eclectickss

[eclectickss]

i hope that my talk of butch agatha on T scares away any transphobes or people who don’t fw lesbians with funky genders 💜

[eclectickss]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 26)

Synopsis: The storm rages outside. Inside, glances linger, silence hums, and touch becomes its own kind of confession.

Word count: 5.4K

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Mentions of alcohol consumption, Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: Hey guysss😭 I’m so sorry for disappearing for a whole month! Things just got super busy with school, and I couldn’t update as soon as I wanted to. We just finished our 2nd semester (finally!), and in about a week we’ll start enrollment for summer classes. My school is on a trimestral schedule so yes, it gets really expensive and exhausting🤧💸

But while I have these two weeks of break, I’ll do my best to keep writing and giving you new chapters as often as I can💜

So here it is, Chapter 26. I really hope it was worth the wait. Enjoy!!🥰

After your bodies have cooled off from the heat of everything, you both climb into the bathtub, water still warm, steam lingering like a secret. You wash each other off slowly—tender hands, lazy kisses—and when you're finally done, you get out together. Towels drape around your bodies like makeshift robes, and you rummage through your bag to offer her something to wear. She ends up in one of your fitted shirts—it hugs her a little too well—and pajama bottoms that sit just right on her hips. You throw on a loose shirt and shorts. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous. 

Back in bed, you crawl beneath the sheets and she follows, curling up behind you without a word. Her arm wraps around your waist, her fingers gently brushing your stomach. You feel her exhale against your neck, her breath soft and steady. It’s stupid how warm and right it feels. 

And then—KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. 

You both flinch. 

It starts as a knock. Then louder. Then banging. 

“What the fuck,” Agatha mutters, voice gravelly and irritated, still half-asleep. “Who the hell—” 

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Ignore it. It's probably a prank. It’ll go away.” 

It doesn’t. 

Then comes a voice—muffled, but urgent. Familiar. 

“Y/N! Y/N, open up! It’s Billy—it’s an emergency!” 

Your eyes shoot open. Your stomach drops. Agatha sits up, eyes wide, hair tousled, lips parted in disbelief. “Shit,” she says. 

Panic sets in. 

You leap out of bed, heart pounding. “Bathroom. Hide. Now.” 

Agatha doesn’t even argue—she grabs her clothes off the floor and rushes into the bathroom. You hear the door shut just as you reach your front door, trying to steady your breathing, trying to look like you didn’t just have sex with the Governor of Washington. 

You open the door. 

Billy’s standing there, face pale, brows pinched together in pure concern. “Governor Harkness is missing.” 

You blink. “Wait—what?” 

“She’s gone. No one’s seen her since after lunch. The guards already checked the whole hotel—indoor pool, outdoor pool, rooftop bar, buffet, her room. Nothing.” 

You widen your eyes for effect, eyebrows arching. “Oh my God. Are you serious?” 

Billy nods, running a hand through his hair. “We even called her phone. No answer.” 

Your stomach twists—not just from guilt, but from fuck, you just know someone might’ve seen her enter your room. Or worse—the cameras. 

“Where’s the last place you saw her?” he asks, eyes searching yours. 

Your brain flashes—Agatha’s fingers between your thighs, the way she whispered your name like a promise, the shower, the way she laughed against your skin before you both passed out wrapped in each other. You feel heat crawl up your neck. 

“After lunch,” you say smoothly, calling on every ounce of drama club experience you’ve ever had. “That’s the last time I saw her.” 

He believes you. God, he buys it. His shoulders relax just slightly. 

“I’m gonna check the front desk and see if they can pull the cameras,” he says. “Might help.” 

Your heart nearly stops. 

You nod quickly, pretending to be the calm, logical one. “Yeah—yeah, good idea. That’ll help. I’m sure she’s just… somewhere.” 

He offers you a grateful smile. “Thanks. I’ll see you downstairs?” 

You nod. “Just give me a sec.” 

As soon as the door closes, you spin around. 

The bathroom door creaks open. 

Agatha peeks her head out, amused. “So… I definitely need to get back to my room before he checks the cameras.” 

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, you definitely do.” 

She steps out, crossing to you, her hands brushing your sides again like she can’t help it. “See you at dinner?” 

You nod, smirking. “See you at dinner.” 

You lean in and kiss her—quick, but warm. You both linger for a second before pulling away. Agatha bends down, picks up her cover-up and bikini from the floor, then walks toward you again and kisses you once more—deeper, this time. 

Then she walks to your door. 

You follow, heart still racing but for a very different reason now. You open it, and she turns to look at you. 

You nod—go. 

She slips out, quietly unlocking and slipping into her room across the hall. 

The moment you close your door, you exhale. 

And then you grin. Big. Stupid. 

You’re smiling like an idiot. 

- 

Later that evening, you take your time getting ready—just enough to look effortless. A beige button-up shirt, sleeves rolled, paired with dark trousers that sit comfortably on your hips. You tie your hair into a bun, neat but not too polished. A little blush, a dab of lip tint, a spritz of that perfume she once complimented. You check yourself once in the mirror, grab your phone, and leave the room. 

You knock on Agatha’s door. 

It opens a few seconds later, and there she is—hair brushed out, loose waves falling naturally. She’s dressed in a deep wine-colored blouse tucked into high-waisted pants. Casual, but the kind of casual that still makes your stomach flutter. 

She gives you that smile. “Come in.” 

You step inside, lips twitching. “What took you so long?” 

Agatha hums, shutting the door behind you. “Oh, you know,” she says with a low, teasing lilt. “Was just trying to recover from earlier.” 

You blink. “Recover?” 

She walks past you, deliberate, smug. “Mmhmm,” she purrs, grabbing her clutch. “I was this close to finishing again just remembering your moans.” 

You choke. 

She turns to you slowly, clearly enjoying herself. “Though next time, if you’d like to return the favor, I wouldn’t mind switching places... just once.” 

Your face heats up. “Agatha.” 

“Hmm?” she smirks, all too proud. 

You open your mouth to throw something back—something bold, something that’ll make her bite her lip—but her phone rings. 

The sound breaks through the tension like cold water. 

Agatha glances at the screen. “It’s the kids,” she says softly, then answers. 

It’s a video call. 

The moment the screen lights up, two familiar faces fill the frame—Valentina and Nicholas. Your godchildren. You instantly smile. 

“Hi, babies,” Agatha says, her voice gentler now, soft in a way only mothers can do. “Are you okay?” 

“We’re okay!” they echo together, a little blurry but happy. 

“What about you, Mommy?” Valentina asks. 

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” Agatha says, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “I can’t come home tonight because of the hurricane, but I’ll try tomorrow, alright?” 

You watch her, quietly. The way her eyes crease when she worries. The shift in her tone. She’s warm. Real. And you’re seeing her like this—with her guard down. It does something to your chest. 

Then Agatha says, “Oh—and look who’s here with me.” She turns the camera your way. 

You smile at the screen. “Hey, Val. Nicky. You two holding down the fort?” 

They both squeal your name in excitement. 

You wave, grinning. “Yeah, we’ll try to get home tomorrow, I promise, okay? I’ll take good care of your mom tonight.” 

You glance at Agatha when you say that—slow, knowing—and her eyes meet yours. Heat. Then you look back at the screen, clearing your throat. 

“So, don’t worry about Mommy, okay? She’s in good hands.” 

They believe you without question.  

Agatha turns the screen back to herself, her voice dropping to something gentle again as she reminds them, “Brush your teeth. Sleep early. Be good. Okay?” 

“We will! Love you, Mommy!” 

“Love you too, darlings. Now go eat.” 

She ends the call, her expression lingering for just a moment before she places the phone in her purse.  

When she looks at you again, she’s smirking. 

You narrow your eyes, confused. 

“What?” 

She bites her lip, lets out a breath of a chuckle. “Take good care of me, huh?” 

You blink. 

She smirks. “We’ll see about that.” 

And then—she winks. 

Your brain short-circuits. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. 

Agatha just laughs, brushing past you as she opens the door. “Come on. Dinner’s waiting.” 

And you? You’re already thinking about dessert. 

- 

The restaurant inside the hotel is softly lit—elegant, quiet, humming with polite conversation and the clink of polished silverware. You’re seated at a round table with Agatha beside you, Billy across, the driver and two bodyguards flanking the other chairs. Everyone looks like they belong here: pressed collars, soft voices, expensive wine glasses sweating gently onto linen. 

You’re playing your part well—composed, charming, laughing at the right jokes, nodding along as Billy mentions something about the revised schedule for tomorrow. Agatha, beside you, hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. She’s sipping her wine, eyes half-lidded, looking devastating in that wine-colored blouse from earlier. You think she’s just tired. Or bored. 

And then you feel it. 

Her hand, sliding slowly under the tablecloth, landing gently on your thigh. 

You stiffen, your breath catching in your throat. 

She doesn’t look at you. Not even a glance. Her face is perfectly neutral, her wine glass tilted delicately toward her mouth. Her fingers, though—those are not behaving. 

They move with maddening slowness. First resting. Then brushing. Then tracing tiny, idle circles right above your knee. 

You choke—literally. 

The sip of water you were taking goes down the wrong pipe and you cough, hard, trying to keep it contained. The entire table reacts. 

“Miss? Are you alright?” Billy is already halfway out of his chair, concern etched across his face. 

You wave a hand, breathless, forcing a laugh. “I’m—hah—I’m fine. Just the wrong pipe, sorry.” 

He hovers a little, unsure, but eventually sits again when you insist. 

You take another sip to clear your throat, and when you glance at Agatha, she’s finally looking at you. 

She raises a brow, amused, eyes glittering with something far too smug. 

Under the table, her hand starts moving again. 

You shoot her a look—half warning, half plea—but she just leans in, lips brushing the rim of her wine glass, and whispers, “Sensitive tonight, are we?” 

You want to die. 

Or kiss her. 

Or grind against her fingers until you fall apart in this goddamn chair. 

But you smile instead. A tight, forced, diplomatic smile. You pretend to listen to the driver telling some story about traffic back in the city. You even nod. You are so proud of yourself. 

But Agatha’s hand? Oh, her hand is not done. 

She slips it higher, fingers slow and deliberate, until they slide just beneath the hem of your beige button-up, where the fabric is loosely tucked into your dark trousers. She doesn’t rush—just brushes the skin of your lower stomach, then glides down to the waistband, slipping under it like she owns the right. 

Then—lower still. 

Her palm flattens against your inner thigh, warm and firm. Her thumb starts stroking in maddeningly slow circles, right where your pulse is thudding hardest. Just high enough to tease, low enough to make you ache. 

You clench your jaw. 

Your heart pounds—deep, thunderous, a caged animal in your chest. 

You cross your legs, trying to get a grip—trying to anchor yourself. 

Agatha’s hand doesn't move far. It slides inward, just a few inches, until her fingers rest at the tender place where your inner thigh curves back toward your body. Not your center. Not yet. 

Then she holds you there. Just pressure—steady and intentional. 

Her fingers don’t grope. They command. 

You feel the weight of her touch, the way her palm firms against your thigh, subtly coaxing your legs to part again—not with a push, but with the quiet force of someone who knows you’ll obey. 

And god, you do. 

Your muscles relax involuntarily. Your legs shift—opening. Just enough for her to slip in further if she wanted. She doesn’t. 

Not yet. 

Your breath stutters. 

You grip your fork tighter, trying to keep your face neutral, trying not to give yourself away. She’s not even looking at you—she’s chewing, calmly nodding along to something Billy is saying about traffic delays and backup generators. 

Then her pinky slips lower. Just barely—just enough to brush the curve between your thigh and your center, right where your trousers start to cling. 

A soft, damp heat is already gathering between your legs. 

And still—no one notices. 

You're going to lose your mind. 

- 

You laugh at something Billy says. You nod when the driver asks if you’ve ever been to Mount Rushmore. You take another bite of food, even though you’re sure your body has forgotten how to chew. 

Meanwhile, Agatha leans toward you slightly. “You’re very quiet,” she says, just for your ears. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?” 

You want to scream. 

You want to drag her to the bathroom and ruin her. 

But you manage a breathless, “Perfect,” through a smile so tight it might crack. 

- 

Dessert arrives with silver spoons, delicate plates, and polite murmurs. You barely register the sight of tiramisu being set in front of you, the glistening dust of cocoa on top, the careful drizzle of liqueur. 

Because Agatha hasn’t stopped. 

Her hand never left your thigh, and now—now—her fingers shift just slightly, and it’s enough to brush the exact place where you're aching. You gasp, soft and near-silent, but it betrays you anyway. Billy glances up. You wave your hand like you’re reacting to the sweetness of the dessert, like that’s what knocked the air from your lungs. 

But the truth is— 

Agatha is touching you. 

Over your panties, through your trousers. Slow, calculated pressure, the pads of her fingers moving in small, lazy circles against your heat. You’re soaked. There’s no denying it now. You can feel it—the warmth spreading down, dampening the seat of your panties, pressing dark into the fabric of your pants. The shame of it makes your cheeks flush—but God, the shame just turns you on more. 

She knows it too. 

She shifts beside you like nothing’s happening, bringing a spoonful of dessert to her mouth, lips closing around it with slow, sultry purpose. And while she does, her fingers press just a little harder. A slow, steady pulse. 

Your thighs clench. She feels it. Her smile grows. 

And all you can do is sit there, barely breathing, trying to hold your spoon steady as you force a small bite of dessert past your lips. You almost moan from the taste—almost, but you bite down on it. Everything feels heightened. Every soft murmur from the others at the table, every scrape of silverware, every brush of linen napkin makes you more aware of the fact that you are soaking wet in public, and Agatha’s fingers are still moving against your pussy through layers that aren’t hiding anything anymore. 

You try not to move. Not to push into her hand. But God, you want to. 

She leans in again, her voice a whisper meant for only you. 

“I can feel it,” she breathes, her words slipping hot into your ear. “You’re dripping for me, baby. I wonder if it’s starting to show.” 

You jerk slightly. You know there’s a patch now. You can feel the moisture pressing against your trousers, humid and dark. Your hips twitch, barely, and her fingers reward you with a tighter circle, a deeper press right on your clit, and— 

Fuck. 

You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut for a millisecond too long. 

“You okay?” Billy asks again, because Billy is unfortunately very attentive, and you hate him for it right now. 

You smile—no teeth, no joy, just pure survival. “Yeah,” you say, voice shaky, “just tired.” 

“Need some air?” he offers. 

Before you can answer, Agatha, all sweet and motherly again, chimes in: “She’s fine. Long day.” 

Her fingers don’t stop. If anything, they get bolder. Slower. She presses deeper now, right against the center of your wet panties, and starts drawing smaller, tighter circles, teasing you toward the edge, right there, dragging it out just enough to make your stomach knot with tension. 

Your legs twitch again. You’re breathing through your nose, smiling at nothing. You laugh when someone makes a joke about the hotel’s wine list but you’re seeing stars now. There’s no wine. No dessert. No table. Just Agatha’s hand owning your entire body and no one else having a clue. 

She leans back again, cool and smug. “You’re doing so well,” she whispers. “I could make you come like this, couldn’t I? Right here, while they’re all finishing dessert.” 

You whimper—but it’s low, barely audible. Just a hitched breath. 

She pushes just a little harder. You jerk your hand under the table and grip her wrist—not to stop her, but to feel it. Feel the intent, the possessiveness. She lets you. Her fingers grind slow against your soaked center. 

“I could make you come,” she repeats, her tone darker now. “But I won’t. Not yet.” 

And then, cruelly, she pulls her hand back. 

Just like that. The pressure disappears. 

You nearly cry. 

She licks the tip of her spoon, then turns to you and says—out loud, in her usual voice—“Are you sure you don’t want to get some air?” 

Her eyes flicker, daring you. 

Your body is trembling. Your panties are soaked. Your thighs are clenched. Your breath is uneven. 

You glance down, barely, and you can see it—the shadow of moisture on your trousers. Not obvious to others, but to you? Devastating. 

You nod. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Air sounds good.” 

She stands first, smoothing her blouse. “We’ll just take a moment,” she says to the table, all casual grace and poise. 

You follow her out, thighs pressed together, arousal pooling between your legs. You don’t look back. You just follow her lead. 

The air in the hallway is cooler, quiet. Muted carpet beneath your shoes, the soft hum of hotel lights overhead. You’re still trembling, your soaked panties sticking to you with every step, your skin flushed with heat. You watch the sway of Agatha’s hips as she walks ahead, calm and purposeful, as if she hadn’t just nearly made you come at a dinner table full of people. 

You catch up to her in just a few strides, your voice low. “Where are we going?” 

She presses the elevator button with one hand, then turns her head to look at you. Her eyes—still sharp, still hungry. 

“My room,” she says simply. 

You blink, trying to ground yourself. “Wait—but what about Billy? And the others?” 

“They’ll be fine.” She shrugs. “Billy has my credit card. I’ll text him later.” 

“But—” 

“They’ll assume I went to bed. And you?” She leans in, whispering near your ear, her breath hot. “You looked like you needed some help walking.” 

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. 

You both step in. 

The doors close behind you with a hush—and the second they do, it changes. 

Agatha moves fast, crowding you into the corner of the elevator with one arm pressed beside your head and the other grabbing your waist. Her lips are on yours before you can breathe. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s fire. Her tongue presses into your mouth like it belongs there, and you open for her instinctively, helplessly, your arms clutching at her waist as you kiss back with everything you’ve been holding in all night. 

She bites your bottom lip, tugging, then kisses it better, her thigh slipping between yours, pressing up. You moan into her mouth, low and broken, grinding into her like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. 

“You’re soaking through,” she whispers against your mouth. “I can feel it.” 

You gasp. She doesn’t stop. 

Her hand slips down, squeezing your ass through your trousers, dragging you harder against her leg. “I should’ve fucked you at the table,” she murmurs. “Let you fall apart while Billy smiled at the waiter.” 

The elevator dings. 

You freeze. 

The doors begin to slide open—and Agatha pulls away from you with lightning speed, adjusting her blouse, her breathing calm but eyes still alight with want. You mirror her—barely. You wipe your lips, straighten your shirt, try to not look like you were about to come apart seconds ago. 

A man in a hotel polo shirt steps in, nodding at you both. He presses a floor button and stands a respectful distance away. 

You try not to breathe too loudly. Try not to look at Agatha. 

She’s standing beside you now, hands folded, lips still flushed, eyes focused on the light-up floor numbers as if she didn’t just tongue-fuck your mouth like she missed it. 

But then—her hand brushes yours. 

Casual. A touch. Nothing more. 

And she whispers, so softly you almost miss it, “You’re going to come on my mouth the second we close that door.” 

Your knees nearly give out. 

The elevator dings again. 

The man steps out, offers a polite “Good evening,” and disappears down the hallway. 

The doors begin to close. 

Before they even finish sliding shut, Agatha grabs your hand, dragging you down the hallway with a new urgency, your heartbeat racing. 

She opens her door with practiced ease, card tapping, handle turning. 

The moment you’re both inside—door shut, lock, then turns to you, and something in her gaze—something dark, burning—pins you where you stand. 

“Take it off,” she says, voice low, rough. 

Your eyes widen. “What?” 

“Your pants,” she clarifies, taking a step forward. “Take them off.” 

There’s no room for question. No softness in her voice now. You’re too far gone to argue anyway. With shaky hands, you reach for the waistband, fingers fumbling as you unfasten your trousers. She watches—silent, eyes dragging over every inch of you. When you finally push them down, she catches sight of the soaked fabric between your thighs. 

Her breath catches. 

“You really were dripping,” she murmurs. 

You feel your face burn, your thighs instinctively trying to close—but she’s already there, hand gripping your hip, thumb stroking over the band of your underwear. Her touch makes you shiver. You're still wearing your shirt, your panties, but you’re completely exposed in every way that matters. 

She sinks to her knees. 

Oh god. 

“Agatha—” Your voice breaks on her name, barely a whisper. 

“Shh.” She presses her mouth right over your center, the heat of her breath making your knees buckle. “Let me taste you.” 

And then—she licks you through the soaked fabric. Long, slow, deliberate. 

You moan—helpless, wrecked. Your head thuds softly against the wall behind you as she mouths at you, teasing through your panties, tongue tracing the soaked outline of your folds, nose pressed against you like she can’t get close enough. 

“You smell like sex,” she says, voice thick. 

Then she hooks her fingers into the sides of your underwear and pulls—slowly, torturously—until it slips down your legs. 

The air hits you. Cool. Exposed. 

And then her mouth is on you, directly—no fabric, no barrier. 

You cry out, hips jerking forward. Her tongue flicks over your clit, then presses flat and heavy, licking up your slick with slow, greedy strokes. She moans like it’s her favorite flavor. You thread your fingers through her hair, clutching tight as your legs tremble, thighs spread shamelessly to give her more. 

“Please,” you gasp, “please don’t stop—” 

She doesn’t. 

She licks you deeper, slower. Not fast. Not rough. Just... intentional. She’s savoring you. Driving you mad. And her hands—oh, her hands are gripping your thighs to keep you right where she wants you, her thumbs brushing circles into your skin to ground you. 

You can barely breathe. 

You look down, and she’s staring up at you while she licks—tongue buried deep, eyes locked on yours—and it’s too much. 

You whimper, breath breaking. “I’m—Agatha, I’m gonna—” 

She doesn’t move. 

She just groans into you and sucks your clit, slow and perfect. 

And that’s it. 

Your orgasm crashes through you so fast and so hard you nearly collapse. Your hands clutch at her hair, your back arches off the wall, your legs threatening to give out. You ride it out on her tongue, gasping her name, your thighs trembling as you come completely undone. 

She doesn’t pull away until you’re shaking. 

Then—only then—she rises, lips wet, mouth swollen, eyes dark with satisfaction. 

You’re still panting, brain barely working. 

She cups your jaw, presses a soft kiss to your lips, lets you taste yourself on her tongue. 

And then she says—low and certain: 

“Now take your shirt off and get on the bed. I’m not done with you yet.” 

You do what she says. 

Still breathless, you reach for the buttons of your shirt with shaky fingers, undoing them one by one as Agatha watches, arms crossed, lips parted, pupils blown wide with want. 

You shrug it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. 

You’re left in your bra—thin, pale fabric stretched over your breasts, your nipples already pebbling beneath the material, aching. 

Agatha’s eyes drop. 

And her mouth twitches into something sinful. 

“God, look at you,” she murmurs, stepping forward. “Still flushed. Still wet. And now I get these.” 

She cups your breasts through the bra—firm, full, confident. 

You gasp, back arching instinctively into her touch. 

She groans, low in her throat. “You’re so fucking sensitive tonight.” 

You nod, helpless. 

“Take it off.” 

You reach behind, fumbling with the clasp of your bra, hands unsteady. She steps closer, brushing your fingers aside. 

“Let me.” 

She unhooks you with ease—fingertips grazing your spine—and you shiver at the closeness, at the heat of her breath on your shoulder. 

The bra slips off your arms. 

She drops it to the floor, and now you’re bare before her—topless, trembling, thighs still sticky from her mouth. 

Agatha exhales, slow. Like she’s trying to memorize the sight of you. 

“Perfect,” she whispers. 

And then—her hands are on your breasts. 

She palms them gently at first, brushing her thumbs over your nipples in slow, slow circles. You whimper—a soft, broken sound—and she leans in to press open-mouthed kisses across your chest, down the slope of one breast, nuzzling the softness with a low moan. 

“You like this?” she murmurs against your skin. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes—fuck—please, Agatha—” 

She takes one nipple between her fingers and pinches—firm but careful. 

You gasp. 

Your hips twitch. 

She watches your reaction closely, then does it again, flicking the sensitive bud between her fingers while the other hand rolls your other nipple, teasing, stroking, tugging just enough to make your toes curl. 

You’re melting. 

“You’re shaking,” she whispers, voice dark with pride. 

Then her mouth replaces her hand—she sucks one nipple into her mouth, tongue flicking over it in soft, rhythmic strokes while her other hand keeps playing with the opposite one. 

You moan—head back, thighs clenching, spine arching into her as her mouth toys with you, worships you. Her teeth graze—light, enough to make you whimper—and then she soothes it with her tongue, hot and slick and so good. 

She switches to the other breast without warning, and the loss stings—but then her mouth wraps around your other nipple and your knees nearly give out. 

You clutch her shoulders, panting. 

“I c-can’t—” you choke out. “You’re gonna make me come again—” 

She pulls back slightly, lips wet, breath shaky. “Just from this?” 

You nod, helpless. Embarrassed. So turned on. 

Her smile is wicked. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly, almost sweetly. “Let me.” 

She brings both hands up now, fingers tweaking, rolling, tugging your nipples in tandem while her mouth kisses up your collarbone, to your throat, to your jaw. 

“You’re mine tonight,” she whispers. “You come when I say. You shake when I say. And you fall apart for me…” 

She pinches both nipples—harder. 

“…right now.” 

You cry out. 

The pressure. The heat. Her voice. Her mouth. Her fingers— 

It breaks you. 

Your orgasm rips through you—just from the way she plays with your breasts—your legs trembling, body arching against hers as your head falls back and you moan, wrecked and open. 

She catches you when you collapse, pulling you into her arms, holding you against her chest while you shake. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, dazed. “Fuck, Agatha—” 

She kisses your temple. 

You’re still trembling—sensitive, bare, breath foggy—when she holds you close. 

Your cheek presses against her chest, your lips brushing the collar of her blouse, and for a second you think maybe she’s giving you a break. 

But then she pulls back. 

She cups your chin, tilts your face up to meet hers. 

And her voice—low, firm, devastating—says, “Now take this off me.” 

You blink up at her. 

She straightens her spine, hands falling to her sides, presenting herself like a gift. That wine-colored blouse tucked neatly into her high-waisted pants, the fabric hugging her waist, her breasts outlined in perfect silhouette. 

You sit up, slowly. 

And begin with the first button. 

Your fingers move carefully, deliberately. One button at a time. The soft pop of thread slipping through fabric feels impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. Her breathing deepens as you go lower, her chest rising and falling more visibly with each undone button. 

You push the blouse off her shoulders. 

It pools behind her like silk, revealing a dark, lace-trimmed bra that hugs her curves too well. Your mouth goes dry. You run your hands over the bare skin of her collarbones, down the tops of her breasts, your thumbs grazing the edge of the bra cups. 

She watches you. Still. Breath controlled. Letting you take your time. 

“Next,” she whispers. 

You kneel in front of her, your hands sliding to her waist, and slowly you undo the clasp of her pants, tugging them open. You press a kiss to her stomach, right above the waistband. Then another. Then a third, slower. 

She makes a sound this time—quiet, guttural. 

You look up at her, teasing. “You’re already wet, aren’t you?” 

Her jaw tightens. 

You smirk and tug her pants down. She steps out of them with slow elegance, left only in her heels, her matching dark lace panties, and that sinful bra. God. 

She’s magnificent. 

“You can worship me now,” she says, half-joking. 

But you take her seriously. 

You rise onto your knees, hands on her thighs, lips brushing the inside of one as you whisper, “Sit on the edge of the bed.” 

Her brow arches. 

But she obeys. 

She sits—legs apart, breasts rising with every breath—and you lean in between her thighs. 

You press kisses to her skin, trailing up the inside of her leg, taking your time, hands smoothing upward to her hips. You nuzzle your face against her clothed center, inhaling the heady scent of her arousal already soaking into the lace. 

She shudders. 

You pull the panties aside—not off, just aside—and look up at her as you drag your tongue from the base of her slit to her clit in one long, slow stroke. 

Her eyes flutter closed. 

You do it again. 

Then again, with pressure. 

And then your mouth is on her, tongue working in slow, deliberate circles around her clit as you moan into her heat. 

She grabs the edge of the bed, head falling back. “F-fuck…” 

You smile against her, then suck her clit gently, your tongue flattening against her as your fingers slide up to toy with her panties—still pushed to the side, barely hanging on. You keep licking, keep teasing, letting your fingers trail up to her thighs, squeezing, grounding her. 

She moans louder now, her hips beginning to move, trying to grind against your mouth. 

But you hold her still. 

You pull back just enough to whisper against her, “Be good.” 

She lets out a breathless laugh. “You’re getting cocky.” 

You grin. “You like it.” 

She opens her eyes, looks down at you with fire. 

And then—your mouth is back on her, this time fast, tongue flicking over her clit while your fingers trace around her entrance, slow and threatening. 

She grabs your hair. 

Hard. 

You moan into her, the vibration making her curse above you. “Y/N—” 

You press two fingers into her—slow, deep, curling upward just enough to make her jolt. 

“Fuck—” 

You smile, your lips sealed around her clit, fingers fucking into her now with purpose. You moan into her again, letting her ride your mouth, letting her lose it, and she does—completely. 

Her thighs tense. Her abs tighten. And then she’s shaking, her orgasm hitting like a wave, loud and raw and hers. She cries out your name, hand tangled in your hair, body arching off the bed. 

You don’t stop until her thighs twitch and she’s gasping—“Okay, okay, f-fuck, stop—” 

You pull back. 

Your mouth is wet with her. Your chin glistens. You lick your lips, eyes still locked on hers. 

She stares at you like she’s never seen you before. 

And then she reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you up. 

Onto her lap. 

Straddling her. 

And she says, voice wrecked, “I’m gonna ride you until you forget your own name.” 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura @upsidedowndanvers @iiiheartwomen @cocoever @morgananyx @wifeofmanymilfs @lowlyjelly

[eclectickss]

even if I disappear for a little while, I always gotchu melval community 🙏🙏

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i love them..

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Im too lazy to render the hair, so this is what you get.

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umm did anyone say Lilia x Lorna for day 4 of AAA Week? I've been thinking about this forEVER (whotfelsewantedtobelynnyx and I have been calling them Divine Melody)

I'll see you guys again for day 8!

@agathaallalongweek

[eclectickss]

‘She’s with the Director’

Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader Universe Masterlist

Maya Mason Masterlist

Welcome to my Maya Mason x Director fem!reader, which I will be affectionately referring to as She’s with the Director Universe! These will be fics within the same universe as my fic ‘She’s with the Director’, all centered around the relationship between Maya Mason and FemDirector!reader. You’re Hollywood’s strangest rising Director, a cryptid in lipstick and leather boots, with a brain full of ghosts and a film reel coiled around your heart. And you’re in love with Maya Mason, Continental Studios’ head of marketing, the industry’s most stylish storm, quick-witted, brand-devoted, Gucci-wrapped, and utterly unmatched.

These stories were originally designed to be standalones that could be read in any order, but as this world grows, a little organization might help. So, I will put these fics in chronological order on the Masterlist. You can still pick and choose and read in any order you want.

🎥 = Smut

She’s with the Director 🎥

When Hollywood’s strangest new director begins quietly shopping her next script, Matt Remnick loses his mind trying to find her. Mysterious, brilliant, and barely reachable, she’s the kind of director that could give him his Rosemary’s Baby… if he can track her down. Maya Mason isn’t worried. Because the strangest woman in Hollywood that the studio is chasing? She already has her.

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kiss city

summary: you're the head of a studio that's caught the attention of one of Continental's biggest and brightest directors, causing the team at Continental to scramble as they try to keep her in the fold. relationship: Maya x Reader (established) content notes: explicit smut (18+), light bondage, nipple clamps, clit clamp, vibrator, face sitting, masturbation, AFAB reader, reader is referred to as girl/babygirl/babe/baby/bitch, maya says "fuck" every other sentence... I think that's it.

disclaimer: probably nothing about how i describe the film industry working is accurate lol. forgive me word count: 10.8k (ao3)

It was quieter than usual in the conference room at Continental Studios that morning, especially for having all of the firm’s biggest players sitting around the table for an emergency meeting. It wasn’t a tense quiet—not yet, at least. Just charged, simmering with the news Matt had shared moments before: Bridget Archer was considering another studio for her next project.

“Well, who is it?” Sal asked, not undeterred by the prospect of losing Archer just yet. “Is she thinking Universal? Fox?”

Matt took a deep breath and cast a quick glance in Maya’s direction. She didn’t pretend not to notice, per se, but she was too busy checking her nails to acknowledge him at the moment.

“Adoculos.”

Everyone else’s eyes found Maya then, and the weight of their combined stares forced her to look up from her cuticles. “What?” she asked, even though she knew damn well why she’d suddenly caught everyone’s eye.

“Did you know about this?” Sal asked from his seat across the table.

“I fucking told him about it,” Maya said, gesturing toward Matt with her now thoroughly-inspected hand. “You’re welcome.”

Matt cleared his throat as everyone’s focus returned to him at the front of the room. “We can’t let it happen.” He shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say. “She almost single-handedly made Q4 our best quarter in eleven years.”

Quinn leaned forward in her chair, eager to contribute. “Dreaming in Violet killed it last year. Critical darling and it did great in theaters. Better than expected. Topped the Coen Brothers project that came out at the same time in its second week.”

Anyone who didn’t know that shouldn’t have been in the room, but it was business, and they needed to lay all their cards down.

Matt took back over, hands flat on the table in front of him. “We need her next project. It has to be us. We need to make it so that people know if Bridget Archer is on a film, it’s coming from Continental.”

No one said anything, but everyone sat in silent agreement.

“We’re meeting with her this afternoon, and we’re going to give her whatever she wants,” Matt said, pointing down at the table with one hand as if it was marked with a play-by-play on retaining your studio’s highest-grossing director. “What we did for Scorcese, but multiply it by ten.”

“We’re going to kiss her ass,” Sal chimed in, translating to the rest of the group who didn’t necessarily need the assistance. “Give her the metaphorical hand job of the century.”

Maya scoffed. “If you’re planning a hand job for Bridget Archer, then you’ve already fucked up your pitch.”

“Fine. The cunnilingus job of the century,” Sal said, exasperated. He let the thought hang in the air for a moment before shaking his head. “Doesn’t sound as good.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow at him. “It’ll sound better to the queer auteur who has at least one allusion to the vagina in every scene.”

“We have the upper hand here. We’ve proved we can be the kind of studio where she can make the kind of movie she wants to make,” Matt popped back in, trying to get the conversation back on track. “But Adoculos isn’t unworthy competition. It’s got that art house prestige—the kind an indie-at-heart director still longs for, even after they’ve gotten the major deal. There’s also that automatic rapport—the sapphic bond. We have to overcome that.”

Maya couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the prospect. “Archer is not going to choose the other studio just because the studio head is gay unless you act like a moron and say something like that to her face.” She thought about it for another beat before raising a finger in warning toward him. “And don’t mention what you did to Scorcese, either. We don’t need to remind anyone of that fucking disaster.”

Tyler snapped his fingers in agreement beside her.

“Fine. No Scorcese,” Matt conceded, a grimace crossing his face at the memory.

“So we keep it director-friendly,” Quinn said, projecting confidence in that junior-exec way of hers. “Creative control. Big budget. Significant upfront and equity—”

Maya’s voice, more brash, cut in. “Offer her the terms that would make a director cream their fucking pants to keep working with us.” Matt looked at her skeptically, given her objection to Sal’s earlier metaphor, but she just shrugged. “Genital inclusive.”

The conversation went on, discussing every possible way they could think of to appeal to Archer in ways they hadn’t already during her last film. Quinn had three full pages of notes by the time the ideas stopped flowing and the apprehension began flowing too freely.

Matt sighed the way he did when he was starting to regret having ever being offered studio head, then nodded in Maya’s direction. “Do you, uh,” he said, voice low and yet, still anything but subtle, “Do you have any idea what they’re offering?”

Maya snorted, leaning back in her chair, elbows perched on the armrests. “You’re lucky we know she’s thinking about leaving at all.”

Matt shrank then, just a bit, the amount of shrinking he did anytime Maya pushed back, more out of respect than fear.

“We don’t need to know what they’re offering,” Quinn said, her voice cool and steady. “We have a plan. We just have to stick to it.”

Matt ran his hand through his hair as he tried to keep calm. “All right, let’s take a lunch. The meeting’s at two, so be here before then.”

-*-*-

The meeting lasted longer than it should have, and yet, by the end, no one was sure they had Archer back on the hook.

“Bridget, thank you so much for coming in today,” Matt said, shaking the hand of the woman—short, but still taking up the whole room. “We are really, really excited for this opportunity, and we couldn’t be more willing to make it happen. Let me walk you out.”

Matt led the way out of the conference room with Archer and her team behind him. When the door swung closed, Sal immediately pointed to Quinn.

“Quinn—go. Don’t let him fuck this up.”

Quinn scurried to her feet and ducked out of the conference room, trailing the group for only a few steps before she was walking in stride with Archer’s publicist, close enough to hear whatever Matt was saying (and to jump in and redirect if needed).

“So,” Maya said after the Bridget and her entourage had fully disappeared down the staircase. She pulled a vape pen from her pocket and brought it to her mouth before cocking her head in the direction Quinn had just disappeared into. “How’s that going?”

“There’s no ‘that,’” he answered, but he wasn’t a good liar.

“Okay, man,” Maya said, raising her hands as vapor rose up in wisps around her, sharing a look with Tyler through the brief mist.

Sal swatted at the disappearing cloud from across the table. “Could you not do that in here?” he asked, the words laced with an irritation he wasn’t fully ready to unleash but needed to make known.

“It’s medicinal,” Maya said in response, but put the pen away anyway.

Matt and Quinn returned minutes later, neither looking particularly concerned, but not too optimistic, either.

“She’s going to decide by the end of the day,” Matt said steadily. “They’ll call.”

“What the hell is Ad-hacks offering that’s keeping her from saying yes? You practically handed over the keys to the studio,” Sal asked, saying what they’re all thinking. Maya’s lips twitched, but she had enough loyalty to not give Sal ‘the look’ at the nickname. “I think we’ll actually lose money on this movie if she agrees to our terms, no matter how well it does.”

Matt grimaced briefly, like he’d been trying not to think about it, then held his head high, resolute. “It’ll be worth it, if it means she sticks with us for her next few features.”

“And if she does one and bounces?” Maya asked. “Or it flops despite my undoubtedly fire socials campaign?”

“We can ask the hypothetical questions after we find out if she’s staying,” Matt said, cutting the conversation off.

They dispersed shortly after, with the understanding that they were all sticking around the Continental building until they got the news, good or bad.

Maya went back to her office to resume OK-ing poster proofs and scrolling through rough trailer cuts for movies that were coming out next quarter in between taking bites of her Postmates order, eyes on her monitor rather than her fork.

It was just past eight when Tyler came sprinting into her doorway, breathing heavily.

“Quinn said Matt’s on with Archer’s agent.”

“Shit,” Maya said, standing up immediately, meal half-eaten and forgotten on her desk, and trailing Tyler out into the hall.

“Did you tell Sal?” Maya asked as they came up on his office a few doors down.

“I did,” Quinn answered, coming up from behind them. “He’s just… taking a minute,” she muttered before taking off, like she wanted to be far away before Maya could ask any more questions. Tyler followed.

Maya looked in through the window to Sal’s office, and found him still sitting in his chair, looking a little drowsy with the imprint of a book slicing a red line down his cheek. He seemed to be in no hurry, and Maya was having none of it.

“Come on!” she called, banging on the glass with her palm.

Sal startled, making a face at her, but standing up to make his way down the hallway after her. The two of them slid into Matt’s office just as the call was ending, crowding around Matt next to Quinn and Tyler.

“Understood,” Matt said, his face locked in a grin. “Well, let her know we’d love to work with her again some time, OK? OK. Good to talk to you.”

Matt brought the phone down from his ear, the beep signifying the end of the call just barely audible to the rest of the group. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “That wasn’t how I hoped it would go.”

“Shit,” Sal breathed, dropping into the nearest chair. Not defeated, not even resigned. Just quiet shock.

“Fucking shit,” Maya parroted, taking the seat across from him. Her tongue jutted out into her cheek the way it always did when she was upset and trying to hide it.

“I can’t believe we lost her,” Quinn murmured, rounding out the immediate chorus of reactions.

“It’s all right,” Matt said in an attempt to convince them all, and especially himself. “I mean, it’s a loss, for sure, but we still have a whole roster of great directors—Wilde, Polley—“

“Not Scorcese,” Maya interrupted, though the quip lacked its usual bite.

“And not Howard,” Quinn added under her breath, like she was hoping no one would hear.

“Okay, fine,” Matt conceded. “I take the blame for those two, one-hundred percent. But I didn’t do anything wrong here, guys. We just got outbid.”

The room went quiet as everyone took in that truth.

The silence was broken by the buzz of Maya’s phone in her cargo pants pocket, then by the rustle of fabric as she fished it out. Despite it all, a small smirk crept onto Maya’s face as she read the incoming message, which Sal caught onto immediately.

“Tell your poacher girlfriend I said congrats,” he snorted lightly, though he only meant it half-heartedly.

“Hey,” Maya said, her fingers pausing mid-air with her response only half complete. “I’m pissed, too. No cap. I had some good ideas for that roll-out already. Sight un-fucking-seen.”

Tyler nodded solemnly to her left, like it was his greatest regret to deliver the next words to the rest of the group. “They were good.”

“And actually,” Maya continued, looking around the room, giving each person plenty of time to become reacquainted with her withering glare. “I’m offended as hell that everyone’s giving me the corporate espionage side-eye. Like I haven’t been the backbone of this studio for ten years. Be fucking for real.”

Matt cleared his throat again, clearly not recognizing the danger he was putting himself in. “I wouldn’t say marketing is the backbone of the studio. There’s nothing to market without the creative department, and—“

Matt trailed off when he noticed Maya’s fingers flexing against her chin and the wicked smile on her lips. “You wanna finish that?”

Matt shook his head, lips in a tight line. “No. I do not.”

The look on Maya’s face turned somehow deadlier at his response, reveling in the personal victory—a small one, sure, but there weren’t many others to claim from the rest of the day. “All right, chat, today is busted. I’m out.”

She stood from her chair, waving over her shoulder wordlessly at the muttered “goodbyes” as she headed back toward her office to grab her purse and go home.

As she walked out into the cooling Los Angeles evening air, she fished her phone back out from her purse, where she’d tossed it back up in her office. She held it screen facing up between her thumb and fingers, mic closest to her mouth. “Siri, text BBG.”

“Okay,” the robotic voice replied. “What do you want to say?”

-*-*-

Stay calm. Stay calm.

That had been your entire internal monologue for two hours, with no clear end in sight.

You were standing in the video village on the set of a film that you were this close to pulling the plug on, just taking the loss. It didn’t feel remotely worth the time, effort, or money anymore.

That afternoon (evening, really, but who was counting), you’d been called to the set by one of your junior execs who informed you that the crew had gotten approximately forty seconds of usable film in the last three days.

It wasn’t just mismanagement or poor planning causing the dysfunction. That’s something that you, as the studio head, wouldn’t normally be involved in, at least not to the same degree. The situation was just so far gone that there was no other choice but for you to be there. This wasn’t just incompetence. It was tension. It was hostility. It was a lead actor or the DP threatening to quit every other week. And you could link it all back to one person: the director.

You’d once had great respect for the director in question. You’d written papers on him in film school when he was just a big deal on the indie circuit, hiding your outright fangirling behind a thin veneer of academic stoicism to hand in to your professors. But you hadn’t worked with him at that point, and you could’ve never predicted then that, years later, you’d be getting called up regularly to serve as a glorified babysitter and ego-stroker to that man you’d been told to trust with a multi-million-dollar budget and your studio’s reputation.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t just a big name in the industry. He was also a close friend of your founding partner, a.k.a. the CFO of Adoculos Pictures, so wish as you might, there wasn’t very much you could do. You were just going to have to see it through unless someone literally died on set. But God you hoped that didn’t happen. That might be the only thing worse than staying the course.

You could handle it. That wasn’t ever in question. It wasn’t enjoyable, not in the slightest, but you could. You had a reputation for being able to work with the most difficult characters in the industry. A soothe sayer, they’d called you in the trade magazines on occasion. But that didn’t mean you wanted to.

Really, you should’ve been making your partner deal with this. It was his friend, his pet project. (Okay, maybe you’d been a big proponent at first. But not anymore.) Unfortunately, though, he had been spending time at the East Coast office over the last several weeks, so the burden had fallen to you.

At least if you were here, though, you knew something was getting done and the director wasn’t just going to get the pass because he had a buddy in high places. Not a whole lot of progress had been made in the short time that you’d been on location today, but the air did feel slightly lighter than it had when you’d arrived. At the very least, you’d managed to avoid another round of union penalties by firmly suggesting that it was break time—the amount in fees this production had already racked up by delaying or skipping breaks entirely made you balk when you first heard it yesterday.

The other members of the little enclave of folding chairs and video monitors had dispersed quickly after the director had made the begrudging announcement. He was still there though, grumbling under his breath, loud enough for you to hear but not for you to make out the words.

“See you after the break,” you said in as cordial a tone as you could muster in the moment.

He didn’t respond—not even under his breath. You held back a sigh.

As you walked away, you made a silent vow to yourself that, even if the film tripled its budget at the box office, you were going to make damn sure that your studio would never make a film with that guy ever again. The asshole.

After a little wandering around the property to stretch your legs and just be somewhere else for a while, you found yourself tucked away somewhere with trees and evening bird song and no cranky, argumentative directors or actors with bruised egos. A luxury.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere was probably going to be the only remotely relaxing part of the next 30 minutes. You were planning to call your partner, shame him into booking a seat on the first flight out of JFK tomorrow so he could start cleaning up his mess himself, and you knew it wasn’t going to be a sweet little chat.

Despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but smile when you unlocked your phone. It was still on your thread with Maya from earlier that evening when you’d gotten the call about Bridget Archer.

You’d barely gotten two minutes to bask in your success when you were called back to the more immediate realities of your situation, but those two minutes had been good.

As soon as you hung up with Archer’s agent—before you texted your partner, even before you told your assistant to call legal and get everything nailed down, you’d texted Maya.

We got her.

She’d started typing immediately, the three little dots coming up almost as soon as you hit send, but they disappeared shortly after. It took a few more minutes to finally get her response:

That’s my fucking girl!!!!

Suddenly Maya’s name and picture (something perhaps a little NSFW for a public contact photo, but then again, it was Maya) flashed on your screen. A coincidence that you couldn’t be more thankful for.

You answered before the first ring ended.

“You eat?” Maya asked as soon as the call connected. You two rarely exchanged pleasantries anymore. After all, you’d started out your day together, had been messaging in short bursts throughout. The “hello”s and the “how are you”s were unnecessary because the conversation never really ended, so they’d fallen out of your calls.

“On occasion,” you said, shouldering your phone as you leaned against a nearby palm tree, squinting up into the navy blue haze of the southern California sky after sunset.

“Smartass,” Maya said, but you were sure (despite not being able to see her) that the smirk on her lips matched your own. You could hear the sounds of the highway rushing by—she must’ve been on her way home. “Let me rephrase: Do I personally need to feed you to make sure you’ve eaten something in the last 18 hours?”

You didn’t answer right away, knowing the true answer was not the right answer. “…I haven’t had anything.”

Maya hummed knowingly. “God, you’re lucky you have such a loving and attentive and selfless girlfriend.”

“That’s one word for it.”

A scoff came from Maya’s end of the call. “Keep talking like that and you’ll deadass have no girlfriend by this time tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes and let out a breath—one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in until Maya had given you the tiny amount of room you’d needed to relax. “What I meant to say was, yes, I am so incredibly lucky.”

“Okay, say less,” Maya said with another thoughtful hum. “So what’s your deal tonight?”

You sighed, leaning your head back to thump softly against the tree trunk. “I’m on set. Just taking a break. I’ll probably be another couple hours.”

“That set?” Maya asked.

“Yeah. That one.”

You could practically hear her eyes roll, but she didn’t say anything more about it—a rare moment of restraint in your honor. “You coming here after?” she asked instead, the faint clicking of a turn signal as a backing beat, probably pulling off at her exit.

“You want me to?” you asked in answer.

“If you want to,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but neutrality was never Maya’s strongest suit.

You rolled your eyes this time. “That’s not an answer.”

“You started it,” she said pointedly, then sighed. “But fine, fuck it. I want you here. I always fucking want you here. Happy?”

“Yes,” you said, grinning and trying not to let yourself go soft when you had to be back on set in about twenty minutes. “I’ll text when I’m leaving.”

“You better,” Maya said. It sounded like a threat, but you knew better.

You figured that was the end of the call, goodbyes having fallen to the wayside as well, so were bringing the phone down from your shoulder, thumb hovering over the End Call button when you heard her say, “Hey—“

Your phone was back up to your ear in an instant. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” she said. “You’re a fucking rock star.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, like it might settle the flutter that rose in your chest—not just at the words, but at the way they were said. Maya always sounded so sure.

“I love you, too.”

The call ended a few seconds later, and you sucked in a deep breath through your nose.

That was the easy part. The pleasant surprise.

And now you were about to spring a not-so-pleasant one on your partner.

You navigated to your contacts and tapped his name before bringing the phone back up to your ear.

“Adam,” you said as both a greeting and a warning once the call connected. “We need to talk.”

-*-*-

You didn’t pull into Maya’s driveway that night until nearly midnight.

The house stood on a hill in Calabasas, large, modern, with clean lines and huge windows. Nothing that caught you off-guard anymore, but back in film school, walking up to a house like this would’ve had you feeling like you were in a different world.

You parked your Porsche coupe next to her BMW, then got out of the car and walked up the illuminated stairway, though you could probably make it to the door blindfolded at this point. Water poured in a sheet over a black marble ledge on either side of you, lit from behind by a warm white LED.

When you reached the upper level, you found the door unlocked, like you knew it would be. You had exchanged keys a long time ago, but you’d rarely given each other a reason to use them yet.

The door opened into a brightly lit entryway, and you closed and locked it softly behind you. The air inside the house was a little warmer than out in the night, but just barely, and something garlicky was wafting from further down the hall.

You kicked off your loafers next to the rack where Maya kept her “beater” shoes, then tried to shrug off your suit jacket without taking your leather messenger bag off of your shoulder; you managed, but were grateful no one was around to see.

“Hey, babe,” Maya called from the direction of the kitchen.

“Hey,” you called back, draping your jacket over your arm before walking toward her voice, your fingers working on undoing the second button of your shirt as you padded down the hallway.

She was ready and waiting when you entered the open concept kitchen area, moving into your space as soon as she saw you round the corner.

“Well, look at you, big shot,” she purred, reaching out to grab you by the belt loops and pull you in for a kiss.

“Out celebrating?” she teased, once you parted.

You let out a heavy sigh. “If ‘celebrating’ includes sending emails to people ‘circling back’ to conversations we settled weeks ago and putting out fires on that shit storm set for the last five hours, then yes. Partying really hard.”

Your words were a little harsher than you’d meant them to be. It had been a good day. You’d gotten Bridget Archer to sign with you. That was a big fucking deal. But the rest of the world hadn’t stopped after you’d gotten the phone call—and even if it had, you probably would’ve just taken it as an opportunity to whittle down your workload a bit for when it started spinning again.

Maya’s face twisted from a soft smirk to a stern frown.

“Sorry,” you said softly, resting a hand on Maya’s bicep. “Didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“You’re good,” she said softly in kind, thumb massaging little patterns into your stomach over your shirt.

Her eyes studied you, but you didn’t shrink away—you never had. Her gaze softened as she took in the exhaustion that buried the excitement of the day, the relief of finally being able to shed your executive form.

“How was everyone with the news?” you asked, treading a bit more lightly than you usually would. It didn’t seem like Maya felt betrayed by the day’s outcome, but you’d felt guilty for it all day anyway.

Maya shrugged. “They’ll be fine.”

“And you?” you asked.

“I’ll be fine, too,” she murmured. “Just watch your back with Gerwig.”

You chuckled as you leaned forward to rest your forehead against her shoulder. “I think the call of the Barbie might have ruined that for us both.”

She reached up to rest one hand on your shoulder blade, and the other on your lower back, and you in turn wrapped both arms around her waist. Her smell—the spice of her perfume with a hint of mint from her vape—wrapped around you.

Your eyes blinked closed, and your breathing slowed as you finally—finally—allowed yourself to take a moment.

When you finally leaned back, Maya took your chin between her fingers, gentle but firm. “Put your bag and your phone down, and go sit. I’ll bring you dinner.”

You opened your mouth, but she knew what you were going to say before you’d even taken a breath. “Don’t argue with me.”

You relented, not really up for any more fights and more than willing to be taken care of (and bossed around a little bit, why not) by your girlfriend. “And wine, please?” you asked as you took a reluctant step back.

“Already poured,” Maya said with a grin that only a handful of people had ever seen from her. You felt grateful all over again to be one of them.

You passed by the stools at the island, and then by the kitchen table, before finding yourself standing in the living room. You two didn’t normally eat out there—Maya was too uptight about her Restoration Hardware sectional to allow it very often, especially if any red sauce happened to be involved. But she hadn’t said anything when you walked in that direction, a silent sanctioning of tonight’s dining venue.

You flopped down on that very couch, pulled an aggressively-patterned throw pillow over your face (an aggressively-patterned Gucci throw pillow, as Maya would be remiss not to remind you), and closed your eyes. You couldn’t hear anything except the sizzle of whatever Maya had going on the stove and the hum of the air conditioner keeping the place to the near frigid temperatures you always complained about. Peace. At last.

A few minutes later and a power nap, the likes of which you’d perfected long ago, you felt a nudge to your shin. You peered out from under the throw pillow, one eye half-open and squinting up at Maya, who was now standing over you with a plate of some kind of sauced-up protein and a side of roasted vegetables in one hand and two wine glasses precariously held in the other.

You offered up a grateful but weary smile, even though half your face was still hidden by the pillow. “Thanks, My.”

“What else am I here for, the domestic goddess that I am?” she said back, waiting for you to sit up before seating herself beside you, her thigh flush with yours, like she was attached to your hip. Your smile grew a little softer, a little more smug. For all of Maya’s independent spirit, she sure did like to make sure you were close by, right where she needed you.

As you ate, Maya launched into a dramatic retelling of the Continental executive meetings from earlier in the day, punctuated occasionally by sips of wine or by you somehow being silently convinced to feed her a bite off your plate, even though she’d already eaten.

The story wound down in perfect sync with your meal, and when you finished, you set your plate down on the coffee table and settled into Maya’s side. Her arm wrapped around your waist and squeezed.

“You tired?”

You nodded, stifling a well-timed yawn. “But I don’t think I’d be able to sleep. Too much going on. Too much to think about.” Realization dawned on you then—you hadn’t checked your email in an hour. “I need my phone.”

You made to stand up from the couch, but Maya’s hand remained snugly wrapped around your waist like an anchor. “Babe…”

You looked over at her, skepticism clearly visible in your expression. “You know I run a studio, right?”

“Painfully aware,” she said, deadpan.

“I can’t go MIA,” you sighed.

“Okay. Question,” Maya said, tugging you back down to fully sit on the couch instead of the half-hover you’d been doing. “Do you think if I emailed Matt right now, I’d get a response before morning?”

“You’d know better than me,” you said, even though you had an answer in mind. You’d never worked with him directly, but you’d heard enough stories from Maya and others to know that, while he was a nice guy, he didn’t always know how to leverage the position he’d been given.

“I probably wouldn’t hear shit until lunchtime.”

You shrugged. “And that’s why I got the next Bridget Archer project.”

“Okay, bet,” Maya said, nodding, and you furrowed your brow. You’d be embarrassed at this point to admit to her that you didn’t know what that even meant. “But that still doesn’t mean you need to work all the goddamn time.”

“Getting lectured by Maya Mason about an appropriate work/life balance,” you muttered with a shake of your head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I have a work/life balance, thank you so much,” she corrected you, knocking your shoulder with her own. “You’re just not around to see it.”

You looked at her sideways, your eyebrows raised in doubt. “I’ve seen enough.”

“You say that, and yet, I’m the one trying to get you to chill the fuck out,” she said, heaving herself backward into the couch cushions, but not lightening up her grip around your waist. “What’s it gonna take?”

You looked at her from over your shoulder. “A miracle. Divine intervention,” you said, then pausing to think of one more. “Maybe an induced coma.”

Maya snorted before narrowing her eyes and looking up at you for a long moment. Her hold on your waist finally relaxed as she began trailing her fingers up and down your spine. “I can think of something a lot simpler than any of that,” she said in a deep voice that went straight to your lower belly. You didn’t let on, though.

“I’m not that easy,” you protested, trying to hold on to ground that was rapidly disappearing from beneath you.

Maya hummed as she sat upright again, her expression devilish, and pressed a kiss to your clothed shoulder. “Yes, you are.”

Jesus Christ.

She leaned in close so her forehead was pressed against the side of your head, her breath grazing your ear for a few moments before she turned her attention to your pulse point, alternately kissing and sucking and grazing her teeth over the spot. Your head lolled automatically to your opposite shoulder to give her better access.

The idea of having sex hadn’t even crossed your mind in the last twenty-four hours… maybe even longer, if you were being honest. It was just about time for Maya to start teasing you for being overworked and underfucked, and, even though you would’ve denied it, she would’ve been right. You could already feel the wet spot between your legs, and she’d barely touched you.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she started, the words muffled against your skin. “You’re not going to get your phone. You’re not even going to take your plate into the kitchen. You’re going to go upstairs take off all your clothes, and kneel in the middle of the bed until I tell you what to do next.”

Both of her hands had drifted down to the waistband of your tailored pants to untuck your shirt and work on undoing the lowest buttons. They weren’t frenzied, just steady. “Is that a deal you can make right now, babe? No directors, no execs, no multi-million-dollar offers. Just you and me.”

“Yes,” you said, voice hitching in your throat.

“Good,” she said, peeling herself away from you with a final brush of her fingers down your back. “Go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You stood from the couch with a renewed sense of purpose and headed toward the staircase that led to the bedroom. You could hear the soft clatter of plates and silverware being stacked fading into the distance behind you.

You finished unbuttoning your shirt as you climbed, though between the two you’d unbuttoned earlier and however many Maya had just gotten to, there wasn’t much left to be done. You were finally able to shrug it off as you reached the top step. You started working on your pants, then, which you slid off your legs as you approached the bench at the foot of the bed. You placed them there with your shirt, folding them into a neat pile, because that’s what you did, followed by your bra and underwear.

When you were totally bare, you climbed onto the bed and kneeled facing the door with your hands on your thighs, waiting for Maya to tell you your next move.

She took her time coming upstairs—or maybe she didn’t, but it felt like forever to you by the time she entered the bedroom.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh as she closed the distance between you. “Must be exhausting, making all those decisions for everyone all day long, huh, babygirl? Keeping everyone in line?” Her voice was dripping in sympathy—not all of it feigned.

“Yes,” you said, your breath growing shallower just from her proximity.

When she reached the edge of the bed she climbed on and crawled over to you, still fully dressed in her designer lounge wear set. She brushed a fallen piece of hair out of your face, and you leaned into her hand instinctively, even though she’d barely grazed your skin.

“Why don’t you lay down and let me choose for a while, then,” she murmured, placing her hand on your chest and guiding you onto your back. “You gonna let me do that for you?”

“Please,” you said, as if you hadn’t already surrendered control to her in the living room and there was room left for negotiation.

You were fully on your back by now, but Maya was still on her knees next to you on the mattress, towering over you.

“Say it again,” she demanded, placing one hand flat on the mattress next to each of your biceps, bracketing you in with nothing but her to look at.

“Please,” you said again, stronger this time, but it wasn’t enough.

“Louder.”

You let out a frustrated whimper. “Please, Maya!”

“That’s right,” she said, leaning down until she was as close as she could be without touching you. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure there’s nothing in that pretty little head when we’re done.”

She leaned back until she was sitting on her heels and stayed there for a little while, just trailing a finger up and down your arm. “Now do what I say. Understood?”

You nodded as she moved toward the foot of the bed, kneeling close enough to your bent knees that your toes were pressing into the soft fabric of her joggers.

“Spread.”

Your body responded without any thought on your part, and cold air suddenly flowed over your core, already wet and hot from the little you’d done on the couch and the anticipation of what was to come.

“Look at that perfect fucking pussy,” she husked, running one finger up your slit, finishing by pressing firmly on your clit for just a second. “Now close your eyes. Hands on the headboard. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

You didn’t feel her move until you were in position—she was clearly making sure you were following her instructions. When she did move, it was to get off the bed entirely, judging just by the movement of the mattress.

You heard her feet padding across the soft faux-fur rug on the floor, heading in the direction of the closet, then the soft thump of clothes hitting the floor and the opening and closing of drawers.

You could’ve looked, your intrusive thoughts told you. You could get a glimpse of what she was bringing back into the room and snap your eyes shut before she rounded the corner enough to see you peeking. But no. That wasn’t the scene tonight. She’d told you what to do, and you were going to follow her instructions as closely as you could.

No more than a minute later, you heard her crossing the room back to you and felt the bed shift with her weight.

“Lift your hips.”

You obeyed and were rewarded by the brush of something velvet against your lower back and ass. She tapped your hip to signal you to relax, you weren’t surprised to find yourself positioned at an angle, your lower back now supported by wedge-shaped pillow. Historically, that meant one thing: the strap was coming out.

You swallowed—one of the only movements you could make right now without violating the rules.

You were content with that. Maya fucking you with her cock (maybe the thick one—please be the thick one) would do it for you tonight. The only problem was, you hadn’t heard the sounds of her putting on the harness—no clinking buckles and certainly no soft “Fuck” from Maya’s mouth when she inevitably slotted the leather strap through the wrong ring.

You didn’t have time to think about it too hard—next thing you knew, Maya was pulling a soft blindfold over your eyes, then taking one arm at a time down from the headboard to cuff your wrists at your sides, followed by your ankles.

You were startled by the sudden sound of metal chains pooling into a pile near your ear, but Maya was quick to distract you by putting her mouth on your clit, no warning. You jumped, hips thrusting instinctively to meet her, but the next thing you knew, she pulled away and you felt her hands warm on your hips, acrylics digging into the skin, forcing your ass down into the velvet.

“What did I tell you to do?” she murmured in a voice that was only deceptively sweet.

It was a direct question. That meant you were allowed to answer. “Not move.”

“That’s right,” she said, swiping at your clit once, roughly, with her finger in emphasis. “Are you going to listen to me?”

You resisted the urge to nod your head. Instead, you just said, “Yes.”

“Good girl,” she purred, releasing her hold on your hips and spreading your legs just a little further apart. You could feel her warm breath ghosting over your stomach in ripples. “Stay still. That’s all you need to think about.”

When she put her mouth back on you, you somehow managed to keep yourself still, even as her lips wrapped around your clit and started teasing it with her tongue. At the same time, one of her hands traced up your side until it was resting on your breast. She ran her thumb back and forth over your nipple, just far enough out of sync with her tongue flicking over your clit to be maddening, but you couldn’t whine, couldn’t complain.

She flattened her tongue against you, a sudden change in stimulation that, under different circumstances, would’ve made you gasp, but you used all of your willpower to keep yourself from physically acknowledging it. She gave the bud one last swirl and a quick peck of her lips before moving on, and you restrained a whimper at the loss of contact. You were lucky your wrists were cuffed; otherwise, you probably would’ve had your fingers in her hair and a punishment to endure by now.

She kissed up your stomach until her mouth reached the nipple her hand wasn’t already giving attention. It received the same treatment she’d given your clit, but it hardly needed any coaxing; you could already feel the strain of it having gone stiff by association. It wasn’t long before Maya released the hardened peak from her mouth with a wet pop, simultaneously tweaking your other nipple with her fingers before removing herself from you entirely and moving to your side.

Whatever Maya had put next to you—the metal sound from earlier—was her next target. Your eyelids fluttered under the blindfold and your throat strained to hold in a gasp when you felt the weight of cold metal on your ribs.

“No squirming,” Maya instructed. You almost wanted to protest—that wasn’t fair. You hadn’t moved since she’d pinned you down. You had been good. You—

Maya’s warm hand cupped your breast, and then you understood her warning. Something cold was now squeezing your right nipple, then you felt the same pressure on your left, and then, unexpectedly, on your clit. Clamps.

“That feel good, baby?” Maya whispered from above. You opened your mouth to answer, but all that came out was a helpless gasp as you tried your hardest to suppress even the smallest twitch. You could almost hear her smirking down at you. “Use your words.”

“Good,” you managed to say, your voice tight and thin as you fought to keep your back from arching off the bed.

Her nails grazed your ribs as she grabbed for the piece of metal resting there. When she lifted it from your skin, you felt the clamps tugging deliciously at your nipples and clit until she laid it back down.

Fingers brushed against your jawline, rough and tender all at once, Maya’s specialty. You didn’t even flinch at the unexpected touch. “You’re being so good for me, baby. So good.”

Your insides preened, but other than the slight smile and the broken breath you took in, you didn’t show it. But she knew.

She moved her hand to your lower belly, rubbing there for a quiet moment before a sound whirred into existence to your left. You knew that sound—the wand.

Oh shit.

You couldn’t see where it was, but you could track it by sound and you were going to feel it in three, two, one…

The vibrations made contact with your spread-open lips, pulsating underneath your clamped clit, and you couldn’t help the whimper that rose from your throat at the sudden, overwhelming change in stimulation.

Maya pounced on the opportunity you’d given her with your misstep. “Does that mean you want more, babygirl?”

You didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the interplay of pleasure and pressure coming from your core.

“Answer me,” she said with another pull to the clamp chains. You groaned without thinking.

“Yes,” you rasped.

“I thought so,” Maya said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. The button clicked once, then again, only two notches, but the intensity felt like it had skyrocketed.

Maya spent the next few minutes teasing you all over: tugging the chain and pulling at your nipples and clit; sucking bruises into the tops of your breasts and along your collarbone and to a dangerously visible spot on the column of your neck; running both of her hands down your sides and along your thighs.Your muscles were desperate to act—to writhe, to contract, to flail, but somehow, you remained motionless. The only thing you couldn’t control was your breath; your chest heaved, and you felt the metal of the clamp chains, warm now from your body heat, tickling your ribs and stomach with each inhale.

When she finished marking your neck, Maya pulled away, the bed dipping in her direction, and for a while, you didn’t feel her hands on you at all. It was just you and the wand and the blood from where you’d bitten the inside of your cheek while trying to stay quiet.

“I wish you could see yourself all clamped up like this,” she finally said, voice low. Her finger began tracing the chains connecting your nipple clamps to the metal plate. The chains felt heavier as she dragged a finger along the links. “You look like one of my necklaces. There are even little diamonds to make my girl look so pretty. All iced up, just for me.” She flicked one of the supposed diamonds with her nail to punctuate the sentence, the dull ting of plastic on metal ringing in your ears long after it ended.

“And you know what this says?” she said, tracing the plate at the center of it all before tugging it in a new direction, down toward your bottom half, making you choke on a gasp. Her hand wrapped warm around your own, and she brought it up as far as the cuff would allow her. She traced your pointer finger over the metal. There was definitely something etched into it, but what, you weren’t able to say, especially when your focus was already split three ways, between what was going on between your thighs and the pull on your nipples from Maya holding the chains taut.

“It says ‘bitch.’ Because that’s what you are. My little bitch who does whatever I say,” she muttered before dropping your hand back down. “Isn’t that right?”

You didn’t make her ask for your answer this time. “Yes.”

You heard her sigh, long and heavy. “That’s fucking right.”

She went quiet, which was almost never a good sign. You felt her change position on the bed then settle next to you. Seconds later, your ears were filled with sounds from lower down the bed—wet, unmistakable squelching.

Maya was fucking herself.

You couldn’t see it, but you could hear it—her fingers, her own quiet moans.

You let out a wounded whine.

“Quiet.”

You stilled.

Several minutes passed, until you were barely keeping yourself together, with the sound of her in your ear and the unforgiving vibrations between your legs and the exquisite pinch of your nipples all pushing you toward your release. Your thighs started to quake despite yourself, and your fingers twitched against the mattress without your permission.

Maya noticed. Of course she did.

“Looks like you just can’t help yourself anymore, huh, babygirl?” Her voice came out ragged, with a familiar edge of condescension. She hadn’t stopped fucking herself. “You’d just love to sit up and ride my thigh like a good bitch would, wouldn’t you?”

You responded with a sound that you weren’t sure you’d ever made before, because she was right—at that very moment, you’d have given anything for the privilege.

“Well, that’s not happening,” she said, dashing hopes you hadn’t even known you’d had until seconds before. “But maybe I’ll let you grind on this wand and suck on my fingers.” She paused as a moan ripped from her throat, and her voice was lighter, raspier, when she spoke again. “What do you think?”

You were on edge, shaking in ways that weren’t just due to the vibrations between your legs. It wouldn’t take much more for you anyway, but if she let you get a little more friction and a taste of her, you’d be gone in five seconds flat.

“Yes,” you said. “God, yes.”

At your plea, the wet sounds from Maya’s cunt came to a stop. Her fingers—a little sticky now—skimmed over your arm, then your stomach, and then, suddenly, the pressure on your clit was gone, replaced by a rush of blood like you’d never felt before. You were throbbing in an absolutely desperate way.

“Well?” Maya said, feigning impatience. “Get to it.”

You moved your hips at her command but slowed almost immediately. The clamp had your clit at its most sensitive. Just the air passing over it had you shuddering, and the lightest touch would’ve felt like lightning. Riding the wand at its highest setting, then, was almost too much to think about, even though you could sense the edges of your orgasm just beyond your reach.

“Oh, baby, don’t stop. You fucking wanted this,” Maya coaxed, running her fingers through your hair. “Now open your mouth.”

You did, and in return, she shoved her fingers in just far enough to graze the back of your throat and make you gag. You sputtered momentarily around her before recovering and beginning to clean her fingers, licking them like you were starved of her. As you did, you started to roll your hips into the vibrating head of the toy. It was pain. It was pleasure. It was over for you in about three weak thrusts. You came with an unrestrained moan.

“That’s it, baby,” Maya said in your ear. She didn’t remove her fingers from your mouth, even as your jaw went slack. “So fucking hot.”

She gave you time to ride the high, using her free hand to brush her fingers against your temple.

You’d barely caught your breath again when she slipped her fingers out from between your lips.

“You can give me more, right, babygirl? I know you can.”

You swallowed and nodded.

“Words.”

Maya’s hand made contact with your exposed cunt with a thwack and you hissed at the sensation.

“Yes!”

You heard the button on the wand again, and a new pattern began pulsing at your lips. Short, short, long, short, short, long, long—the vibrations slower than before by just enough to keep you on the edge without falling over it. It still held enough of your attention, though, that you barely noticed the newfound slack in the cuffs around your wrists.

The mattress shifted again—Maya was moving, and your mouth practically watered when you felt the weight dip near your left shoulder, and then your right. You could feel the heat of her hovering over you, smell her familiar musk, and your freshly unbound arms almost reached up to wrap around her thighs. She hadn’t said you could touch her yet, though, or even that you could move again, so you kept them by your sides, exactly where they’d been while in the cuffs.

The satin blindfold slid up your forehead and you blinked once, twice, readjusting to the light. You saw her face first, or a blurry rendition of it, her arms stretched out, palms against the headboard, and then you saw her cunt—already swollen and glistening—just inches from your face. “Make me feel good, baby,” she said, giving you only seconds to reorient before she lowered herself onto your face.

You opened your mouth instinctively to lap at her folds. You made one long drag of your tongue through her slit and groaned. Even though you’d already had the taste of her delivered by her fingers, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as getting it from the source.

You thrusted your tongue into her, and she bucked against your face. “Fuck, yeah. Right fucking there,” she said roughly. Her hand smacked the headboard and the sound echoed through the room.

Tentatively, you started to curl your arms, your hands drawn to hold onto her hips, but you still weren’t sure if you were allowed to move anything but your mouth, so you were being careful about it. As you continued to thrust your tongue in and out, pausing momentarily to nip and suck at her labia, your fingers moved closer and closer until they finally brushed her hips from behind, like a silent question.

Maya continued grinding against your face without a pause, but she reached one hand back to find yours. You wondered briefly if she was going to swat it away, but she didn’t. “Fucking touch me,” she said as she moved your hand down to rest on her thigh instead of her hip, and you didn’t have to be told twice. You mirrored the action with your other hand so both your arms were hooked around her legs, greedily holding her in place on top of you.

Maya’s breathing grew steadily more ragged, and of course, yours did too, with the little gasps you could get when she rode just high enough for you to grab a breath before she sunk back down on your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” she whined, and if she had looked down, she’d have teased you for the look on your face. When she got whiny, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d unlocked something rare and secret, and at this point, you couldn’t be bothered with restraint anymore—not with your mouth, not with your limbs, and definitely not with your facial expressions. “Fuck,” she said through gritted teeth, “Don’t stop.”

Her hips started moving more desperately against you, your nose bumping up against her clit harder and faster than before. You could hear her earrings clanging against each other to the same rhythm. You sped up your pace with your tongue, intent to give Maya what she needed, trying to keep your own orgasm at bay until you did. Her walls squeezed around you.

“Fuck. FUCK,” she cried as you curled your tongue inside her, and you knew by how vocal she was becoming that she was nearly there. She smacked her palm against the headboard again. “Fucking make me come right now.”

You tilted your chin up so you had direct access to her clit. You swiped your tongue left to right and back again, and then with one more circle around the bud, she tensed, gripping the bed tight, squeezing her thighs against your skull. “Shit, babe…” she mewled, her voice coming out low and broken as she twitched with an aftershock.

You had her cum on your chin, her clit in your mouth (so what if you hadn’t been able to breathe for the last 30 seconds), the vibrations between your legs, and the whole fucking view of her above you—the most beautiful, most feral woman you’ve ever known. The combination was enough to make you come on its own, but suddenly Maya reached behind her and fumbled across your chest until she found the metal plate on your ribs and tugged, pulling at your nipples. You couldn’t fight it anymore. You came again.

Maya must’ve felt your gasping against her, because she dismounted from your face, but she wasn’t done. She shimmied down your body, so she was straddling your pelvis instead, which was still angled up by the wedge. She planted her cunt, still hot and wet and occasionally twitching at even the gentlest contact, against your lower stomach.

Always a few steps ahead of you, even in a post-orgasm haze, she unclipped the final two clasps from your nipples and tossed the chain contraption to the side of the bed. Just like with your clit, the sudden rush of sensation hit you like a freight train, and it was only heightened as Maya arched her back and dipped down to suck—roughly—on one of your erect peaks—careful to keep her core on you so she could ride your stomach when the need hit. You moaned.

Were you going to come a third time, just like that? The vibrator was still pulsing against your clit, which was still somehow growing more sensitive by the minute.

You reached your hands up, shakily, to rest against Maya’s cheeks, which were hollowed out just in the slightest as she sucked on your nipple. She looked up at you questioningly through her lashes, not detaching herself from your heaving chest.

“Turn t’off?” was what you managed to say between the thickening fog in your brain and your desperate attempts to take in enough air.

You didn’t want her to stop, but something needed to give.

She released your nipple after one last soft scrape of her teeth. She dragged her tongue up your sternum before pressing a barely-there kiss to the tip of your chin.

“Just one more, babygirl. For me,” she said, moving to suck your jaw. “Can you?”

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to disappoint her, but you already felt entirely fucked out. “I don’t know,” you almost cried.

Maya sat up, her full weight settling across your waist, her hands resting on your shoulders as she leaned over you with a serious look in her eyes. “Do you need to say it?”

You didn’t do anything right away, caught in the rip current of rising pleasure and exhaustion and oversensitivity. Your hips simultaneously tried to buck toward and shy away from the vibrator, but Maya’s body on yours had limited your movement.

You reached up, your hands wrapping around Maya’s forearms—not to push her away, just to feel her with you. She did nothing but wait for your answer.

You didn’t say the safe word. Just a quiet, “I’m okay.”

Maya fell back into the moment right away, looking down at you with a half-wicked grin on her face.

She leaned back down and reattached her lips to your jaw, and then that spot on your neck again, while the fingers of both her hands found their way to your still-tender nipples—your own hands still gripping onto her arms and moving along with hers. You arched your back into her touch, tilting your head to make it easier for her to reach your pulse point. “So fucking good,” she husked into your ear. “So fucking hot.”

Your clit was throbbing and you could feel your pulse like a drumbeat in your ears. She knew exactly how close you were when she grabbed you by the chin, looked you in the eye, and whispered, “Come for me. Now.”

And you did, calling her name, your voice hoarse.

“Perfect. Fucking perfect,” she said, resting her forehead against yours as stars continued to dance behind your fluttering eyelids and your limbs were still quaking. She stayed there, brushing her thumb over your cheekbone and peppering little kisses over your nose and cheeks, until your breathing evened out and your grip on her forearms relaxed enough that your arms fell back to your sides.

Once she felt you were sufficiently relaxed beneath her, Maya pressed a last kiss to your forehead and climbed off of you. You heard the click of the button on the wand, and the buzzing that had been the soundtrack to nearly the whole encounter stopped immediately. The room plunged into silence except for the soft swaying of the tree branches outside the bedroom windows and the soft ting of metal on metal when Maya shifted enough to jostle her jewelry.

Quietly, she removed the soft cuffs from your ankles and then gently pulled the wedge from under your lower back and hips, leaving you lying still and boneless on the mattress. You watched through half-lidded eyes as she piled the wand and the clamps on top of the pillow and stood from the bed. A soft smile spread across your face when she started humming some song—maybe SZA—something you suspected she did for you in these moments, because she never did that anywhere else.

She took the pile over to the walk-in, disappearing for only a minute and reemerging in a pair of Gucci pjs, pants long and the top unbuttoned to reveal a bandeau you weren’t sure why she bothered with except for fashion. Two sweating bottles of water were cradled in her hand from the mini-fridge she kept near her vanity, mainly for her creams and masks, but for this, too.

She made one last stop at the chair in front of the vanity to pick up the robe that was hanging over the back, but she didn’t put it on, just draped it over her arm and came back to the bed. She set the waters down on the nightstand.

You nodded at the robe. “That for me?”

She raked her eyes down your naked body as you lay on top of the bedspread. Your nipples were still pebbled, maybe from a combination of previous stimulation and the low thermostat setting, and your stomach and legs were covered in goosebumps. You shivered without realizing.

“Might be,” she said, but she didn’t hesitate to climb onto the bed and start helping you into it, which turned into a whole operation since you weren’t doing very much to assist with the process.

“Fucking impossible,” Maya mumbled as she tried to sit you up so she could drape the robe over your shoulders, but you saw the smirk on her face as you finally gathered enough strength to push yourself up against the headboard. She tied the belt into a loose bow at your waist once you were all wrapped up, and you snuggled back down into the pillows, eyelids still heavy. The fabric smelled like her shampoo from the shower that morning.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

She didn’t say anything back, but she rested her hand against your cheek. “Water, baby?”

You hummed in agreement.

She cracked open one of the bottles from side table and brought it up to your lips for you to sip, then set it back on the nightstand when you’d finished. When she was reclining again, you burrowed into her, your head resting on the bare skin above the hem of her top and your fingers splayed across her stomach. Without even thinking about it, she began to run her fingers against your scalp, the scratch of her nails a comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked after you’d been laying in silence for what was probably just a few minutes, but your sense of time had yet to reorient itself, so you couldn’t be sure.

You angled your head so you could just see her face through your lashes. “Bridget Archer isn’t secretly an asshole, right?”

Her fingers stilled in your hair as a half-amused, half-annoyed look appeared on her face. “Glad to see this whole thing worked,” she muttered. Clearly that wasn’t the answer she expected.

You drummed your fingers against her ribs. “If you don’t answer, I’ll just have to wonder all night, when I could be thinking about you.”

“You could be thinking about me anyway,” she countered, but there was no heat to it, which was only underscored by her fingers resuming their path along your scalp.

“I just need to know,” you said, your voice almost back to normal. “Then you’ll be the only thing on my mind for the next…” you glanced over at the clock on the nightstand, doing bad post-coital math in your head. “Four to five hours.”

Maya just looked at you for a few moments—her expression shifting into something unreadable, but undeniably softer.

Finally, she sighed.

“She’s a fucking dream, babe,” Maya said. “But she’s still got nothing on you.” -------------------------

[eclectickss]

I want to be a doormat for this woman

[eclectickss]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 22)

Synopsis: Two days in, and your body aches—but not as much as everything else you’ve been holding in.

Word count: 5.3K

Warnings: Angst, Mild language, Unresolved emotions, Lingering tension

You woke up to the sound of your phone buzzing on the nightstand, the glow of early sunlight barely slipping through the curtains of your small inn room. Groggy, you reached over with one arm and blinked at the screen. 

Wanda calling. 

You rubbed your eyes and answered with a tired, scratchy voice, “Hey…” 

“Where are you?” Wanda’s voice was clear, almost teasing, but you could tell there was something underneath it. “I’m at your apartment. And you’re not. I even brought your favorite coffee and a slice of that banana loaf from that café on 56th.” 

You sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m in Washington.” 

There was a pause. “What?” Her voice now confused. “Why are you in Washington? Wait—how long have you been there?” 

You exhaled through your nose, quiet for a second. “A month.” 

“A month?” she repeated, surprised. 

“I needed to be here,” you said, your voice soft now, like you were explaining something to yourself as much as to her. “I needed to fix things with her. With Agatha.” 

You heard the way Wanda inhaled, that slow, silent kind of breath that only people who love you make when they’re trying to say I'm here without saying too much. 

“She finally saw me last week,” you added after a beat, barely above a whisper. “She said... okay.” 

Wanda didn’t speak for a second, then softly replied, “That’s something.” 

“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but coming from her, that meant everything,” you said, your fingers twisting the hem of the shirt you slept in. “I’ve been going to her office every day. I waited. I didn’t know if she’d even look at me again, Wand.” 

“And now?” Wanda asked gently. 

You smiled, small and tired. “Now I’m volunteering for a campaign she’s leading. In Lynden. I'm here... for three days.” 

There was a soft little laugh on the other end. “You... the CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in the world, doing field work for a farm fundraiser?” 

“You’d be surprised how humbling a ladder and a banner can be,” you muttered. 

Wanda laughed again, but quieter this time. “I’m proud of you, you know.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Thanks.” 

“And I hope she sees what she’s losing if she doesn’t fix things too,” she added. “But no pressure or anything. You just... do what feels right, okay?” 

“Yeah.” You looked out the window, the sky already warming with light. “I should go. They’re serving breakfast soon, and I’m starving.” 

Wanda sighed, “Fine. I’ll save this banana loaf for you. Unless Pietro eats it.” 

“Actually, I’m not sure when I’m coming home.” 

“Then I’m definitely eating it.” 

You smiled, the first real one of the morning. “Thanks for calling, Wand.” 

“Always.” 

You hung up, sat in silence for a second longer, then got up to start the day. 

You freshened up quickly—washed your face, tied your hair back in a loose ponytail, pulled on a clean shirt and jeans. You packed your small backpack with a water bottle, your campaign badge, and towel, then grabbed your jacket from the back of the door. 

The inn was small, tucked between a row of trees and a little bakery that smelled like heaven every morning. You had breakfast at the inn—a simple plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, warm and familiar. After eating, you stepped outside, the chill of morning brushing your cheeks. You walked to the community center where the campaign was held, just a ten-minute stroll down the path. Birds chirped overhead. The air smelled like fresh soil and cold dew. 

You didn’t know what today would bring. 

As you walked, you pulled out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe. 

It was a quiet sort of determination, the way your fingers moved without hesitation to your delivery app. You scrolled past the chains and found the little coffee shop that offered organic blends and specialty pours. It wasn’t the exact café Agatha used to frequent back in Olympia, but it had the same comforting tone, the same one she liked. 

Then you opened your favorite local flower shop’s site—you had already bookmarked the bouquet. Azaleas. Purple and white. You didn’t even think about it anymore. It was muscle memory. 

You paid extra for early morning delivery. You named both of the paid orders to Agatha Harkness, just to be sure they’d go straight to her. 

With a soft sigh, you tucked your phone back into your jacket pocket and kept walking. 

The campaign site was already buzzing when you arrived. Tables were being set up under the rising sun, foldable chairs dragged across the grass, banners half-raised and still flapping gently in the morning breeze. Volunteers were scattered around like worker bees, some already hauling supplies, some sipping coffee while reading over the day’s schedule pinned up on the side of a tent. 

You spotted a familiar figure before you even fully stepped into the clearing. 

Kate. 

She turned just in time to catch your approach and smirked as she gave you a playful nudge with her elbow. “Well, look who’s finally up,” she teased. “Did you sleep through the rooster crow, city girl?” 

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t hear any rooster.” 

“Exactly,” she grinned, walking in step with you. “That’s how you know you’re not really in the countryside yet.” 

You shook your head, amused, falling into the rhythm of casual banter like it was second nature. You didn’t miss the way Kate glanced sideways at you when you smiled. She did that often—like she was trying to memorize the way your expression shifted. You didn’t think much of it. 

The two of you made it over to the main tent just in time for one of the coordinators to finish scribbling something on their clipboard. They looked up at your badges and gave a brief nod. 

“Hey, you two—could use you over by the truck that just pulled in,” they said, pointing toward a flatbed parked at the edge of the field. “It’s the one with the sacks of fertilizer. There’ll be a group of seven assigned there, including you. You’re unloading and stacking those over by the eastern plot.” 

Kate groaned, but it was lighthearted. “Manual labor this early? No coffee first?” 

The coordinator offered a dry smile. “The fertilizer won’t move itself.” 

You both headed toward the truck, where a few other volunteers—some of whom you recognized from yesterday—were already forming a loose group. You offered quiet hellos, head nods, polite smiles.  

As you neared the truck, you noticed Agatha. 

She was across the field, clipboard in hand again, her checkered flannel loose over her frame, sleeves rolled to the elbows like she meant business. Her hair fell freely around her shoulders, catching in the breeze as she spoke to someone, maybe a local official. For the briefest moment, her eyes flicked over in your direction. 

Just one glance. 

And then she looked away. 

Still, it left something in your chest taut and thrumming. 

“Guess we’re lifting fifty-pound bags of country goodness together,” Kate said next to you, snapping you out of it as she pulled on a pair of gloves and offered you another one of those crooked little smiles. “Think you can handle it?” 

You gave her a lopsided grin. “I’ve carried heavier things.” 

Kate laughed, her gaze lingering a second too long. “I’ll bet you have.” 

You didn’t answer that—not because you were shy, but because you weren’t paying attention anymore. You were already thinking about the woman on the other side of the field. 

The first sack of fertilizer was dropped into your arms by one of the other volunteers. You held on. 

You were here to hold on. 

Even if it meant hauling weight you didn’t quite know how to set down yet. 

 

You sank onto the nearest patch of grass the moment the last sack of fertilizer hit the ground. Your shirt clung to your skin with sweat, your hands were dusty and raw, and your back… well, you’d definitely feel it tomorrow. Kate flopped down beside you with a dramatic sigh, tossing off her gloves like she’d just survived a war. 

“Remind me why we volunteered again?” she groaned, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt. 

You gave her a tired smile, pulling your hair up into a loose bun to cool off. “To build community, save the planet, enrich local soil…?” 

Kate snorted. “Yeah. All noble things. Next time I’m volunteering for, like, the hydration booth.” 

You leaned back on your elbows, letting your head tilt toward the sky, eyes fluttering shut. The sun was too bright, too high. You could still feel it radiating from your skin, and the air tasted like dust and earth and faint citrus from the grove nearby. 

“Here,” Kate said suddenly, nudging a cold bottle of water into your hand. 

You opened your eyes, accepting it with a soft murmur of thanks. 

She smiled. “You looked like you were about to evaporate.” 

You laughed, low and genuine. “Honestly, I wouldn’t complain.” 

Kate leaned in a bit, her voice soft. “So… be honest. You didn’t expect this much heavy lifting, did you?” 

You gave her a sideways glance. “Let’s just say I didn’t pack my steel-toe boots.” 

She grinned, then, after a beat of silence, added, “Still, you made it look good.” 

You blinked. 

Then blinked again. 

You smiled politely, not quite catching the weight of her words, brushing a bit of dust off your jeans. “I probably look like a mess.” 

Kate tilted her head slightly. “Nah. Kind of a hot mess, if I’m being real.” 

You didn’t say anything to that—because you weren’t sure if she was joking or not. And because your eyes, again, had found their way across the field. Agatha was there, speaking to someone near one of the shaded tables, her expression unreadable, her stance easy, professional. 

Still, you could feel the gravity of her presence. 

You always could. 

Kate reached out and brushed a piece of hay from your shoulder, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. “You good?” 

You blinked again, snapping your attention back. “Yeah. Just... tired.” 

Kate smiled, but there was a question in her eyes she didn’t ask. “We’ve got like—what? One more day of this?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“Well,” she said, standing and offering you a hand, “guess you’re stuck with me.” 

You took her hand and let her pull you to your feet. But your gaze drifted back—again. 

Still not looking. 

Lunch came like a much-needed pause. You didn’t even care what was being served—as long as it wasn’t another damn sack to lift. 

The sun had fully claimed the sky by now, golden and hot against your skin as you wiped the sweat from your neck and made your way toward the tables lined with wrapped burritos, paper plates, tubs of fruit, and a cooler stacked with cold bottled water. A small crowd had already formed around it, buzzing with laughter and grateful sighs. 

Then you heard the voice—microphone, slightly distorted. 

“Before you all dig in, let me just say how proud I am of the people standing here today,” said a smooth, overly confident voice. “I know it’s hot, I know it’s hard work—but this? This is what community looks like.” 

You looked up to see a man standing next to Agatha at the front. Clean white button-down tucked into fitted slacks. Designer sunglasses perched on his head. A wide grin stretched across a tanned, handsome face. And that goatee. You’d know that anchor-shaped beard anywhere. 

Mayor Tony Stark. 

“And of course,” he added, turning to Agatha with a smirk that made your stomach twist, “let’s give our thanks to Governor Harkness—for organizing this entire campaign. A woman with vision, conviction, and just enough sass to keep us all in line.” 

Polite chuckles rose from the crowd. You didn’t join in. 

He turned back to the volunteers. “I brought lunch. So eat up, hydrate, and keep doing what you’re doing. You’re making a difference.” 

Because you were too busy watching him lean just slightly closer to Agatha. 

Everyone clapped. 

You didn’t. 

And worse—she didn’t step back. She gave him that polite, diplomatic smile. The one she used when she wanted people to think she was charmed, even if she wasn't. 

You squinted. You could barely hear them over the noise, but there was something in the way Stark spoke—too casual, too smooth. And Agatha’s laugh—brief, tight-lipped—only made your jaw clench harder. 

You looked away, grabbed a burrito and a cold water bottle from the table, and turned… 

…right toward them. 

They were standing only a few feet away now, still locked in that polite, nauseating exchange of charm. Agatha's arms crossed, clipboard tucked at her side. Stark gesturing animatedly, probably making some half-witted joke. 

And “accidentally” bumped Stark’s shoulder just enough to tilt the water bottle in your hand. 

And then— 

You walked past. 

The icy water spilled in a clear splash across the front of his perfectly pressed blazer. 

“Oh shit,” you said, voice flat but loud enough. “I am so sorry.” 

He jumped a little, looking down at his now-wet chest. “Ah—whoa, that’s refreshing,” he said, trying to play it cool. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You leaned forward slightly with a napkin from your pocket, dabbing uselessly at the fabric. “I didn’t see you there,” you said sweetly. “Maybe next time try not to stand right where the drinks are, yeah?” 

His jaw tightened. “Of course,” he said through a polite smile. “Accidents happen.” 

You glanced sideways—Agatha was barely holding it together. Her lips were twitching with the effort of not laughing. Her eyes briefly met yours, glittering with something between mischief and you’re insufferable. 

And for one brief, traitorous second, it felt like it used to. That private joke kind of love. The kind where no one else would ever really get the punchline but her. 

You turned back to Stark, stepping back now, letting your expression drop into something a little more satisfied. “Hope it dries fast. Looks expensive.” 

“It is,” he said, finally letting a note of irritation slip into his voice. 

You smiled. “Well. Lunch is on you, after all.” 

And with that, you turned and walked away, burrito in hand, water bottle half-empty. 

Behind you, you swore you could still hear Agatha laughing quietly under her breath. Not loud enough for anyone to notice. 

But you did.  

“You always that clumsy?” Kate’s voice popped up at your side, tone light and teasing as you walked away from the scene of the spill with your burrito in hand. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?” 

She laughed, bumping your arm playfully. “Whole front row saw it. That poor man didn’t know what hit him.” 

You bit back a grin. “Just water.” 

“Just conveniently ice-cold water. On a very tailored blazer.” Kate tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “You sure that wasn’t… personal?” 

You shrugged. “If it was, you think I’d admit it?” 

Kate laughed again, the kind that came easy to her. “Fair enough.” 

The two of you stepped off to the side, leaning against a shady patch by one of the tents as volunteers continued to gather their lunch. The heat of the day was still stubborn, but the food helped, and the water—well, what was left of yours—offered a small reprieve. 

“So…” Kate squinted at you curiously. “How old are you, anyway? I’ve been trying to guess since yesterday, and it’s messing with me. You don’t look like most of the other volunteers, but also you look way too good to be—” She cut herself off. “Okay, I’ll stop.” 

You chuckled, taking a bite of your burrito. “I’m in my 40s.” 

Kate blinked. “No. Shut up.” 

You gave her a sideways glance. “Dead serious.” 

She looked genuinely scandalized. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Jesus,” she muttered, almost in awe. “I thought you were like, thirty. Thirty-two at most.” 

You chewed, swallowed, then smirked. “Good genes, I guess.” 

Kate gave you a look—half impressed, half intrigued. “Do you have… like, a husband? Family?” 

That made you laugh. Like, an actual laugh. “God, no. I’m a lesbian.” 

“Ohhh,” she said, as if that suddenly explained everything. “Okay. That makes sense.” 

You gave her a mock-offended look. “What the hell does that mean?” 

Kate raised both hands innocently. “Nothing bad! Just—you have that energy. Cool, untouchable, maybe emotionally unavailable—wait, I swear I meant that as a compliment.” 

You shook your head, chuckling again. “Still single. No family. Just me, my company, and now... this whole field of fertilizer and political baggage.” 

She let out a low whistle. “Damn. In your 40s, working hard, looking like that? No wife, no kids?” She leaned a little closer, her tone dipping suggestively. “Someone’s missing out.” 

You nodded absently, eyes locked across the space where Agatha still stood talking with Mayor Stark. “Mmm.” 

Kate kept talking—saying something about how she couldn’t believe you were volunteering here and not like, running for office or modeling or something—but none of it was really sinking in. Your gaze stayed fixed across the food tables, where Agatha was still smiling politely at Stark. 

Quick, almost imperceptible. Agatha’s head tilted ever so slightly. Her eyes, sharp and storm-colored, flicked your way. But not at you. 

And then— 

A glance. 

Agatha’s jaw didn’t clench, but her hand did move a little tighter over the folder she was holding. 

At Kate. 

Standing close. 

Leaning in. 

Smiling. 

And just as quickly as her eyes had landed, they slipped away again. She said something to the mayor, voice low, professional. Her smile was practiced. But you knew her. You knew the way her eyes narrowed when she was annoyed. The way she didn’t blink when she was suppressing something. The way her lips stayed parted just a fraction longer when she was pretending she didn’t care. 

Kate was still talking. Her voice somewhere beside you. Her fingers maybe brushing your sleeve. You nodded when it felt right, gave a small hum of agreement, but your mind was far—on that stolen glance, on Agatha’s gaze, on the way you suddenly didn’t feel so invisible anymore. 

Maybe she was pissed. 

Maybe she was jealous. 

Maybe… just maybe… the wall she built was showing a crack. 

After lunch, the mayor finally took his leave—thankfully without another spill. You watched as his obnoxiously shiny car rolled out of the makeshift lot, a puff of dust trailing behind like the arrogance he left in the air. 

Back to work. 

One of the coordinators called out your name just as you were about to sit back down. “Hey! Could you go grab some planting kits and gloves from the storage room out back? We need them by the workshop.” 

“Sure,” you replied, already turning. 

“I’ll go with—” Kate offered quickly, stepping beside you. 

But before she could finish, another coordinator interrupted, calling her name and waving her over. “Actually, Kate? I need you on seed sorting. Sorry!” 

You threw her a lopsided smile. “Guess I’m flying solo.” 

“Damn,” Kate said, giving you a wink. “Next time.” 

You walked the dirt path alone, winding behind the main tent area. The air was heavy, the sun still strong despite the passing clouds. Strangely, it was quiet here. No chattering volunteers. No hammering. Just the crunch of your boots on the dry ground. When you reached the storage room, the door was already slightly ajar. 

You pushed it open and stepped inside. 

And there she was. 

Agatha. 

Bent over a box, clipboard in one hand, the other moving a few items to the side. Her head turned when she heard the door creak. 

“Agatha?” 

She looked at you like she wasn’t expecting anyone. “What are you doing here?” 

“One of the coordinators sent me. I’m supposed to grab supplies for the planting workshop.” 

You took a few steps in, letting the door swing closed behind you with a gentle click. 

But— 

“Don’t!” Agatha said sharply, eyes snapping to the door. 

You froze. “What?” 

She sighed, already reaching for the bridge of her nose. “The doorknob. It’s broken. It only opens from the outside.” 

You blinked, turning slowly. “You’re joking.” 

“I wish I was.” 

You strode to the door, tried the knob. Yanked it harder. Nothing. You jiggled it, twisted, even pushed against the wood with your shoulder. 

“I told you,” Agatha muttered, setting the clipboard down on a crate. “It’s been like that since yesterday. We were supposed to get it fixed.” 

You looked back. “Do you have your phone?” 

She gave a pointed look. “Do you see me holding one?” 

“Shit,” you muttered. “Mine’s in my bag.” 

“Well. I guess we’re both stuck here.” 

The silence came quickly. Loud, tense, awful. The air inside the storage room felt tighter than the air outside. You looked around—old sacks of soil, bins of gloves, boxes labeled seedling trays. No windows. Just one damn door. 

You slid down the wall into the far corner. Agatha remained standing for a moment, then quietly sat down too, but at the opposite end of the room. Still, you could feel her there. Like a heat that never faded. 

A full minute passed. Maybe more. 

“What were you even doing in here?” you asked finally, your voice softer than you intended. 

She didn’t look at you when she replied. “Checking supplies. Wanted to make sure we had enough for tomorrow.” 

Another nod. Another long silence. 

You hated it. 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. 

Agatha didn’t lift her head. “It’s fine. You didn’t know the door was—” 

“No,” you interrupted. “I’m not talking about that.” 

That’s when her gaze finally met yours. 

There was something in her eyes. Faint. Barely readable. But it wasn’t nothing. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you,” you said. “Back then. When you tried to reach out.” 

Agatha’s expression shifted, but she didn’t say anything. You continued, voice cracking despite your efforts to keep it steady. 

“I left without saying anything. I didn’t ask. I didn’t even try. I thought I knew what I heard—what I saw—but I didn’t. I just… I let it ruin everything.” 

You looked down at your hands, your voice smaller now. 

“I’ve been trying. Really trying, to fix it. To fix us. Because I still love you. I have for a long time. That never changed.” 

Your eyes stung, but you refused to let the tears fall. Not yet. Not here. 

Agatha was quiet. So quiet it made you ache. 

She turned her head away slightly, and for a second you thought that was it. Another silence. Another wall. 

But then she spoke. Low. Almost like she was trying to stop herself from saying anything at all. 

“They love it.” 

You blinked, confused. “What?” 

“The bunny,” she said. “The one you gave me. From that water race at the Pacific Park.” 

She smiled a little, but it was sad around the edges. 

“You kept losing, over and over. But you kept going like your life depended on it.” She glanced at you, softer now. “And when you finally won, you looked like you just hit the lottery.” 

You felt your chest tighten. 

“You gave it to me without blinking. Said something like—‘I’m not really into stuffed toys. I just liked the idea of winning. You can take it home with you. Maybe give it to your kids after the trip.’” 

You nodded slowly, the memory hitting like a wave. 

Agatha looked down at her hands. “They sleep with it. Every night.” 

Something in your throat twisted. “I didn’t know you… kept it.” 

“I kept everything,” she said quietly. “Even the ugly necklace you made me out of beads back in college.” 

You both let out the smallest, broken laughs. 

The silence that followed was different now. Heavier. But warmer too. Like you were both waiting for the same thing. Holding your breath in the same moment. 

That after everything—after silence, and jealousy, and grief, and years of pretending you didn’t care—you were finally sitting in the same space, on the same page. 

She didn’t move closer. And neither did you. 

But maybe that wasn’t the point. 

Maybe the point was just... this. 

And neither of you were running. 

The silence settled again, gentler this time. Like a third presence in the room, breathing with you both. 

You were sitting with your knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Agatha was still on the opposite end, one leg bent, her elbow resting casually on it—but her body had turned, ever so slightly, in your direction. 

You didn’t speak. You didn’t want to break whatever was threading between you now. 

Then you heard her inhale. 

Soft. 

Intentional. 

“Y/N,” she said, your name curling from her lips like it meant something more than just your name. 

You looked at her immediately. “Yeah?” 

Agatha’s eyes flicked to yours. 

She hesitated. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Her hand shifted like she was about to reach for something—or maybe stop herself from doing exactly that. 

Your heart thudded in your chest, painful and full. 

She blinked slowly. “I—” 

Click. 

“Oh—there you are!” 

Billy stood at the threshold, blinking between the two of you with a clipboard tucked against his chest and a slightly breathless energy. “They said you might be in here. I’ve been looking everywhere.” 

Agatha blinked. The moment dissolved between her lashes. 

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. She stood quickly, brushing the dust off her pants. “Thanks, Billy.” 

Billy stepped back instinctively to let her through, but he paused and looked at you too, giving a polite nod before turning back to Agatha. “We’re starting the press visit walk-through in fifteen.” 

“I’ll be there,” Agatha said, already halfway out the door. 

But before she disappeared completely, she glanced back at you once—quick, unreadable. 

And then she was gone. 

You exhaled. 

Hard. 

The door stood open now, letting in the air and the light, but somehow the room felt emptier than before. 

You sat there for another beat before finally standing, grabbing the supplies for the planting workshop you'd forgotten all about. 

The afternoon heat clung to your skin as you crouched by the garden beds, pressing your fingers into the soil. You were helping one of the local experts lead the planting workshop now—something about the community reclaiming unused land, sustainability, all that. You were listening. Kind of. Mostly. 

Your mind, stubborn and restless, kept circling back to that moment. 

Y/N. 

The way she said it. 

The way she looked at you right before the door opened. 

What was she about to say? 

Why did it feel like it could’ve changed everything? 

You tried to shake the thought, digging your fingers deeper into the dirt like it could ground you, anchor you back into the now. 

But it didn’t help. 

Because even with the warm breeze brushing past, even with the kids running around, even with the sound of laughter nearby—it was still her. 

It was still Agatha in your head. Still her eyes. Her voice. 

You cursed softly under your breath and wiped your brow, only to look up and find Kate plopping herself down beside you, smirking like she’d been watching you unravel the whole time. 

"You're looking real intense over here," she teased, nudging your knee with hers. "That tomato plant better be worth the drama." 

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts, and gave a half-laugh. “Sorry. Just tired.” 

“Yeah?” Kate leaned back on her palms, her shirt slightly dirty from the soil, her cheeks flushed from the sun. “You’ve been going hard since morning. I’m kinda in awe. Didn’t think the mysterious gorgeous woman from out of town would be the type to get down in the dirt.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Not that mysterious.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know.” She grinned. “Still kinda hot when you’re all serious like that.” 

You gave a little hum, polite but distant. Not cold, just… distracted. Always distracted these days. 

Kate wasn’t dumb. She noticed, but she didn’t push it. 

Instead, she plucked a small sprout from the tray beside you and planted it into the soil, her fingers brushing yours for half a second. "You ever think about staying here?" she asked casually. "Not forever, but like… a while?" 

You didn’t answer right away. 

You looked across the field instead—across the crowd, across the space. And there she was. 

Agatha. 

Standing near the sign-in tent again, talking to some of the organizers. Her hands moved as she spoke, her brows raised in something mildly amused. But then, her eyes flickered up at you for a second.  

Then gone again. 

That same look from earlier. 

That same something. 

You swallowed. “Not really,” you said eventually, softly. “I don’t know yet.” 

Kate didn’t say anything, but she nodded slowly, a hint of something like understanding flickering across her face. 

You both turned back to the soil. 

You kept planting. 

But your hands weren’t steady anymore. 

The sun had dipped lower now, casting a softer amber hue over the fields and tents. You had just finished wiping the last bit of dirt off your palms with a damp rag when Billy’s voice blared through the microphone. 

“Alright, everyone!” He stood on a foldable chair near the center tent, waving his arm above his head like a conductor. “Can I get your attention real quick?” 

The chatter died down. People turned. Even the kids paused, mid-run. 

Billy cleared his throat, flashing that ever-so-slightly over-caffeinated smile. “Just a few reminders before we call it a day.” 

You leaned against the nearby table, muscles sore from crouching and lifting all day, and tried your best to stay upright. Your body was tired, but your mind wasn’t. It was still replaying that look on Agatha’s face. Still stuck on the almost. 

Billy went on, “Tomorrow is the last day of the campaign, folks! And it’s gonna be our biggest yet. So I need everyone on their A-game.” 

A couple of tired groans followed, but mostly there was nodding. People were proud. And nervous. 

“We’ll be having visits from several local businesses, some political reps, and yes—Mayor Tony Stark will be joining us again,” he added, and you could literally feel your jaw clench at the name. “He’ll be staying the entire day.” 

Your eyes flicked toward the tent where Agatha had been moments ago. She wasn’t there now. 

Billy adjusted his posture. “Governor Harkness will be giving a speech at 10AM sharp—so please, please, no disappearing acts, okay? We want the crowd ready and loud by then. This is our big push, everyone.” 

You folded your arms, letting the information sink in. 

“She’ll be explaining why these donations matter,” Billy added, more serious now. “How much this project means for this town. For the families. The environment. And I don’t need to tell you guys how hard she’s worked for this.” 

You saw a few heads turn toward each other, nodding in respect. Whatever else could be said about her—Governor Harkness was a force. Tireless. Composed. Charismatic. 

And tomorrow, she’d be all of that in front of cameras and suits and crowds. 

You wondered how she was holding up under all that pressure. You wondered if she was still thinking about the storage room too. 

“And like I said,” Billy continued, “Mayor Stark will have a short speech too. Probably charming, probably unnecessary, but hey—he did bring burritos.” Some laughter followed. Not from you. 

“And most importantly…” Billy raised a fist, voice rising. “We’ve got one day left to reach our donation goal. One day to show everyone what we’ve built together. $100,000 before we close up tomorrow. Can we do it?” 

A few volunteers whooped. Others clapped. You gave a small, tired smile. 

You weren’t sure about anything right now. 

But one thing you knew? 

Tomorrow was going to be chaos. 

[eclectickss]

finding a term that you’ve never heard before but it resonating with you so deeply is a really cool experience

and that is why research on queer identities, whether gender, sexuality, or romance, is so needed!

from Ace Voices by Eris Young

[eclectickss]

eleanor shellstrop one of the protagonists of all time honestly. woman who sucks so much who gets put in a situation specifically made to make her worse and instead she gets better. filled with love for other people but replaced it with malice for as long as she could because love got her nothing. went from being selfish for survival to selfless for survival and in the end she lands on being selfless for selflessness's sake. she even has mommy issues. she's even bisexual.

[eclectickss]

Fashion Show (Casey Novak x f!Reader)

Synopsis: You decide it times to get Casey to admit how much she wants you. Which can only mean one thing. A fashion show!

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: Jealousy, swearing, marking, dirty talk, oral (R receiving), fingering (R receiving)

Sitting in your living room, you were doing your best not to stare at Casey. In the afternoon light she was beautiful. All soft edges and sweet curves, a small smile on her face. Your fingers itched to touch her, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

She’d shown up at your door, a case file in hand, asking you to run through her opening statements with her. Preparation was the way to win. And no one was ever as prepared as Casey Novak.

So you sat with her on Sunday afternoon, tinkering her opening statement, running through the evidence, the questions she wanted to ask, making sure she hit all the right points. You loved lawyer mode Casey. It always gave you a thrill to see her in action.

It was unbelievably sexy.

“I really think you’ve got it,” you said.

Her head was bent over a few papers, her hair falling forward into her face. You reached over, pushing it behind her ear. Glancing up, she seemed startled, green eyes widening. Your smile was meant to reassure.

“You’re going to be amazing, Case. You know that,” you said.

“I don’t know. I really can’t afford to mess this one up. Donnelly is already breathing down my neck,” she said.

“Come on, you know this case. You’re gonna crush it. You’re quite literally the best lawyer I’ve ever met,” you said.

“How many lawyers do you know?” she asked with a twist of the lips.

“More than enough to be getting on with,” you replied, “now put your papers away. I have something fun you can do to take a break.”

Her gaze sharpened as it landed on you. You lent forward, sitting on your knees, forcing yourself closer to her. Her gaze dipped down before returning to your face.

“Wanna do something fun?” you asked, lowering your voice, trying to sound as tempting as possible.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“How about a fashion show?” you said, “I’d love your opinion on something.”

She looked at you like you’d lost your mind. You grinned back, knowing exactly what you wanted to show her. Something that might finally push her to making a move. Months of living on the edge of something more, she was driving you crazy. It was time you did something to get what you wanted.

“You want my opinion on fashion?” she asked.

“A very specific type of fashion,” you said.

“Go on then,” she said, sitting back, eyes sweeping over you.

You clambered to your feet, shooting her a wink before you shut your bedroom door. Scrabbling through your underwear drawer, you pulled out the three sets you were considering. Red and blue and green. All pretty. All capable of getting you what you wanted.

Together, you could drive her absolutely wild.

You slipped the red on first, figuring the green would be the big guns to pull out at the end, and the blue a nice palate cleanser between the two. You’d paid enough attention to Casey to know her preferences. You cracked open the door, peeking through to see Casey sitting on your couch, still looking at the case notes.

“Okay, so I have three options and I need to know which one you think looks better,” you said through the crack, snagging her attention.

“Sure,” she said, placing down her notes, “what’s this for?”

“I guess I just need to know which you’d prefer to see if you were undressing me,” you said, stepping out into the living room.

Her eyes widened and colour bloomed on her cheeks. You watched her eyes rake over your body, lingering, hungry as they took you in. With a slow spin, you let her see the entirety of the pretty red set you’d bought the week before in an attempt to make yourself feel better about not having Casey in your bed. You’d considered putting it on and going out to find someone to take care of the throbbing between your legs. It hadn’t seemed worth it if it wasn’t her doing it.

“What do you think?” you asked, facing her again.

Her eyes had darkened, almost to the point of losing the blue. You stepped towards her, almost to within touching distance, swaying your hips, watching her watch you. Tilting your head, you let her drink her fill, liking the way it felt to be under her gaze. She was leaning forward, her ravenous gaze so focused on you.

“Well?” you prompted, lips curling up into a small, knowing smirk.

“It’s very.” You followed the way her tongue ran along her lower lip, “nice.”

“Only nice?” you asked.

You shivered as her gaze met yours again. You could see how tense she was, as if she was under great strain not to launch herself at you. Placing both of your hands on your hips, you stared her down. If she pounced, you weren’t going to complain. You’d probably reward her for it.

You stepped right into her orbit, your finger reaching out to tilt her chin up. You wanted her looking you right in the eye.

“You really can’t think of a better word to describe it?” you asked.

“Pretty. It’s pretty,” she said, hurriedly, as if trying to find the right answer.

“I think we can do better than that, don’t you?”

She nodded, teeth sinking into her lower lip. You found yourself staring, wondering what it would be like to do the same. You thought she might whimper. Just the thought sent heat licking at your skin.

“Be right back,” you whispered.

You felt her gaze on you as you walked back to your bedroom, hips swaying. You turned in the doorway, shooting her a wink before you closed the door. Taking your time, you let her stew in her thoughts. You wished you could hear them, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she was thinking about you the way you were thinking about her.

You wanted to know how close she was to snapping.

“Ready?” you called through the crack in the door.

“Sure,” she said, but it wasn’t quite the calm and collected Casey you were used to.

You stepped out into the living room, gaze trained on her. You wanted to see every single expression on her face. Her fingers were clenched in a fist, resting on her thigh as her eyes dragged up your body. Pausing in front of her, you let her look her fill.

The blue was pretty, soft and sweet, almost the complete opposite of the red. That one had been seductive, vampy, this one made you feel like you might be a good girl in it. A nice present. A reward.

Her darkened eyes made you think you were the exact kind of present she wanted to unwrap.

“You can touch if you want. If it’ll help you decide if you like this one more,” you said.

It was like giving her permission was all she needed. Her hand jumped up, tracing the waistband of your panties. You shivered, stepping closer to let her touch you properly. The warmth of her touch was exactly what you were looking for.

She was watching the trail her finger was making over your body. You sighed, the relief palpable. You’d been waiting for her touch for so long even this felt better than you could have imagined.

“I like this set,” you said, chin dipping so you could look at her from under lowered eyelashes, “makes me feel pretty.”

Your teeth sunk into your lower lip, waiting to see how she responded. Her fingers trailed up your stomach, the muscles jumping under her touch. Brushing the curve of your breast, she watched her own fingers touch you. It was like she couldn’t look away.

“Does it make me look pretty?” you asked, prompting her when the silence continued.

“You always look pretty,” she replied, eyes dragging back up your body to meet yours.

“But am I extra pretty in this set?” you asked.

Her fingertips dragged back down your stomach, making you shiver. Her touch was a heady thing, almost addictive, and she’d barely done anything. You wanted her to do more to you.

“It’s certainly something,” she replied, her voice a low hum.

“But we can probably do better,” you said.

You stepped out of her reach, watching the way her fingers clenched at the loss of contact. It was gratifying to know she was feeling it just as intensely as you were. You did your best to keep your smirk to yourself, even as you turned on the balls of your feet, listening out for the soft groan as she saw the skimpy back to your g-string. Hiding your smile, you let your hips swing as you took yourself back into your bedroom.

This time you didn’t take your time, wanting the punch of green more than you wanted to tease her. You could just imagine it, fingers clenching, cheeks flushing, eyes darkening the moment she saw you in the deep forest green set. You’d been thinking of her the entire time you’d tried it on, buying it specifically for her eyes.

You didn’t give her a warning, flinging your bedroom door open and stepping out into your tiny living room. She was already leaning forward, eyes trained on the doorway, breathless and beautiful as she waited for you. You grinned.

The green was definitely doing more than the red or blue did. Her jaw was clenching and her cheeks were flushed. You felt the flicker of excitement at the expression on her face. Restrained desire, like you were teasing her and she knew she wasn’t allowed you. You stepped forward, just in front of her, right where her fingertips could graze you.

“This one doing more for you?” you asked.

She looked almost pained as her eyes met yours.

“Who’s this for?” she asked, the bite almost anger, frustration mixed in there too.

“Does it have to be for someone specific?” you asked, “maybe I’m planning for the future.”

“Who?” she asked, voice hardening.

“Does it matter?” you asked in return.

“You bought this with someone in mind,” she said, her hands making contact with your hips, grasping them.

“I did,” you confirmed, giving her enough to bite.

“Who?” Dark eyes dragged up to yours.

“You.”

The word hung between the two of you. Something satisfied settled on her face. Her hands tightened over your hips, tight enough for you to gasp. Her eyes smouldered, raking over your figure, holding you still as her gaze travelled over you. She tugged you closer, close enough to feel her breath ghost over the skin of your stomach. Your muscles tightened, breath catching. The slow perusal of your body was heating your skin until you thought you might combust.

The teaser had turned into the teased.

“You bought this with me in mind?” she asked, those pretty pink lips pulling up into a cocky smirk.

“I just told you I did,” you replied.

“And in what context did you think I might see this?” she asked, hands sliding around to grasp your ass.

“Well, I was hoping there might be some ripping of my clothes off, but I think this was pretty effective,” you replied.

Your hands landed on her shoulders, warm through the shirt she had on, strong as you used them to keep yourself steady. She looked up at you, head tipped back, a tilt to it that spoke of her amusement.

“Effective at what?” she asked.

“At letting me know how badly you want to bend me over and fuck me,” you replied, lowering your voice, “and do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“What?” she asked, fingers digging into your skin.

“Someone desperate to fuck me.”

She tugged on you, sharply enough for you to fall forward. Your knees landed either side of her thighs, a less than graceful manoeuvre to get you to straddle her lap. Her amusement as the small noise of surprise you made was obvious, her smile making your skin heat.

“You think very highly of yourself,” she said, but her hands were stroking over your bare skin in a way that suggested she was rather distracted by it.

“Are you saying you don’t want to fuck me?” you asked.

Your fingers threading in the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging until her head tipped back. Her eyes were smouldering, a liquid heat in them that made you tug harder. Her hands tightened on you, dragging you closer.

“I’m saying you should be careful. Attitude like that and I might have to teach you not to be such a fucking tease,” she said.

“I’d like to see you try,” you said.

With hands hooked behind your thighs, she threw you down on the sofa cushions, hovering over you. A rush of air left from your parted lips, surprised at her actions, but not how strong she was. You’d been hoping she could throw you around like a rag doll.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked.

“As much as you’ve been,” you replied as your legs curled around her hips, drawing her closer.

“So tell me,” she said, voice lowering into a sexy rasp that had electricity running over your skin, “what were you hoping I’d do once I saw you in this little number?”

Her fingers deftly plucked your bra strap, letting it snap back against your skin. Your hands pushed up under the hem of her shirt, seeking out the soft skin hidden beneath. As your palms ran over the skin of her back, you felt how tightly she was holding herself.

“I was hoping I might at least get a kiss,” you said.

“Lofty dreams.” You could just hear the eye roll in her voice, “nothing more?”

“Well, in an ideal world, you’d peel me out of it and make me scream your name,” you said, “but I’m not fussy. I’ll let you decide what you want to do now we’re here.”

“And if I just want to look at you?” she asked.

“Look all you like.”

You arched your back, offering yourself up to her gaze. The throbbing between your legs was insistent, but the way she was looking at you was delicious. If that was all she wanted, you were more than happy to supply the view.

“You are beautiful,” she said, her palm stroking down your side, taking in the warmth of your skin, the soft sigh her touch brought, the shiver when her nails dragged over your skin, “so very, very beautiful.”

Her lips brushed against yours, whisper soft, ghostlike, making you whimper for more. You felt her smile against your lips before she kissed you properly. It was all consuming, nothing but heat, making your head spin. Your arms curled around her, drawing her closer, wanting to feel her against every inch of you. Her moan went through you, lighting you up.

When her lips began to trail down your neck, you tipped your head back, letting her have her way with you. You’d let her do anything if she kept making you feel that good. It was better than you’d been able to imagine, and you’d spent a lot of time imagining it. Her hands were sliding further down your body, grasping your thighs, keeping them around her waist. With fingers buried in her hair, you kept her pressed against your skin.

“Please tell me this means you plan on fucking me,” you moaned.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. I’m going to take care of you.” And despite her words reassuring you, the twinkle in her eye said you were in for trouble.

Her teeth nipped at your skin, right at your pulse point. The molten heat spreading through your veins flared, threatening to turn you to ash. Strong hands slid back up your body, cupping your lace covered breasts. You arched into her touch, offering yourself to her.

Her lips traced a path down to where lace met skin, tongue dragging over the curve of your breast. Your fingers tightened in her hair, clenching as she sucked a mark into your skin. The thought of your body being littered in her marks was one that tasted delicious. You wanted it, so badly, to be claimed by her.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she growled into your skin, “you knew exactly what you were doing with this lingerie.”

“I did,” you confirmed.

“You wanted to rile me up,” she said.

“Uh huh,” you said, not able to come up with a more intelligent response as her thumb swiped over your tightening nipple.

“You wanted me to put you back in your place,” she said.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Such a desperate little slut,” she murmured.

Her fingers dipped beneath the cup of your bra, a teasing touch leaving you breathless. You arched against her again, urging her on. The curve of her smile was lost against her skin as her teeth sunk into your soft flesh.

“Casey,” you groaned.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she murmured.

Her tongue soothed over the bite mark that was pressed into your skin. She sat back, looking down at you, eyes dark and lips smirking, cheeks flushed as she gazed down on you.

“Now let’s see if you can be a good girl for me,” she said.

Her hands were slow to pull the bra from your body, leaving you exposed, hips pinned to the couch by her weight. She ran her touch back up your body, now cupping your newly bare breasts. The warmth of her skin felt searing against yours.

When she lent forward, you shivered, the ghost of her breath on your skin setting your nerve endings on fire. Her mouth was warm as her lips wrapped around one hardened nipple, tongue flicking over it. You felt insane as your fingers wound their way through her hair, pressing her to you, arching into her mouth. Her hand was toying with the other nipple, rolling it, pinching it, making you feel more alive than you had in a very long time.

You whimpered her name, knowing you were being gifted exactly what you’d given her. She was teasing you, dragging it out, not giving you exactly what you wanted as she played with you. You felt insane, a puddle of want, barely holding it together as she did what she wanted to your body.

Her other hand had slipped down, running along the waistband of your panties. You couldn’t stop the pleas from falling from your lips, but she stayed there, a teasing touch, refusing to give in and give you more.

Her mouth trailed across your chest, finding the other breast. The curse that fell from your lips was as harsh as the way she sucked. Your fingers tightened in her hair, clenching as you tried to be good for her. You thought she would like it, you submitting, finally, to her and doing as you were told. Not that she’d issued any orders to you. But you got the gist of what she wanted from the way she moaned into your skin when you did something she liked.

She kissed her way back up to your ear, tongue darting out to taste your skin, lingering at your pulse point, teeth nipping. It was a slow path, taking plenty of detours as she explored you with her mouth. She caught your earlobe between her teeth, tugging on it until you were certain her plan was to drive you crazy.

“Tell me what you want,” she murmured into your ear.

“I want you to touch me,” you whimpered.

“I am touching you,” she said, fingers drifting lazily over your lower stomach.

“Casey,” you whined.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Please,” you begged, “please.”

“Just as soon as you tell me what exactly you want,” she said, sitting back to look down at you squirm beneath her.

You felt hot all over. The way she was looking at you was like she planned on eating you alive, like you were the sweet treat she’d been craving all day. Your fingers closed around the wrist of the hand teasing you, tight enough it might bruise, and you guided her hand to the throbbing heat between your legs. She grinned, cupping you, feeling exactly how wet you were through your underwear. You’d be embarrassed if you didn’t like the pride that flew across her face the feeling.

“Use your words, baby girl,” she said.

“I want you to fuck me,” you said, breathless and desperate and not above begging her, “all I can think about is your fingers inside me or you eating me out or bending me over and fucking me from behind. I need you, Casey. I need you so much. I need you to fuck me.”

“Good girl,” she hummed.

Her fingers pushed your panties to the side, sliding through your folds. She brushed against your clit, brightening at the noise you made, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, relief flooding through you. She lingered on your clit, still watching you, enjoying the way your hips bucked up against her touch.

“I bet you taste wonderful,” she said, slow to begin circling your bundle of nerves.

You whimpered, wanting more. You’d already told her exactly what you wanted, now she was just playing with you. When her fingers pressed to your entrance, you moaned her name, hips pressing up into her.

She lent forward, lips pressing to the skin above the waistband of your panties. Her hands retracted from your body, fingers hooking under the waistband. She dragged them from your body, flinging them aside, leaving you completely bare beneath her, even as she was completely dressed above you. Her hands curled around your thighs, parting them, as her lips drew closer to your throbbing heat.

“Casey,” you moaned.

“Shhh, baby girl. Let me taste you,” she said.

Her tongue swept through your folds. Your head fell back, eyes slipping closed. You lost yourself in the feeling of her. When she moaned, it rocketed through you, the vibrations making you clutch at her, fingers tangling in her hair as you held her against you.

You’d known Casey was good with her mouth, her silver tongue winning more cases than any other lawyer you knew. This took it to whole other level. She was a master, an absolute expert, driving you to heights you weren’t used to. All you could do was hold on, the pleasure overwhelming.

Her fingers slipped into you, tongue on your clit. The louder you got, the harder she worked, as if she wanted to see how loud she could get you. You were trembling, muscles tight. Your heels were digging into her back, fingers tight in her hair, and all you knew was the fire in your veins and the pleasure rolling through your body.

You came screaming her name, clutching at her, keeping her pressed against you. She eased you through it, tongue slow to clean you up. You were slow to let her go, fingers aching from clenching so hard, releasing her as your body melted into the couch cushions. She sat up again, proud smirk on her face.

“You taste delicious,” she said.

Reaching for her hand, you slid your lips around her still glistening fingers, tasting yourself. Her eyes turned molten as she watched you clean your own arousal off her skin. You slowly pulled her fingers from your mouth, grinning up at her.

“Well, that certainly was something fun,” she said.

“And I bet you didn’t even think about the case once,” you said.

“Was that your plan all along?” she asked.

“To seduce you on my couch as a way of making you take a break?” you asked, “I can’t say it was my main motivation.”

“What was then?” she asked.

“To seduce you on my couch as a way of making you fuck me,” you replied.

“So you admit you were seducing me,” she said.

“I bought multiple lingerie sets with the intention of letting you see me in them. Of course I was seducing you,” you said.

“And how long exactly have you been planning this little seduction?” she asked, fingers lightly ghosting over the skin of your stomach. Your muscles clenched and you squirmed.

“A while,” you replied.

“You can’t have known this would work,” she said.

“Can’t I?” You curled your fingers around her wrist, tugging until she fell forward, face close enough to feel her breath ghost over your lips, “you caught a glimpse of a bit of lace and you couldn’t look away. Wasn’t hard to figure out a bit of teasing might make you snap.”

“Oh, baby girl. You haven’t seen me snap yet,” she said.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder next time then,” you whispered.

She chuckled into the kiss.

[eclectickss]

before you stab someone: THINK!

how can you make it Tender?

how can you make it Homoerotic?

how can you make it Implicitly intimate?

how can you make it Noticeably a metaphor for sex?

how can you make it Kind of gay?

[eclectickss]

Highly recommend watching Kathryn Hahn in Free Agents

You can watch all the episodes here

[eclectickss]

Ah, yes, my favorite show: Kissy, Kissy Witches 💜💚

[eclectickss]

The psychology of love (Part 9)

Class with Agatha after the "library incident"—will you be able to keep your cool?

Word count: 5k

Warnings: none (sorry!)

Agatha calls you into her office after class. You stand up on shaky legs and ignore the stares from your classmates as you follow her out of the door. Her cloud of perfume engulfs you in her typical scent and you feel desire coursing through your veins. 

“Everything okay, Professor?” you ask once she lets you into her office. You turn around to look at her and she’s right there, her mouth so close to yours that you can feel her breath on your lips. It smells like coffee and you want to drink it in. 

She gingerly reaches out a hand like she’s afraid to touch you but she cups your cheek. “I can’t…” she says haggardly, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

And then she closes the gap between you and you moan into her open mouth and you’re pulling her against you and her hands are wandering your body and— 

Your alarm goes off and jolts you awake. 

Confusion and disorientation fog your senses and leave you reeling from the feeling of Agatha’s lips on yours that felt so real before it sinks in that it was just a dream. 

But then the events of last night—of Agatha sending you a picture of herself in bed and calling you her good girl, of you rutting against a chair in the library until you came after admitting that you moaned her name while Morgan was fucking you—come flooding back and a fresh wave of arousal pools in your cunt. 

That was real. 

How are you supposed to go to class today and act like everything’s normal? Even the thought of seeing her has your stomach turning and clenching. How will she act? 

Getting out of bed with a stretch, you look across from you to find Wanda’s empty bed. She thankfully wasn’t in your room last night because you were still soaked and worked up and then finally able to do something properly about it but she must’ve spent the whole night with Nat.

You’re hoping for another text from Agatha when you check your phone, but there’s nothing except a message from your mom. You ignore it and open the chain with your professor. 

The picture she sent yesterday stares back at you and you clench around nothing. You zoom in on her hand—her veins, her knuckles, her fingers slightly curled against her stomach. It’s endearing to know what she sleeps in, just a cotton t-shirt and shorts, and you long for the day that you might be able to see her like that, just so relaxed and natural. 

And hot. 

It takes you a while to get out of your dorm, mainly because of the dilemma of what to wear. You usually opt for jeans and a plain shirt, but after last night…maybe you should switch it up. 

You know you have to wait, but maybe you could tempt her a little too, just like she’s doing to you. 

After a little digging through your closet, you find a black tank top that dips to show a hint of cleavage and a white skirt that reaches down to your mid-thigh, if a little on the shorter side. You bite your lip as you look at yourself in the mirror. 

Will Agatha like it? 

You hope so. 

Sliding shoes onto your feet without tying them, you grab your tote bag, briefly checking to make sure you have your notebook and laptop, and head out to get a quick breakfast from the dining hall. Your hope is that you can maybe get to class a little early to have a chance to talk to Agatha, although you equally want just as much to show up right as it starts so you don’t have to. You’re not sure you can manage to cope if she says that last night was a mistake. 

Wanda and Nat are sitting at a table and they call your name once you swipe your card and enter the hall. They beckon you over and you quickly stop after checking your watch.

“I only have a few minutes before I have to head to class,” you hastily explain. 

Wanda offers you half a slice of a bagel from her plate and you graciously accept it. “Why are you so dressed up?” she asks and you shrug evasively while sinking your teeth into the food so you don’t have to answer. 

“There’s a comedy show here on campus tonight. Want to come with us?” Nat asks.

You swallow a big bite of the bread. “Yeah, that sounds fun. I have nothing else to do on a Friday night. Look at us—we’re really living the college life, aren’t we?” They both snicker and you look at your watch again. “Oh, I should probably get going.”

You tell them you’ll see them later, grab an apple from the buffet, and set out across campus. You slow down just a little so you don’t seem too eager, but you still arrive at the Psychology building ten minutes before class. 

But as you’re walking up the stairs, you’re violently reminded that you still haven’t tied your shoes when you step on one of your laces and trip forward. The steps catch your forearm and knee and you groan at the sharp pain in your ribs. Thankfully, your tote bag is relatively spared. 

Face burning, you push yourself up and maneuver into a sitting position, silently cursing yourself for picking today to wear a skirt. You can feel people’s eyes on you but you just try to ignore them as you assess the damage. Your right knee is scraped up, blood running down your shin, and your left forearm is skinned pretty badly. Both injuries sting but you grit your teeth and attempt to stand up but only make it to a squatting position before someone steps in front of you. 

“That was quite a spill,” someone says and you shield your eyes from the sun with your right hand to look up at the voice, but you already know who it’s going to be. 

Now your face burns for an entirely different reason. 

Agatha stands above you, an amused expression on her face. You smile weakly. Of course the first time you see her after last night is like this. 

While you’re bleeding and embarrassed, she looks as regal as ever in a bubblegum pink, long-sleeve turtleneck tucked into a long, brown, leather skirt with matching brown heels, and her black, oversized purse is over her shoulder. Her hair is loose and wavy and parted down the center and her blue eyes stare right into your soul. 

She holds out a hand to you—the same hand from the picture last night—and you take it with a ragged breath. Agatha pulls you up and you wince when you straighten your right leg. 

“Atta girl,” she purrs and helps you turn around so you’re both facing up toward the building. The fire in your stomach almost completely blocks out the pain you’re feeling. She puts a steadying hand on your bicep until you feel like you’re able to walk again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Neither of you say a word as she leads you to the bathroom on the first floor. There’s three stalls and all of them are empty which only adds to your anxiety at being alone with her. 

Should you bring up last night?

Agatha pats the sink. “Why don’t you sit up here?” she murmurs and you hop up, slinging your tote bag aside. Your professor grabs a paper towel and wets it while you watch her tongue poke out between her lips. 

She steps back over and you chew on your thumbnail as she dabs gingerly at the scrape on your knee. It burns but you don’t make a sound. Agatha is focused, the lines on her forehead creased, and you feel a tugging in your chest. 

“Did you see the whole thing?” you ask. The silence has been growing, becoming thick and awkward. 

She smirks to herself. “Would it make you feel better if I lied?”

You groan and drop your face into your hands amidst her laughing. “I was in a hurry and I forgot to tie my shoes.” 

“Just in a rush to get to class?” Agatha prompts slyly as she gets another paper towel to wipe up the blood that’s poured down your leg. She digs through her purse and finds a band-aid before ripping open the wrapper with her teeth. 

A flash of heat explodes inside you and you can feel yourself getting wetter. Being near her elicits this reaction and you don’t think it’ll ever go away. Her perfume drifts into your nose and only adds fuel to the fire. 

“You know me, I’m just a huge fan of the Biological approach,” you joke and she smiles fondly as she puts the bandage on your knee. Then she sets on to clean up your arm, grabbing you by the wrist and turning it so she can get better access. 

Her touch singes you and you’re afraid to breathe too loudly. She dabs at the scrape and you can’t stop your gaze from darting from her eyes to her lips to her hand and back to her face. The corners of her mouth quirk up like she can feel you staring. 

“Think they’ll scar?” you rasp, suddenly finding it hard to speak. She is so close to you and the events of last night are hanging over the room. 

Agatha shrugs and tosses the towel in the trash. There isn’t much to bandage because it’s just rubbed pretty raw and there’s no central wound. “Probably not,” she says. Even though she’s done, she doesn’t move away, doesn’t let go of your wrist. Her thumb starts to stroke your skin, just faintly, like she doesn't even realize she’s doing it, but it’s enough to have you melting into a puddle. Your heart is pounding. Can she hear it?

Your dream comes back to you in full-force and sends a shiver down your spine. You can still feel her lips on yours, even though it wasn’t real. 

Agatha watches you through hooded eyes like she’s trying to figure out what’s going through your head. As if she doesn’t know that it’s always her. 

“Are you okay?” she asks cautiously. 

You blink at her and then glance down to your arm and leg. “Oh—yeah, I’ve had way worse. It doesn’t even hurt that much.” 

She chuckles despite herself. “I’m glad to hear that, but I was talking more about last night.” 

A rush of desire races through you. 

That’s my good girl. 

You nod your head, mortified both at the misunderstanding and how you fell apart so easily just from a few texts from her. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you tell her, your throat suddenly very dry. And then, because you think you might be figuring her out, you add: “There’s a chair in the library I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sit in again.” 

Agatha’s eyes flash with a dark heat and her grip tightens on your wrist. A thrill runs through you—you hope it leaves a mark. She looks down at your lips for a fraction of a second and your heart skips a beat. 

Is she going to kiss you? 

“Sounds like you had as good of a night as I did, then,” she says quietly and while both of your statements were vague, there’s the underlying understanding of exactly what the other means. 

She was touching herself while texting you. 

Did your confession that it was her name you moaned with Morgan put her over the edge? You’re not sure you could handle her telling you that. Dizziness is already fogging up your brain and you think you might pass out. “Oh,” you stammer dumbfounded and she smiles, pleased with herself. 

But then the bathroom door opens and she drops your wrist like she’s the one who’s been burned and she takes several steps back. It’s two girls who spare you both one look before going into separate stalls. 

You shakily check your watch. Class starts in two minutes. Agatha sees the time as well and gives you a wink before grabbing her purse and swinging it back onto her shoulder. You push yourself off the sink and pick up your bag and follow a few steps behind her to your classroom. 

That was close, even though nothing was actually happening. A good reminder that while you want her and she wants you, you both need to wait. You can’t let her jeopardize her job for you. 

Most of the class is already in the room but they stop chattering when you both enter. Agatha logs into the computer and opens up the presentation. You get your notebook and pen out and gnaw on the tip while she gets ready, trying not to make eye contact. You can still feel the warmth of her hand around your wrist. 

Agatha clears her throat and you finally look at her. She runs her hands over her shirt, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, before beginning. “Before we start talking more about the Biological approach to personality, I just want to make a few announcements. Tomorrow, there will be a mixer for undergraduate and graduate students in the Psychology department at Dr. Calderu’s house.” 

Lilia Calderu is the head of the Psychology department at Westview University. She spoke at your orientation but you rarely see her around campus. 

“Dr. Calderu is on the admissions committee for the psychology graduate programs here, so if you are interested in applying—” Agatha looks at you with a slight nod, “—then you should make your best effort to attend. There will also be other professors and students from various graduate programs for you to talk to. It runs from five to nine and you can stop by whenever you want. You don’t have to stay long, but I really recommend this resource.” 

“On a Saturday? As if,” one boy snorts behind you and you roll your eyes at him. 

Agatha fixes her glare on him. “While you may have something you deem ‘better’ to do, I’m speaking more to the students who actually care about their future. I’ll reiterate: you don’t have to stay long.” 

The boy scoffs but doesn’t say anything. You doubt he’ll show up. 

“We will also be having our first text in a week from today on Friday, September sixth.” A few people gasp but Agatha keeps talking. “It will cover the Trait approach and the Biological approach. I’ll have a study guide posted sometime this weekend. We have new material to get through today and Monday and if we finish it all by then, we will have Wednesday’s class as a review.” 

In your periphery, you see someone raise their hand. 

Agatha ignores them. “There will be thirty multiple choice and two short answer questions. You will have the whole class period to take the exam.” She calls on the person with their hand in the air. 

“Would you possibly be able to post the slides? We’ve all come to class,” the girl asks meekly. You shake your head and close your eyes for a second. 

“Does anyone remember what I said about the slideshows at the beginning of the semester? I know it was almost two whole weeks ago,” Agatha asks sarcastically, eyes falling on you as they always do. 

You grimace and sit up straighter. “You said you wouldn’t post them.” 

She beams at you over-exaggeratedly and it sends a flash of heat through you. “Very good. No, I will not post them just because ‘we’ve all come to class’. Congrats on attending the lessons you pay for. You don’t get a reward for that.” 

Agatha pointedly clicks on the screen to switch to the next slide and the discussion is ended even though you can see the girl looking wildly around to your classmates for some vindication. 

“The Human Brain,” Agatha begins and you start writing everything down. “There’s three parts to it: the ‘reptilian’ brain, the ‘paleomammalian’ brain, and the ‘neomammalian’ brain. We start in the back of the brain, which is the least complex and then end with the front of the brain, which is the most complex. The reptilian brain, or the brain stem, contains the thalamus, the hypothalamus, the amygdala, the pons, and the cerebellum.” 

You inwardly say a farewell to any hope that you’re going to do well on this test because how are you supposed to remember all of this? And this is just for one part of the brain.

Guess you’ll have to seek extra help with Agatha. 

“The thalamus is responsible for relaying sensory information to the cerebral cortex, which we’ll get to in the neomammalian brain. The hypothalamus produces hormones and regulates hunger, thirst, and—” her eyes flit to meet yours and you stare back, enraptured, “—sex.” 

A searing heat tears through you and you rock forward in your chair, the pressure on your clit shooting you back to last night in the library when you came just from doing that. 

That’s my good girl. 

If Agatha doesn’t stop, you think you might actually have an orgasm in this classroom. 

And you thought biology was boring. Just from a little emphasis on one word, your imagination is running rampant again, pulling up the same thoughts from last night with a little twist. 

Her face, flushed pink, as she looks down at you on your knees for you. Her tongue pressed against her cheek while she winds a hand in your hair. Your mouth watering because you can smell her. Her trying to stay quiet and composed but failing when you suck on her clit. 

You think you can imagine what she tastes like already. You think you could spend all day lapping at her cunt. Under her desk, in her bed, against a wall. Wherever and whenever she’d let you. You picture her coming home after a rough day at work and pushing you down to your knees, all too willing. 

A whimper threatens to escape but you quickly swallow it and try to go back to paying attention. 

“This part of the brain is mostly used for physical mobility, pursuing and eating food, migrating, defending territory, and—” another glance at you and you brace yourself, “—courting and engaging in sexual activity.” 

Do your classmates see how pointed she makes everything? A cold shiver runs through you—are you both being too obvious? You’re sure the way you ogle her isn’t subtle. 

At least you sit toward the front so no one can really see your face. But Agatha’s is on display for everyone. 

You look around the room and everyone is either staring off into space or typing on their computers. You feel a sense of relief and you exhale slowly. Agatha’s eyes twinkle when you meet them again. 

“However, this part of the brain cannot plan or think about the future. It seems to have a fixed repertoire of behaviors, just like a reptile.” 

There’s some snickers around the room but Agatha doesn’t even look up from the computer. 

She moves to the next slide. “The paleomammalian brain is the middle part of the brain. On its own, it doesn’t have much function, but it creates the limbic system with the reptilian brain. Together, they’re in charge of basic emotions, motivation, curiosity, appetite, and the sex drive.” 

Agatha doesn’t have to look at you this time because you’re already a mess and she knows it. If it was her goal to make you fall apart in class, she’s definitely succeeding. 

Next slide.

“The neomammalian brain is the front part of the brain. Here, we have the cerebral cortex and this gives us the ability to be self-aware, make plans, and use meaningful and productive language. Our cerebral cortexes are more complex than those in animals because of the more layers, more connections, more folds.” 

Even when she’s talking about the most mundane things, Agatha has a knack to make them sound positively filthy and it’s turning you into a puddle. Just the sound of her voice is affecting you more than almost anything ever has. 

She pauses to give everyone some time to write everything down. You feel her eyes on you, just watching, while you finish scrawling your notes. You’re not even sure you can read some of the things you’ve written. 

And then you look up at her. Agatha smirks knowingly—can she see what she’s doing to you?

Of course she can. 

She raises her left hand up and brushes a strand of hair out of her face slowly, specifically with her ring finger and pinkie. 

The fingers tucked beneath her waistband from the picture.

She’s fucking toying with you. 

Another shift forward puts even more pressure on your clit and you bite down on your bottom lip hard. There’s a darkening in her eyes as they dart down to your mouth. 

Agatha clears her throat again before moving on and you get a silent rush from knowing that you’re affecting her too, even if it’s less obvious. “We also have the frontal lobe, which is for associating and connecting different kinds of information and motor behavior, along with executive functioning and more complex emotions. We have the occipital lobe, which processes vision, the temporal lobe that processes hearing and verbalization, and the parietal lobe that services the other sensory systems. Both the right and the left hemisphere have each lobe.” 

All of her words go in one ear and out the other. All thoughts of falling earlier are gone. The only thing you can focus on is Agatha. 

Which, you’re starting to think, is just how she likes it. 

“All right, that seems like a good stopping point. Remember: mixer tomorrow starting at five and our first test next Friday! My office hours are in the syllabus so if you have any questions, stop on by or shoot me an email. Have a good weekend if I don’t see you tomorrow,” Agatha announces, shooting a sharp look to the boy who made the fuss about it. 

You smirk to yourself and slowly pack up your stuff, hoping for maybe more than a moment alone with your professor. 

But you don’t have to orchestrate anything. She breezes by your desk before rapping her knuckles on the surface. “My office,” she says and every single muscle inside you clenches. 

Much like in your dream, you stand up on shaky legs and follow her out. Everything feels so surreal as you walk down the hallway after her, trying your hardest not to glance down at the way her skirt hugs her ass perfectly. 

She throws open the door and stalks around to the other side of her desk, sitting in her chair. Heart pounding in time with your steps, you sit across from her and place your bag on the floor under the desk. 

Agatha regards you for a second and you try not to squirm under her intense gaze. What is she thinking? Are you in trouble for something? Your scrapes start to itch now but you resist the urge to scratch. 

Instead, your nail finds its way to your mouth and you chew on it while you await her judgement. 

“You’ll be at the mixer tomorrow?” she asks finally and you feel the tension start to slowly seep out of your muscles before nodding. 

“What time should I get there?” 

She tosses her head side to side, evaluating. “The earlier you get there, the more likely it is to get some one-on-one time with graduate professors and Dr. Calderu.” 

“Will you be there then?” you ask, the hope in your voice betraying you. But Agatha just smiles and leans back in her chair, her hand coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ears. 

You try to not pay that much attention to it. 

“I’ll be there the whole time,” she reassures you and you’re considering staying the entire time. Would that make a good impression? 

You find that you don’t really care how everyone else perceives it—all that matters is that you’d get to spend all that time with Agatha. Or at least near her. 

She flicks her wrist. “Have you given any more thought to what program you’d be interested in?” 

Oh. Agatha did tell you to stop by her office sometime this week to talk about grad school. You’re just realizing that you never did. 

And you didn’t exactly do any research either. 

“Um, I haven’t looked yet,” you tell her sheepishly, crossing a leg over the other. Her eyes track the way your skirt rides up on your thigh and you can feel the fabric between your thighs getting even wetter. “I’ve been a little busy.” 

Agatha smirks. “I’ll bet you have.” She pushes back her chair and stands before strutting over to stop right in front of you. 

You look up at her through hooded eyelashes and bite your lip, afraid to move much more. Something flashes over her face. 

She reaches out in slow motion—or maybe that’s just how you’re seeing it—and tugs your bottom lip free with her thumb. She stays like that. 

“Were you too busy showing off at the bar with your friend?” she murmurs and your breath hitches. But Agatha isn’t done and she starts to stroke her tongue over your lip, spreading heat everywhere through your body. “Or maybe you were too busy moaning my name when you were with her.” 

Her coffee and vanilla and spice scent swirls around you and threatens to overwhelm you. 

Black Opium. 

It’s just as addictive as her. 

You squeeze your thighs together and exhale at the pressure on your clit. 

What would she say if you came right here, completely untouched from just her words? From just her smell?

“Or…” she drawls, eyes lighting up and thumbnail sinking into the inside of your lip, “were you too busy being naughty in the library last night?” 

Possessed by something—desire or lust or foolishness—you surge up so you’re standing face-to-face with her. Her eyebrow twitches and her hand drops. 

“Just as naughty as you were, Professor,” you rasp and her mouth parts, her tongue presses against the back of her top two front teeth. She looks surprised but delighted. 

“What am I going to do with you?” she asks rhetorically, scanning all of your features like she’s trying to decide right now. 

One more thing. That’s all you have to say to seal the deal. Her pupils are swallowing all the blue in her eyes and you think she might be close to breaking. 

You look down at her lips, feeling strangely out of your body. “Whatever you want,” you whisper, like you’re afraid that if you say it too loudly, you’ll break the spell. 

She chuckles darkly before humming, “Good girl.” 

And then you lean in and she leans in, a magnetic attraction bringing you together and just as you’re about to meet in the middle, she stops. It’s as if a switch flips and you know it too.

“Honey,” she says, rather gently, you think, for someone who’s about to step on your heart, “I—we can’t—” 

At least Agatha has the decency to look a little upset about it. 

“Yeah, no, fuck—I’m sorry,” you stutter and step back and hit the backs of your knees on the chair which sends it skidding back with a screech. “You’re my professor and I’m your student and you said we had to wait, I just thought…I just wanted…” But you stop talking because there’s no point in trying to justify anything anymore. 

Her rejection stings you more than the injuries she helped you clean up just an hour ago and your face burns with shame all over again. 

Agatha reaches out for you but before she can touch you, the door opens and Rio enters. 

Just because things weren’t already bad enough. 

Rio halts and looks between the two of you and you quickly grab your tote bag from the ground. Agatha slumps back to perch against her desk with mild amusement written on her face. 

“Everything okay?” Rio asks in a guarded tone. 

You spare one last look at Agatha, who arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, fine,” you choke out. “Thanks, Professor Harkness.” 

Her mouth twitches at your iciness but doesn’t say anything as you walk past Rio and into the hallway. 

Rio catches your eye right before she closes the door and there’s a hint of pity but also awareness. Like she knows something you don’t. 

But the door clicks shut and you’re left alone in the corridor. 

The walk back to your dorm feels infinite. You knew you had to wait—Agatha even said that—but you still feel so sorely disappointed. 

Like you were so close to getting what you wanted. And she wanted it to. You both were spinning out of control and, of course, she was the one to regain it. 

What am I going to do with you?

Did she say that because she thinks you’re a loose cannon? 

What if she decides that you’re not worth the trouble, that you’re too desperate? 

You steel your face and grit your teeth. You can do better—you will do better. You will not be the one to break. 

You can be patient.  

But your resolve feels hollow now. 

And just as you get back to your dorm room, your phone buzzes in your bag. You have a sneaky feeling you know who it is. 

Agatha.

I’m sorry, hon. 

It should make you feel better, but it doesn’t really. You chew on your nails and contemplate a response. 

Her bubble pops back up. 

If it made you feel any better, that outfit made it very hard to keep my hands off you.

Despite her rejection, you feel the flickering heat inside your stomach roar back to life. 

And then Agatha sends another text. 

Wear something nice for me again tomorrow night, won’t you? 

She’s playing with fire—both of you are. Especially because she set that boundary.

But you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

Of course, Professor ;)

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