/ᐠ˵- ⩊ -˵マ

A beat.

She blinks once, twice.

The corner of her mouth crooks, sharp and mean.

“Then say that.” she murmurs, voice low enough to curl inside your ribs. “You wave a battle standard in my face and then scold me for reading it plainly.”

“It’s literally a mini flag.”

Sukuna raises it and watches the colors ripple.

“If this is a promise of mouth-work and devotion, it is misleadingly small.”

You choke on a laugh.

She steps closer like she hears it, like she wants to corner the sound and prize it out of you again.

One hand lands heavy at your hip, a second finds the small of your back, a third lifts your chin with a single knuckle, and the fourth keeps the little flag between forefinger and thumb, tiny stripes brushing your cheek.

“You are red,” she notes, delighted and terrible. “Do not fret. I will not eat your meat.”

“That’s… not the part I’m worried about.”

“What then?"

She leans, breath warm at your temple, mask nearly touching your makeup.

The alcohol sugar in the air sweetens the bite of her voice.

“Your little shrine-kimono? Your lie-paint? You dressed as a yōkai and invited one to stand over you.”

“It was on sale.” you blurt.

“Mm.” She drags her knuckle down the slope of your throat, the pads of the other two hands flexing on your waist like she’s tasting you through touch alone. “You tremble. Do you want me to stop?”

The music drops out for a second between songs, your yes catches in the silence.

“No.”

She hums, approving.

“Then do not say stop, and I won’t. Say slow, and I will consider it.” The wicked little smile softens something you didn’t expect. “Say mine, and I will carry you into war.”

“That seems like a lot for a house party.”

“Your tongue chooses poor banners,” she says, amused.

She slides the tiny flag behind your ear like a hairpin.

“But I will forgive it.”

Someone in a witch hat stumbles past and apologizes to your elbow. Sukuna stares them down until they evaporate into the crowd, then tilts your face back to her.

“Explain the banner again.”

“Girls who love girls,” you say, because your body can only produce basics under that gaze. “Eat them out. Date them. Hold their hands. Watch terrible reality TV. All that.”

“Eat them out…” she repeats, as if sampling the language. Her eyes lower to your mouth. “Yes. That part is clear to me now.”

“Only now?”

“I come from a century that says many things without saying them,” she says lightly. “You, little fox, just say it.”

You are absolutely, definitely too warm.

“You… wanna find somewhere less… public?”

Her nose scrunches again, the prettiest scowl you’ve ever seen.

“There is a room with coats. I observed it. Modern people place their hides there as tribute to the cold.”

“You mean the guest room.”

“Yes. That.”

She uses two hands like a wall against your back as she guides you, the third hand threading your fingers to tow you through bodies and smoke and orange string lights. The fourth still tucks that tiny flag behind your ear, the colors brush your temple every step.

It's ridiculous.

It makes you lightheaded.

The guest room smells like laundry and cheap cologne. Coats tumble over each other across the bed, a fake grave marker leans against the dresser.

Sukuna closes the door with a heel and looks at you for exactly one breath before she’s close again, pressing you to the dresser’s edge with no more force than a question.

“Tell me what you want, little fox.”

Your mouth opens, your nervous system throws confetti and static.

“Eat me out?” you whisper. “Please.”

Her laugh is a carved thing, satisfied and rough.

“Now she uses correct banners.”

She turns you with a firm palm on your hip until you’re bent over the dresser, both hands braced on cool wood. You catch your face in the mirror, upside down — a swipe of fox-red eyeshadow and cheap liner, hairpins crooked from the walk.

The tiny flag peeks over your ear like a secret.

She's eating you out from behind?

You close your eyes because you don't want to watch your own face in the mirror as she drags moans and whatnot from your open mouth.

Sukuna fills the frame behind you, tall, built like violence and savage beauty, open kimono framing the pale bands binding her chest, the white wraps over her stomach shifting as the maw beneath them flexes in its sleep.

She catches you staring and bares teeth in the mirror.

“Do not mind it,” she says, almost fond. “It is not invited. Yet.”

You snort, breathless.

“Noted.”

She kneels, and the room tilts.

All four hands settle — two anchoring your thighs wide, one splayed, one spanning your lower back, bunching the fabric of your store-bought kimono under the big, warm palm.

Her hair spills over your ass when she bends, her breath ghosts hot across you as she noses the hem of your costume aside. More cheap fabric falling in the way.

“Look at you,” she says, reverent in her own cruel way. She drags her lip along the damp seam of your panties and you jolt, breath punching out of you. “Wet already. Did the little flag do this?”

“You did,” you breathe, and the admission shivers down your spine like you cracked your own vow.

“Good.” Her fingers hook the elastic and slip it down with more care than she has shown anything all night.

The air kisses your bare cunt, her breath follows, then her tongue — hot, broad, possessive — licks a slow stripe down from your entrance to your clit.

Your knees go watery.

Her hands don’t let you move.

“Sukuna— ah~!” you gasp, and the name tastes like defiance and prayer.

“Mm.” Her answering sound vibrates into you. “Say it again.”

She eats like a queen who hasn’t asked permission in centuries.

Not frantic. Not soft. Just thorough, unhurried, merciless in precision — like she’s mapping a country she intends to keep all for herself.

She squints and her brows furrow when she takes a small break from your pussy. A thought crosses her mind and she decides that the dresser is no longer the right place for those activities — and your back find the coat covered bed as she manhandles you with ease and places you there. Your legs are still open, pussy displayed for the muscular woman towering over you, and soon enough she's on her knees again, two hands pressing the plush of your thighs to keep them spread, two hands finding the glazed folds of your pussy.

She parts you with two thumbs to expose your clit and seals her mouth over it, tongue flicking with obscene focus until your grip on her soft pink hair until your knuckles whiten.

You hear yourself, helpless sounds you never make in public, and she drinks them like victory.

“Eyes.” she orders, breath hot against you between licks. “Watch me make your little flag honest.”

You force your gaze down when you prop yourself up on your elbows and catch her stare — four hungry eyes locked on your face as her mouth works you, the bone mask ones liik like they're grinning, a pink strand of hair stuck to her lip glossed with you.

Your blush deepens.

She looks delighted at the sight of it and drags her tongue flat again, slow enough your spine arches and your breath breaks.

“Good little fox,” she praises in a purr, voice wrecked around your flesh. “Take it.”

One hand leaves your cunt to find its way under your costume and knead on your left breast, squeezing it lightly and earning a mewl from you. The touch is anchoring, delicious, strong and hot. The other two hands hold you open, steady, hers, while she sucks your clit into the heat of her mouth and hums like she’s pleased with herself.

The sound ricochets through you, the wraps over her stomach twitch with a sleepy ripple, as if the maw beneath purrs in sympathy.

“Tell me if you want slow,” she says between licks, and then proves she isn’t planning on it unless asked. Two fingers slide into you — thick, ringed in the roughness of callus — and curl.

She finds the place in one practiced stroke, watches your eyes go wide and grins like a demon who’s located a temple’s hidden hinge.

“—oh, fuck!” you gasp, body clamping down.

“Yes,” she says, too proud. “Offer it properly.”

You try. You babble.

She licks and strokes and listens to every noise you make like data, adjusting, pressing, sucking at your clit while those fingers work a rhythm that drags heat through you in bright, stacking waves.

When the first sharp crest hits, your hands grip and pull even tighter, desperate for purchase on her hair. She groans into you like you gifted her something priceless.

“Again,” she says against your clit, almost gentle. “Give me all of it.”

She wrings it out of you. You come hard enough the little flag falls from your ear to the bed, hard enough your vision speckles with silver, hard enough your knees would’ve gone if she wasn’t an unyielding shrine behind and beneath you.

She works you through it, easing her mouth only when you whimper, keeping her fingers inside until your clench turns aftershock.

“Breathe,” she reminds you, amused. “Your little chest is going to crack.”

You breathe.

You feel huge and boneless and wicked — you feel seen by something that arrived from the year 900 to humiliate you beautifully over a pile of guest coats.

When she withdraws her fingers, they leave wet heat in their wake, she presses the slick pads to your thigh, dragging shine across skin like she’s signing her name. You’re still breathless when she stands, towering you again before she simply joins you on the coat covered mattress.

Sprawling back on the messy bed, open kimono framing banded muscle, the white wraps over her belly loosening under her touch. The second smile beneath stirs — warm breath, a hush that rolls over your skin like thunder too low to hear.

“Straddle,” she orders. “Face me.”

You slowly sit up, take a deep breathe and move to swing a leg over her hips. Four hands position you like she’s sighting a bowstring, one on your knee, one on your hip, one spreading heat at the small of your back, one possessive at your throat — just weight, just claim.

The wraps shift, something below them wakes fully, a velvet pull of heat that steals language out of you and a shiver runs up your spine.

“Down,” she says. You sink. “Stay.”

Your breath stutters.

She watches every quiver with amused cruelty, four eyes bright, bone mask gleaming.

The warmth from her belly meets you and the world tilts once again that night, you brace on her shoulders and she doesn’t budge, a shrine built to outlast storms.

“Ride it, little fox.” she murmurs, voice gone low and dangerous. “My tempo. Not yours.”

The stomach maw's tongue is larger than her, hotter, covered in salive — you suppose — and is lapping like a frenzied dog at your sensitive and soaked pussy. You whine and your body shivers again and again from time to time. She watches with that grin that tells you she's enjoying every single thing she's witnessing.

The muscle stops finally, its wet thick tip presses against your entrance and you moan, jerking your head back and letting your fingernails dig crescents on her srong, inked shoulders.

"fffuck fuck fuck— hhha—h!" you whisper breathlessly when you feel it sliding inside you, stretching your entrance and filling you like a fucking tentacle.

How long is that tongue?

"Don't worry. I plan to." she coos and the hand on your throat squeezes harder, making the bloodflow lower and bringing you that delicious hazy sensation.

She sets the tempo with her hands, a slow drag, a held beat, a sudden push that rips a noise from you you’ve never heard before.

Her hands on your waist grab tighter, bruisingly so. She rolls your hips on her tongue, she moves you up and down, up and down, fucking you on ther maw's tongue and moving it so it fucks you deeper and better. It's so fucking long, big, warm and it bends in a way that your clit rubs against it when you're down and it's obscene and maddening and the best sensation you've ever felt in your life.

She catches your expression with a glance and smirks, obscene in her satisfaction.

“Look at me,” she says and you do — because you can’t not. “Count.”

“O—ne,” you manage.

“Louder.”

Her palms tighten on your thighs, dragging you through that heat again, moving to your waist and down your tights whenever she feels like, a caress that makes you want to buck your hips and lean into that touch even more.

“Two.”

“Good fox.” She’s pleased and merciless. “Again.”

You try to chase, she denies you.

You hesitate, she drags you deeper.

Every time you falter she is there, hands unyielding, body a line of command beneath you.

The wraps breathe with you, the heat at her center hums — ravenous, certain, ruthless — until your spine bows and your legs shake.

“Use your words,” she taunts, sweet as a blade. “Tell your queen what you want.”

“More,” you gasp.

“Greedy little banner-bearer.”

She laughs in your mouth when you lean down for a kiss and takes it, mean and generous at once.

When you break, panting, she cups your face and taps your cheek with her thumb.

“Hands behind you. Let me move you.”

You obey.

She takes your weight and works you through her rhythm, demanding and precise, pushing until your voice frays and your counting dissolves into sound.

You roll your eyes back into your skull as she makes you bounce on the tongue. The store bought kimono is already open, probably ruined, and two of her hands are playing with your boobs, pinching your nipples, twisting them when she feels like she needs to hear one more of your little yelps, rubbing them gently when you behave and moan her name and beg her to keep the rythm.

She's a benevolent queen with malevolent hunger.

The room narrows to heat, grip, orders, and the bright, dizzy terror of being seen exactly and still wanted more.

“Hold,” she commands, keeping you right on the edge, cruelly steady. “Breathe. Look at me. You're mine.”

The word hits like a strike.

You shatter — clean, helpless, perfect — coming apart in her hands while she keeps you there, rocking you through the breaking with a satisfied, vicious patience that feels like worship disguised as ruin.

When you sag, shaking, she doesn’t let you fall.

One hand cradles your nape, another rubs circles into your thigh, a third rewraps the white bands with practiced care while the fourth plucks the tiny flag and tucks it in her bandings.

Her mouth is flushed, glistening, smug. She kisses your cheek, then your mouth — brief, messy, sharing your taste with a pleased noise as your lips part under hers.

“You are shy and you bite,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I approve.”

“I— oh my god.” Your laugh is a little hysterical. “You cannot say that like you’re interviewing me for a job.”

“I have decided,” she says solemnly, then ruins the gravity. “I favor this banner. It is honest in the mouth.”

Heat races back to your face.

“Do not call it that in front of people.”

“In front of people,” she repeats, like a promise. “Here—”

Two arms circle your waist to lift you from the tongue that retreats into the maw again as it closes. She sits you again on the seam and the maw purrs against your pussy, making your body jolt for a single second and a dark chuckle escape from her lips. A third hand cradles your jaw, the fourth thumbs your bottom lip, slow, as if considering a second course.

“Another?” Her smile is wolfish. “I understand the custom now. It would be rude to refuse another trial.”

You look at her. At the stupid little flag in her bandages, at the sleeping curl of the maw beneath you, at the glitter in four eyes that have seen palaces burn and still choose to kneel on a coat-strewn floor for you.

“Yes,” you say, clearer this time. “Please.”

“Good fox.”

Your vision shifts when she rolls and you're beneath her now. She slides to kneel on the floor once again and holds you by the ankles to pull your body until your ass is nearly falling from the mattress' edge.

She drops her face again like a storm breaking.

This time you don’t try to hide from her eyes.

You watch. You take.

You say her name like prayer and profanity until your voice frays and your legs shake and the party outside might as well be in another century.

When you finally sag back on your hands, she rises slow, licking her fingers lazily clean while her gaze drags up your body like a promise of everything she could do next.

She tucks your underwear into your palm with surprising care, then presses a kiss to your knee, almost courtly.

“I will not eat your flesh,” she says, deadpan, like she remembers your first flustered panic and wants it written into the night that she listened. “Only your arrogance, sometimes. And your—” she tips her chin at you, pleased when your blush races to meet her. “Your pussy.”

You swat at her shoulder, she lets you land the hit and grins, feral and fond.

Outside, someone shrieks at a jump scare on the TV and then laughs. The house is still Halloween and cheap lights and plastic bones.

In here it smells like you.

Sukuna flicks a crumb of glitter off your cheek with a knuckle.

“Come. Drink water. Gloat. And later,” she adds, as if she’s scheduling a campaign, “you will show me the other customs for girls who love girls. The hand-holding. The terrible reality plays. The part where you let me fall asleep with your knee under my cheek.”

You blink. Your heart stumbles.

“You… like that?”

She scowls, like you’ve accused her of mercy.

“I like what I like,” she says, gruff. “Do not make it sentimental or I will break something to balance it.”

“Okay.”

You slide off the bed, legs a little wobbly, she steadies you with two hands and doesn’t comment.

You fix your costume, sort of.

She plucks the tiny flag from her bindings and tucks it behind your ear again like a coronation crown, satisfied.

“Flag-bearer,” she says, smug, and opens the door on the din.

You step back into the party with your cheeks still warm and your mouth tasted of her.

Her hand settles on the back of your neck in a weight that feels like claim and comfort at once.

The little lesbian flag flutters when the AC kicks on, her nose scrunches at the fake smoke machine, and when someone asks if your “girlfriend’s costume is like, an Oni?” Sukuna bares her teeth in a smile that makes the kid topple off the arm of the couch.

“Do not worry,” she says, leaning down to your ear, voice a velvet threat. “I will only eat you.”

“Still not what that means,” you whisper back, laughing into your cup.

“Mm,” she says.

Her thumb strokes absent circles at the base of your skull.

The tea had been the first thing.

You'd been carrying your mug from the kitchen to the couch, still half-asleep, when your sock caught on the edge of the rug and the mug tipped, a wave of hot tea landing across the front of your shirt. Just hot enough to sting, hot enough to soak through immediately and ruin the shirt you'd been planning to wear, which meant going back to change, which meant being late, which meant the low-grade spiral of a morning that had decided to go wrong before it properly started.

You cleaned it up. You changed. You left on time, barely.

The toe had been at the end of the shower. A stubbed little toe against the door frame—the momentary blinding pain of it, disproportionate to the injury, the kind that makes your eyes water whether you want them to or not. You stood there on one foot for a full minute saying nothing. You also realized, reaching for your shampoo, that you'd used the last of it. The good one. The one that took three different stores to find and that you'd been rationing carefully for two weeks.

You used conditioner instead. You tried very hard not to think about it.

The mirror had been next.

You weren't sure what it was, exactly. The clothes just hadn't looked right. Nothing you could name—just the feeling of looking at yourself and finding the reflection slightly wrong, slightly off from what you wanted, and standing there longer than you should have trying different combinations that all produced the same unsatisfying result. You settled on something eventually. You went about your day. But the feeling stayed. Low and persistent, a hum beneath everything else that nothing managed to drown out.

Wanda knew the moment you walked through the door.

She always knew. It wasn't only magic—it was years of knowing you, the way she read your face. She looked up from the kitchen counter and her expression shifted into something quiet and attentive, and she said come here without asking a single question. She held you in the kitchen without making it into anything. Just held you and rubbed slow circles on your back.

"Bad day," she said. Not a question.

"Stupid bad day. Just…nothing went right."

"Those are the worst ones," she said, pressing her lips to the top of your head.

It helped for a while. Wanda had made dinner—something warm and good, something she'd clearly started before you'd even gotten home, which meant she'd been planning to take care of you before you'd walked through the door—and you sat together at the table and talked about nothing important and the hum quieted somewhat. Not gone. Just quieted.

Until you got up to get the parmesan from the counter.

The plate caught on the edge of the placemat when you pushed your chair back. You didn't realize it until you were already standing, until the shift of the table sent it sliding, and you turned around just in time to watch it go. It hit the floor and broke cleanly in two and the food went with it—the dinner Wanda had made, the warm careful dinner she'd spent time and effort on—and you stood there and looked at it.

You didn't move for a moment.

Then your eyes filled.

You weren't crying about the plate. You knew you weren't crying about the plate. You were crying about the tea and the toe and the shampoo and the mirror and the plate, all of it at once, the whole accumulated weight of a day that had just kept going. Your face crumpled and the tears came and you couldn't stop them.

"Hey—" Wanda was beside you immediately. Just there, the way she was always just there. Her hands came to your face, cupping your jaw, tilting your head up gently. "Hey. Look at me, baby."

You looked at her, your vision blurry.

"It's just a plate," she said softly.

"I know." You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth. "I know it's just a plate, I just—the whole day—everything just kept—and I'm so stupid, I'm so—"

"Stop." Wanda's voice shifted. Firm, in the specific way it got firm when she meant something completely, not harsh or cold. Her thumbs moved under your eyes, catching the tears. "You do not get to say that."

"I'm just—"

"No." She tilted your face up a little more. "Look at me. You are not stupid. You had a hard day, and you are allowed to cry about it." Her eyes were steady and warm and entirely serious. "But you are not going to stand in my kitchen and say things about yourself that are not true. Do you understand me?"

You swallowed. Her eyes narrowed ever slightly.

"Do you. Understand me. Baby?"

"Yes," you said, your voice small. The fight went out of you all at once at that word, in that voice, with those eyes on your face.

"Good." Wanda pressed her lips to your forehead and held them there. "Good girl." She pulled back and looked at your face—reading you, the way she'd been reading you for years. Something moved through her expression. "What do you need right now?"

You didn't have to think for long.

"I want to stop thinking," you said. "I want you to—I want to just—" You stopped. You didn't quite have the words.

You didn't need the words. Wanda had been reading you long enough.

"Okay," she said softly. Her thumbs moved over your cheekbones one more time. "Okay, my love. Come here."

She left the plate on the floor. She took your hand and walked you down the hall, and the gentleness of it—the simple gentleness of being led by someone who knew exactly where they were going—made your eyes fill again. You blinked it back.

She sat you on the edge of the bed.

Standing in front of you, she looked at your face for a moment. Just looked, the way she did when she was deciding something. Then she reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

"You've been carrying today by yourself," she said. "You don't have to do that anymore." Her hand came to rest against your cheek, warm and still. "Mommy's got you now. Okay?"

The word settled in your chest like something coming to rest after a long time in motion.

"Okay," you said.

Wanda smiled. Small and certain. Then she leaned in and pressed her nose gently to yours—just that, just a quiet little press—and pulled back with that smile still on her face.

"Lie back for me."

You lay back on the bed and Wanda sat beside you, close enough that her warmth was there, her hand resting lightly at your hip. She didn't rush. She didn't do anything at all for a moment. She just sat with you in the quiet of the room and let the stillness settle.

"You don't have to think right now," she said softly. "That is not your job. Your job is just to feel what I tell you to feel." She looked at your face. "Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Mommy."

The words came out naturally. They always did, here—in this space, under Wanda's attention. It wasn't performed. It was just the truth of where you were and what you needed, and Wanda had always met you there without making you explain it.

"Good girl." She pressed her lips to your temple and held them there. "So good."

Her hands moved to the hem of your shirt. Gentle, asking with the slowness of it, and you lifted your arms and let her draw it over your head. Your jeans went next—she unzipped them and you lifted your hips and they went—and then your bra, unclasped with easy practiced fingers. You were lying in just your underwear and Wanda was looking at you with dark, warm eyes.

"Beautiful," she said simply. The way you stated something that went without saying.

You looked away. Old reflex—the mirror this morning, the reflection that hadn't sat right.

"Hey." Her fingers caught your chin and turned your face back, gently but without question. "I said beautiful. That means you look at me when I say it." Her thumb moved along your jaw. "Don't look away from me."

"Sorry, Mommy."

"Don't be sorry." Her thumb kept moving, slow and warm. "Just let me tell you true things." She looked at your face, your throat, the length of you. "You are so beautiful. You were beautiful this morning in that mirror even when you couldn't see it." Her hand moved to your collarbone, tracing the line of it slowly. "I see you every single day. Every day I think—" She shook her head slightly, like the thought was larger than a sentence. "You are so loved. Do you know that?"

Your eyes were filling again. Differently this time.

"Yes," you managed.

"Good." She pressed her lips to your forehead—soft, long, certain. Then she pulled back just slightly and touched her nose to yours again, just a brief and private thing.

"Good girl," she said quietly. "Now. Put your hand on your stomach for me."

When you did, she smiled.

"Good. Just rest it there." Her own hand covered yours—warm, heavy, grounding. "Feel that? Just breathe."

You felt your own stomach rise and fall under your joined hands.

"There she is," Wanda murmured. "That's it." She held your hands there for a long moment. "Now slide your hand down. Slowly. Just like I'm guiding you."

She moved your joined hands slowly—deliberately—down from your stomach, over the waistband of your underwear. Your pulse picked up.

"There you go," she said. "Good girl. You're doing so well already." Her fingers guided yours to the outside of your underwear. "Just feel that for a moment."

You could feel the warmth of yourself through the thin cotton, exhaling a slow breath.

"Good." Her thumb moved over your knuckles, a steady and unhurried rhythm. "Feel that warmth?" You nodded. "That's you. That's your body." She pressed your joined hands gently. "Touch yourself over the fabric. Just soft. Just to feel."

You moved your fingers—tentatively, following the pressure she guided you toward—and the sensation made your breath catch.

"There you go." Her voice had gone lower. "That's so good. Feel how good that is?" She pressed her lips to your temple. "Your body wants to feel good. Let it." Her hand guided yours in a slow circle. "Just like that. Keep going."

You kept going. The sensation built slowly, layering. Wanda's hand warm and present over yours.

"You're doing so well," she murmured. "I'm so proud of you." She pressed her lips to your cheekbone, then your jaw. "Look at you." Her thumb moved over your knuckles as your fingers worked. "Can you feel how warm you're getting?"

You could. The cotton was warm and damp, the sensation spreading. You made a small sound you hadn't planned on.

"I know," Wanda said warmly. "I know, baby." Her hand guided yours slightly. "Move your fingers up a little. Find where it feels best."

You moved your fingers up, finding your clit through the fabric and pressing there, your hips lifting without you deciding to move them.

"There," Wanda breathed, like she'd been waiting for exactly that. "Right there. You found it." She kept her hand guiding, the pressure of it adding to yours. "Good girl. Slow circles. Just like that."

You did. Slow circles, your fingers working through the thin cotton, Wanda's hand warm over yours, directing.

"Your body knows what it needs," she said softly. Her free hand moved up your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your ribs. "It's been trying to tell you all day. You just couldn't hear it." Her palm spread warm across your ribs. "I'm going to help you hear it."

She pressed slightly harder and your hips lifted again.

"Good girl." Her lips found your temple. "Let your hips move. Don't hold them still." Her hand guided yours in a slightly wider circle. "You're so responsive. Watching you feel good—" A pause. "It's one of my favorite things in the world. Did you know that?"

A sound came out of you that wasn't quite a word.

"Eyes closed," she said, warm. "Stay in it. Just feel."

You breathed out slowly again, your eyes slipping shut.

She guided your fingers over the wet fabric, varying the pressure with small deliberate shifts, occasionally covering your hand completely and taking over for a few strokes before returning it to you. Teaching you the pace she wanted, the weight of it. Her free hand moved over your body the whole time—your ribs, the soft underside of your breast, the curve of your hip, the skin of your inner thigh. Touching you everywhere with the same unhurried warmth, making sure you felt held even here, even in this.

"Tell me how it feels," she said softly.

"G-good," you managed. "Really good, Mommy."

"Yeah?" The word was warm. Her hand guided yours in a slightly tighter circle. "Tell me more."

"Warm," you said. Your voice came out unsteady. "It feels…tingly and—I can't—"

"You don't have to find the words." Her lips pressed to your temple. "Just feel it. I've got you."

Her hand kept guiding yours. Slow, steady, and completely present, like she had nowhere else in the world to be. She pressed a kiss to your cheek. Your jaw. The soft skin below your ear.

"Your body is so pretty," she murmured against your skin. "Every part of you. I think about it all the time—how pretty you are, how lucky I am." Her hand guided yours to press a little harder and you made a sound that surprised you. "There you are," she said, warm and pleased. "That's it."

"Lift for me," she said softly, after a while.

You lifted. Your underwear went. Cool air for one moment and then she guided your hand back and your fingers found yourself directly and the difference was immediate. You gasped.

"I know," she said. "Stay with me." Her hand guided yours. "Feel how soft you are. How warm. How wet."

She guided two of your fingers lower, sliding them through the slick that had accumulated. It felt sticky and warm under your fingertips, and it made a sound as brushed through your folds again under Wanda's guidance. She carefully pushed your fingers back down and pressed them gently inside of you for a moment, and you arched at the stretch of it—the slight burn that told her that wasn't on the table—before she guided you back up to your clit. Back to slow circles, her hand warm and certain over yours.

"Beautiful," she said. The word landed somewhere it needed to be. "You are so beautiful here. Every single part of you." Her free hand stroked slowly along your inner thigh. "I love being right here with you." A kiss pressed to the corner of your jaw. "I love watching you feel good."

She worked you slowly—her hand guiding yours, the pressure building by degrees—and the praise kept coming. Steady and specifically meant, every word of it.

"Such a good girl," she murmured. "Taking such good care of yourself for me." Her thumb moved over your knuckles. "Does that feel good?"

You hummed, something she knew to be a "yes". Your hips were rolling up to meet your fingers as you rubbed up and down on your clit now, your other hand fisted in the sheets beneath you. Wanda smiled, her free hand moving to cover that clenched hand, smoothing your fingers out so they wouldn't get sore.

"Good." A kiss to your temple. "Keep going. You're doing perfectly."

You kept going and she kept talking—low and steady, praising everything, telling you that you were beautiful and good and so loved—and the warmth built until it was the only thing you were aware of.

"You're getting close," she said, certain and correct. "I can hear it." Her thumb stilled over your knuckles, just resting there. "Let it come. Don't rush it. Just let it arrive." She pressed her lips to your forehead and held them there—long and soft. "Mommy's got you. You're safe. Let go. Cum for me."

Your thighs trembled, toes curling as you rolled your hips up again, now back to circles with your fingers. You felt that peak coming, felt the pleasure rising…rising…

The orgasm moved through you in long warm waves—your hips lifting, her hand covering yours and holding the pressure exactly where you needed it while you shook through it. She murmured to you through all of it—good girl, so good, I've got you, that's it, that's my girl—until the last wave passed and you lay still, breathing hard.

"There," she said softly. "There she is. Breathe for me, let yourself calm down."

Her hand moved from yours to your stomach, just resting there to feel your heart start to fade back to a normal rhythm. Her lips pressed gently to your temple.

"You did so well," she murmured. "I'm so proud of you, my love." A warm pause. "How do you feel, hm?"

"Good," you said, soft and dazed. "Really good."

"Good." She pressed a kiss to your cheekbone. Then she leaned in and touched her nose to yours like she did before, just briefly, and pulled back with that small warm smile. "Would you like more?"

One second. That was all the thought it took.

You nodded.

The smile spread slow across her face. Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to your forehead—both hands cradling your face, holding the kiss there for a full breath. Deliberately long, deliberately there because she knew you needed it.

"Good girl," she said, against your skin. "Lie still. Close your eyes." One more press of her lips to your forehead. "Let Mommy take care of you."

You closed your eyes again, sinking into the feeling of being cared for.

You felt her shift down the bed—slowly, her hands warm at your hips, your waist. Her lips pressed to your sternum. Your ribs. She moved down your stomach with care that was in no way rushed, stopping to press a kiss to your hip, the soft skin of your lower belly, the crease of your inner thigh.

"You have the most beautiful body," she said, against your skin. Her lips moved slowly higher up your inner thigh. "I mean every word of that." A kiss pressed closer. "I want you to believe it while I do this." Closer still. "Will you try?"

"Yes, Mommy." Barely a whisper.

"Good girl."

She settled between your thighs and looked at you for a moment before she did anything. Just looked, with those green eyes, her hair falling around her face.

"You are so pretty," she said. "Like this. Right here." She pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. "I want to take my time with you." She pressed another kiss to the other thigh. "Is that okay?"

You nodded, your stomach already heating up again.

"Good girl." She pressed her nose briefly to the soft skin of your inner thigh—just that, just a small warm press—and you laughed softly at the tenderness of it. Then she moved higher and she licked one slow stripe through your folds.

You were still wet, and you tasted divine. Wanda settled in with the patience of someone who had nowhere else to be and no intention of being anywhere else. Her lips pressed soft against your pussy at first—barely any pressure at all—and she held there. Let you feel the warmth of her mouth. Let you adjust to it. Then her tongue moved again, moving from your clit to your hole, dipping inside and then retreating back to your clit again.

She worked without hurrying. Her tongue traced and circled, mapping you with the careful attention of someone who had done this before and still treated it like something worth relearning. She found the specific pressure just to the left of center that made your breath stutter and she stayed there, patient and deliberate, not varying it, not pulling away. Her hands were spread warm on your inner thighs, holding you open, and she was paying complete attention to every small response your body gave her.

She pulled back just enough to speak and her lips brushed softly against you as the words came out.

"You taste so good," she said. "Just like always." She pressed a kiss directly to your clit and you arched. "And you are so beautiful. All of you." Her tongue moved again, slow. "I could do this forever." A small pause. "Would you let me?"

The sound you made meant yes. More than yes. Always yes. She made a low warm sound in response and went back to work.

She stayed with you. She just stayed, fully present, not moving on or changing the subject, just there with her mouth and her complete attention. When she found the exact right pressure and the exact right circle of her tongue, she didn't vary it or pull back to tease. She just stayed there and let it build, steady and certain, because she knew you and she knew what you needed and what you needed right now was someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Mommy—" Your voice broke in the middle of it.

"I know." Her lips moved warm against you. "I've got you. Just feel it." A kiss pressed soft against your clit. "Let Mommy."

The orgasm built in long slow waves—each one cresting a little higher, pulling back a little less—and she stayed with you through every one of them. Her hands kept their warm hold on your thighs. Her tongue kept its steady work. She murmured things against you in the spaces between and every word landed exactly it needed to be.

When it broke, it took everything with it. You sobbed through it, your hand gripping in her hair, your back lifting fully off the bed, and she held you through every wave with steady hands and didn't stop—drawing it out, patient and thorough, not stopping until the very last tremor had faded and you'd gone completely still beneath her.

Then there was quiet.

She pressed her lips to your inner thigh. Then the other one. A small kiss to each, like punctuation. Then she moved back up the bed slowly, gathering you in as she went, and you came into her arms without thinking about it because your body knew where it belonged.

She pulled you close—your head against her chest, her arm around your shoulders—and held you.

She didn't say anything. Just held you. The room was quiet and warm and you could hear her heartbeat under your cheek, slow and steady. You focused on it. Counted a few beats without meaning to and then stopped counting and just listened.

You started crying. Quietly. You weren't sad or stressed anymore though. Just from being held when you'd needed it, from the accumulated tenderness of the last hour, from the simple fact of being known this well by someone who had chosen to know you and kept choosing it.

Her hand moved in your hair—slow passes from your forehead back, steady and even, not trying to stop the tears or redirect them. Just letting you have them. She kept going until they ran out on their own and you lay soft and still and completely empty of everything the day had put in you.

"There she is," she said softly, into your hair. "There's my girl."

You pressed closer. She let you. Her arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders.

She held you as the room darkened—the light going gold and then amber and then the soft grey of evening—and neither of you moved because neither of you needed to. You listened to her heartbeat. You felt her breathe, her chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, slow and even. Occasionally her hand moved in your hair, or her fingers traced a slow absent pattern on your shoulder, or she pressed her lips to the top of your head without announcing it. She said nothing when she did it. It didn't need words.

Small things. Simple things. The kind that don't seem like much and are actually everything.

After a while, you became aware of normal things again. The texture of her shirt against your cheek—soft, worn in, one of her favorites. The weight of her arm around you. The sound of a car going by outside and then nothing again. The room had gone almost dark without either of you turning on a light, and you hadn't noticed. It didn't matter at all.

"Hey, baby," Wanda said softly.

"Mm."

Her hand moved to your face. She tilted your chin up gently and looked at you in the low light—at your face, your eyes, the state of you—and her expression was open and warm.

She pressed her nose to yours.

You giggled, rolling your eyes lightheartedly.

"You keep doin' that," you said.

She laughed with you. "Because I like seeing your eyes up close. The way they shine. And I like being close, my love."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth. She pulled back and looked at you.

"Bath?" she asked.

You made an affirmative sound against her chest.

She pressed her lips to the top of your head. "Come on, then."

(-)

The bath was warm. Wanda had run it while you lay on the bed listening to the water, had added something that smelled like eucalyptus and something softer beneath it, had lit two candles on the edge of the tub.

You got in first and Wanda got in behind you. Settling back against her chest, you felt her arms come around you from behind and you exhaled something you hadn't known you were still holding.

Her hands moved under the water. Slow warm passes up your arms, your shoulders. No agenda. Just contact and warmth.

"Better?" she asked.

"So much better," you said.

She pressed her lips to the back of your neck and held them there.

You didn't talk much. The water was warm and the candles were burning steadily. The broken plate was still on the kitchen floor and the shampoo was still gone, but none of it mattered here. None of it could reach you.

Wanda's hands moved slowly under the water. She found your hands eventually and held them, her fingers laced through yours, both of your hands resting together just beneath the surface. She did nothing with them. Just held.

After a while she reached over the side of the tub—careful, not disturbing you—and came back with a small cup she'd left there. She dipped it in the water and poured it slowly over your shoulder. Warm water running down your skin. She did it again. Like she had all night and intended to spend it exactly like this.

"I ordered more of your shampoo." She pressed her lips to the back of your neck. "It'll be here Thursday."

Something small and warm bloomed in your chest. "Really?"

"Really, little dove," she said simply.

She poured the warm water over your other shoulder. Her thumb moved in a slow circle on the back of your hand.

You sat in the quiet of it.

"The plate," you said, after a while. "I'm…I'm so—"

"If you're about to apologize about that damn plate," Wanda interrupted you, her tone suddenly firm before she softened with a sigh. "We have other plates. And I was thinking of getting new ones anyway."

"That's not true."

"It might be true now." She pressed her nose to the back of your neck, brief and gentle. "I like the blue ones we saw at Target the other day."

You laughed softly. She felt it and her arms tightened, pulling you a little closer.

"I liked those too," you said.

"Good," she said, satisfied. Like it was decided.

Another slow pass of warm water over your shoulder. Her thumb still moving on the back of your hand. The candles flickering faintly. Outside, a sound you couldn't name and then quiet again.

Wanda's free hand came to rest over your heart. Just resting there, warm and still, under the water.

"You know what I think about sometimes?" Wanda kissed your temple.

"Mm?"

"How much you try." Her arm tightened slightly. "Every day. How hard you try at everything." Her lips pressed to the back of your neck. "I see it. Even on days like today, when everything goes wrong. I see you try." A pause. "I think about that a lot. How strong you are."

You were quiet, biting the inside of your cheek as you listened.

"I think it all the time," she continued. "I should say it more."

You turned your head and she kissed you, your lips moving together in a slow dance for several moments.

Breaking the kiss to breathe, you settled back against her chest and closed your eyes.

The water held you both. Wanda's arms were steady and safe around you and her breathing was slow and even against the back of your neck. Her thumb moved on the back of your hand in those small quiet circles.

The day had been what it had been. The tea, the toe, the shampoo, the mirror, and the plate. All of it. But it was over now. Completely over, and you were here, in warm water, with Wanda's arms around you and her lips occasionally finding the back of your neck for no reason except that you were there and she wanted to.

That was enough.

It was more than enough.

It was, in fact, everything.

Abby Anderson, who giggles at you and acts like you're the most adorable thing on earth when you wake up with bed hair, looking like crap. You always grumble and pull the duvet cover your head lightly and she simply pokes you in the side until you pop your head back out so she can laugh at you again. One time she called you "shitty kitty" and you cringed so hard she started quoting it daily.

Abby Anderson, who lays her head on your thighs while you read and stares up at you with that fuck-ass smile. When you ask her if she needs anything she just mumbles a half assed "no" and continues staring. If she gets tired, she just buries her face into your legs and stays there, even if she can barely breath.

Abby Anderson, who acts like a weighted blanket constantly, laying completely wrapped around you, even if it's suffocatingly hot. She makes up the excuse that "she can't sleep if she isn't holding you" and you tease her for it, but it's actually really precious to you.

Abby Anderson, Who constantly holds your hand when she can, squeezing your hand in crowded spaces to ground you, and will notice if you're getting anxious and ask if you want to call it a day and go home with no hesitation.

Abby Anderson, who is happy to go wherever you want. If you point out a shop you're interested in she will more than happily go in with you. She follows you around and is content with staring at you the whole time.

Abby Anderson, who makes sure you eat 3 square meals a day, as when things get busy you tend to forget. She loves going on about how important proper caloric intake is, being a bit of a health nut. If you express feeling negative about your own appearance she is quick to reassure you that you're beautiful, and as long as you're healthy, your body will always be perfect to her.

Abby Anderson, who does absolute bullshit to cheer you up. If she sees you moping on the couch she will go to great lengths to make you giggle. One time she did a poor rendition of a song from Hamilton and boy did it work.

Abby Anderson, who always holds your hands on buses and trains, whispering things into your ear that make you slap a hand over your mouth and jab her in the arm.

Abby Anderson, who is allergic to not making a sarcastic remark every chance she gets. Most of the time it results in her getting a pillow thrown at her, but she retaliates by tackling you.

Abby Anderson, who not-so-subtly shows off her physique when she can. She loves to take you with her to the gym, cheering you on like a devoted coach every time you pick up a weight.

Abby Anderson, who is incapable of hiding how she feels about something. If you 2 bump into an old friend of yours that she dislikes she will give you a giant side-eye to signal that they are giving her weird vibes, and half the time you have to hold back a laugh. If something mortifies her she makes a face every time without fail.

Abby Anderson, Who is absolutely obessed with going to the beach. It could be a horribly cold autumn day and she will still go, insisting you just sit on the shore with a blanket. If it's warm enough, she'll coax you into coming into the water, and you agree to "just dip your toes in" (you end up completely saturated by the time you're done)

Abby Anderson, Who goes into overdrive if she thinks there's something actually bothering you. If she has upset you she might reciprocate the grumpiness, but it typically only takes a day for her to crack and sheepishly approach you with a bottle of wine and an apology.

Abby Anderson, Who hates it and loves it when you intentionally piss her off. You poke her, repeatedly quote stupid bullshit only a chronically online person would know. One day you sang "We are Charlie Kirk" (as a joke obvi) At least a hundred times and she ended up tackling you into the couch.

//

taglist: @thatredheadloserlesbian (just ask to be added!)

Abby Anderson, who giggles at you and acts like you're the most adorable thing on earth when you wake up with bed hair, looking like crap. You always grumble and pull the duvet cover your head lightly and she simply pokes you in the side until you pop your head back out so she can laugh at you again. One time she called you "shitty kitty" and you cringed so hard she started quoting it daily.

Abby Anderson, who lays her head on your thighs while you read and stares up at you with that fuck-ass smile. When you ask her if she needs anything she just mumbles a half assed "no" and continues staring. If she gets tired, she just buries her face into your legs and stays there, even if she can barely breath.

Abby Anderson, who acts like a weighted blanket constantly, laying completely wrapped around you, even if it's suffocatingly hot. She makes up the excuse that "she can't sleep if she isn't holding you" and you tease her for it, but it's actually really precious to you.

Abby Anderson, Who constantly holds your hand when she can, squeezing your hand in crowded spaces to ground you, and will notice if you're getting anxious and ask if you want to call it a day and go home with no hesitation.

Abby Anderson, who is happy to go wherever you want. If you point out a shop you're interested in she will more than happily go in with you. She follows you around and is content with staring at you the whole time.

Abby Anderson, who makes sure you eat 3 square meals a day, as when things get busy you tend to forget. She loves going on about how important proper caloric intake is, being a bit of a health nut. If you express feeling negative about your own appearance she is quick to reassure you that you're beautiful, and as long as you're healthy, your body will always be perfect to her.

Abby Anderson, who does absolute bullshit to cheer you up. If she sees you moping on the couch she will go to great lengths to make you giggle. One time she did a poor rendition of a song from Hamilton and boy did it work.

Abby Anderson, who always holds your hands on buses and trains, whispering things into your ear that make you slap a hand over your mouth and jab her in the arm.

Abby Anderson, who is allergic to not making a sarcastic remark every chance she gets. Most of the time it results in her getting a pillow thrown at her, but she retaliates by tackling you.

Abby Anderson, who not-so-subtly shows off her physique when she can. She loves to take you with her to the gym, cheering you on like a devoted coach every time you pick up a weight.

Abby Anderson, who is incapable of hiding how she feels about something. If you 2 bump into an old friend of yours that she dislikes she will give you a giant side-eye to signal that they are giving her weird vibes, and half the time you have to hold back a laugh. If something mortifies her she makes a face every time without fail.

Abby Anderson, Who is absolutely obessed with going to the beach. It could be a horribly cold autumn day and she will still go, insisting you just sit on the shore with a blanket. If it's warm enough, she'll coax you into coming into the water, and you agree to "just dip your toes in" (you end up completely saturated by the time you're done)

Abby Anderson, Who goes into overdrive if she thinks there's something actually bothering you. If she has upset you she might reciprocate the grumpiness, but it typically only takes a day for her to crack and sheepishly approach you with a bottle of wine and an apology.

Abby Anderson, Who hates it and loves it when you intentionally piss her off. You poke her, repeatedly quote stupid bullshit only a chronically online person would know. One day you sang "We are Charlie Kirk" (as a joke obvi) At least a hundred times and she ended up tackling you into the couch.

//

taglist: @thatredheadloserlesbian (just ask to be added!)