how pretty you are when you take what you’re given.

That’s what Emily murmurs when you’re on your knees, her fingers stroking your hair gently just before she grips it tight and tilts your head up so you see the hunger in her eyes.

They didn’t just fuck you. They claimed you. Broke you open piece by piece, rewired the way your body responds to touch, to tone, to the sound of either of them saying your name.

You’re theirs now. And it all started in a bar.

You didn’t belong there. Not really. You were too soft for that place, too polished, trying too hard to look confident in your cropped cardigan and that tiny skirt that barely passed as modest. Lip gloss shiny, perfume a little too sweet, sipping something pink through a straw while the older men hovered nearby, circling like they could taste your inexperience. You played with the rim of your glass, feigning disinterest, but your eyes flicked to the door every few minutes like you were waiting for someone to save you.

They noticed you immediately.

Dana saw you first, leaning against the edge of the bar with her toned arms crossed over her chest, her dark scrub top tight against her frame, medical ID badge still clipped to her waistband. She’d just come off a long shift. Tired. Tense. Hungry in more ways than one.

Her blonde hair was twisted up haphazardly and her fingers were stained with ink from the forms she hated filling out. But when her eyes landed on you, something shifted in her posture. A slow, interested tilt of her head. That small, dangerous smirk she only got when she saw something, someone, she wanted.

Emily stood beside her, glass of whiskey half-finished in her hand. Dressed in her usual black. Tailored jacket, crisp shirt, pants cut sharp along long legs. Her silver-streaked hair was slicked back, neck exposed. She looked like danger in heels. Controlled. Calculated. But when Dana’s gaze lingered on you, Emily followed it with an easy, quiet curiosity.

“She’s cute,” Dana murmured, sipping her drink as her eyes slid over your legs.

Emily chuckled, eyes sharp and unreadable. “She’s soft.”

“She’s submissive.”

Emily turned fully then, observing you. Not just your body, but your tension. Your hesitation. The little tells, the way you shifted in your seat like you didn’t know what to do with your thighs, the way you looked down whenever someone made eye contact too long. You weren’t just cute. You were ripe. Ready for the right hands to pull you apart.

“She’ll melt for the right tone,” Dana added. “I can see it.”

“You want her?”

Dana’s mouth twitched. “I want to wreck her.”

Emily grinned, slow and feral. “Then let’s go introduce ourselves.”

They moved in together. Wolves in leather and steel. You didn’t stand a chance.

Dana sat on your right, the heat of her body sinking into your skin before she even touched you. Emily took the left, her hand brushing your shoulder lightly as she pretended to ask if the seat was taken, even though she was already sitting.

“You here by yourself, sweetheart?” Emily asked, her voice smooth and low, barely audible under the throb of the bass. Her eyes locked on yours with such intense stillness that you couldn’t lie.

You nodded. Small. Embarrassed.

Dana leaned in, voice rougher, playfully biting. “You shouldn’t be. Not looking like that.”

They bought your drink. And your next. They didn’t touch you too much. Just enough. Emily’s fingers brushing your knee, Dana’s hand lingering at the small of your back. Their attention was laser-focused, not performative, not forced. They looked at you like they already knew how you tasted when you came. Like they already had you marked.

You didn’t know then what they were. What they’d do to you. But you wanted to.

What you didn’t know, what they didn’t tell you until much later, was that Dana and Emily were already together long before that night. Two sharp women from two different worlds, drawn together by violence, trauma, and slow-burning hunger.

They met at a hospital two years earlier.

Emily had been brought in by ambulance, half-conscious, suit jacket soaked in blood, teeth gritted around a hissed curse as medics shouted codes and numbers over her body. A bullet lodged in her side. Deep. Close to dangerous. Close enough. Her team was panicked. Her vitals were crashing.

But Dana, calm, relentless Dana, was already gloving up, snapping orders and shoving interns aside as she cut away Emily’s clothes, barking for a crash cart, already stitching before anyone else knew what to do.

Emily faded in and out. But the one thing she remembered was Dana’s voice. Controlled, clipped. “You’re not dying on my table. Try not to be dramatic.”

Emily had smiled through the morphine haze. “You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

Dana stitched her tighter.

She stayed after her shift. Sat in the corner of Emily’s room with a black coffee and bloody gloves still shoved in her pocket, watching her sleep like she didn’t know why she couldn’t leave. Emily woke up two hours later, groggy and pale, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“You again,” she whispered.

Dana didn’t smile. Just said, “Your chart says you’ll live. Try not to fuck that up.”

Emily arched a brow, voice dry. “Stay a little longer. I like the way you look at me.”

That night didn’t end in bed. It ended in a stairwell. Dana pressed up against the wall, Emily’s hand already in her scrubs, mouths crashing like fire meeting gasoline. Neither of them gentle. Neither of them shy. It was rough. Messy. Dana came gasping into Emily’s palm, nails digging into her shoulder.

Emily didn’t even stop smiling. They didn’t ask for names. Didn’t need to. Because the next time Emily came in for a check-up, Dana dragged her into the supply closet and fucked her so hard a nurse banged on the door.

It became a thing. Then a routine. Then a relationship. They didn’t put a label on it, but they didn’t look at anyone else. Dana knew how to take. Emily knew how to submit when it mattered. They were equal in power and opposites in method. It worked.

But the first time they saw you?

They knew what they were missing.

And now? Now you’re kneeling between them, pliant and perfect, waiting for a command. Their babygirl. Their spoiled, desperate little thing. And tonight, they’re going to remind you exactly whose you are.

Your knees sink into the plush rug beside the bed, thighs slightly parted, arms behind your back because Dana told you to keep them there. You’re dressed in the soft pink lace set they picked out for you — sheer, delicate, completely impractical. The bra hugs your chest but does nothing to hide your nipples, already hard and aching. The matching panties cling to your folds, a darker patch forming at the center from how soaked you are. A bow sits at the waistband. Dana calls it your “gift wrap.” Emily just smirks when she sees you wear it.

Emily is standing in front of you, completely naked except for the thick black strap harnessed around her hips. Her thighs are tense, feet planted wide, arms crossed over her chest as she stares down at you. The base of the strap glistens with lube she spread across it earlier, slow and deliberate, watching your mouth fall open as she did it. Now she runs a hand through your hair, gripping the back of your head firmly but not yet pulling.

“Open up, baby,” Emily says softly. “You know what to do.”

Your lips part. You press your tongue out, already drooling. Dana moves behind you, kneeling with her thighs on either side of yours, her bare chest pressed lightly to your back. One of her hands slides around your throat, the other rests on your jaw, gently guiding your head forward.

“Deep breath,” Dana murmurs. “And take her like the good girl I know you are.”

You moan softly as Emily pushes the head of the strap onto your tongue. It’s smooth and warm from her skin. You wrap your lips around it and begin to suck, slow and obedient, eyes fluttering up to look at her. Emily’s breath hitches — not because she can feel it, but because she’s watching you ruin yourself for her.

Dana’s grip tightens slightly around your neck. Not choking. Just reminding. Just controlling.

“That’s it,” Dana whispers into your ear. “Look at her while you suck it. Drool down your chin. Let her see how messy you are.”

You take more, inch by inch, letting your spit coat the shaft as you work your mouth deeper. Emily groans softly, hips rolling once, her voice low.

“Such a pretty little cockslut,” she says. “You love putting on a show, don’t you?”

You moan around the silicone, eyes wet, spit already leaking from the corners of your mouth and dripping down your chin. Dana licks it off. Her tongue trails from your jaw to your ear, slow and filthy.

“She’s drooling all over you,” Dana says with a dark laugh. “Think she’s ready to be fucked yet?”

Emily smiles. “Not until she chokes on it. You can take more, can’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod as best you can. Dana guides your head forward, slowly pressing you down on the strap until the tip kisses the back of your throat. You gag slightly. Your body twitches. But you hold.

Emily strokes your cheek, voice low and proud. “Good girl. Take it. That’s it.”

Your throat tightens as the strap slides deeper. Your eyes are glassy, spit coating your lips, your chin, dripping down onto your chest in slick strings. Emily doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust. She lets you work yourself down inch by inch, watching you choke sweetly on her cock with flushed cheeks and tears streaking your face.

Dana’s hand stays firm on your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there — feeling your swallow, your tension, the exact second you start to tremble.

“She’s drooling all over it,” Dana murmurs with a satisfied hum, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear. “Making such a mess. You hear those sounds, Em? She’s fucking gagging for it.”

You whimper around the strap, gag catching in the back of your throat as Dana urges you forward again. Her other hand slips down your stomach, teasing at the hem of your soaked panties.

Emily’s voice is calm but dangerous. “Don’t stop. Not until your spit’s dripping onto the floor.”

You choke slightly, the strap hitting the back of your throat again. It hurts. It burns. It’s perfect. Your eyes flutter shut, but Dana slaps your thigh — hard — snapping you back.

“Eyes open,” she growls. “Look at her while you take it.”

You force them open, locking on Emily’s face. Her jaw is tense, her lips parted, her chest rising with slow, deep breaths. You know she can’t feel the strap the way you feel it, but that doesn’t matter. The control gets her off. Watching you kneel for her, fall apart for her, ruin your face on her cock.

Drool spills from your mouth. Your chin is slick. Your lips are stretched wide and trembling. Emily wipes a tear from your cheek with her thumb and coos softly.

“There you go. Such a good little fuckdoll for us.”

Dana slips her fingers under the waistband of your panties, pressing between your folds. You jerk forward, the movement pushing the strap even deeper. You gag again, but don’t pull back.

“God, she’s soaked,” Dana says with a grin. “She likes choking on it.”

Emily raises a brow, dragging the strap from your mouth slowly, watching the spit cling and trail between your lips and the tip. You gasp, chest heaving, drool dripping freely now. A strand hits your thigh.

Emily leans in, cupping your face, her voice almost sweet. “You want more, baby?”

You nod frantically, still catching your breath, your voice wrecked. “Yes. Please. Please, Mommy.”

Dana growls behind you. “Then open wider.”

Emily smirks. “Time to fuck that pretty little mouth.”

You barely get the chance to breathe before she’s back in your throat. Her hand twists in your hair, the other steadying on your shoulder as she rolls her hips forward and sinks the full length of the strap into your mouth again.

It’s thick, coated in your spit, and the base rubs deliciously against her clit with every slow, intentional thrust. She groans above you, deep and low, her control slipping as she watches you swallow her cock with tears clinging to your lashes and drool dripping freely down your chin.

Behind you, Dana's breath is hot against your neck, and then her hand is between your legs again. She pushes your thighs open wider, and her fingers slide through your folds — soaked, swollen, slick. Your pussy’s flushed, throbbing, lips glossy with arousal and spread open, already fluttering around nothing, begging to be filled. Dana hums in approval, her voice low and filthy.

“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. This pussy’s making a mess all over my hand.”

Her fingers glide through the mess, gathering your slick, and then two of them press in, thick and unrelenting. She pushes deep in one smooth stroke, curling them immediately, pressing against that soft, sensitive spot that makes your hips twitch forward. Your cunt clenches greedily around her knuckles, already fluttering like you're close — too close for how little time has passed.

“You’re gripping me so tight,” she growls into your ear, curling her fingers again. “This sloppy little hole was just waiting for me, wasn’t it?”

Your moan is muffled by the strap in your mouth, spit bubbling up around it, thick strings dripping down onto your chest. Emily fucks your throat harder now, the base of the strap grinding perfectly over her clit. Her jaw is tight, her brows furrowed, her voice rough with arousal.

“Keep choking on it,” she commands, rolling her hips again. “Just like that, baby. Mouth wide and full — fuck, you’re so fucking good at this.”

Dana adds a third finger, stretching your pussy wide. You cry out around the strap, thighs shaking as the pressure builds too fast. Her palm presses up against your clit now, her fingers thrusting hard and wet, obscene sounds echoing in the room as she fucks you open from behind.

“Listen to how wet she is, Em,” Dana laughs, voice thick with hunger. “She’s dripping all over my fucking hand. You hear that? That’s the sound of our sweet little fucktoy begging to come.”

Emily’s thrusts get rougher. She bites her bottom lip, the friction against her clit driving her closer with every snap of her hips. The way your throat tightens around the strap, the spit coating your chin and tits, the desperate whimpering sounds vibrating in your throat — it pushes her right to the edge.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, burying the strap in deep and holding it there. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m—”

Her body tenses, her hips twitch, and she comes with a sharp groan, riding the base of the strap against her clit until her thighs shake. Her fingers dig into your scalp, breath ragged and hot above you as she keeps your mouth full while she rides it out.

Dana doesn’t stop. Her fingers keep pumping in and out of your soaked pussy, harder now, wetter now, her palm slapping against your cunt with every thrust.

“You made her come,” Dana purrs into your ear, voice dark and breathy. “Look at you. Drooling all over, gagging on her cock, pussy squeezing me like a desperate little slut. And you still haven’t come.”

Her fingers curl again, grinding up into you cruelly, making you scream around the strap.

“You don’t come,” she growls, lips against your ear, “until we say you can.”

And you’re nodding, crying, moaning around Emily’s cock — because you’ll do anything they tell you. Anything for your Mommy. Anything for your Nurse. Anything for them.

Emily slowly pulls the strap from your mouth, dragging it from your throat with deliberate slowness. Your jaw aches, lips glossy and swollen, spit webbing between your tongue and the tip, thick and wet and obscene. You breathe heavily through your mouth, panting, drool sliding down your chin in a slow, sticky trail.

Emily’s hand comes to your cheek, thumb pressing into the mess and smearing it across your face. Her touch isn’t cruel, but it’s claiming, filthy and fond, like she’s proud of the ruin she’s made of you.

“Good little cocksleeve,” she whispers, voice a low hum of satisfaction. Her gaze doesn’t leave your face, watching your glassy, tear-rimmed eyes and parted lips. “You took that like you were made for it. Like your mouth was built to worship my cock.”

Behind you, Dana is still buried between your thighs, and she’s anything but gentle now. Her fingers are soaked with your slick, knuckles gliding in and out of your fluttering cunt in steady, unforgiving thrusts.

Her palm slaps rhythmically against your folds, loud and wet, each movement making your body jolt forward. Her hand isn’t just moving through you — she’s working you, curling her fingers just right, grinding into your walls like she owns every inch of your cunt.

“You hear that, Em?” Dana growls near your ear, her breath hot and damp against your neck. “Listen to her. That’s not just slick, that’s fucking need. She’s so wet she’s dripping down my wrist.”

She punctuates it with a harsh thrust, pressing her palm right against your clit. You cry out, high-pitched and helpless, your legs trembling, hips stuttering forward. Your pussy is flushed, stretched wide around her fingers, lips red and puffy, coated in arousal and spit where your thighs meet. You’re soaked — a mess of slick and need, your hole fluttering with every push, every rub, like your body is begging for more, for anything they’ll give you.

Emily drops to her knees in front of you, her fingers brushing against Dana’s at your core, both of them cupping you from either side. Their hands meet there, skin on skin, their fingers pressing and parting your folds together. You can feel them both — one inside you, the other stroking over your clit, tapping it lightly, watching your whole body twitch.

“Spread her,” Emily says softly, her tone sharp beneath the sweetness.

Dana obeys. She pulls you open with her free hand, two fingers hooked around your outer lips, baring you completely for Emily’s gaze. Your pussy’s glistening, dripping, twitching visibly every time air brushes over your exposed clit.

Emily leans in. Her breath fans across your cunt. “Look at this messy little thing,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers over the sensitive bud, slow and cruel. “So red. So needy. She’d let us use her for hours like this. Wouldn’t you, baby?”

You’re beyond words. Everything’s too much, the stretch of Dana’s fingers inside you, the brush of Emily’s voice against your skin, the pressure at your clit that threatens to split you open. You moan loud, desperate, trembling as you start to buck into their hands, chasing friction, chasing anything.

Dana’s mouth is at your neck now, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your sweaty skin. “You wanna come, babygirl?” she purrs. “Wanna soak my fingers like a good little whore?”

You whimper, voice cracking. “Please. Please, I need to — please.”

Emily’s hand grabs your chin, nails digging into your cheeks as she forces you to look at her. “You gonna thank us for it? Gonna cry while you come all over our hands? Say it.”

Your voice is barely there, broken and breathless. “Thank you, Mommy. Thank you. Please, please, please—”

Dana thrusts harder, her fingers pounding into your pussy now, fucking you rough and fast while her palm rubs tight circles over your clit. The pressure builds fast, the ache white-hot and all-consuming. You’re gasping, sobbing, your whole body rocking forward with each thrust as your orgasm barrels toward you.

“Come for us,” Emily growls, her mouth hovering over yours, her fingers joining Dana’s on your clit. “Right now. Be our perfect little fucktoy and make a mess.”

Dana curls her fingers deep, her thumb grinding against your clit with ruthless precision — and you shatter. Your body tenses and then convulses violently, thighs clamping around her hand, pussy spasming around her fingers.

You scream, crying her name, hips jerking, back arching as you gush all over their hands. Slick pours from you, soaking Dana’s hand, splattering the inside of your thighs and dripping down to the floor in long, messy streams.

Dana holds you through it, fingers still buried deep as your pussy pulses and clenches. “There it is,” she groans, kissing your temple as you cry into Emily’s shoulder. “There’s my good fucking girl.”

Emily kisses you hard, tongue, spit, teeth. It’s messy, possessive, her hand still between your legs, sliding through the wetness like she never wants to stop touching you.

You’re limp between them, trembling, face ruined with tears and spit, pussy aching and stretched, leaking down your legs.

But they aren’t finished.

Emily pulls back, lips brushing your cheek, her voice soft and lethal. “Now bend her over.”

Dana grins behind you, already shifting to grab your waist. “With fucking pleasure.”

Dana doesn’t waste a second. Her hands grip your waist firmly, dragging your pliant body downward, bending you at the waist until your elbows press into the mattress and your chest sinks into the sheets. Your ass is raised high, thighs parted wide for them. You’re still shaking — slick, overstimulated, the muscles in your legs trembling from the orgasm they just tore out of you. But Dana doesn’t care. If anything, it makes her hungrier. She tilts your hips up just a little more, your soaked cunt fully exposed, glistening, flushed, open and begging without needing a word.

Behind you, Emily never removes the strap. She watches your body fold forward, the glistening silicone cock twitching slightly as she shifts her weight, her breathing already heavier. Her thighs are tight, jaw clenched, the base of the harness perfectly positioned against her clit, still slick with the mess your mouth left behind. She grabs her cock at the base, smears it through your dripping folds, letting the lube and your arousal coat your slit. The head teases your entrance, nudging with slow, deliberate pressure that makes your cunt clench helplessly.

Dana is above you now, crawling onto the bed in front of you, spreading her legs until her pussy is eye-level. She’s wet, visibly pulsing, flushed pink and slick with arousal. You can smell her — sweet and sharp, hot and earthy, musky with need. She slides her fingers into your hair, gently at first, then firmer as she guides you forward until your mouth is buried between her thighs. Her voice is rough, vibrating with anticipation.

“Open wide, babygirl. Stick your tongue out and don’t stop licking until my thighs are shaking.”

The second your tongue meets her folds, Emily drives the strap into you with a deep, sharp thrust. You cry out against Dana’s pussy, your moan muffled by her heat, her clit brushing your upper lip as you part her with your tongue. The cock stretches you fast — thick, unrelenting — your cunt slick enough to take it easily, but still tight, walls fluttering around the intrusion. The stretch burns in the best way, your body arching, back taut, as Emily fills you to the hilt.

Then Dana reaches for the drawer.

You hear the soft hum before you see it. The vibrator — long, black, and powerful — clicks to life in her hand, the low buzzing cutting through the air like a threat. She brings it to your hand and curls your fingers around it.

“You know what to do,” she murmurs, her breath ghosting against your ear as you try to keep licking. “Hold it against that aching little clit of yours. Don’t pull away. Don’t stop. Keep it pressed there while Emily fucks you.”

You’re already trembling as you slide the vibrator down between your thighs, finding your swollen clit and holding the toy against it. The second it touches, your whole body spasms. The buzz is sharp, brutal, vibrating through your soaked skin and straight into your nerves. Your thighs jerk, cunt clenching hard around the strap, and your tongue falters on Dana’s clit for just a second before she grabs your hair and yanks your face back into her.

“Focus,” she snaps. “Suck my clit like a good girl, or I’ll sit on your face and smother you in it.”

You moan against her, licking desperately now — your lips slick with her arousal, your mouth full of heat and taste, your nose buried between her thighs as she rocks against your tongue. She’s soaked, throbbing, every flick of your tongue drawing out a hiss from her mouth. Her grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where she wants you.

Behind you, Emily starts to move.

She pulls out slow, then slams back in, the cock driving deep into your soaked pussy with a wet, obscene sound. Her hands clamp down on your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as she starts to build a rhythm — slow and punishing, hips grinding forward each time the base of the strap rubs directly over her clit. Her voice drops, breathless and sharp.

“Keep that vibrator on your clit, slut. I want you trembling the whole time I fuck this greedy hole.”

You try. You really do. But your hand is shaking, your grip is loose, and every time the head of the cock hits your cervix, the vibrator buzzes harder against your clit, forcing your body to twitch, your thighs to shake, your pussy to pulse around her. You’re dripping now — slick running down your inner thighs, pooling at the base of the strap, making a mess of Emily’s hips. Each thrust drives it deeper, the sound of skin against skin echoing with the wet slap of Dana’s thighs against your face.

Dana moans above you, breath ragged as you work your mouth on her. “Good fucking girl,” she growls. “Your tongue’s perfect. Filthy little thing, licking me while your cunt gets split open.”

Emily leans over your back now, her chest pressing against your spine, one hand sliding up to your throat to hold you steady. Her voice is a whisper, but deadly.

“Don’t even think about coming yet,” she hisses. “You come when I say. Keep that vibrator there and take it.”

The pressure is unbearable. Your clit is throbbing, nerves on fire, pussy clenching so hard around the strap you can feel your own slick squirting with every thrust. Your jaw aches from licking Dana, but you can’t stop. Her thighs are tight around your face now, her breath growing ragged as your tongue flicks fast and desperate over her clit.

Your vision is blurry. Your voice is gone. Your body is a mess of spit and slick and trembling overstimulation.

And they’re loving it.

Dana’s thighs start to tremble on either side of your face, her hips jerking in small, uncontrollable movements as your tongue works over her clit. You can feel her starting to lose control, the way her grip in your hair tightens, the way her breath stutters above you, the slick pouring from her cunt coating your lips, chin, and the sheets below.

“That’s it,” she gasps, voice cracking with pleasure. “Right there. Don’t you fucking stop. Don’t you dare—”

You moan into her heat, lips wrapped around her clit as you suck her through it, your tongue flicking fast, relentless, hungry. Her entire body seizes. Her thighs clamp around your head, pulling you in as she shakes, grinding her pussy against your mouth as she comes hard.

The taste of her coats your tongue, hot, thick, overwhelming and you lap it up like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. She cries out your name, low and raw, as she rocks through every wave of it, her hands tangled in your hair like she never wants to let you go.

Behind you, Emily is still fucking you deep. Her strap pistons in and out of your cunt with sharp, punishing strokes, her hips slamming against your ass with every thrust. The vibrator is still pressed to your clit, buzzing violently.

Your hand is shaking, fingers slipping, your body convulsing from the stimulation. Dana’s orgasm, the taste, the sound of her unravelling, pushes you right to the edge — and then shoves you over it.

Your vision blurs, mouth still buried between Dana’s thighs, and your pussy clenches around the strap. A sob escapes your throat. Your body locks up, then explodes, the orgasm ripping through you so suddenly it knocks the breath from your lungs. You cry out, high and broken, your thighs jerking as wetness gushes from your cunt, slick pouring down your legs as your pussy spasms uncontrollably.

You know you weren’t supposed to.

Emily knows too.

The second she hears your moan shift, that sweet, pathetic edge of release in your voice, she stops.

You barely have time to breathe before her palm slams across your ass with a loud, sharp crack.

“You fucking came without permission?” she growls, voice hard and dark now. Her hand comes down again, another spank, rough and punishing, making your body jolt forward.

Dana’s thighs slide from your face as she catches her breath, her eyes already narrowed in playful disapproval. She grabs your jaw, tilts your head up, her palm landing in a light, sharp slap across your cheek.

“Tsk,” she clicks her tongue. “We spoil you, and this is how you thank us? Coming like a needy little brat with no manners?”

You whimper, still twitching, overwhelmed. The vibrator is still buzzing in your hand, your clit red and throbbing, hypersensitive and aching. Emily grabs it from you, presses it harder against your swollen bud, and you scream.

“Oh, no,” she snarls. “You don’t get mercy. Not when you disobey.”

Her cock slams back into your dripping pussy, now even rougher, the stretch unbearable in your sensitive state. Her thrusts are brutal, punishing, hips snapping forward with a growl every time her cock drives deep into your spasming cunt. You can’t even think, can’t breathe. Your body is spent, but they don’t stop. They won’t let you off that easy.

“You don’t come until we say,” Dana hisses, her hand stroking down your face almost lovingly before landing another sharp slap to the other cheek. “And now? You’re gonna take it. Again. And again.”

Emily’s grip on your hips bruises as she fucks you harder. Your cries are incoherent now, throat raw, tongue heavy with Dana’s taste, pussy leaking down your thighs with every thrust. The vibrator buzzes mercilessly against your clit. Your cunt is a soaked mess, stretched wide and twitching, sucking the strap in with every punishing stroke.

They’re going to fuck the lesson into you.

And you’re going to thank them for it.

Your body is on fire. Every nerve is screaming. Your hands tremble beneath you, your legs barely holding you up. But Emily doesn’t slow down. The strap slams into your cunt again and again, your slick coating her thighs, dripping down the length of the cock she’s fucking into you. You’re crying now, moaning, your voice broken and high as your overstimulated body jerks beneath her. And still, the vibrator never leaves your clit.

Dana kneels in front of you, lazy and satisfied, but her eyes haven’t left your face. She watches the way you twitch, how your jaw trembles, how tears cut tracks down your cheeks. Her hand moves with slow, deliberate rhythm, dragging the vibrator over your clit in tight, cruel circles. She presses it harder, holding it in place, her voice thick with amusement.

“She’s going to break,” she says to Emily like you’re not even there, her tone casual, conversational. “Look at her. Fucking shaking like a pathetic little doll. Soaking the sheets and still trying to come like she’s earned it.”

Emily lets out a breathless laugh behind you, hips slamming forward again. The base of the strap grinds hard against her clit and she moans deep in her throat, fingers digging into your hips.

“She didn’t earn a damn thing,” Emily growls, sweat dripping from her temple. “She came without permission like a needy, greedy little hole. That’s all she is right now. A fucking hole to use.”

Dana tilts your chin up with her free hand, eyes glinting. “You hear that, baby? You’re not even a person right now. Just a warm, wet mouth and a tight little cunt for us to use. That’s all.”

You whimper, your body spasming violently under the force of the vibrator and Emily’s cock pounding into you. You’re too sensitive, too raw, but it doesn’t matter. Your pussy clenches again, soaking the strap, a fresh gush of slick spilling out of you as your clit pulses under the vibrator’s pressure. You try to pull back, to escape, but Dana grabs your hair and shoves your face back into her bare thigh.

“Take it,” she snaps. “Fucking take it. Come again for us. Make it hurt.”

Emily’s thrusts grow erratic. The pressure on her clit from the harness, the heat of your cunt squeezing her cock, the sound of you breaking beneath her — it pushes her right to the edge. She leans over you, her chest slick against your back, and buries the strap in you to the hilt, grinding it in deep, letting the base press hard into her clit as she moans through clenched teeth.

“Fucking— fuck, yes— oh my God—”

She comes hard, body locking above you, trembling as her orgasm rolls through her. She pants through it, hips twitching forward once more to grind every last wave of pleasure out against the strap, using your body like you were built for nothing else.

You’re crying now, the vibrator shaking against your clit as Dana keeps it locked in place. Your legs collapse beneath you. Emily holds you up by your hips, keeping her cock buried in your soaked cunt, pinning you in place.

Dana watches you fall apart with a smirk, shaking her head like she’s disappointed.

“She’s coming again,” she says with a mocking little laugh, holding the vibrator tighter to your pulsing clit. “Of course she is. Just can’t stop, can you, baby? Can’t help yourself. Just a useless, sloppy little thing.”

You scream through your orgasm, your body giving out completely, twitching and writhing as your cunt clenches around the strap and more slick floods down your thighs. Your clit pulses beneath the vibrator, your whole body jerking with each wave, and still, they don’t stop.

“Look at the fucking mess she’s made,” Emily mutters, slowly pulling the strap from your cunt with a wet sound. Your pussy twitches around nothing now, fluttering open, red, used, dripping. “Pathetic.”

Dana brushes hair from your face, sweat-slick strands sticking to your cheeks. Her voice is sweet now, mocking in its gentleness. “Aw. There’s our little doll. All empty. All dumb. Can’t even think anymore, can you?”

You sob.

And they smile.

Because that’s exactly what they wanted.

You’re barely coherent. Your limbs are trembling, your face sticky with Dana’s release, tears drying along your cheeks. Your cunt is raw, twitching, leaking down your thighs in thick streams of slick and spit and sweat. The vibrator finally falls from your hand, your fingers no longer able to hold it, your body slumped completely against the bed as Emily slowly pulls the strap from your overstimulated pussy.

It slips out with a wet, messy sound that makes your whole body flinch. Your inner thighs are soaked, your pussy lips red and parted, still fluttering with aftershocks as your hole clenches around nothing.

Emily exhales sharply through her nose, the air hot against your spine. Her hands are steady as she reaches down to unclip the harness, muscles shifting beneath sweat-slicked skin. She undoes the buckles slowly, deliberately, letting the tension sit in the air. The moment the harness drops to the floor with a heavy thud, you can finally exhale.

You turn your head toward Dana’s lap, eyes wide, lips trembling, throat dry. Your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper — ragged and reverent.

“Thank you,” you murmur, then again, louder, shaking. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you so much.”

Dana smiles down at you, satisfied, still flushed from her orgasm, her hand stroking your cheek as she cups your face. “Such a polite little thing when you’re wrecked. Look at you. Can’t stop thanking us. You finally remember your manners?”

You nod quickly, desperate, worshipful, your voice cracking as you continue. “I’m sorry I came. I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to. Thank you for using me. I needed it so bad. Please don’t stop. Please…”

Emily walks around to the front of the bed now, fully bare, her body tall and sharp in the soft lighting. Her skin is flushed along her chest and collarbones, thighs streaked with your slick. She looks down at you with a lazy tilt of her head, the faintest curve to her mouth.

“You’re a fucking wreck,” she says, reaching down to grab your chin between her fingers, lifting your face. “And you’re still thanking us. God, you’re perfect.”

Her thumb strokes your bottom lip, watching how it trembles under her touch. You’re completely pliant, dripping and messy, eyes glazed with obedience, mouth open for whatever they give you next. You whisper again, “Thank you,” like it’s sacred, like it’s your whole language now.

Dana leans in behind you, her fingers running between your thighs, collecting your slick and rubbing it slowly into your sore, swollen folds. Her touch is light now, slow, coaxing. She presses a kiss to your temple as you shiver.

“You did so well for us, babygirl,” she murmurs. “We’re proud of you.”

Emily kisses your forehead next, her fingers replacing Dana’s, stroking your ruined pussy gently now. “And you’re going to say thank you again when we clean you up.”

You nod. Immediately.

“Good girl.”

Your legs don’t hold when you try to move. Dana sees it instantly, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and lifting you effortlessly. Your head falls back against her shoulder, limp and hazy, your body still twitching from the overstimulation. Emily’s hand strokes your cheek, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye, wiping away a lingering tear with delicate precision.

“Come on,” she says, her voice lower now, warm and commanding in a different way. “Let us take care of you.”

Dana carries you into the bathroom, your thighs still slick, lips parted and babbling soft thank-yous as she sets you down gently on the shower bench. The bathroom lights are soft, and the air is already warming with steam by the time Emily turns on the tap. She tests the temperature with her wrist, adjusting it until it’s perfect, then pulls the glass door shut behind her.

The water is hot and steady as it begins to cascade down your back. You flinch at first, your skin so sensitive it feels electric but Dana’s behind you in seconds, her body pressing into yours, soaking with you. She cups your jaw and tilts your head back against her chest, murmuring gently into your ear.

“Breathe, babygirl. Just breathe.”

Emily kneels in front of you, her wet hands spreading over your thighs, parting them slowly. She’s quiet, focused, her eyes on your puffy, swollen pussy as she carefully starts rinsing the mess from between your legs. Her fingers are featherlight now, using a soft cloth, gentle strokes moving over your folds, cleaning every drop of slick and spit and come from your skin. She doesn't rush it. She handles you like something precious.

Your lips tremble. “I’m sorry I made such a mess…”

Emily looks up, frowns, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“That mess was ours, sweetheart,” she says. “Don’t you dare apologize for what we did to this gorgeous little pussy.”

Dana chuckles softly, one arm wrapping around your middle as she kisses the side of your neck. “You’re ours. And we love when you break for us.”

Water streams down all three of you, washing away the sweat, the tears, the heat. Emily works a gentle shampoo into your hair, her nails scratching lightly over your scalp, lathering you with care. Dana hums behind you, rocking slightly, holding you in her arms like you’ll float away if she lets go.

Once Emily rinses your hair, she leans in and kisses your forehead, her lips lingering as the water patters across her back. “How’s your color, baby?” she whispers.

You nod slowly, softly. “Green. Just… floaty.”

Dana smiles against your neck. “That’s exactly where we want you.”

They clean every inch of you. Not a spot left untouched. Your arms, your breasts, your stomach. Emily even washes behind your ears, smiling a little when you let out a sleepy noise. Dana takes care of your legs, guiding you to stand just enough so she can rinse between your thighs again. She kisses your lower back when you whimper.

“There’s my sweet girl,” she murmurs. “Taking it all. Letting us care for you. You did so fucking good tonight.”

When they finish, Emily turns the water off and grabs the fluffiest towel from the rack. Dana helps you step out of the shower, arms under your thighs and back again, lifting you like you weigh nothing. She sets you on the counter while Emily kneels to dry your legs, carefully patting down the inside of your thighs, the curve of your hips.

Wrapped in towels and held tight between them, Dana presses a kiss to your wet hair while Emily whispers against your shoulder, “You’re ours. Every inch. You did everything right.”

And in that moment, skin warm, muscles aching, heart full, you believe it.

You feel it.

You’re theirs.

Completely.

[stellasgbsn]

YOU'RE STILL DIRTY {drabble: smut}

rough g!p dom!emily, ex-con!reader, power imbalance, public setting (SUV), semi-public risk, face fucking (briefly referenced), choking (light to rough), degradation, overstimulation, creampie, possessive behavior, emotional tension, cock worship, unprotected sex, explicit language, past sexual history, prison references, light manipulation

You make it six blocks before she finds you.

You hear the door slam before you even see her. Then her voice, low and dangerous, the same voice that used to haunt your nights in the cell. “Didn’t think I’d come looking for you, huh?”

You turn, slow. Emily Prentiss. She’s the reason you went inside in the first place. Three years for grand larceny, forgery, and a weapons charge that would’ve stuck harder if she hadn’t — for some reason you still don’t understand — made something disappear from your file. You were smart, but not smart enough to outplay her. She chased you for eight months before she finally caught you in a warehouse, bloody-knuckled and smiling. You never forgot the look in her eyes the first time she pinned you to the floor and cuffed you. You’d been soaking wet.

You never stopped thinking about her. Even inside. Especially inside.

Now she’s standing there, close enough to smell her perfume, leather and smoke and heat.

“You missed your check-in,” she says coolly. “And you’re walking around this neighborhood like you’re not still on parole.”

“I’m not causing trouble,” you lie.

She sees straight through you. She always has. Your hands are in your pockets, like you’ve got nothing to hide. But you’ve got a knife tucked in your waistband and a temptation bubbling under your skin. You haven’t touched anything yet. But you wanted to. You thought about it. The thrill. The rush. You miss the burn in your blood too much to pretend you’re normal now.

Emily steps in. Her chest almost touches yours. You know that look in her eyes. That warning before the breaking point. You bait it.

“Gonna take me in again?” you ask, tilting your head. “Cuff me like old times?”

Her jaw flexes. That’s all the warning you get before she grabs your jacket and slams you back into her black SUV. The door flings open. She shoves you inside without another word.

The door shuts. The lock clicks.

She doesn’t speak. She just unzips her pants, pulls herself out, thick and already hard. Her cock hangs heavy between her thighs, veins thick, head flushed dark. You suck in a breath without meaning to. She sees it. She strokes it once, slowly, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Still dirty,” she mutters. “Still fucking filthy after all that time inside.”

You don’t deny it. You open your legs wide, jeans already halfway off, thighs bare, cunt wet. The moment her hand touches your hip, your whole body tenses. She leans forward, lines her cock up, spits on the head.

Then she pushes in.

One brutal thrust and your back arches off the seat. She doesn’t let you adjust. Doesn’t give you a second to breathe. She buries herself inside you all the way, then pulls back and fucks into you again. Harder.

“You were never gonna change,” she snarls. “Even when I pulled strings to get your sentence reduced. Even after I covered for your little side job in prison.”

Your eyes roll back. Her cock hits so deep your breath breaks. Every inch of her feels like it’s splitting you apart in the best way. Her hand finds your throat, squeezes just enough to make your head float.

“You begged me not to turn you in,” she says between thrusts. “And then you begged me to fuck you. In the safe house. On the couch. On your knees.”

You choke on a moan, mouth open, fingers digging into the seat.

She snaps her hips again, and again, slamming into you with no mercy. Her cock’s thick, soaked in how wet you are for her. You can feel her pulse inside you, heat and hunger wrapped in muscle and dominance.

“Say it,” she hisses, slapping your cheek lightly, rough with her grip on your jaw. “Say you missed it. Say you missed me.”

You sob out the words. “I missed you.”

“Say it right.”

“I missed your cock, Emily. I missed being your fucktoy.”

She growls low in her chest, then grabs your legs and folds them tight to your chest, pushing deeper. Her cock drags over that sweet spot again and again. Your whole body trembles. She leans in and bites your throat, teeth scraping hard. It stings. You love it.

“You fucking belong to me,” she growls, biting every word. “You were mine the second you let me fuck you in handcuffs.”

Your orgasm hits hard. Brutal. You shatter around her cock, wetness gushing down your thighs as your body jerks uncontrollably. You’re crying out, throat raw, nails raking her arms as she fucks you through it without slowing.

She doesn’t pull out. She grinds deep, hips stuttering.

“Take it,” she snarls. “Take all of it.”

Her cock throbs, and you feel it. Hot ropes spilling inside you, thick and deep. You moan, bliss-drunk, pussy clenching around every pulse of her cock. She bites your shoulder as she comes, her voice breaking with it.

She stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your ear. Her hand tightens on your throat.

“You ever think about slipping again,” she whispers, “I’ll fuck you in the precinct. On my desk. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

You nod. Shaking. Sweating.

You don’t want her to let go.

And she doesn’t.

Not for a long time.

[wandaverse]

meet me in the pale moonlight.

vampire countess!wanda x human painter!reader

summary: In the early 1870s, the young and renowned Y/N arrives in the bustling New York City looking for a new start. Little does she know that a creature of the night lurks in the shadows and that there’s something sinister about the woman she’s become enamoured of, the elusive Countess Maximoff.

warnings/tags: dom!wanda, fem sub!reader, smut, oral, cunniIingus, fingering, mas0chism, blood klnk, hints of humiliation and praise klnk, thigh and foot riding, age gap if you squint, wanda calls r pet, 18+ / MINORS DNI

word count: 10,284

moodboard

Clipping your bag safely back onto your belt, you bid the kind dressmaker farewell and motion to leave her Madison Avenue boutique.

Several days ago and after a rather lengthy trip aboard a steamship across the Atlantic, you finally arrived in the hustling and bustling New York City, the city of dreams in the land of opportunity.

Over the years, you have developed quite a respectable reputation as a commissioned portrait artist for the wealthy with an admired talent that both boosts their egos as well as your own wealth. After a lifetime of travelling across the European continent, you decided to migrate to the Americas in search of a new opportunity, or rather a muse to reignite your inspiration and maybe for a little fun on the side too.

The dressmaker quickly assures you that she’ll have your clothes ready by the end of the week, a welcome relief since you’re still waiting for your remaining belongings to arrive by sea.

On your way out of the boutique, you thank her one last time, not paying attention to your surroundings and distractedly bumping into another woman with a fright.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry! Are you quite alright?” the esteemed lady apologises profusely.

You swiftly regain your bearings and brush her off. “It is no problem at all. I apologise as well for not watching where I was going,” you say guiltily.

The instant you both glance up though, she seemingly forgets about the entire ordeal. You recognise immediately the starstruck look on her face that can only mean that she somehow knows who you are, that word of your talents has already travelled across the seas through migrated aristocrats and the like.

“My word! You’re Y/N Y/L/N, aren’t you?” she asks breathlessly.

With a smirk that you try your best to mask as humble, you can’t deny the pride of being so quickly recognised in this new city.

“Indeed I am, a pleasure to make your acquaintance Ms…?”

“Agatha Harkness, dear, but my friends call me Agnes. It’s lovely to meet you,” she introduces with a shake of your extended hand. “Say, I don’t believe I heard word that you were in our fine city. And I assure you, I would have if it were known. No news gets past me. If anything, I’m always the first to know.”

You bet she is, you nod overwhelmed, quietly taking in the words of someone who is clearly a gossip.

There’s an odd and rather manic intensity about her, you notice. You brush it off as the typical artificial friendliness of the elite and especially of the nouveau riche, which you suspect Agnes is.

And yet, it still feels like something is off about her, like she’s not quite herself, a peculiar strain in her smile and an emptiness behind her eyes. How odd.

“I only arrived a few days ago, is why. All my luggage hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“I see… if that’s the case, why I don’t suppose I could commission you then? Be the first American to have their very own Y/L/N painting?” she requests giddily.

Her excitement rubs off on you, no matter how eerie, and you can’t deny her. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll have my people be in contact with you to sort out the details soon.”

“My, I can’t believe my luck!” she celebrates. “Oh! You must attend my gala tonight. Please, be my guest of the evening. Let me have the honour of being the one to introduce you to our society here.”

Once again, you’re charmed by her fierce enthusiasm. “Of course, the honour shall be mine.”

Frankly, you don’t really think it’ll be any different from the circles you traversed in Europe, but who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone intriguing.

—

Later that evening, long after the sun has already set, you step out of your personal carriage at Harkness Hall, located in the newer district of the Upper East Side.

Politely being escorted through the manor, you finally arrive at the ballroom and when the grand doors open, all eyes instantly land on you as you are faced with similar expressions of recognition as Agnes’. Said woman speedily and yet somehow elegantly races up the steps, rushing to your side.

Delicately tapping a fork against the side of her champagne glass, she easily silences the commotion in the crowd below. “Might I have your attention, my friends, to introduce you to my esteemed guest of the evening, the wonderfully talented Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

As soon as she finishes, a rush of wealthy men and women alike gasp and rush to the foot of the stairs. Agnes proudly links her arm around yours, as if you were childhood friends instead of mere acquaintances, and leads you down the stairs into the pit that awaits you. For a second, and only a second, a rush of anxiety ambushes you but you mask it with some well-practiced charm.

For the next while, Agnes personally introduces you to all the socialites interested in portraits of their own, showing off the fact that she is your first client.

You quickly tire of their suffocating attention and it’s only when you peer past the crowd that you notice that one lone woman hasn’t so much as flinched at your presence, instead remaining in the shadows along the walls and gracing you with only a mere glance.

As the night rages on, you curiously observe the intriguing woman from across the ballroom. With a keen eye, you take note of her every detail. Of her deep burgundy gown so dark it almost resembles blood when illuminated in the light, of her thin black birdcage veil that covers her eyes behind the intricate lace, and committing it all to memory.

She moves with a certain refined grace you’ve only seen few nobles possess and despite primarily keeping to herself, exudes an intimidating and rather domineering aura felt throughout the hall. Only a few dare to approach her, some men who don’t know any better and a few attendants who don’t have any other choice. Every so often, she catches your gaze and you almost feel the air leave your lungs.

When the crowd eventually disperses, you pull at the link between your and Agnes’ arms and inquire about your newest interest. “Agnes, might I ask, that woman over there standing alone by the fireplace, who is she?”

“Ahh, why that would be the elusive Countess Maximoff. Our Lady Wanda hails from a distant European kingdom, or so she says. Frankly, she could be anyone from anywhere in the world considering how little we all know about her,” she briefly explains.

Countess Wanda Maximoff, you recite in your mind. A fascinating yet beautiful name for an equally as alluring woman.

“She’s a well-known and respected socialite in this city. In fact, she might even be the richest of all of us, but no one knows for sure, just as no one knows exactly what she is a Countess of,” Agnes continues, unprompted. Internally, you thank her for being so nosy.

“I must apologise, unfortunately that is really all I know about her. She was already residing in New York when I arrived from Salem many months ago,” she admits. “I do know, however, that she has no husband or family of her own. The rumours are that she had a husband once and that he either died or simply disappeared. Either way, she isn’t a typical woman of our society.”

Lost in thought, you take in her words, all serving to only interest you more and more in the stunning yet seemingly solitary woman.

“Miss Y/N,” Agnes calls, breaking you out of your intense trance as you stare at the mysterious woman. “I must tell you, Lady Maximoff is actually currently staying as a guest at Harkness Hall. For a few days now actually, and for the next while when you complete my portrait.”

Oh?

Why doesn’t that make things all the more interesting…

“Y/N, it’s best that you stay away from her. Trust me, there’s something unusual about her that one must not associate themselves with,” Agnes warns you seriously, a stark contrast from the enthusiastic and bubbly person you’ve become familiar with today.

You turn to her and look in her eyes again. For the first time today, you detect a clarity in them, a genuineness that only confuses you more.

“Agnes, may I ask, why did you accept her as a guest if you dislike her so?” you question.

“No one says no to Wanda Maximoff,” Agnes replies ominously. “Every so often, she requests to stay with one of her ‘friends’ for a short while. It turns out that this time I drew the short straw. She always has some sort of excuse, she told me that her estate is undergoing works, but I’m certain she has other properties. All I know is you don’t disobey a woman like her.”

You give some thought to Agnes’ words, to her warnings and the seeping fear that comes through. And yet, the idea of such a strange woman, defiant to the strict norms of high society, who you don’t disobey, only intrigues you more and more.

You regard the woman in red and decide in the moment that no matter what, you’re going to solve the mystery of the elusive Wanda Maximoff, even if it kills you.

Dismissing Agnes’ warnings and brushing off her arm that attempts to pull you back, you waltz across the room and beeline toward Wanda. In the corner of your eye, you spot horrified looks from the other socialites around the room, but ignore them all the same and focus only on the woman in front of you watching you approach her with an amused yet impressed eye.

And you’re glad you do because up close, the Lady Maximoff is absolutely and entirely striking, breathtaking and enchanting and every other word you would use if you were a poet instead of an artist staring at her new muse.

Her milky skin is notably pale and perfectly contrasts against her chocolate brown hair, so soft you almost want to run your hands through the layered strands. Studying her bone structure, you note that it’s incredibly sharp and accentuated by the shadows, making her resemble a sculpture carved from marble come to life. Even under the lace veil, her eyes are enchanting, a clear sage green that complements her dark maroon dress.

For the first second or two, you find yourself rather speechless, the entire English language suddenly disappearing from your vocabulary as you take in her beauty.

In the same second, you notice offhandedly that she too rakes her eyes up and down your form. Feeling a shiver run down your spine under the weight of her gaze, you hope she appreciates the sight as much as you appreciate yours.

“Hello, Y/N Y/L/N, my lady,” you manage to say and extend your hand towards her.

“I know,” she replies with a smirk, seemingly entertained by your courage (or stupidity). “You’ve been quite popular tonight, among the ladies especially. The woman of the evening I hear.”

A part of you is secretly delighted. That means she’s noticed you just as much as you’ve noticed her. The other part is dazedly captivated by the deep lilt in her accent, hinting at whichever secretive European land she originates from, a part of the mystery you seek to soon unravel.

“And whose company do I have the pleasure of being graced with, might I ask?” you tease.

In response, she simply smirks at your charming attempts and finally accepts your hand. “Countess Wanda Maximoff,” she formally introduces, “but I’m sure you already knew that too.”

Delicately, you clasp her gloved hand in yours and place an innocent kiss below the back of her silk-covered knuckles. Proudly, you earn another smile from her at the endearing impropriety of a young girl pressing a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand.

“You’re awfully bold, aren’t you?” she remarks with a cock of her head.

“Artists love beautiful things,” you smirk. “It just so happens I’ve found the most beautiful of all.”

She scrunches her nose as she cringes at your flirtatious attempt. You don’t regret your words though when you mean it so sincerely.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Y/L/N?” she asks, skipping the pretenses. “I’m sure you’ve already heard all the things they say about me.”

“I don’t care about them and what they have to say. I’d rather hear it all from you instead,” you profess.

Peering down at her wine glass, she smiles again at your attempts to charm her. This one seems a little more genuine though, a sign that your persistence (and perhaps, foolishness) is slowly piercing through her walls.

She looks back up at you and seemingly ponders your unsaid request as she pensively sips her wine. At last, she says, “Alright then, what would you like to know?”

You grin cheekily at having so easily won her favour. “Well for starters, pray tell me, which land do you come from?”

“Europe,” she answers simply.

You both know that you already knew that, both because Agnes already told you as well as the evident hints of Slavic you identify in her accent.

“Where might one find your county of ownership though, my Countess?” you attempt to press.

“I’m sure you’d like to know,” she teases with another smirk, just as mysterious and secretive as Agnes described.

You’ve spent your entire life travelling through Europe’s High Societies, from the Parisian aristocracy to Florence’s art scene, and yet you’ve never heard of or seen her before this night. And you’d certainly remember if you did, she’s not a face one forgets.

“So, we’re playing this game, are we?”

“You started it, Miss Y/L/N,” she matches your teasing tone.

You’ve noticed that she only calls you by your name formally, keeping a distance between the two of you despite having let you in more than anyone else tonight.

You’re even more aware of all the eyes on you, watching like hawks as your interaction plays out. How odd of a pair you must be, a sight to behold you’re sure. You’re keenly aware of how you’re likely equally as intriguing and alien as she is. How your existence defies the rigid social norms; a girl of your standing able to dance through high society while working to accumulate your own wealth and remaining single at a less than conventional age. You wonder if perchance, in this way, you interest her as much as she interests you.

Clearing your throat, you decide to accept that this is as much as you’ll learn about her tonight. “Agnes tells me you’re staying as a guest at Harkness Hall,” you segue instead.

Tilting her head once again, she lifts an eyebrow in curiosity. “That would be correct.”

“As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, I have been commissioned to paint a portrait for Ms Harkness.” Gently, you once again place a kiss on the back of her resting hand. “I suppose we’ll be seeing more of each other then,” you quietly bid farewell before walking away, not turning back although you know she’s following you with a curious eye.

Later throughout the night, the other cautious elites approach you one by one, all warning you to stay away from Wanda. There’s a certain look in their eyes that you can’t quite decipher yet, resembling that of Agnes’ expression if you really think about it. Something akin to fear or intimidation or something in between and like they’re trying to tell you something they can’t say with words. Their warnings only serve to further interest you in the Countess and the mystery that surrounds her though.

Returning your gaze to the woman before you depart for the evening, you find her already staring fervently at you with a smile you can only describe as devilish. Her pearly white teeth seem to sparkle under the chandelier’s light and you swear that from this side of the ballroom, you spot a glimmer of red in her eyes under the veil.

But, when you remember her beautiful green eyes, you suppose it’s simply a trick of the light.

—

The day after the next, you return to Harkness Hall for your first session with Agnes.

The moment you step foot through the doors, you instantly search for Wanda but are dismayed to fail in your pursuit, not even hearing word of her throughout the entire day. From morning to night, while you’re painting in Agnes’ drawing room or enjoying lunch with her in the garden, you never see Wanda even once.

You suppose it’s a large estate so it’s not hard to believe that your paths wouldn’t cross, but the thought does nothing to dispel the persistent pout on your face.

You honestly try your very hardest to focus on the woman posing in front of you, but the task is near impossible. You almost want to ask Agnes about Wanda, where she is and what she’s doing, but you suppose that would be highly improper. Not that you would typically care, you’d just rather not let it be known how taken you’ve become with her.

It’s only later that evening when you walk through the estate to take your leave, around the eleventh hour after the sun has already set and the hustle and bustle of Harkness Hall has come to a standstill, that your eyes once again find the Countess’ solitary form.

Bathed in the moonlight, the Lady sits by herself in the courtyard facing away from you. You’re once again struck by her beauty. In this pure light and under the night sky, her ivory skin almost glows. You briefly ponder the idea that she could be an angel descended from the heavens above.

Seemingly sensing your presence, despite how stealthily you’d hidden yourself behind the doorway, she spins around faster than you can blink and catches you.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she remarks with a drawl and that sinisterness that makes you think that more accurately, she must be a fallen angel sent to this world by the devil himself.

Matching your intense gaze, she simply says, “Come,” beckoning you to her side.

And you obey without a single objection, padding across the courtyard and placing yourself in the seat beside her obediently.

“I heard you were here painting Agnes today,” she brings up cordially.

Your eyes drop down and you notice her drinking something in her glass that oddly looks a little too dark and thick to be wine, that leaves a deep cherry stain on her lips that would otherwise be an unusual lipstick shade. You equally notice that despite her attempts at pleasant small talk, she doesn’t make any attempts to offer you a glass of whatever it is she’s drinking.

“I was,” you affirm. “I was….” hoping to see you, you trail off and keep to yourself, not wanting to seem desperate in her eyes despite how desperate for her attention you truly are.

She smiles to herself, seemingly hearing your confession all the same. She has a way of reading you without you saying a word.

“And how are you finding it so far?”

“It’s going as well as it can. Agnes is a wonderful subject,” you share, hiding the fact that the only woman you wanted to paint today was her.

A beat of silence passes, only the soft breeze of winter heard in the space you share.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait before?” you ask.

Shaking her head thoughtfully, she answers “No, never.”

“Why, might I ask? Your beauty is one I’m sure hundreds would flock to capture on canvas and stone.”

Inwardly, she smirks at your unrelenting boldness. “Yes… be that as it may, it’s not one I’m happy to share with the world for all to see,” she answers just as cryptically as everything else she’s told you thus far.

You suspect there’s a deeper and very real reason to it, but don’t question further. You’re happy to take as much as she gives you, as little as it is.

“Would you let me paint you one day?” you ask honestly.

Wistfully, she turns to glance up at the scattered stars in the clear sky, musing on your offer. “Perhaps,” she finally turns to look at you again, “if you’re a good girl.”

A fierce blush rushes to your cheeks as she gets up and caresses your chin with her gloved hand before leaning down and placing a fleeting kiss on the very cheek reddened by her teasing. As she saunters away from you, you watch her go and dazedly wonder if whatever she was drinking left its own stain on your skin.

Only when she walks past a statement mirror in the hallway are you pulled out of your trance. You can’t see her reflection, you remark.

Confused, you give it little thought before reasoning that it must be your tired eyes playing a trick on you.

—

Over the coming days, you return to Harkness Hall for your work with Agnes and continue seeking Wanda’s company.

Every time though, you only ever locate her after the sun’s gone down or alone in some secluded space like the library or tea room with the windows shut.

This time, you lose the fight and ask Agnes about her peculiar behaviour. She tells you that the Countess typically goes out at night and only returns in the early hours of the morning. Otherwise, during the day she either slumbers until the early afternoon or rests indoors.

Agnes doesn’t quite understand it either, but she’s neither questioning it nor complaining when it makes it a little easier for her to avoid the Lady. You thank her for her explanation (gossip), but it only piques your curiosity more and more, as does everything else you learn about Wanda.

Every time you do cross her path though, she always invites you to sit with her. Most of the time, she nurses a glass of the too-dark-and-too-thick wine. You never ask for a glass of your own or a taste and she never offers.

And every time, you find yourself entranced by her beauty for at least a minute or two or typically, much more. At times, you think she must be from another world, one so delicate and divine that man cannot and must not touch it lest it be corrupted. Other times you think her beauty is simply not human and must be a form of corruption of its own. But maybe that’s just the dramatic artist in you.

You’re saddened to say that after all this time though, you still don’t know much more about her, the mystery still largely unsolved. You know that she’s rich, she’s alone, and she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on, which is essentially everything you already knew from the first night you met her.

She does occasionally share some stories with you though, of her life when she was younger in the foreign Slavic land you still haven’t identified. She tells you of growing up in a castle at the top of a mountain, of being bathed in the riches of love. “I’ve lost all the family I’ve ever known,” she confesses the next evening after you share stories of your own rough upbringing.

As always, she remains cryptically vague with every word she offers you, never giving you details and always leaving you wanting more.

Sometimes, she even reveals glimpses of her other facets like her interests and apparent appreciation for the theatre. “There’s a new musical on Broadway that I believe you’d enjoy,” she remarks offhandedly. Despite your attempts to suppress it, you feel a fluttering sensation within you at the prospect of seeing the Countess outside the walls of Harkness Hall, of even courting her if she allowed.

You’d like to think that you’re the only one honoured to hear these words from her, that you’re someone special to her as she is to you.

Other times when you come upon wherever she’s hiding and she doesn’t instantly detect you, you watch her quietly from the shadows, hiding away and observing her peaceful form. You fetch your pocket pad from the bag on your waist and roughly sketch her reading, birdwatching, embroidering or simply gazing at the night sky.

Then, you return home and paint her as accurately from memory as you can, attempting to capture her beauty with oil paints and canvas.

One day, you hope you’ll have a chance to show her how she’s become your muse and how you see her unlike anyone else.

—

Almost a week has passed since you started painting Agnes and you only know because you’ve been committing every encounter with the Lady Maximoff to memory.

Over the days, you’ve become comfortable and developed a routine of sorts for yourself. Around mid-morning, you arrive at Agnes’ manor and recommence work right away. Once noon comes, you have lunch with her in her expansive garden and enjoy tea with Wanda in the mid-afternoon if you can locate her, otherwise you greet her on your departure in the evening.

For the short while, you develop a new normal, which makes it all the weirder when a sense of unease overcomes the city and its inhabitants. From your own maids and coachmen to Agnes and the other elites you come across, everyone all of a sudden seems on edge. Almost like a blanket of doom and gloom has been laid over the city.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s only Wanda who seems normal and unperturbed when you find her in her usual lounge chair in the courtyard under the moonlit sky. Once again, you obediently take the seat beside her.

Tonight, you can’t help but notice that she’s not nursing her favoured drink and if it were possible, she appears more pale than ever. You want to ask if she is well, but instead of overstepping, you decide to ask why everyone seems so off.

Pensively, she oddly smiles at your question and peer up at the sky. You follow her line of sight and see that the moon tonight is full and bright.

“Be careful, Miss Y/L/N,” is all she says as you turn to her again. There’s an unsettling look in her eye, like she knows something you don’t.

“You never know what’s hiding in the shadows, what creatures of the night lurk in the dark,” she warns ominously before turning to you and flashing a blinding smile. “One wouldn’t want something to happen to a pretty young thing like you.”

You gulp at her forbidding words and sudden predatory appearance, left only more confused and unnerved than ever. Flustered, you avert your gaze and miss the flash of crimson in her eyes.

—

The following evening, you’re half asleep in your carriage home when you abruptly realise you forgot a broken easel that you wanted to have fixed at Harkness Hall. Having requested your coachman retrieve it for you, you now patiently wait in your carriage in front of the estate.

Leaning your cheek on the window with a pout, you’re a little saddened since you didn’t see Wanda at all today, the first time it’s happened all week.

When you asked one of Agnes’ maids where the Lady was, she said she hadn’t seen Wanda all day either which meant she must’ve still been asleep since she didn’t hear her return until just before dawn. But then even on your way out a few moments ago, you still couldn’t find her in any of her usual hiding spots to your dismay. 

Staring out solemnly at the Upper East Side streets, you notice that it’s a lot quieter than usual. This district is typically much busier, even at this late hour with the wealthy enjoying their night on the town. 

However, it seems everyone is as on edge as they were the previous day. Most people have opted to stay inside with the windows shut, leaving the streets mostly empty barring a few passersby and dimly lit lamp posts. Even your coachman seemed a little less willing than usual to fulfil your request, as if he just wanted to rush the both of you home to safety. From what, you’re not too sure.

Sleepily, you lift your gaze and stare at the moon, slightly fuller and even brighter than it was the night before, having just reached the peak of its cycle. 

You admire its alluring beauty for a brief second until something in the alley across the road from your carriage catches your eye; a lone man and woman hidden in the shadows. You think they must be one of the only people who don’t fear what everyone else does to be lingering in the darkness like this. 

Intrigued, you study the pair when something strikes you. The woman throws her head back laughing and you catch a glimpse of her canines, so pearly and sharp you’re almost sure they look like fangs.

It’s only when you narrow your eyes and the woman leans forward out of the shadows into the light that you realise with a start, it’s Wanda.

—

When the sun rises and morning comes, you wake up safe in your bed but just as shaken.

With the calming of your heart, you reason that the events of the night before must have been a dream or even a hallucination of your tired mind. But you’ve been making the same excuse a lot lately and the image is etched so realistically in your memory it must be real.

In a daze, you ready yourself for the day and go to the dining room for the breakfast awaiting you. Perhaps some food in your stomach will wake you up from whatever this is, you think.

You’re distractedly munching on some berries when your handmaiden enters the room with a boiled kettle for your morning tea. It seems that the water isn’t the only thing bubbling this morning though.

“Miss! Have you heard the news?” she asks worriedly.

“I can’t say I have,” you answer, shaking your head. “What appears to have happened?”

“My, there’s been a murder! In an alley near Harkness Hall!”

Your blood instantly runs cold and you freeze like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on you.

“W-what?”

“A young man in his early 20s, foolish enough to stay out late on a full moon. They say his body was otherwise unmarked except for two puncture wounds in his neck. The sheriffs think it’s the Moonlit Killer again!” she frantically explains, every word striking your shaky bones.

“The Moonlit Killer?” you whisper to yourself in thought. “Who is that?”

“The city, no the state’s, very own serial killer, miss! No one knows who it is and they haven’t been caught yet, but for over a year now there have been murders across New York every full moon,” she tells you, the kettle completely forgotten as well as your breakfast which you know for certain you can no longer stomach with the tightening of your throat.

“The victims always match each other too, always young men taken in dark alleys and left with only two punctures in their necks.”

Like fangs…, you piece together.

It all makes sense now, why everyone was so on edge with the arrival of the full moon.

Quietly, you think back to what you witnessed last night. You’re sure it was Wanda. You would recognise her anywhere, in a crowded ballroom or even a… dark alleyway.

An image forms in your mind and you quickly race to your studio, ignoring the concerned calls of your handmaiden. You pull out a fresh canvas and your brushes and you paint and paint and paint.

You paint Wanda’s unusually pale ivory skin. You paint her red irises that you’ve seen on occasion. And lastly, you paint the sharp fangs you saw last night that lie where any other person’s canines would.

Once you’ve finished, you step back to take in your rough portrait and drop your brush in shock.

It can’t be…

You’ve only heard tales of them during your travels when instances similar to last night’s rocked the cities you visited. You’ve only seen frightening drawings of them in books that told farfetched legends of the undead.

Creatures of the night, skin as pale as the moon, pearly white fangs as sharp as blades, and most of all, eyes the colour of scarlet.

Everything suddenly makes sense now, pieces fall into place as the mystery is finally solved.

The glasses she’s always drinking of some liquid that looks too dark and thick to be wine must have been blood all this time and her main source of sustenance since you’ve never seen her eat a single crumb.

The way she oddly sleeps during the day and always shies away from sunlight, because if she didn’t she would quite literally be burned.

How you’re sure you’ve never seen her reflection in mirrors or water or windows because she doesn’t in fact have a soul to reflect.

Why no matter how much you asked around or researched about the elusive Countess, you could never obtain any information dating back earlier than over a year ago, precisely when the Moonlit Killer started taking their victims.

And how you’re certain that if you matched the homes of the other aristocrats she stayed with to the locations of the killings, it would all line up perfectly.

Countess Maximoff is… a vampire.

With the realisation, you’re filled with frightening clarity, both proudly smug at having unearthed her secret and slightly fearful at the true nature of the woman you’ve become enamoured of. Foolishly, you thought it was your eyes playing tricks or simple coincidences, but it’s too much to be.

For a second, you even think you must be going crazy to be entertaining this thought. Wanda… the beautiful, alluring, and bewitching woman… is a vampire. A monster? How could someone so enchanting be so horrific, though? So cruel…

But then you remember the old wives’ tales about sirens and succubi and creatures of sin that seduce and corrupt with their otherworldly beauty and frankly, now you’re only more sure of your discovery.

And that’s when it hits you… there’s only one way to test your theory.

—

That evening, you put your plan into motion. You haven’t much time. You figure in a few days she’ll announce her departure from Harkness Hall and return to her estate until she has to hunt for the next full moon, so why wait to confirm something you’re already so sure of.

In the dead of night, you pad through her designated wing and sneak into her bedchambers, awaiting her eventual return in the early morning. Earlier, you sent your carriage home with a feigned excuse and listened carefully to confirm that Agnes had retired for the evening.

Making yourself comfortable on Wanda’s loveseat, you patiently survey the door and await her arrival, alone in the dark room lit only by a few ruby candles and the bright moonlight.

In the Winter night, you feel the cool breeze on your exposed skin and shiver, pulling your coat tighter around you. Beneath it, you wear nothing but a lace blood red nightgown that leaves your neck bare in hopes of enticing her.

As expected, she’s absent for most of the evening, you assume too preoccupied with hunting her prey. Tonight, the moon is at the absolute peak of its cycle. Her lust for blood must be uncontrollable, but the thought only excites you more.

You almost fall asleep against your hand propped up on the armrest when finally, sometime between the second and third hour, you hear a shuffle outside the door that instantly wakes you.

Creaking, the door opens to reveal the Countess you’ve been waiting for, clad in a black hooded cloak and dark burgundy dress. Dark enough to conceal any bloodstains, you realise.

You suspect the city will awake to news of another victim at the hand of the Moonlit Killer, but that’s for whatever awaits you after the sun rises. Right now, you have your mystery standing in front of you, surprised to say the least to see you in her bedchambers and especially at this hour.

In the dimly lit room, you can barely see her if it weren’t for her skin that seemingly glows under the moonlight and the fleeting glint of red in her eyes that show themselves when she lifts off her hood and removes her cloak.

She’s as beautiful to you now as she was before you knew what kind of creature she really is. The thought leaves you as breathless as the sight of her. You think you would have fallen for her no matter who, or rather what, she is.

Fully facing your standing figure now, she smirks, knowing that there is something different about you tonight and this encounter. A sense of pride fills you at her sinister expression.

“Miss Y/L/N, what a surprise to find you here. Have you gotten lost in the middle of the night, sweet thing? Sleepwalked from the other side of the city, perchance?” she asks playfully. There’s a hint of something new in her tone, something a little demeaning. You can’t say you hate it. No… not at all.

“No, my lady. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

She simply lifts an eyebrow in response, signalling you to continue while she hangs up her cloak and only offers you part of her attention. You almost want to beg to have all of it.

“I’ve been watching you,” you admit.

“I know you have. And what have you so skillfully unearthed, Miss Y/L/N?”

With a nervous gulp, you confess, “I know your secret, what you hide from the others.” Her ears seem to perk up with interest at your admission, but she’s still unsettlingly calm about the revelation.

“I know why you sleep during the day and what you do during the night. I know why you avoid sunlight at all costs and why no one seems to know anything about you. I know what you are.”

At last, she turns to you and gives you her full and complete attention. As much as you previously desired it, you quickly find yourself wilting under the weight of her stare.

Crossing the room in three strides, she stands face-to-face before you. “Oh? And pray tell, what exactly am I?” she teases and finally unveils the true scarlet hue of her eyes with a tilt of her head, equally as stunning as the green if not more bewitching.

It leaves you in a state of vulnerable immobility like prey trapped in the clutch of its predator and you pull at the sleeves of your coat in an attempt to regain your courage. Distantly, you wonder if perhaps there’s more to her species that the myths don’t yet know about, that perhaps she wields sinister abilities to influence the mind which would explain the eerie nature of Agnes’ facade.

“You’re… you’re a…”

Intimidatingly, she stalks to you in a few weightless steps almost like a bat. Delicately pulling her satin gloves off and haphazardly tossing them to the wooden floor, she reveals her long sharp nails, claws really.

Getting closer in your space now, she takes your chin between her thumb and index finger and tilts your head up to face her, the chilled skin of a soulless body sends shivers through your bones.

Menacingly, she grins, no leers, at you and detracts her fangs, glistening in the moonlight and bared for you to see. Up close, it strikes you with an immediate fear, but also something equally as exciting that leaves a tightening sensation deep in your belly.

“Say it,” she whispers, her cool breath against your lips and sending a chill down your spine.

With a gulp, you finally bring yourself to say out loud, “You’re a vampire.”

If it were somehow possible, her grin grows even wider and more sinister and you briefly think that she might just eat you alive.

“Good girl, I knew you were a smart one the second I laid my eyes on you.” The term of praise, as proud as you are to have received it, only intensifies that feeling in your belly and for the first time this evening, you question if you’re actually capable of surviving a night with the vampire Countess.

Patting your cheek with her other hand and cocking her head amusedly, Wanda continues. “Although, you were foolish enough to have come here alone and approached me like this.”

Maybe she’s right…

“No one would know if I killed you right here and now. No one would even hear you scream before I sank my teeth in your neck.”

Or maybe, that’s exactly what you want from her.

In a heartbeat, you instantly regain all your confidence. You know her secret and you came here for a reason. It’s time to claim what you’re owed, what you came to this city searching for.

Hastily, you untie your coat and drop it to the floor, revealing your barely clothed body to her stunned eyes. A rush of excitement goes through your veins at the sight of her dilated pupils, a telling sign that she just might desire you as much as you desire her.

Placing your own hands atop the ones she still rests on your face, you confess, “I want to be yours.” She lifts her eyebrow in curiosity at your proposition. “You don’t need to feed on other people, or hunt when you’re desperate anymore… You can just feed on me.”

For the first time ever, you hear her laugh, throwing her head back with her imposing fangs on full display. A deep and maniacal sound that’s degrading and humiliating as you stand there before her exposed and yet, you decide you’d do anything to hear it again.

It takes a second or two for her to regain her composure and you think you spot tears in her eyes, only further reddening your blushing cheeks.

“You know,” she says in between huffed laughter. “I typically only drink animal blood, as I’m sure you’ve seen on occasion. It’s a lot more… convenient and certainly a lot less messy. But the real reason,” she confesses, whispering almost secretively as her ruby coloured irises stare into your blown out pupils, “is that blood from a human source is dangerously addictive. That’s why I only feed on humans on days like this when the moon’s pull is too strong. Because everyone I drink from ends up dead and somehow, I just know that if I drank yours… well I’d be addicted for eternity.”

But what if that’s exactly what you want?

Blindly reaching towards a nearby table, you grab what feels like a glass and smash it against the surface, successfully slicing your left palm and sending drops of blood rolling down your skin.

In the same heartbeat, Wanda instantly freezes, her enhanced sense of smell immediately picking up the intoxicating scent of your blood. Tightly closing her eyes and letting go of her hold on you, she takes two steps back from you, seemingly struggling to restrain herself.

Fearlessly, you take two steps towards her, crowding her space just as she crowded yours.

“Let go,” you tempt, lifting your bleeding hand in an attempt to flood her senses and lure her further into your trap. “Let me be yours,” you whisper teasingly into her ear.

In a second, her eyes burst open, now blazing scarlet and burning into you. Roughly, she wraps her hand around your throat and pushes you against the nearest wall, uncaring of how you wince at the strength with which she slams you.

Just as harshly, she finally kisses you, her icy lips meeting yours and moving against each other as one as she almost devours you in her eagerness. And just as eagerly, you let her, drowning in the rush of losing yourself in something so wrong that feels so right.

The cautiousness with which she treated you before has completely disappeared as she dangerously tightens her grip around your throat, claiming your lips over and over again.

In her lust-clouded haste, her sharp fangs faintly slice your bottom lip and you quickly start bleeding with a wince that’s promptly muffled by her soft lips. Her greedy tongue licks it all up and you’re blessed with her deep moans at the rich and teasing taste.

To your dismay, she pulls away and releases her grip on your throat. But when you look in her bloodshot eyes, pupils blown and glittering in the moonlight, you’re thrilled to see a complete lack of resistance, a surrender to the offer you’ve presented.

And yet, there’s a hidden question in them, if you’re really willing to cross this line with her. In the back of your mind, you wonder that perhaps you're the first person who’s ever shared this secret of hers, who's ever willingly given themselves to her.

You hope to be the only.

Without saying a word, you simply crane your awaiting neck towards her, offering the expanse of it to her on a golden platter.

“I’m yours,” you whisper into the night for only her to hear.

In the blink of an eye, she becomes a predator before you. Still trapped between her body and the wall, you watch in equal amounts of fear and lust as she bares her fangs and sinks them into your naked neck.

You scream in pain and tightly scrunch a hand in her hair until, almost like you're hearing yourself outside of your body, you realise that your screams have become moans, the pain in your neck abruptly replaced by pleasure racing through your bloodstream.

“Mine,” you hear her snarl in between your moans and you only barely manage to yell, “Yours”, back.

Wanda is equally disarmed as she buries her face in your neck. She drinks and drinks and drinks, and as predicted, loses herself in you. It’s a criminal understatement to say that your blood is the best she’s ever tasted in her centuries-long life and endless list of victims. It’s rich and thick and if you hadn’t already offered to become her pet for eternity, she would have stolen you away anyway.

She revels even more in the sounds of your very evident pleasure, which when mixed with her instant addiction to your taste leaves a tight sensation in her core.

As she continues feasting on you, she slots a knee between your open legs and tightly grips your waist in her hands, harshly thrusting you down on her leg and surely leaving bruises in her wake. Eagerly, you grind against her firm thigh, head lolling back and hitting the wall with a resounding thud.

Somehow, your unabashed moans get even louder as you feel your blood starting to drip across your chest. Distantly, you consider that maybe you should quieten yourself lest someone hear of your tryst, but that thought swiftly disappears when Wanda presses her knee against your core while pushing you down to grind against it and deepening her fangs in your neck.

She’s everywhere. Pressed against you, piercing you with her teeth, becoming one with you. Suddenly, the overwhelming sensations become too much and you come undone in her arms, climaxing unexpectedly from the equally consuming mix of pleasure and pain.

In a lust- and blood-drunk daze, Wanda takes little notice of your state and attempts to keep drinking every ounce of the red liquid left in your body. She feels you start to loosen your hold on her hair and slacken against her thigh though, so she reluctantly stops lest she loses her pet as quickly as she got her.

Regrettably, she pulls away from you but you’re glad she keeps her knee between your legs because you immediately slump against her from an exhaustive combination of the severe blood loss and intense climax.

Surprisingly tenderly, she captures you in her arms and holds you up against her and the wall. You take a second to regain your breath as your heart races to pump more blood through your veins.

“That was…” you trail off, dazed and half struggling to hold on to consciousness.

“Delicious,” she finishes for you.

You eventually manage to open your eyes and watch her sadly remove a hand from your waist to wipe your blood from her mouth with the pad of her thumb, serving to only spread it across her face even more.

The sight is more arousing than it should be and as you stare at her, you discover that with her porcelain moonlit skin, scarlet coloured eyes, snow white fangs, and mouth covered in your dark blood, she’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

In the haze of the afterglow, your gaze lowers to her bloody lips and you briefly wonder how you taste. Somehow reading your thoughts as she always does, she places a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips and you’re equally surprised by the taste of your blood on her lips. It’s different from what you expected, not as jarringly metallic as when you bite the inside of your cheek but rather smooth and rich like a well-aged wine.

As you deepen the kiss searching for more, she returns the eagerness by tracing the surface of your lips with her tongue, easily parting them and entering your mouth. Distracting you with the feel of your tongues swirling against each other, she sneakily reaches behind your back and unties the fragile bow tying your nightgown together.

Pulling away, she lets the sheer fabric fall in a heap to the floor and leaves you chasing her lips like a lovesick fool. You feel even more foolish when you look up and find her staring intensely at your entirely exposed body while she remains fully clothed, almost moving to wrap your arms around your bare chest in an attempt to hide yourself from her scrutiny.

Just as quickly though, she captures your wrists and traps them beside you against the wall. “Don’t hide from me. You’re mine now, pet,” she whispers in her criminally deep voice.

Not to mention her apparent assignment of a new title for you, a stark contrast from the formal way with which she has been regarding you until now. A fierce blush rises to your cheeks at her choice and when combined with the sound of her voice, you think you could come from the short sentence alone.

Softly and slowly with all the time in the world, or at least the few hours left before the sun awakes, she places delicate kisses across your shaking body. Her icy cold touch cools every inch of your burning skin that it contacts, along the curve of your jawline up to the space below your ear, down your neck and especially taking care to lick your puncture wounds clean before travelling across your chest and licking up any blood that previously escaped her.

Taking your left nipple in her awaiting mouth, she latches on and sucks greedily before switching to the right. You squirm and try to free your hands wanting to touch her, but her bruising grip around your wrists unrelenting keeps you trapped. If she notices you continue to painfully twist yourself in her grasp anyway in an attempt to amass more marks as proof of her ownership of you, she doesn’t utter a single word.

A second later, she withdraws from your body and sighs against your wet skin, which when coupled with her chilled touch and the cool winter night leaves you shuddering with goosebumps.

Stepping back from you entirely now, she reaches behind herself and undoes her own dress. When it falls to the floor, so does your jaw as you shamelessly stare at the pale expanse of her skin, almost completely unblemished and illuminated by the moonlight.

You carefully place your hands on the curves of her waist, hidden beneath her burgundy corset. For a brief moment, she lets you admire her body like an artist admires their muse before she gets impatient and turns around in your arms.

Pulling her hair to her front, she demands, “Won’t you lend me a hand, pet?”

Wordlessly and obediently, you unlace her corset while leaving delicate kisses behind her ear and along her neck. She buries her hand in your hair and you almost let out a moan from the way she tugs at it. Under your breath, you curse the corset for being so intricate as your shaking hands struggle against the detailed binds.

Luckily for you though, it finally becomes undone and drops to the floor with the rest of your clothes. With your hands returning to her waist again, now soft and bare, you turn her around to face you and almost collapse.

You’re not sure how it’s possible, but she continues to take your breath away. She’s more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your lifelong travels. More than any of the marble Grecian sculptures or oil paintings of Aphrodite.

Just as she did, you take your time peppering kisses over her ivory and cool skin. You gently kiss every inch from right under her jawline to the dips of her collarbones and down along her chest to the mole of her left breast, from the curve of her shoulder down to the edge of her fingers and even lightly sucking your blood off her thumb.

Delicately, you devote yourself to kissing her perfect skin marked only by a few moles littered across her body, mapping them like constellations, and licking away any of your blood that stains the porcelain surface of her chin and neck.

Here and there, when you get to a particularly sensitive spot like the space under her jawline, she writhes in your arms and lets out a breathless gasp. You continue sucking on the same spot lightly, proudly drawing pleasure out of her as she did with you, but only lightly and not harsh enough to mark her flawless skin.

Internally, you think you could spend an eternity worshipping her body if she let you. You wouldn’t mind all the pain if you had the pleasure of being hers.

As you take your time exploring her body, her thin patience finally runs out and she roughly wraps your hair around her hand, pushing you down to exactly where she needs you.

“On your knees, pet,” she demands breathlessly and you instantly obey, falling to your knees with a thud and ignoring the bruising pain, proudly collecting more evidence of your tryst.

Diligently, you continue trailing your kisses down between the centre of her chest and her taut stomach until you reach her core, which you brazenly pass in favour of nibbling her inner thigh.

Roughly yanking your hair though, Wanda makes her annoyance known. “Oh, don’t be like that now, sweetheart. I thought it was clear who’s in charge here,” she bends down and sneers in your face.

“‘Mm sorry…” you frantically nod and apologise while keeping the enticing idea of disobeying and testing her patience in the back of your mind for another time. Right now, though, you desperately want to taste her.

Lifting her leg over your shoulder, she increases your accessibility or rather traps you and pushes your head back towards her centre.

“Be a good pet now won’t you, darling?”

You don’t need to be told twice, swiftly diving in between her thighs. You’re pleasantly delighted to feel how wet for you she already is, probably since the moment she sank her teeth in your neck.

Burying yourself against her core, you greedily part her folds with your tongue and lap up all her juices. Immediately drunk on her taste, you moan against her and the resounding vibrations apparently stimulate her even more as she whimpers above you and tightens her grip on your hair.

As you eagerly stroke your tongue against her pussy and brush your nose against her clit, you decide that between her legs must be the best place on Earth. And if anything, you so quickly become addicted to her sweet essence just as she was with your rich blood.

Almost crazed, you both want her everywhere and to be all over her, meticulously switching between placing kitty licks between her folds and latching onto her bulb.

Losing herself in you, Wanda somehow pushes the back of your head even deeper against her and bucks against your face. “Good girl… just like that,” she murmurs.

If your mouth wasn’t so preoccupied, you would’ve begged her to pull your hair harder.

Glancing up as you devour her, you realise that she truly is a fallen angel sent from the depths of hell to corrupt you. As you stare at her lust hazed eyes and domineering form stalked over you, you find yourself getting pleasure just from her pleasure alone.

You think that whether she suffocated you between her thighs or sucked out all your blood with her fangs in your neck, you’d be honoured to die by her hand.

With her moans getting louder and her body writhing above you, you catch on to her rapidly increasing need for more and raise your right hand to rub her clit with the pads of two fingers.

Catching her off guard, you swiftly thrust the same two fingers between her folds and earn a blissed out scream. You fit perfectly inside her as she clenches around you, sending a tightening sensation to your own core.

Latching onto her clit with your mouth again while your fingers slide in and out of her, you proudly smile against her at the tightening grip on your hair.

“Faster,” she manages to demand and you once again obey, pistoning your fingers in and out of her even faster and setting a ruthless rhythm. Soon after, your fingertips locate her g-spot so you curl the ends of your two fingers, hitting the spot with every thrust.

As you watch her, you notice that her hands are preoccupied with gripping the back of your head in pleasure and her bedpost in an attempt to stay standing.

With so much of her immaculate body shamefully left unattended, you reach your sliced hand back up her still cool body and cup her breast. As you massage the supple mound, the pain of the fresh cut stings your skin but you hear yourself whimper in time with her own moans.

You’re everywhere and the stimulation of your touch starts to make Wanda go crazy. Releasing her hold on your hair, she glides it down your back and scratches the skin below your shoulders with her claws in an attempt to pull you even closer.

Shuddering against her, you wince at the pain but proudly add the scratches to your long list of scars from tonight.

With her hand on your back, she feels you pathetically grind down against nothing and decides to take pity on you, placing her foot below your core. Finally getting some much needed friction, you rub yourself against her in a frenzy and practically ride her foot.

In a daze, she peers down at you and is entranced by the sight of you on your knees for her, looking up obediently at her with doe-like eyes, your face covered in her juices and skin covered in bite marks and hickeys she placed haphazardly, all while servicing her every demand and devoting yourself to her every need.

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she climaxes. Feeling her clench around your fingers and hearing her scream, you quickly follow and come against her foot. Bewitched, you see her arch her back in satisfaction and let her ride out her high against your face.

Once she calms down, you greedily lick up all her cum and clean up her centre just as you did with your blood on her skin. When your mission is complete and she pushes you away, overstimulated by your persistent touch, you stare into her eyes as you slide the same two fingers that were just inside her mere second ago into your own mouth, sucking them clean and taking care to not leave even a single drop.

If it were possible, her already blown out pupils dilate even more as she watches the show you put on for her. Pulling you up with a strength that’s probably owed to her inhumane cells, she tugs you into a kiss once again, tasting her essence on your tongue just as you did with your blood on hers.

Fitting your waist in her hands again, she hastily throws you on her bed before straddling your hips and pressing you against the mattress. She wastes no time and leans down to reclaim your lips, carelessly letting her fangs nick your lips again.

In the corner of your sleepy eyes, you see the glowing moonlight illuminate the stars in the night sky outside, the sun still a lifetime away. For this next little while, all that matters is the cool feel of her touch against your scorched skin and the pleasure of the pain she brings.

For under the full moon, you are completely and irrevocably hers; a vampire’s pet for better or worse.