Mochi🪽

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."

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

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.”

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. 

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."

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.”

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. 

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.

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.