thewitchandtheassassin

Kara Danvers Masterlist

Wanda Maximoff Masterlist

Lena Luthor Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist

Carol Danvers Masterlist

Hela Masterlist

Maria Hill Masterlist

Harley Quinn Masterlist

Yelena Belova Masterlist

Jean Grey Masterlist

Darcy Lewis Masterlist

Agatha Harkness Masterlist

Rio Vidal Masterlist

Kate Bishop Masterlist

Sharon Carter Masterlist

Alex Danvers Masterlist

Ororo Munroe/Storm:

Weathering the Storm

Valkyrie:

Hello, Stranger

Peggy Carter:

To Be Yours

Your fingers were colder than normal, but she didn’t mind. All that mattered was your hands on her body — one gripping just below her jaw, the other beginning to explore her folds.

“Please, detka…” she whispered, eyes clamped shut like she’d shatter if she dared to open them.

“Shhh.” Your breath ghosted over her cheek as two fingers dipped into her cunt, crooking in that familiar way that drove her mad.

She was panting, grinding her hips into every thrust and curl of your fingers, the thinnest string of spit leaking from the corner of her mouth. Your thumb found her swollen clit, massaging it in a circle-eight as your hand sped up.

“You feel so fucking good, baby. I’ve missed you,” you murmured into her ear, the tips of your fingers finding that perfect, sweet spot inside her pussy.

A stray tear fell from the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t respond, too lost in the feeling of your touch. Hips jerking erratically as she chased the sensations.

“That’s it, princess. Cum for me.”

The words were so fucking soft, almost lost beneath the sound of her moans as her body locked up, shuddering as her cunt clenched around the fingers buried inside. Her hips jumped forward, once, twice, before she slumped backward in exhaustion —

Her back landing softly on the sheets of her bed, her own hand still trapped between her thighs.

As the tears finally began to fall, the sounds that filled the room were no longer ones of pleasure. These were a dam breaking open.

“…please, come back,” she whispered up to the ceiling, eyes refusing to open. Because if she opened them, she’d have to accept the truth. “I miss you.”

And the truth was something she couldn’t handle.

Natasha heard Sharon stand up and her shoulders stiffened.

"Steve goes to bed at nine thirty. I asked him." Sharon's voice shook under the admittance as she stared at Natasha’s back. "So I'm going to ask you again.”

Natasha turned, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

“I was worried about you, there’s a difference,” Sharon argued, cheeks beginning to redden — from frustration or embarrassment, Natasha couldn’t tell, but clearly she was bothered.

“Is there?”

“Don’t,” the blonde snapped, cutting off whatever angle Natasha about to try and work. “Don’t flip this around on me. You’ve been gone every night for weeks. You come in late, you shower, you won’t touch me, and you’re gone before I wake up. That’s not training or being ‘busy’, Nat. That’s you avoiding me.”

Swallowing, Natasha’s eyes flickered around the room, trying to find something to say that would end this nightmare of a conversation.

"I just need you to tell me the truth," Sharon said, nearly begging. She was shaking now, just her hands, but the sight was impossible to miss. "Are you still in this? Because if you're not, I need you to say it."

"I'm not leaving."

"That's not what I asked."

Neither of them moved to close the six feet between the door frame and the foot of the bed.

"I'm going for a walk," Natasha finally announced, turning on her heel. She couldn’t deal with this. Not right now. Not when her mind was already running in a million different directions and none of them ended with Sharon’s heart still intact.

"You can't keep walking out every time I try to—"

"I need air, Sharon."

"It's ten o'clock at night."

"I know what time it is."

-X-

She walked a familiar path through the east corridor; past the common room, the gym, the stairwells that would take her anywhere else but where she was going.

Third door on the left.

The same door she’d stood in front of almost every night for months. A door she had no right to stand outside of like this. She knew it was fucked up — she did, she didn’t need to hear it from anyone else, she scolded herself enough as it was — but she couldn’t stop.

Her knuckles rapped twice on the metal, stepping inside before it had fully opened.

You were already standing at the side of your bed, studying her like you’d been expecting her arrival. Maybe you had been. If these encounters had taught you anything, she’d be standing in this room the moment she felt cornered — and she seemed to feel that way more often than not these days.

“…hey,” you greeted casually, though the tone was a bit too careful to be entirely honest.

Natasha made sure the door was closed behind her before she crossed the room, her hands fisting in the fabric of your tank top to pull herself flush against you. Your own found her hips, both to steady her and because you couldn’t help but touch her when she was this close.

Her chin tipped up, mouth finding yours in a hard, damn near bruising kiss that left your head spinning. Her teeth scraped your bottom lip, fingers tightening in your shirt as she walked you backwards.

“Bed,” she said against your mouth, “now.”

Groaning, one hand slipped up to cup the nape of her neck while the other dropped to the ample flesh of her ass, lifting her into your arms. Natasha wrapped her thighs around your hips the second her feet left the floor, her ankles locking tight against your lower back. She broke the kiss just long enough to drag her mouth down the side of your neck, the pressure barely on that side of too much.

When you dropped her on the sheets, she kept a grip on your tank top, dragging you down between her thighs. She shoved at the white cotton clinging to your torso.

“Off,” she demanded, helping you strip it away impatiently before she gripped the hem of her own top. She crossed her arms, yanking it over head, and discarded it over the side of the bed like it offended her with its existence.

Your hand slammed into the pillow beside her head, fingers tightening in the case to the point of nearly ripping the thing, as your lips crashed into hers. Exploring the familiar terrain that was her mouth before they began trailing lower, along the pale expanse of her throat. You were careful not to leave marks but fuck, you imagined what it’d look like — covered in purple and red splotches, the imprint of your teeth barely visible in the darkest spots.

"Fuck." She rolled her hips up to meet yours when you pressed down, chasing the friction through the fabric. Her thighs spread wider to take your full weight. "Don't—" Her voice broke. She dragged one hand down your spine, fingers splaying flat against your lower back to pull you harder against her. "Don't tease me tonight. I'm not in the mood for slow."

Her other hand shoved between your bodies, palm dragging down your stomach, fingers catching in the waistband of your sweatpants. She tugged. "Get these off. I want the toy."

You met her gaze, wondering what had fueled her desperation, but you also knew she wouldn’t talk about it. She never did. It could’ve been something as small as fighting over dishes to something far more serious; you’d never know. Leaning back on your knees, you hooked your digits in her leggings and dragged them down her legs before climbing off the bed to lose your own sweats.

By the time you were back on the mattress and settled in the space between her legs, she’d shed her panties and tossed them… somewhere. Honestly, you were pretty sure you had a dozen pairs of lost underwear in here at this point because of her. If you ever managed to get a girlfriend of your own, you’d have a lot of explaining to do…

Unless Nat was my…

You shut away the thought before it could finish, watching her fingers wrap around the strap and guide it between her thighs. Your arms shifted to bracket her head on the pillow, staring down the length of your bare bodies to watch the tip of your strap disappear into her cunt.

Her free hand found the back of your neck. "Whatever you do tonight, don't fucking stop.”

It wasn’t hard to find the pace Natasha loved — short, pointed snaps of your hips that made Natasha’s mouth fall open every time you bottomed out.

"Yes," she gasped. "God, yes, just like that—”

-X-

Walking through the halls of the Compound, Sharon was going over the words she wanted to say. Apologize, maybe? Or, at least acknowledge that blindsiding Natasha hadn’t been her best choice. She knew the redhead would come to you — you were best friends, after all — so she hoped you being in the room would keep Natasha from lashing out.

Or… that had been the plan.

Except now she was standing outside your door. She was standing outside your door and she wasn’t hearing her girlfriend ranting. She wasn’t hearing talking at all — and somehow that was worse. Because what she was hearing wasn’t something she should be hearing at all.

Because why would your headboard be slamming into the wall if you were just talking to Natasha? Why would you be grunting and moaning and why the fuck would Natasha be screaming your name if it was just a conversation? That didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t…

Right?

Her hand moved to the keypad before she made a conscious decision to do it. She punched in the security override and heard the bolt click open, watching the door slide open. Standing in the doorway, her eyes tracked the clothes on the floor. Natasha’s leggings, your stupid, holey sweats that the team made fun of constantly…

Then finally up to the bed, where Natasha was arched in pleasure, her thighs clamped around your hips, your body driving a strap-on inside her over and over as she came. Her mouth opened, but no words came out, trapped in a horrible silence she couldn’t break. Because breaking the silence made it real. Breaking the silence meant facing you both. Facing what Natasha was doing behind her back, and she…

“So this is where you go every night,” she finally managed to choke out.

The noise that briefly escaped your mouth was inhuman as you scrambled backwards — the slick ‘pop’ of the strap-on sliding out of Natasha far too loud in the suddenly dead silent room — to grab whatever you could to cover yourself. She flinched at the sudden emptiness, which in any other moment, you absolutely would’ve apologized for but you had far bigger things to worry about in that moment—

Like the fact your lover’s girlfriend was standing in the doorway of your room.

Natasha shoved herself up against the headboard, dragging the sheet up over her chest. “Sharon—" her voice came out wrecked, raw from screaming which, fuck, only made the whole scene that much worse. She cleared her throat, tried again. "Sharon, wait."

Sharon didn't move from the doorway. Her eyes went from Natasha's face to the bunched sheet to you, half-tangled in the blanket, the strap still jutting from the harness and tenting the thin material.

"Wait." Sharon repeated the word quietly. A laugh broke out of her, short and ugly. "Wait for what, Nat? For you to come up with some lie to make this better? To convince me this isn’t happening?!"

She gripped the edge of the door frame, knuckles whitening against the metal.

"Every night," she continued. "For weeks. I sat in our room and I worried about you. I asked Steve. I thought you were—" She stopped, jaw clenching. "I thought something was wrong with you. I was scared for you."

She looked at you then, and her eyes were wet and furious and fuck, you’d never felt so small in your entire life.

"How long?" she asked. Not Natasha. You. "How long have you been fucking my girlfriend?"

Chin dipping down, you couldn’t meet her gaze, too ashamed and embarrassed to look at the devastated woman. For months, you’d told yourself it was okay. That it was worth it. You loved Natasha — had for as long as you could remember — so the ends justified the means. You got to enjoy something you’d never otherwise have, even if it was only sex. Except now, staring down the figurative barrel…

Suddenly that argument didn’t taste so sweet.

Sharon waited and when the silence stretched and you kept your eyes on the mattress, her breath came out shaky. "No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to be ashamed now and let it shut you up. Look at me and tell me how long.”

But the words were lodged in your throat and you couldn’t bring yourself to say a word.

She turned to Natasha, stepping fully into the room and letting the door click closed behind her.

"Then you tell me." Her voice climbed. "You owe me that much. How long?"

Natasha's hands twisted in the sheet, heat rising up her neck that had nothing to do with arousal anymore. "Four months," she finally mumbled, running a hand over her face.

Sharon's face went slack for a second before it crumpled. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, and for a moment you thought she was going to be sick.

"Four months." Sharon nodded, fast and jerky, like she was agreeing with herself. "Our anniversary. The trip to the lake house. You were already—" Her voice cracked and she stopped, swallowing it down. Neither of you deserved to see her fall apart. "I made you breakfast that morning. You let me make you breakfast.”

It was such a small, trivial thing but in that moment, it felt like a nail in the coffin.

"Was it ever real?" she asked. "Any of it? Or was I just the cover so nobody asked questions about the Black Widow's love life? Was I safe while you secretly wanted to fuck her?”

Natasha’s mouth opened, an easy lie on her tongue. It was just sex. Of course we’re real and Of course you mean the world to me. Of course I love—

But none of it would undo the damage caused. None of it would fix what she broke. And Sharon… Sharon deserved more than pretty lies.

"Yes, it was real." The words came out before the lie could. Her hand fisted in the sheet. "Don't do that. Don't rewrite the whole year because of this. I cared about you. I still—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.

"You cared about me," Sharon repeated, catching the past tense before Natasha could try and take it back. "While you were here. For four months. Screaming her name loud enough for the whole east wing to hear."

She laughed again and it was the kind of laugh you’d be hearing in your nightmares for weeks.

"You know what the worst part is?" Her voice steadied into something flat and final as she crossed her arms. "I've heard you in bed. A year of it. And you have never sounded like that with me. Not once. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to get dressed, and you're going to come back to our room, and you are going to end whatever this is. Tonight. You don't train with her alone. You don't go to her room. You don't see her without someone else there." Her eyes flicked to you, then back. "Or you stay. Right here. And we're done.”

You closed your eyes, bracing. It was a no-brainer. They were a couple; you were just the sidepiece Natasha used to blow off steam. Nothing important.

And maybe you deserved that, for sleeping with a woman who was taken. For hurting someone innocent in this whole fucking mess.

Natasha’s mouth opened, but there was only silence — and for a second, you wondered if Sharon suddenly had gained ice powers (which, honestly, knowing your luck right then, it was possible) because it felt like the temperature in the room plummeted into something you could only classify as arctic.

"…I can't." It was barely audible.

Sharon's arms came uncrossed. "Can't what, Natasha?"

"I can't stay away from her." Natasha said it slow, like she was hearing it for the first time herself. "I tried to tell myself it was—that it didn't mean—" She shook her head. "I can't do what you're asking. I won't survive it."

The color drained out of Sharon's face.

"You're choosing her." Sharon's voice had gone from furious to broken. "You're sitting there, after a year together, and you're choosing her."

Natasha didn't look away from her this time. "Yeah."

Your head snapped up, eyes wide with stunned confusion, almost certain you’d misheard except the expression on Sharon’s face confirmed you’d heard it correctly.

The sound that slipped past Sharon’s lips wasn’t a disbelieving laugh or even a sob. Hell, it wasn’t even rage. It teetered on the edge of grief, like Sharon just saw her future die in real time and it was half your fault.

Sharon wiped at her face, glaring at you both with something akin to hatred. “You deserve each other. And I hope,” her attention fell to you, “she treats you the same way she treated me. I hope you love her with your whole fucking heart and catch her in bed with someone else. You’ll deserve every second of it.”

She didn’t wait for a response because… fuck, what could you say? She wasn’t even wrong.

When the door clicked closed behind her, both of you sat in the silence of the ruin you’d created. You’d wanted to pretend this was some great love story. That Natasha would break up with her girlfriend and announce her love for you. And in some ways, she had — but it didn’t feel like a victory. It didn’t give you the spark of elation the fantasies had.

You were lying contentedly between her thighs, staring up the expanse of her body. You couldn’t deny it even if you tried — you were fucking proud of yourself. The way she’d arched and come undone under your ministrations. The way you were so fucking glad that the walls were soundproof because you did not want to explain to her sister why Yelena was swearing so avidly in Russian.

Yeah… you did good…

-X-

Yelena was floating in a hazy, half conscious state when she felt your tongue beginning to lap at her folds once more. Her hand came down, trying to nudge your mouth away, but what caught her attention was something else entirely as her eyes cracked open.

Your fucking feet.

More accurately — you were doing something with your feet she’d never noticed before. Or maybe she had and just forgot between mind-blowing orgasms. Your feet were…

Crossed at the ankle. In the air. Swaying back and forth happily as you went down on her.

“What… the hell are you doing?” she asked, voice raspy from her moans, and sounding utterly bewildered.

You hummed in question, eyes flicking up to meet hers, but you didn’t peel her mouth away from her aching cunt, far too engrossed in your “treat” to stop long enough to answer. Stopping? Now?

Absurd.

Her mouth opened again, the demand to understand on the tip of her tongue, but then yours did that thing as it flattened out between her lips and suddenly…

“F-fuck,” she groaned, burying her hand in your hair and dragging your mouth closer, all curiosities long forgotten.

Stopping near the phone, you smiled sweetly at the older waitress working the table nearby. “This phone wouldn’t happen to be functioning, would it?” you asked, the words so saccharine that they doubled back from sarcastic and into something real.

The woman glanced at you, surprised, but nodded. “It does, actually. Do you… know how to use a wall phone? Most people your age just stare at it like it’s from the medieval centuries.”

You paused, hand lifting towards the phone, and a genuine laugh escaped. Something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing until that very moment.

“…I appreciate the warning.” Looking at the waitress, you winked playfully. “I do know how to use one though.”

When her attention returned to her customers, you fished out the paper Natasha had given you and carefully dialed it, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited. Some part of you wondered if it was a sick, twisted game. Natasha giving you hope, only to snatch it away. But another piece of you was certain there was more to this than you realized yet—

The phone clicked and you heard breathing, but no words.

“…Natasha?” you asked, equal parts dread and something akin to anticipation.

Nothing was said for a moment and honestly, you’d thought they were going to hang up, when the sound of the phone changing hands reached your ears.

“I see you made it out alive,” Natasha said calmly into the receiver. “Hill’s already put out a state wide alert about you, did you know that? Won’t be long before it’s national.”

Swallowing dryly, you glanced over at Wanda ordering food with a shy smile on her face and it made your stomach clench with worry. Worry for her; worry that she’d be caught in the crossfire of some grand tragedy later on.

“…we need to disappear,” you finally said, eyes locking onto the wall beside the phone. “Any chance you can help with that? Or did you just give me this number to see if I lived?”

There was a moment of silence before Natasha chuckled. “I don’t do anything out of the kindness of my heart… and I wouldn’t have warned you about everything just for ‘fun’. We need to talk. Head for the Nevada desert. When you reach the state, call this number again and I will tell you where to go.”

She didn’t wait for your answer; she just… hung up, leaving you staring at the phone in your hand.

This bitch…

-X-

Pietro’s head was buried in his hands as he sat in Maria’s office, trying to think of anything that could help. His sister had been gone for hours — with a deranged lunatic, mind you — and he had nothing. No way to know if she was okay. No way to find her. Nothing.

“What kind of brother am I that I don’t know how to help?” he croaked hopelessly into his hands.

Maria had given up trying to stop his spiraling hours ago, opting to just sit in the room with him as she coordinated searches for any leads or sightings.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he was too full of grief and regrets to notice it the first time—but when it buzzed again… and again… and again, it garnered Maria’s attention.

“Pietro, who’s calling you?” Maria asked warily, staring at his pocket like she was willing herself to see through the dark fabric.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled miserably, fishing it out of his pants without looking before pressing the phone to his ear. “…’llo?”

“…Pietro?”

“Wanda?! Wanda, is that you? Please tell me that’s you.” His eyes were wide as he stared across the desk at Maria, silently begging her not to ruin this. “Where are you? Tell me and I’ll come get you. W-we can fix this, just—”

“Pietro, stop.” Her voice was calm, gentle in a way it had no goddamn right to be. “I’m safe.”

“Safe? Safe?!” he’d never sounded so hysterical in his life but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Wanda, you are joyriding with a serial killer! That is not what I would consider safe.”

Maria gestured for him to keep talking as she did her best to track the call.

“…I love you, Pietro. You are my brother. My twin. My heart… but I need to do this. For me…” she trailed off and for a moment, he worried she would hang up, until she asked quietly, “Do you still love me? Even knowing I can do horrible, selfish things?”

His head was bobbing before he realized she couldn’t see him. “Of course I do! You are my sister! I could never hate you… I could never stop loving you…”

“…I have to go. We’re getting a motel nearby, but… I’ll call you again when it’s safe,” she promised, the words cracking with tears unshed. “…bye, Pietro.”

The moment the line went dead, Maria was already lifting her phone. “We have a location. They’re in Maryland. Good job, Maximoff. We’ve got them.”

-X-

When Wanda hung up the phone, she let out a shaky exhale. “It’s done. Whatever task forces they have nearby will combing the area in a matter of minutes.”

Nodding, you took the keys to the Audi from her. “Good. Let’s go park this bad boy in front of some skeevy motel and get the fuck out of here. By the time they realize they’ve been played, we’ll be long gone.”

The silence stretched between you for a moment. Wrapping an arm around her waist, you kissed Wanda’s temple gently.

“Hey… I know that was hard. And I know it hurt, but… you got to talk to him. That has to count for something, right?” you whispered, tugging her into the circle of your arms and tucking her head under your chin. “You’ll see him again, baby. Just… when the world isn’t hunting us anymore, okay?”

She nodded into your chest, another shuddering breath escaping. It wasn’t ideal, using her brother as a means to an end, but she knew you hadn’t had much of a choice. Not if the two of you wanted to get a head start towards Nevada.

“…come on. We need to go.”

She kissed the underside of your jaw before dragging you out of the diner.

-X-

Thank you for tuning in to the five o’clock evening news. Today’s top story: a manhunt is underway for the prolific serial killer, (Y/N) (L/N), and Dr. Wanda Maximoff. Last evening, during a routine systems update, (L/N) escaped from her maximum prison cell with the help of Dr. Maximoff. It is uncertain if Dr. Maximoff is a willing participant or if she was taken under duress, but sources at the prison say that Dr. Maximoff had been unusually obsessed with the inmate before the events happened.

Only hours ago, a raid was conducted on a Motel 6 in Frederick, Maryland, where Dr. Maximoff and (L/N) were thought to be. Management said they saw both individuals when Dr. Maximoff came inside to rent a room, but when federal agents went inside, the room was untouched and the keycard was sitting on the table. We will keep you updated as this story unfolds and if you think you spot these two individuals, do not approach them. Call 911 and avoid them at all costs.

-X-

Toweling your hair with the cheap motel linens, you eyed the television with a blankness one might have while watching a mildly interesting documentary. Hair dye seeped into the already-stained white towel as you wrung out what little had remained even after washing it out multiple times.

Wanda stepped beside you, her brunette locks now a bright red, studying the television as trails of red ran along her pale collarbones, down over the swell of her breasts before dripping steadily onto the floor at her feet.

“I told you we needed to dye our hair,” she murmured, nudging your hip with hers as she took in your new color.

“I understand why it was necessary, but aren’t these colors a little… eye catching? Shouldn’t we be laying low?” you asked, tugging a stray lock of your hair. “I’m not sure dark blue screams ‘I’m in hiding’.”

“Exactly. But in what world would people assume two criminals would willingly dye their hair red and blue? This says ‘we have nothing to hide’ so people are less likely to look long enough,” she pointed out, tossing her towel aside.

Stepping into your space, she looped her arms around your neck, dragging you into a slow, hungry kiss. Her fingers tangled in the wet strands at the nape, head tilting just enough to pry your lips open.

“…now, are you going to keep complaining about the color,” she breathed into your mouth, “or are you going to throw me on that bed and fuck my brains out?”

Groaning into the kiss, your hands snapped down to the generous globes of her ass and lifted her up, her legs wrapping immediately around your hips as you carried her towards the stiff bed that was yours tonight. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Maximoff.”

A sharp tug on your hair sent another series of tingles racing down your spine as you dropped her onto the cheap quilt.

“Shut up and eat me out.”

Pietro shook his head, silver hair flopping almost violently as he stared at her. He didn’t look like a federal agent, didn’t even look like a grown man. He just looked like a boy, terrified for his sister and what her choices meant for them all.

“I swear, I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me. I-I would’ve tried to stop her if she had. When she came to see me over the weekend, she mentioned wanting to get out of D.C., maybe leaving for a while. I thought she was just stressed out or tired! I didn’t know she was going to… She’s… she’s alone with a killer, Maria! Do you think I would’ve just… let her leave like that?” His accent thickened a little more with each panicked word. “You have to find her. Please. Before that… woman kills her.”

Maria prided herself on knowing the people around her. “…I believe you. Which makes this worse. For us and for your sister. If she didn’t tell you or warn you, then she knew the risks and still chose to take them.”

Sighing, Maria finally slumped into a chair, running a tired hand over her face. Nothing about the last few hours had been pleasant for her and now she had an agent who’d already been through so much sitting in front of her, panicking because his sister was about to end up plastered all over the morning news, wanted for aiding and abetting a serial killer (of all fucking things).

“I won’t lie to you, Pietro. (Y/N) murdered multiple agents on the way out last night. I can’t promise your sister’s safety. We’ll do everything we can to bring her back alive, but if (L/N) turns on her… or she attempts to engage when we apprehend them…” Maria trailed off, not wanting to finish the statement but the implication was clear.

If Wanda didn’t come willingly, she might come back in a body bag.

-X-

Dawn bled through the cheap curtains, a strip of light catching across your face. Letting out a low groan, you buried your face in Wanda’s messy locks, arm tightening involuntarily around her waist as you fought to cling to the last few dredges of sleep you had left.

Wanda’s fingers were tracing lazy patterns along your naked chest, her touch exploratory and soothing in equal measure.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice rough with sleep and something else entirely. Her thumb brushed over a bruise she'd left on your collarbone the night before, a mark she seemed pleased with, if the slight curve of her lips was anything to go by.

“Mm, too early,” you mumbled petulantly before pressing an open mouthed kiss to Wanda’s pulse point. “…we need to move soon.”

“We do,” she agreed quietly, tilting your head up with her forefinger so she could look into your eyes. “But first… how are you?”

It was such a simple question but it made your chest ache. When was the last time someone had asked you that and meant it? Months? Years?

“Sore in places I didn’t know I could be sore in.” Grinning cheekily, you kissed her softly, tongue dipping just past her lips for a moment before retreating.

Wanda's lips curved against yours, the kiss soft and unhurried despite everything pressing in around you. Her fingers traced along your jaw, lingering at the corner of your mouth when you pulled back.

"Good sore or bad sore?" She asked it like she genuinely needed to know, her thumb brushing your bottom lip but there was a flicker of something satisfied just beneath the concern—pride, maybe, in knowing she'd left her mark.

“After being locked up for months? The best kind of sore.”

She shifted against you, the sheets rustling as she propped herself up on one elbow.

"I counted three highways within ten miles of this place." Her voice became more practical, though her hand remained on your skin. "We can't take the Audi much further. They'll have the plates by now, maybe even a BOLO out. We need to ditch it, find something else." She paused, teeth catching her lower lip. "I have cash. Enough to get us through a few days, maybe a few weeks if we're careful. But we need a plan. Somewhere to go that isn't anywhere I've ever been or mentioned.”

Huffing at the idea of being forced to move, you rolled onto your side and leaned over the bed, fishing a lone paper from your discarded jumpsuit on the floor. You had been given this for a reason, after all.

Flopping back on the mattress, you handed the slip to Wanda. “Romanoff gave this to me a few days ago, before she resigned. Said to use it once we made it out of there.”

Wanda's brow furrowed as she took the slip of paper, turning it over in her fingers like it might bite her. Her eyes scanned the number; just digits, no name, no explanation. She recognized the script though, had seen it on numerous sheets of paper she’d had to sign over the years.

"Natasha?" She sat up fully, the sheet pooling at her waist. Her voice carried equal parts suspicion and disbelief. "She gave you this before she left?"

You nodded, stretching languidly on the bed. “I told you: she was the one who warned me I was about to be executed with federal blessing, remember? She gave it to me the same night she came to see me, right before she quit. She’s the only reason I knew I was out of time.”

Her gaze flickered down involuntarily as your body languished on the cheap sheets, skimming the planes of your stomach, the way the light hit your breasts, and for a moment she contemplated if you had time for a quickie before forcibly shoving the thought away. She was not about to get thrown into jail because of her libido, goddammit. “Stop doing that. You’re distracting me.”

Her fingers drummed against her thigh, the paper still pinched between two in her other hand as she processed. Natasha Romanoff didn't do anything without reason. Every move she'd made at the Bureau had been calculated, sometimes in ways no one else saw until it was too late to stop them. Wanda had worked enough cases alongside her to recognize the pattern: Natasha helped when it served her, vanished when it didn't.

But this? Helping a serial killer escape? What was in it for her? Unless she’d been watching you a lot longer than she’d realized…

“Get dressed. We need to find somewhere to ditch the car and find a phone before Maria comes storming in.”

You knew she was right, but there was something so… intoxicating about the way she was staring at you in that moment; the way her eyes kept drifting between your hardened nipples and the space barely hidden by the comforter clinging to your waist.

Dragging your fingers along your stomach, you smirked, emboldened by the intense shine in Wanda’s gaze. “You’re staring at me like I’m a piece of meat, baby…” you teased, “Like what you see?”

A flush crept up her neck, visible even in the dim light filtering through those terrible curtains.

"I'm staring at you like you're going to get us both caught if you don't put clothes on in the next thirty seconds." She reached out, fingertips trailing over your hipbone in a way that made your toes curl (and you weren’t a toe curler, goddammit; she’s just magical or some shit).

What you hadn’t anticipated was you and Lena getting a little too drunk on authentic Irish beer in a bar four doors down from a wedding chapel headed by Elvis—or an impersonator?

Or maybe his name was Elvis and he dressed like the rockstar?

Fuck, what was in that beer?

Lena was giggling, pressed against your side. “Can you imagine it? Getting officiated by that? God, do you think it smells like peanut butter sandwiches? If they’re going for authentic, of course.”

Arm looped around her shoulders, you swayed slightly on your stool, her laughter infectious. “That sounds actually horrific. Trying to explain to your parents you got married by Elvis while it just reeks of peanuts and sweat?”

Staggering up out of her seat, Lena was the most disheveled you’d ever seen her outside of the bedroom and honestly? It was attractive as hell.

“We should—we should go check it out. So we can report back to Kara and Alex. Tell them how ridiculous it all is,” she suggested, offering you a hand.

In the back of your mind, you knew this was a terrible idea. Utterly, significantly terrible and yet… you still took her hand, following her out of the bar and four doors down.

-X-

When you woke up the next morning, comforter around your hips and your arm tossed around your very naked partner, you didn’t think much about it. Clearly you’d tied one on—

Until you lifted your hand to wipe the sleep from your eyes.

…why is there something on my finger?

Pulling your hand back slowly, it took one… two… three blinks to register what you were staring at. A ring. A gold ring.

A very nice, gold, shiny ring you’d never seen or worn before a day in your life.

“Oh no…” you muttered, lifting your hand higher to catch in the morning light, tilting your head like it was the most alien thing you’d ever come across (and you knew literal aliens).

Lena let out a pained groan beside you, the hangover slamming hard into her as she came back into consciousness and you jumped, momentarily having forgotten everything except the ring on your finger.

“Turn off the sun,” she mumbled against her pillow, trying to drag the blankets over her head.

Despite everything, you chuckled. “Uh… I don’t think that’s how this works, baby. But I… well… you may want to wake up.”

One bleary emerald eye peered over the edge of the fabric, studying your face. “Why?” she drawled out the single word warily.

“…look at your hand.” You lifted your own pointedly, not even attempting to hide the jewelry resting evidently on your finger.

There was a moment of stunned silence as that one eye—that one, gorgeous eye you could get lost in—stayed locked on your hand before she ripped the comforter down and threw her hands up to look at them.

“Oh. Oh.”

There, wrapped around her skin, was an identical ring.

“Nervous?” Yelena teased knowingly, settling beside you. “You look like a crab realizing it is in a pot of boiling water.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though the slight tremble of your fingers stripped away the lie before it could form.

“Uh huh,” she cooed, staring at you with a patronizing little smirk that only made your face warm. “Anyways—” she pressed a small Polaroid photo into your hand, her grin all teeth, “—first installment. Do not open it until I’m gone. Or do. I’m not your boss.”

She winked and sauntered back into the house, leaving you to your… gift.

Carefully flipping it over, your breath caught so hard in your chest that you immediately let out a wheezing sound that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone had been around to hear it.

Natasha was staring back at you.

She was positioned on what looked like a vintage chaise lounge, wearing nothing but a white garter belt and stockings, her legs crossed at the ankle. One arm was draped over her head, the red hair spilling across the upholstery. Her eyes were half-lidded, looking directly into the camera with an expression that made your stomach flip. Her breasts were obscured artfully by her knees, and only the neatly trimmed red curls above her mound visible.

The angle was incredible—but so goddamn frustrating. She was posed perfectly; artistic enough for a gallery, explicit enough to make your blood rush south immediately.

On the back, written in black ink: "One of five. Try to keep your hands steady while you say your vows. - N"

Gasping when you finally registered what you were looking at, you slammed the glossy image against your chest, glancing around to make sure no one else was around before—

You peeked back down at it, mouth so dry that your tongue felt like it’d turned into sandpaper.

“…holy shit,” you whispered.

You didn’t know how long you were standing there, just gawking at the stunning photo you’d been gifted, when a familiar whistle brought you out of the haze.

“Easy there, champ. You look like me when I see a new arc reactor blueprint”

Tony leaned against the terrace doorframe, already in his tailored suit, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. He held two glasses of orange juice, one of which he extended toward you. “Hydration. Big day. Can’t have you passing out before you say ‘I do.’” His eyes flicked down to the photo you were clutching.

You tucked the photo into the inner pocket of your tux jacket, accepting the orange juice. “Thanks.”

Downing the drink in two heavy swallows, it did nothing to calm your racing heart or sweaty palms.

“You good? You’ve got that ‘I’m about to spontaneously combust’ look going on.”

Exhaling heavily through your nose, you announced with a strange—for you—seriousness, “I am marrying the hottest woman alive and her hotness is going to kill me before I make it to the altar.”

Tony grinned, clapping you once on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

Photo Two:

Thirty minutes later, you were mingling with a few people you barely recognized, a handful of SHIELD agents whose names you didn’t know. They were babbling on about something and you were proud to say your libido had calmed down enough for you pretend like you cared.

…mostly.

Making another lap along the transformed garden, you found Kate sitting on the gazebo’s bottom step, dressed in a black pantsuit that looked like she'd borrowed it from someone twice her age. She looked up as you approached, a wide grin spreading across her face.

"Okay," she said, standing up quickly. "I need you to not freak out."

She patted her jacket pockets, searching. "Yelena already gave you one, right? Good. Because I have photo number two and I have been waiting all morning to give this to you." She finally found the photo, holding it out like a winning lottery ticket, ignoring your hiss to ‘put it down, Bishop’. "Natasha made me promise I'd give it to you before you saw her in the dress. She was very specific about that."

Kate stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "She was blushing. Like, actually blushing when she showed me. I've never seen her blush before. It was—" She shook her head, laughing. "She's so gone for you. It's actually disgusting."

Snatching it from her, you turned the photo around to face you.

Natasha was standing this time, her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder. She wore a leather jacket and nothing else except a pair of black lace panties that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The shot captured her mid-turn, the curve of her spine barely visible, the muscles in her shoulders and arms defined and strong. Her red hair was loose, cascading down over the leather in a way that felt way too obscene for something so innocent. The panties sat low on her hips, and you could see the dimples of her spine, the slight definition of her thighs. She was looking back at the camera with half a smile, one eyebrow raised. The confidence was palpable; the dangerous kind that came from knowing exactly what she was offering.

On the back, in that same handwriting: "Two down. Three to go. Try not to ruin your tux before the ceremony. - N"

Kate was watching you with barely contained delight. "Your face right now is absolutely priceless," she whispered.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you squeaked, shoving the photo into your jacket with the first, careful not to damage them. “…this woman wants me to have a heart attack. That’s what this is…”

Kate bounced on her heels, clearly riding the high of being part of whatever insane plan this was. "She's been in hair and makeup for two hours. I peeked in earlier and—" She shook her head, laughing. "You're so fucked. In the best way."

“Kate, I am already fucked. I… she…” you blew a short exhale, chuckling despite the ache tightening your lower belly.

Kate checked her watch. "Okay, real talk: you've got about forty minutes before you need to be at the altar. Tony's got the third one, but he won't give it to you until right before the ceremony starts. He's being dramatic about it."

She gave your arm a squeeze, her grip surprisingly firm and it was a reminder of how she’d earned her spot with Natasha’s team. "You've got this. Just don't pass out. Clint would never let you live it down."

Photo Three:

The altar stood at the edge of the estate's gardens, white fabric draped across a wooden arch wrapped in roses and baby's breath. The late morning sun cast dappled shadows through the canopy above, scattering light across the newly crafted stone pathway. Rows of white chairs stretched behind you, filled with faces you recognized and some you didn't—SHIELD operatives, Avengers associates, a handful of your own people.

Clint stood beneath the arch, wearing a charcoal suit instead of his usual gear. He looked almost dignified. He caught your eye and gave you a small nod, his expression warm and knowing.

Your hands were, in fact, shaking. You shoved them into your pockets to hide it.

"You look like you're about to storm a building." Tony materialized at your elbow, a slight smile playing at his lips. He was holding a champagne flute, still full, and in his other hand…

A Polaroid.

He didn't hand it over immediately. "She was very insistent that you get this one at the last possible second," he said. "Said something about 'peak anticipation.'" He handed you the photo, face down. "I've been sitting on this for an hour. It was physically painful not giving it to you early."

Turning your back to the gathering crowd, you glanced at the glossy image.

This time, Natasha was on her knees. The angle was from slightly above, looking down at her. She wore a white button-down shirt—you were fairly certain it was one of yours—unbuttoned completely, the fabric pulled off her shoulders so it pooled around her elbows. Her breasts were fully visible, her nipples hard and flushed. Her hands were resting on her thighs, hips thrust forward slightly.

The shirt was the only thing covering her, and it was barely doing its job.

Her face was tilted up, chin lifted, eyes locked on the camera with an expression that could only be described as desperate. Like she was worshipping whoever stood on the other side of the lens. Her lips were slightly parted, shiny with gloss, the corner of her mouth curved into the smallest smile.

She looked powerful and vulnerable at the same time, like a woman who could kill you with just her thighs but the kind of woman you wanted to kill you with her thighs.

On the back, the handwriting was messier this time, almost rushed: "I knelt for this one thinking about you on your knees for me. After the ceremony. After. - N"

You were so enamored with the sight, you didn’t realize your mouth was gaping… or that Clint was clearing his throat impatiently… or that the entire fucking wedding was waiting on you to turn the back around.

"(Y/N)," Tony stage-whispered from somewhere to your left. "You might want to pocket that before Clint shoots you with an arrow for making everyone wait."

Photo Four:

The walk back down the aisle was a blur of cheering faces, flying birdseed, and the heavy, intoxicating reality of Natasha’s hand in yours, walking with you—as your wife. The string quartet had seamlessly transitioned into an upbeat piece that felt more like a victory march than a wedding recessional, but honestly, they could’ve been playing Hot Cross Buns for all you cared.

You were fucking married!

The reception was set up on a sprawling terrace behind the main house, where a massive clear-top tent housed tables, a sprawling dance floor, and a bar that Tony had undoubtedly overstocked. Wait staff were already circulating with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

As soon as you crossed the threshold into the reception space, guests began to swarm, eager to offer congratulations. Wanda stepped through the gap of friends rushing to greet you both. She looked deeply amused, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she approached.

"Congratulations," Wanda said softly, looking between you with genuine affection. She’d been one of your biggest supporters throughout your entire relationship and this was the payoff she’d been hoping for. She embraced Natasha first, whispering something that made the redhead laugh, then turned to you.

She wrapped her arms around your shoulders for a brief hug and as she pulled back, you felt the distinct slide of a hand slipping directly into your outer jacket pocket. Her sleight of hand was flawless; no one else in the crowd noticed a thing. Or maybe it was magic. Truthfully, you had no clue anymore.

Wanda’s eyes flicked down to your pocket, then back up to your face. Her smile widened.

"Natasha said to tell you that this one requires... privacy," Wanda said quietly, ensuring her voice didn't carry over the music. "I would suggest the bathroom inside the house. I just checked. It is currently empty."

Natasha caught your eye from a few feet away, currently trapped in a conversation with Maria, but watching you with absolute knowing…and truthfully, you’d never felt more like a deer caught by a bear than in that moment.

Slipping away from the crowd, you wandered into the house and ducked into the east hallway. Tugging the photo from your jacket, you damn near swallowed your tongue.

Natasha was lying on dark sheets, completely naked, with her legs spread wide and knees bent. Her left hand was between her thighs, two fingers buried deep inside her dripping pussy. Thumb pressed against her swollen clit, you could see the way arousal clung to her knuckles, like she’d been touching herself for a while to get this shot.

She looked… hungry.

“Keep your hands to yourself during the speeches. - N” was scripted along the back of the photo, a warning and a tease all at once.

Photo Five (The Finale)

You didn’t remember dinner. Didn’t remember forcing down food you weren’t tasting while people gave speeches you didn’t hear. Why? Because you had four pictures of your gorgeous wife—the same gorgeous wife sitting beside you, one hand above the table, the other on your thigh—and one final one left.

When Natasha’s hand landed on your arm, you jumped. You’d been so lost in thought.

“Cake cutting time,” she murmured with a knowing smirk, arching a brow. “And don’t you dare smash it in my face.”

You chuckled, nodding seriously. “I know. You already told me we’d be getting an annulment if I do that to you.”

“Damn right. It’s archaic and stupid. I didn’t spend hours letting Wanda do my makeup just for frosting to ruin that.”

The cake was an ostentatious, three-tiered thing Tony had insisted on buying for the wedding and you’d just been so happy you were marrying Natasha that you never thought to question it. Both of you managed to cut a slice without a disaster—which, all things considered, that felt like a miracle—before Natasha’s hand touched your chest…

Sliding one final picture into your suit.

“Your final gift,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Why don’t you take a look at it before the first dance? Because afterwards—” her hand smoothed over your shirt, “I want you to take me inside and fuck my brains out. Am I clear?”

Swallowing dryly, your head nodded so jerkily that you were fairly certain you looked like a bobblehead.

“…yes, ma’am.”

Turning your back to the room, you retrieved the pièce de résistance and shielded it with your body like it was a live grenade.

Natasha was straddling a black leather bench, her body slick with sweat. She was riding a massive, veiny silicone dildo, angle low and unforgiving, capturing the exact point of where it disappeared into her cunt. Her head was thrown back, red hair hanging in a messy tangle down her spine. One of her hands gripped the edge of the bench for leverage, knuckles white, while her other hand was clamped hard over her breast, her fingers aggressively pinching a tight, dark pink nipple. The sheer physical strain in her thighs and stomach made it clear she was driving herself down hard on the toy—

The noise that escaped your throat was inhuman. Like a pterodactyl getting shot out of the fucking sky. There was no way to describe the rush of arousal that rocketed through your veins.

“Like what you see?” Natasha teased, her lips close to your ear as she plastered herself against your side.

“…so fucking much.”

She laughed, the sound only spurring you on. “Come dance with me… then I’ll let you see that in person.”

Slipping the photo back into your jacket, you turned your head to look at your wife—this incredible, wonderful woman you’d never thought you’d deserved but somehow managed to keep anyways—and smiled. It wasn’t lustful or even heated, just… awed.

“I am so fucking in love with you, Mrs. Romanoff,” you breathed, cupping her jaw. “My sun and moon.”

Her expression softened as she leaned into your touch. “…my end and my beginning,” she answered just as quietly, eyes meeting yours. “Now, let’s have our first dance and then get the fuck out of here.”

Your mouth curled into a wicked grin as you studied the neon beacon that was her cheeks. “…you want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” you cooed, the words teasing but dripping heat.

She stared at you, lips parting in surprise. You weren’t laughing at her, weren’t looking at her in disgust or calling for a bouncer. You were… teasing her?

“I…” she swallowed so hard it looked painful. She glanced around frantically, as if checking to see if anyone had heard her propositioning you, before her eyes snapped back to yours, mortification and desire warring in the blue that looked almost purple under the club lights.

She nodded, the motion jerky and excited, like the need had overrode the panic.

“Yeah,” Patterson breathed, stepping closer to regain the distance her mild—okay, yes, maybe it was more than mild but in her mind, it was a simple… moment—panic had created. “I mean, yes. That is—uh, that is exactly what I want. I didn’t plan to say it like that. I had a whole speech prepared in my head about getting to know each other, maybe dancing first, but my brain seems to have bypassed all of the usual courting choices and gone straight to the part where I embarrass myself.”

You set your drink aside, arching a brow. “Well then… I must admit that is the most straightforward offer I’ve ever gotten in this place.”

Patterson’s tongue wet her lips, her eyes dropping to your mouth before darting back up to meet your gaze. “Is that a… yes? For you too? Or am I about to be escorted out by security for sexual harassment?”

Hands finding her waist almost possessively, you dragged her flush against you, breath ghosting over her lips, “Mm, it’s certainly not a no.”

Patterson squeaked, but it was swallowed by your mouth crashing into hers. Her body went pliant under your hands almost immediately, leaning against you as her lips parted under your tongue. She was warm and tasted like the overpriced booze the bartender had been plying her—

And it was fucking intoxicating.

When you broke the kiss, she swayed. Actually swayed, like her gravity had shifted and you were at the center of it.

"Oh," she breathed, the single word shaky and small. "Oh, that's—that's much better than I imagined. I imagined it a lot, by the way. Probably too much. Is there such a thing as too much? I think—"

You didn't let her finish. You grabbed her hand and began leading her through the crowd. The music hammered against your eardrums, bass thumping in time with your pulse as you navigated between bodies, Patterson stumbling slightly behind you in her haste to keep up.

The hallway to the restroom was bathed in red light, a little disorienting for Patterson, but you didn’t seem to care. Shoving open the door, you didn’t acknowledge the two women standing at the sinks, fixing their now smeared lipstick, but they shot you a knowing smirk as you dragged Patterson into the handicapped stall—larger, barely, than the others in the small space.

The lock clicked into place seconds before you pinned Patterson to the door. She was breathing hard, chest heaving under her top. Her hands were hovering, like she wanted to touch you but didn’t know how and it was… adorable.

“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered, “I mean, I know I already said this is all… new, but I-I want… you to show me. Please.”

Her eyes were on yours, her fingers dropping to the button of her jeans as she tried to fumble them open.

You grinned, a wicked, sharp curve of your lips before your hand clamped around her jaw. You tilted her head, holding her steady as your mouth claimed hers, tongue pushing past her parted lips, exploring the wet heat. Patterson let out a muffled, wrecked little noise against your probing, hands flying up and fingers digging frantically into the fabric at your shoulders just to keep her knees from giving out.

While your mouth kept her occupied, your free hand dropped to your own waistband. You popped the button and dragged the zipper down in one hurried, fluid motion. You needed her. Now.

The thick length of your strap-on sprang free from the denim, heavy silicone bobbing between you in the stall that felt too big and far too small all at once. You broke the kiss, leaving her gasping for air, her lips slick and swollen. Her eyes fluttered open—she didn’t even remember closing them—before her gaze dropped.

She froze. The trembling in her hands stopped completely as she stared at the thick shaft jutting out from your hips. She swallowed hard, a deep flush lighting its way up her throat.

"Oh," she breathed, the word coming out somewhat closer to a high, thin noise than a real word. She stared at your cock like she was trying to calculate just how much of that her body was about to take. "Oh, wow. That is... that is significantly larger than what I had imagined in my head. You just—you walk around with that? Just... ready?"

She looked back up at your face, her blue eyes blown wide, a mix of absolute shock and unadulterated lust making her pupils dilate. She licked her swollen lips, her fingers twitching at her sides, itching to touch but clearly too intimidated to cross the distance without permission.

"I'm going to need you to be... I mean, I want you to fuck me, but also maybe give me a second to adjust?" she babbled, yanking her own jeans down—finally—as her eyes stayed locked on the toy she’d hoped for but hadn’t quite anticipated. "Because I think you might actually split me in half. Which, for the record, I am entirely on board with. I want that. Just... Jesus…”

“Fuck, you’re adorable,” you chuckled, settling on the downed toilet seat and patting your thighs. “C’mere, beautiful… let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

The pet name seemed to short-circuit whatever was left of her higher brain functioning. "Okay," she breathed, her voice trembling but resolute. "Yes. Practical application. I'm a very fast learner."

She shoved the denim down her hips, kicking them off over her shoes so she could step completely free of the tangled fabric. The harsh fluorescent light caught the pale, soft curve of her thighs and the dark blonde curls between her legs, already slick and glistening with her own wetness.

It was utterly mouthwatering to see.

She straddled either side of your legs, feet planted firmly on the tile floor; the same tile floor she was trying not to think about her jeans sitting on because right now was not the time for her brain to start considering just how fucking gross this stall probably was. One hand lifted to grip your shoulder, the other dropping between her thighs to peel the drenched fabric away from her swollen, needy cunt.

“I’m trusting you…” she murmured, eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours as she hovered above the crown of your cock.

“I’ve got you,” you promised seriously, gripping the base of the toy as your other hand held her hip, easing her down at a lazy pace. You weren’t going to rush this; you were determined to make her first time with a woman memorable but for the right reasons.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, her eyes squeezing shut for a second as she focused. You could feel how tense she was as she began to lower herself, the head of the toy pressing against her opening.

It was a stretch from the very first fraction of an inch and a sharp, high-pitched gasp tore from her throat, her fingers digging into your shoulders hard enough to bruise. Her entire body went rigid, trembling with the strain of holding herself up, adjusting to the thickness.

"Fuck," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "Oh, fuck, that's—it's a lot. It's so much. I can feel—" She choked, her hips stuttering as she sank down another half-inch.

You were watching her pussy swallow the cock, eyes dark with pleasure. “That’s it, baby. You’re doing so good…” Your arm looped around her waist, hand steady on her ass as you helped guide her.

Patterson let out a long, shuddering exhale, her entire body softening against you in increments, like tension physically unwinding from her spine. The arm looped around her waist seemed to unlock some of the panic in her chest, the frantic white knuckle of her grip on your shoulders easing slightly.

But it was your words that undid her.

The praise made her blood feel like it was on fire. She took the rest of your strap to the hilt in a single motion, head dropping forward to rest in the curve of your neck, lips parting with every pant. The sound of her cunt taking you to the base was quiet but it was music to your ears. She was so fucking wet—her need dripping onto your thighs even now—and gods, if those women were still in the restroom, they definitely knew what you were doing.

And you didn’t care.

“Fuck, baby… you look so pretty stretched out around my cock…” you groaned, doing everything in your power not to rut up into her like a beast. You were trying to be polite, goddammit.

“Oh God, oh—” her words dissolved into a keening whimper that vibrated against your skin. She was full; impossibly, overwhelming full, seated flush on your thighs with nowhere left to go. Her thighs were trembling, sweat already beginning to gather at the soft hollow of her neck.

"Move," she begged, sounding so undeniably desperate. Her hips gave an involuntary roll, grinding down harder against your lap. "Please."

One hand on her hip, the other cradling the side of her throat, you rolled your hips up in a slow grind. The rhythm started slow, a gentle rocking that was more about the friction than the depth, but the effect it had on Patterson was instantaneous.

"Aah!" The cry ripped out of her, loud and completely uncontrolled. Her head fell back, exposing the long, pale line of her throat, her mouth open in a silent O before she gasped for air. "Oh, God, that's—"

She was so wet that the slide was effortless, but the stretch was still immense, cunt fluttering around the intrusion like she was trying to memorize the shape of it.

You rolled up again, harder this time, and she slammed down to meet you, her thighs trembling violently.

"Listen to those pretty sounds you make on my cock..." you praised, an appreciative sound bubbling from your chest.

Patterson's face burned hotter, a fresh wave of crimson flooding her cheeks, but she didn't try to hide. Honestly, the praise seemed to short-circuit her entire being; a detail you were determined to remember for later.

She let out a low, broken moan, her hips bucking instinctively, chasing the friction. “I’m never been this loud. I didn’t know I could—oh fuck—be this loud. I can’t help it…” she rambled, head tossed back in pleasure.

Your hips shifted, changing the angle just enough to knock against that sweet spot inside her and her mouth dropped open, lips moving but no sound escaping.

“Look at you. Riding a stranger’s lap in a bathroom,” you cooed, fingers digging in almost bruisingly on Patterson’s hip, your other thumb stroking along her pounding pulse point.

Patterson moaned as the weight of what she was doing crashed down around her; she was riding a woman she’d met less than an hour ago in a filthy club bathroom—

And it was the hottest thing she’d ever done in her life.

Then you began to thrust, no longer caring for the slow rhythm you’d unintentionally fallen into. Every snap of your hips was rough, the slap of skin meeting skin filling the stall as your eyes studied her expression critically.

"God, it's so—" She broke off, her nails digging into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks through your shirt. She was moving frantically, her thighs burning with the effort but she didn't care. "It's so much better than the fantasy. The fantasy was—” she rolled her hips, whimpering, “was theoretical. This is better… much, much better…”

Your hand left her throat to tangle in her hair as you pulled her into an open-mouthed kiss that was more you panting into each other’s mouths than anything. The hand on her hip shifted down between her thighs, fingers massaging the swollen bundle of nerves you found waiting for you.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she whimpered against your lips, trembling from the overwhelming combination of sensations. She’d had sex before—obviously—but this was… this was new and exciting and fuck, why had she been denying herself this for years?!

"Too much," she gasped, pulling away just enough to get the words out, her eyes rolling back in her head. "It's too much, I can't—oh—oh, fuck—"

You didn't stop. You pounded up harder, faster, driving her toward the edge with one singular goal in mind. You wanted her to come.

Needed her to come.

Her head fell forward, her forehead pressing against yours, her entire body tense and desperate all at once. "I'm going to—" she whined, panting like she’d run a mile. "Please, don't stop. I'm going to…”

“Do it, beautiful… cum for me,” you rasped, pinching her clit just enough between your thumb and forefinger to make her hips jump.

Patterson had never thought a fucking pinch could send her crashing over the edge but tonight was clearly a night of firsts for her. Her head snapped back, mouth open in a silent scream that didn’t stay silent very long.

“Fuck!” she moaned, hips grinding in a tight circle as a full body tremble that started at the base of her spine before skyrocketing upward and outward.

Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her entire body shaking through the force of it. "I can't—I can't—" she gasped, the words dissolving into a whine as another wave hit her, making her toes curl. “It’s so good… so fucking good…”

Arms snapping up to band around her waist, you chuckled softly into the warm skin of her neck, holding her upright so she wouldn’t tip off your lap. “Easy, beautiful. I’ve got you.”

For a few long moments, there was only the sound of her panting and the dull bass of the music thudding through the walls, until a satisfied little noise escaped her parted lips. She practically melted into you, barely managing to wrap her limbs loosely over your shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice muffled by your shirt. "I'm sorry, I just—I couldn't be quiet. I tried, but you were—" She cut herself off, her face burning hot where it pressed against your skin. "You were very effective.”

Pulling back just enough to look at her, your hand lifted to brush a wild lock of blonde from her cheek. “Yeah?”

"That was..." She let out a breathless little laugh, her eyes darting down to where your bodies were still joined, then back up to your face. "That was significantly better than my research suggested it would be. And my research is usually very reliable."

“Huh, well… maybe you could tell me more about your research over dinner sometime?” you offered with a lazy—albeit hopeful—grin.

For a second, Patterson could only blink at you.

"Dinner," she repeated, the word coming out slow and careful, like she was testing the weight of it. She shifted slightly in your lap, the movement making her wince as the toy shifted inside her. "As in... a date? Where we sit across from each other and eat food and talk about things that aren't... this?"

Your grin only widened as you nodded. “Yeah, as in a date.”

"Like... with clothes on?" she clarified, immediately wincing as soon as the words registered, her face flushing a fresh shade of pink. "I mean, obviously with clothes on. I'm not suggesting we go to a restaurant naked. Although, given the last twenty minutes, you might think I'm the type who would do that. I'm not. I have a very healthy respect for public indecency laws. Most of the time."

She laughed, the sound so utterly enamored that it took your breath away, and leaned forward, resting her forehead against yours. The position was intimate, blue eyes searching your face for any sign of a joke.

“Yes. I-I would really like that.” She nodded definitively, the gesture sending her nose nudging against yours. “I have so much research. An alarming amount, really. About everything.”

“…and I look forward to learning all about it,” you answered, words so sincere that it surprised even you.