#Mission Impossible Dead Reckoning Part One | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jolenes-doppelganger · 6 months ago

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Gentle Hands (Part Three)

Stalker Ilsa Faust x Fem! Reader

NSFW 18+- MINORS WHO INTERACT CAN AND WILL BE BLOCKED.

Summary: Fights, make-ups, another fight, a badly arranged foreplay and cameras. What does good for Ilsa really look like? And what cost does it come at?

Warnings: Allusions to a physical fight between R and Ilsa, angst, losing Mario Kart because of Toad, brief panty sniffing (Ilsa you creep), bad foreplay that results in hurt feelings (brief), consensual SMUT (oral Ilsa recieving, masturbation via partner (Ilsa touches R), sweet talking, breast fondling, Ilsa being a creep with cameras).

A/N: Took a break mid-smut sequence to complete tasks for the big green bird. He is sated (for now).

Word Count: 5.4k (Eat up gremmies)

It had been a week since Ilsa had abducted you. Ilsa, not Lisa. She insisted that you call her by her ‘correct’ name now that it was just the two of you. Ilsa was horrendously efficient at erasing your past life. She sent in your urgent notice of resignation the morning after she’d taken you into her apartment. She’d also installed brand new locks inside your home, all electronic, finger-print coded locks. They were high-tech, you couldn’t fake it with a thumb print on a piece of tape. She allowed you to move between her house and your home, mostly to move your things into her town home. You were never allowed outside without her knowledge. You also couldn’t open any windows without an alarm going off. Every single exit in the home was barred, and every single moment of your life was spent with Ilsa.

“Darling, can you make us a cup of tea?” Ilsa asked, brow furrowed as she cracked into another bank account.

Ilsa’s new hobby was re-establishing her wire transfer network. By this point you knew she was a former intelligence operative, or more likely a seasoned criminal. She had connections and skills that didn’t make sense otherwise. Your new hobby was Mario Kart and baking. You cooked incessantly, as it was the only thing that felt ‘normal’. That and making lattes. You could really only make two for yourself in a day. Ilsa wasn’t fond of you increasing your caffeine intake more than what she deemed ‘healthy’. She was so fond of ‘healthy’ endeavours. So you worked out with her in the mornings. She was teaching you how to box. It was therapeutic, getting to take out all of your frustrations on the person who was the root of them. Mostly. Ilsa had a nasty habit of getting too into it and treating you too roughly.

“Darling?”

“Sorry, yeah. I’m on it.”

You moved into the kitchen, turning the kettle on and preparing the two mugs. Ilsa liked her coffee bland. Cream. Zero sugar. In Ilsa’s mind, sugar was the devil. Mostly because she made up for it in alcohol. With the cup of black tea with just a splash of cream, Ilsa was back at work. You left her side, hoping to skip out on the mandatory ‘morning couple time’.

‘Ah, ah. Not so fast. You come back here.” Ilsa chuckled.

You sat back down next to her.

“Why so frigid, hmm? Come, sit in my lap for a bit.” Ilsa gave a sly smirk.

You remained put, and Ilsa sighed, giving a playful pout.

“You’re no fun.”

Crossing your arms and ignoring her comments felt like second-nature at this point. You were upset with her, as was reasonably so. She’d abducted you and disconnected you from the outside world. It was infuriating, watching her snip off the connections you had to society, to your family bit by carefully timed bit. But last night was the worst. Your Mom had called. You’d tried to send her some sort of message that things weren’t fine, that you were being held against your will, but Ilsa wouldn’t have it.

‘Are you still upset about Bella?”

At the sound of her name, the cat let out a soft ‘meh’ sound, stretching out her fur-encased arms.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Holding a knife to my cat’s throat? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Isa sighed softly, giving you a soft glance that said, ‘I know, I know’. Her eyebrow and lip were still taped up.

“I paid for it, I knew that it wasn’t fair to you, and I paid for it.”

Moreso, she’d let you hit her. You’d lost count of how many punches you’d given before she finally restrained you. There was a bruise on one of your knuckles. You didn’t feel vindicated, the contrary. Hitting her felt weak. She was stronger than you, quicker, skilled in a thousand ways that you weren’t, and she’d taken the punches until she deemed that it was enough.

“I’m angry.” you huffed. “Why couldn’t you have used a different method.”

“Like what? Holding a knife to your throat? We both know I’d never mean it. I couldn’t intentionally harm you, but if it came down to it, I’d do a lot of awful things to keep you around.”

“I thought you liked Bella!”

“I do, princess, I do. It’s just that I needed you to not raise suspicion.” Ilsa sighed.

“Yeah, not tell the fucking truth about what’s going on.” you spat back.

“I know you don’t like this life, but I have given so much to ensure it’s better than your old-”

“Better how? It was my life before! Mine! It wasn’t perfect, but at least I was working towards a better future with honest work!”

Ilsa laughed.

“Oh, and what I do isn’t honest?”

“I don’t steal.”

“No, you were stolen from. You were spending hours working one of the most difficult, draining jobs for sub-par pay and zero safety net aside from the government’s shitty one.” Ilsa scoffed. “I steal, sure. But it’s from people who steal from people like you. And I steal a small amount from a lot of wicked, evil people. And I’m using it to protect something good.”

“Exhausting, isn’t it.”

“Oh come off it.” Ilsa groaned.

“Your personal fable is maintained at the cost of morality-”

“Do you really think I have what society considers to be ‘morals’?” Ilsa cut you off.

“No.”

“Then stop wasting your time. You’re upset, you’re angry, and I’m not doing anything to make it better. You’re not getting your old life back, accept it and move on.”

Ilsa reached for her desk, grabbing a cherry vape and inhaling slowly. She pushed out a series of rings, momentarily focusing on vape tricks.

“I’m not in the mood for couple time.”

You made it about three paces out of the office before Ilsa’s arms were around your waist and restraining you. She pulled you back into her office, attaching a handcuff from her chair to your wrist.

“This is supposed to make me hate you any less?”

“Forced proximity does wonders for the mind.” Ilsa mused, taking another hit off of her vape.

“So Stockholm syndrome?”

Ilsa chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair.

“The academic.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And look where it got me? Working at a damn coffee shop.”

Ilsa hummed, amused by the interaction.

“You know what you need?”

“My freedom.” you cracked back.

“Day drinking.” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “This little mood swing would just fade away with some alcohol.”

“I’m not getting drunk so you can fuck me.”

The former agent groaned, turning off her computer. She wouldn’t deny it. She did want that, but not while you were intoxicated. She had some morals.

“I can’t work in such a hostile work environment.”

“Wasn’t your entire thing working in hostile environments?” you smirked, poking at her ex-operative past.

“And I’d never go back.” Ilsa sighed.

She was nice enough to unfasten your cuff, giving you free reign, or so you thought.

“No, no, no.” Ilsa chided, pulling you back into her body. “You and I are going to do something fun.”

You were out of one-liners at this point. In all honesty, it was exhausting being angry with her. That’s all you were, angry with her. She led you through the kitchen, and then she opened the door to the garden. It was a decent day, but chilly. Ilsa shoved a sweatshirt over your head, which you begrudgingly put on all the way. The fresh air felt good.

“Bella, goddammit!” Ilsa swore, the fat tuxedo evading the dirty blonde before she could catch her once more.

“Just let her outside. She deserves it as much as I do.”

Ilsa sighed, shaking her head.

“Only because you’re upset with me.”

“Kills you, doesn’t it?” you snarked back on instinct.

But the barbed jab you expected in return never came. There was just silence, which Ilsa broke by clearing her throat. You’d inadvertently hit the nail on the head. She was upset, and she was anxious. You’d forgotten how much she did care. Ilsa didn’t just abduct someone because she could. She wasn’t a ‘because I can’ person. And the arguments you’d been having all morning, all week really, they were upsetting.

“I’m not going to feel bad just because you’re playing the victim card.”

“Stop. Just fucking stop.” Ilsa’s voice broke. “Get your ass back inside.”

“Ilsa, I’m-”

“No, nope. Inside.”

You walked inside the house, shutting the door behind you. You never did get a good glance at Ilsa’s face, but you didn’t need to. Through the screen door, you saw her slump to her knees on the back door steps, and her shoulders heaved. And there was that guilt again. Bella had slunk inside with you again, pawing at the door in confusion.

“I can’t let you out.” you whispered.

“Meh.” she protested.

“It was your own fault, you should’ve stayed outside.”

The walk upstairs to yours and Ilsa’s room felt a lot harder than was reasonable. You knew that it wasn’t all that rational to feel guilty about tormenting someone who was equally, if not exceeding you in torment. But you could empathise with her pain. She was doing a lot for you. And even though you couldn’t go outside without her, even leave the garden, she was doing a lot for you. The food in the fridge, you didn’t pay for. The furniture and games you wound down with hadn’t been out of your pocket, and the skills she was teaching you, the boxing, the german, the little tricks for hacking, those were all things she’d given you for nothing much, other than a few small requests.

Out of the second story hallway window, you could see Ilsa leaving the garden, slipping into her Benz. She’d be gone for hours, probably. And your time felt… Hollow. Mario Kart was repetitive and infuriating. Language learning with help from the green bird didn’t amount to shit, even with Ilsa’s super membership. Nothing you did was fulfilling. So you did as your cat did, slumping into the bed and taking a nap. But still, that didn’t feel right. With great mortification and a small degree of realised irony, you picked up Ilsa’s pillow and buried your face into it. Then, and only then, did you sleep.

<->

Ilsa didn’t do anything but drive. She ended up in a farmer’s field, sitting behind a hedge and just fucking fuming. She was mad. Mad at herself, mad at you, mad at her life. In another life she could have pursued you normally. In another life where she could walk into a supermarket at rush hour without fear of an anxiety episode, she could have struck up a conversation with you there. But she wasn’t normal. And so she’d resort to abnormal methods to get you, because something with you was better than nothing.

“Bella, you silly girl.” Ilsa sighed as she walked into the house, blocking the fat tuxedo from getting out.

It was quiet, too quiet for Ilsa’s tastes. She rushed through the house, looking for you in every room until she eventually burst into the bedroom. You were curled up, sleeping. Ilsa slumped against the doorframe, letting out an audible sigh of relief. And… Was that her pillow? Jesus Christ, you were precious. Ilsa took off her shoes and her overcoat. She was wet from the rain, so everything came off, aside from underwear and a sports bra. Slipping into bed with you felt so right. Ilsa needed that physical contact with you, and she’d sneak it where she could. The pillow was replaced by her arms, a delicate act of shifting. You smelled so good to Ilsa.

“Oh… Princess.” Ilsa whispered, almost ready to cry again.

This week had been the most infuriating week of her life. You almost never touched Ilsa, unless it was in a boxing set-up. Training you had been a lovely way to break tension. She could guide your posture, adjusting your body with her hands. Showers were the best thing for Ilsa. She’d let you finish up a few exercises while she showered, using the head to relieve the ceaseless aching that came when she was too close to you for too long. And the emotional whiplash. Ilsa was fatigued of the constant bickering, arguing and overall tension between the two of you; not the sexy kind. Drugging you again was a thought that flicked through her head daily. Just long enough to cuddle you, to breathe in the smell of your skin without the threat of you waking up.

“Mmph.” she heard you softly complain.

You shifted your body, wiggling deeper into her arms. With every exhale, your breath would ghost over her neck and it was driving her insane.

“Princess, don’t tease, I know-”

“Shut up.” you mumbled, clumsily pawing at her face to get her to stop talking.

Ilsa let out a startled laugh. She’d forgotten you were a light sleeper.

“Shh… Let me sleep.” you continued to complain.

Ilsa rolled her eyes, holding you closer, half-listening to your complaints.

“Let me hold you.”

And this time you didn’t push her off. She was warm, body temperature raised from her run, or wherever she’d been. She smelled like hay, for whatever reason. Bella, sensing the cuddle puddle, hopped up on the bed, sniffing around the two of you, turning about four or five times before she slumped into the bed, yawning.

“Are you still upset with me?” Ilsa eventually asked.

“A little.” you admitted. “It would be hard not to be. I don’t like feeling guilty for making you upset.”

“Because you want to hurt me for what I’m doing to you?”

You let a frustrated sigh. When she put it like that, it made you sound like an asshole. It was complicated.

“I don’t like that I can feel myself starting to like you. Because you’re not mean, you don’t hurt me, and you take so much of my shit. I’d be lucky to find someone like you, but you’ve taken my entire life.”

Ilsa hummed, shifting you in her arms. She took another deep breath, and you felt her thigh graze your pant leg.

“Are you just in a bra and panties? Seriously?”

And just like that, whatever understanding you were going to reach disappeared. She was a constant voyeur. When you baked, when you read, and you suspected when you were changing. You’d never seen one of the cameras, but you were sure they were there somewhere. Hence you hadn’t been masturbating at all. It was infuriating, the lead up to your period didn’t make it too difficult, but still. A week with nothing?

“Hey, hey, hey.” Ilsa sat up, trying to pull you back. “Stay on the bed, I’ll go change. My clothes were wet, Jesus Christ.”

Ilsa grabbed a change of clothes, shutting the bathroom door behind her. She stripped completely, mumbling something under her breath about ‘not catching a damn break’. That’s when she saw them. You never left your clothes out anymore, shoving them in the hamper. You were religious about home cleanliness with nothing else to do, so most laundry was collected and washed. You’d left your panties out after your morning shower, probably because you still had Bella on your mind.

“I think I’m just going to take a shower, my hair’s all wet.” Ilsa called from inside the bathroom.

“Yeah, whatever.” you called back.

Ilsa turned on the shower, stepping in the water for a moment, then stepping right back out. She needed her body wet to maintain the lie, long enough for her to enjoy the remnants left in your panties.

“Oh my.” Ilsa whispered to herself.

Her body heated up almost immediately, nasty thought after more damnable nasty thought flicking through her head. She wanted to pin you to the bed so badly. What would you smell like at the source? And the taste? How rich it would be, how debaucherous and unsoiled. Not these cloth remnants. She dropped the cloth garment to the floor, staggering back into the shower. She needed to focus, to breathe, to run her fingers over the dripping wet seam between her labia. It wasn’t enough. When had this stopped being enough?

<->

You hadn’t seen Ilsa since she’d gotten in the shower. You were fully awake by the time she had left the bed, and there was no sense hanging around. Not for her, anyways. By this point in the mid-afternoon, day drinking seemed excusable. So you slipped into the basement and found one of Ilsa’s wine bottles. You weren’t a wine drinker. Especially dark wines. But alcohol was alcohol. A glass of wine and Mario Kart on a weekday afternoon? The lap of luxury, truly.

“Hey.” you heard a breathy sigh near your ear.

“Hi Ilsa. I’m busy.”

The woman sat next to you. She smelled nice. Vanilla cashmere lotion. How long had she been grooming for? Not that you cared.

“Can you be a little less busy for me?” Ilsa asked.

You turned, looking at her full on as you paused the game. You opened your mouth to snark at her, but she looked… Good. Her hair was a little damp and she’d taken pains to get herself clean.

“Umm, what is this about?” you gestured to her sweats that were just a little too tight.

Ilsa took a deep breath in.

“I want to spend some time with you. Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of wine?”

“It’s your house and your wine, don’t ask me for permission.” you shrugged.

Ilsa chuckled, a breathy sound. What was up with her. You didn’t care, you just unpaused the game, returning to the high stakes race that was ‘Rainbow Road’. Ilsa busied herself, pouring herself a glass of wine. She settled beside you, eyeing the glass of wine you’d barely touched.

“I keep thinking…” Ilsa whispered in your ear. “About that night you came over with my friends…”

She was distracting, and you had to fight to stay on course.

“Ilsa, please, I’m trying to get a trophy right now.”

Ilsa had other plans. Better plans. Plans that involved you paying attention to her. So she scooted closer, using the distraction of your hands on the switch controller to place her hands on your waist.

“Just wait, I’m almost fini-”

The former spy leaned in, her mouth meeting your neck. Wet, sinful kisses placed one after the other on your rapidly accelerating pulse, tongue slipping out just past her lips, tracing lines and patterns over the sensitive skin.

“I can’t get your taste out of my mouth, I can’t unhear your little moans.” Ilsa whispered, a distinct reediness to her voice, like she was speaking with a sore throat.

“I have one more lap, please, Ilsa.” you groaned, searching for anything to get away from the woman, even briefly.

But was it her you were trying to get away from, or yourself? You couldn’t deny how hot it had been to makeout with her, how sexy and commanding she had been. And her hands were slipping lower, squeezing and releasing your hips in time with those kisses trailing up your neck, to your jaw, to your ear.

“You said you didn’t do hookups, but I think we can both agree that it wouldn’t be a one time thing.”

There was a lump in your throat. You had to cough to dislodge it. You were in first, you could let down your guard for a-

“Fucking toad!” you growled, all of your senses back in gear to win rainbow road.

“Toad can wait.” Ilsa growled.

She swung her leg over your lap, settling her pelvis in the space created by your crossed legs. This time her mouth was hungry, nipping, sucking licking. Over your neck, your jaw, biting and sucking your earlobe into your mouth. The grip on the controller grew lax, and you shut your eyes, not even caring that it caused your car to slip off the race track right before the finish line.

“I’m listening, I’m listening, Jesus.” you swore.

Ilsa looked into your eyes, nibbling on her lip with mixed desire and anxiety.

“One night.” Ilsa begged. “Just one.”

You opened your mouth to say no. But that look in her eyes… One night couldn’t hurt. She was a good kisser, she’d treat you right… And then you could go back to hating her in the morning. But a little steam. Just letting loose a little.

“... Okay. Just one night.”

Ilsa didn’t delay. She didn’t wait. Her mouth was on yours, and she let out a sound in between a hum and a huff, like she was relieved and yet still frustrated that it had taken this long. Placing your arms around her waist felt right. She had a firm, muscular backside, but in the jumper she was wearing, she had a softer feeling. And though her mouth was demanding and needy at first, Ilsa slowed down, pressing her lips against yours slowly, tongue lightly gracing your bottom lip with every soft smooch. You opened your mouth just a little, gracing your tongue with the feeling of her bottom lip, her tongue. Ilsa held your head steady, leaning in and drawing your tongue out, just long enough to divert it so she could slip her tongue in. She tasted like red wine, and… She’d been chewing that cherry tobacco again. She tasted like sin. One of your hands slipped beneath her jumper, tracing those abs that were always peeking out below her sports bra. She had a soft layer of tissue above the muscles, like a padded layer making her harder points comfortable.

“Princess, take off that t-shirt for me.” Ilsa whispered.

You chuckled.

“I will, but you’ve got to tell me why I’m ‘princess’ in the first place.”

Ilsa smiled, kissing your jaw softly.

“Innocent, gentle, and those hands.” Ilsa smirked, cupping one of your hands against her bare waist. “Princess hands, so dainty and gentle.”

You blushed, and you didn’t resist as she brought one of your hands to her mouth, gently kissing your palm, your knuckles, and then eventually, enveloping your fingers in her mouth entirely.

“Mmm…” Ilsa hummed, a wrinkle relaxing around her eyes. “Finally.” she whispered, kissing your hands again, one after the other.

There was a gentle beat, and then she reached for your t-shirt, pulling it off as you raised your arms. Ilsa spent a good minute just looking at your bare chest. She reached out, aiming to touch one of your breasts, but she paused.

“May I?”

There was irony here in her asking consent, but you weren’t focused on that. You were focused on those soft eyes and how they twinkled with excitement.

“You may.”

She reached out with both hands, cupping your breasts, humming softly. She didn’t stay in one place for long, massaging your sides and gently kissing your collarbone. It was easy to relax, even as she lowered you to lay sideways on the couch, it was easy to relax. You helped her take off your pants and your panties, and Ilsa was quick to pull off her sweats, leaving her in nothing but a sheer, see through bra and panty set.

“I didn’t know we were dressing up.” you flushed, trying to hide your arousal.

“It doesn’t matter. I’d have ripped off whatever you were wearing anyway.” Ilsa husked, settling atop your hips, crossing her arms.

“... Do you know that Ankah meme?”

Ilsa rolled her eyes, not giving two shits about you and your little memes. Her lips attacked your neck again, urging you to just get lost in the moment. Her hair was soft under your fingertips, and her back… You wanted to take a moment to just admire every curve of her spine, of her trapezius, her deltoids, her latissimus dorsi. She made you smarter, you realised. It was her training, her attention. She’d taught you the names of these muscles, and she’d teach you more, you realised.

“I can’t be slow, honey, I’m so sorry.” Ilsa whispered.

You met her eyes. She looked so…

“What do you need?”

Ilsa tugged off her panties, then the bra. You watched in shock as a literal string of arousal extended from her entrance to the cloth of the panties, before eventually snapping back.

“Oh.. My go-”

Ilsa wasn’t in the mood for talking, rather only in the mood for one thing. She shoved the soiled panties into your agape mouth, nearly causing you to gag.

“No talking, none.” Ilsa huffed.

She slipped one leg over your hip, the other leg slipping beneath one of yours on the opposite side. Ilsa was going to press your bodies together, but the shocked look on your face gave her pause.

“Sorry, I’m not thinking.” Ilsa sighed, pulling her panties out of your mouth. “Do I have your consent?”

“Can we maybe slow down?”

Ilsa let out an angry noise. You weren’t expecting her to just… Get up and leave.

“Woah, woah, this isn’t effective communication, you’re not telling me what you need!” you ran after her, noting how her ass would jiggle a bit with every step.

“I’m too frustrated, and it’ll be better for me if I just do it myself.” Ilsa spat.

Now you were confused. She’d begged you to have sex with her, and now she didn’t want it.

“Hey, hey, let’s talk about this.” you tried, snagging her elbow.

Ilsa had tears in her eyes. Now you felt like an ass, and it must have showed on your face, because Ilsa blubbered out reassurances immediately after.

“I just… I am so frustrated, it hurts.” Ilsa stammered.

It was those eyes. It had to be those eyes, because you wouldn’t have done what you did next without some explanation. Taking her hips, you pushed her against the hallway wall, falling to your knees in front of her, hooking one of her thighs over your shoulders.

“Just let me take care of you, hmm?”

Ilsa groaned, tangling her hands in your hair, tugging at the roots. The tension in her body evaporated as your arms glided up her thighs to rest on her hips. Your eyes looking up at her, so glassy and reassuring. Your mouth open, wet, hot, air ghosting over the mess that was her core. And then those lips, closing over her entrance, tongue parting her labia, drawing steady strokes up and down, igniting pleasurable sensations that slithered up and down her spine. Ilsa relaxed, letting out a long, satisfied moan. All these months of stalking, of monitoring, of tirelessly working to get you here… And now you were on your knees, gently servicing her with those wet, warm lips. She nearly cried when you wrapped your lips around her clit, licking and sucking, drawing steady circles over the buzzing nerve.

But for you… This was a different experience. You were nervous, anxious to please, anxious to bring her relief, and almost too focused on the process… That was until her fingers drew up and down your scalp in little scratching motions. You moaned into her, to which she gasped, and whimpered. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard. You trailed your hands down, parting her outer labia and pulling the clitoral hood up, only to let out a deep moan around the nerve.

“Fuck!” Ilsa cried out, her hips bucking. “Oh my god, pleaseeee.”

You hummed again, licking and sucking at her clit with full abandon. Her hips canted in circles, grinding herself into your mouth, against your chin. You felt a mix of saliva and her own arousal slipping down your chin, to your neck.

“Just like that, oh goddd.” Ilsa whined again, struggling to stand.

She grabbed the hallway cabinet to her left for leverage, her muscular thighs rippling as she focused on the sensations of your blessed mouth tracing patterns over her hyper-sensitive clit. You pressed your face deeper into her, spelling out sentences with your tongue, letter by letter, suckling in between the messages. ‘Lover’, ‘Sexy’, ‘Needy baby’. Whatever you could think of, whatever her whines and moans stirred in you, that was what you wrote.

“Oh.. Oh.. Oh, oh oh!” Ilsa panted, the motions of her hips growing desperate.

You knew better than to stop, so you doubled down, drawing your tongue in steady circles, even as your jaws ached, as your head buzzed, as your neck screamed. Both of her hands flew to your head, shoving you into her. You moaned as she tugged on your scalp again, and that is what sent her over the edge. Ilsa’s back bowed, her thighs tensed, and she threw her head back in a silent scream, followed by intermittent pants. She held on for as long as she could, but her legs were too wobbly to safely remain standing.

“Coming down.” Ilsa warned, sliding down the wall and into your arms.

She was panting and flushed, you were panting and massaging your jaw which ached like a bitch. Ilsa took several moments to just commit the image to memory.

“Turn around.” Ilsa rasped.

You sat down on your back, giving your sore knees a break. You’d have tender bruises there soon, visible or otherwise. Awkwardly shuffling around, you managed to slump into her back, to which Ilsa let out a sound that almost sounded like a purr.

“Hike your legs over mine.” Ilsa cooed.

You flushed, placing your knees on either side of her bent ones. Her lips returned to your neck, her hands sliding up and down your front. One of her hands found a breast, gently toying with one of your nipples again.

“Ilsa…”

“Shhh, princess. Let me make you feel good too. You deserve it after loving me so spectacularly.” Ilsa murmured, pressing slow kisses to your jaw.

Her other hand travelled lower, parting your glistening labia. Two fingers held your labia taught, the middle finger drawing slow circles over your clit, a gentle stimulation.

“... Oh.. Ohhh.” you hummed.

It felt better than when you touched yourself. She wasn’t doing anything unusual or otherwise groundbreaking, but it felt so good when it was her hand. Ilsa smiled against your neck, gently kissing over your neck. Her lips attached themselves right above that flickering pulse of your artery, sucking, leaving her mark. You shut your eyes, letting her just work you over.

“Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels.” Ilsa whispered, kissing your ear.

The spot on your neck where she’d sucked an angry hickey throbbed, electrifying the other senses her hands were creating on your body. You let out a tentative moan as she sped her fingers up just a little.

“Can you talk to me?” you whispered.

Ilsa chuckled, nibbling your ear.

“Of course I can, princess. I’ll tell you all about how wet you are for me, hmm? And how good you’re doing, sitting so pretty with your knees in place…”

You whimpered again, and you were rewarded with a bit more pressure from her finger.

“Oh, good girl. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Having your body loved like this?”

A head lean into her and another needy moan was enough assurance that Ilsa was doing what she needed to do.

“Mhm, just like that, are you feeling yourself getting close?”

A shuddering breath and a soft head nod was enough for Ilsa. She gently sped up her fingers, drawing harder circles over your clit until your thighs trembled and your hips bucked.

“Ilsa!” you moaned, arching your back against her hand.

Ilsa cooed softly, continuing to roll her fingers at that steady pace until your hips relaxed, and her hand with it. Her arms wrapped around your sides, and she kissed you up and down your face, your jaw. She smiled, cuddling you to her. In the dark light of the hallway, Ilsa looked up, noting the little red dot that flashed. Once was enough for now. She could replay this on her laptop as many times as she wanted to now, she could see the angle of your body from the front as you bucked into her arms. She’d recorded this, after all. And she’d save it for as long as she needed to.

This was just the beginning.

Tags (For previous askers and people who might want this): @lakita-fisher, @ilovehotactresses, @gay-and-sad-tm, @needyformilfs

#rebecca ferguson x reader #rebecca ferguson x you #rebecca ferguson #wlw #lesbian #ilsa faust x reader #ilsa faust x you #ilsa faust #mission impossible #mission impossible dead reckoning part one #lesbian smut #spicy #dark #ilsa faust smut #ilsa faust x reader smut #ilsa faust x you smut #spice

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jolenes-doppelganger · 7 months ago

Text

Innocence

Ilsa Faust x Fem! Metropolis Reader

Summary: How many variables go awry with one appearance of a hidden player? What would the Entity have done if a third party appeared in the array of pre-determined, algorithm-generated deaths?

Warnings: Side character death, angst.

A/N: Fuck you Christopher McQuarrie and Erik Jendresen!!!! Killing a beloved female side character to 'motivate' the male protagonist is the definition of FUCKING FRIDGING!!!! The side character death will be resolved, should there be demand for future chapters.

Word Count: 4.0k (DAMN)

Perhaps it had been the rain, the chill it had brought to your bones. But regardless, something was afoot. The streets of Venice were unnaturally quiet, and the party you had left emphasized that fact; a ringing sang in your ears. You walked alone on the streets, quietly enjoying the soft patter of the rain that trembled down the drains. Dodging the Metropolis body guards had been easy, it was a high stakes night for Alanna, a high stakes night for you.

Unfortunately, things did not stay peaceful.

Commotion sprung out among the party goers, and you heard distant gunfire. Things had begun. Sprinting was your only option, but with the heels you'd chosen it was more likely you were to twist an ankle over the cobblestone than escape. Finding a dark corner, you managed to brace yourself against a wall, snapping your heels off, flattening them so you could take longer strides. You weren't the only person using the dark side of the building to escape. A shout, some commotion, and quick footwork as a woman scaled down a building, dropping in front of you.

She was within a foot of you, so close that on motion of the arm could land a hit, a punch, or perhaps push away the strands of hair that lay glued to her sweaty face.

“…Hi?”

She makes eye contact with you, momentarily spooked.

“You’re one of the Metropolis siblings."

A statement, and observation.

"Yes...?"

"You're not supposed to be at this party."

The two of you stared at one another for some time, both of you breathing heavily. She had blue eyes, distinct Scandinavian features. An English accent amongst the native Italian accented english. You pinned her as a foreigner, and from the equipment she used and the quick way she discerned who you were and your presumed whereabouts, she was also an intelligence operative.

“MI6?” you rasped.

The woman shook her head, a flicker of annoyance creeping over her features.

“There’s no time to talk, come on.” she huffed, grabbing you arm and pulling you towards an alleyway.

“Now hold on, I don’t know you-”

She turned on her heel, pulling the two of you into a doorway alcove, keeping her words clipped and quietly delivered.

“You’re (Reader) Metropolis. You were not supposed to be at this party, you weren’t even supposed to be in Italy. Things are going on beyond your understanding, and the Entity-”

“-The Entity? For fucks sake, that’s a myth.”

The woman raised her eyebrow, computing your response rapidly.

“No. No it is not. I’ve read your profile, the youngest child, a ten, fifteen year age gap between you and Alana?” the woman listed. “You were an affair baby, you were just recently integrated into the family, you serve as a glorified accountant…” Ilsa listed. “You aren’t a Metropolis type, even with your name and lineage.”

She spoke so eloquently, in a self-assured manner. You wanted to argue with her, or at the very least find something in her thought process to correct, but she was right on all accounts.

“Fine. Why are we in a dark alleyway, why do you know so much about me, and why don’t I know a damn thing about you?”

The woman squared her shoulders.

“My name is Ilsa Faust. I was a former agent for British Intelligence, I’ve gone rogue, I work alongside the equally rogue Ethan Hunt. And you, Ms. Metropolis, are innocent.”

Innocence. What a strange thing to equate to you.

“I beg your pardon?” you raised an eyebrow.

Ilsa sighed, looking around before pressing a finger to her headset.

“Benji. I can’t be the one to go after Grace.”

You watched her grimace, silently mouthing a few choice expletives.

“I know that. But I just… The youngest Metropolis is here. Metropolis, daughter of Max, the...” she paused, looking at you apologetically, “... Bastard child. The daughter of that old field agent friend of Ethan’s.”

She paused, seemingly listening to Benji as the poor man appeared to panic. You could hear the tonal fluctuations from your proximity a good foot aways.

“Yes, but it’s Ethan. He won’t see it that way. I know he'll be upset, but maybe it’s for the better.”

The line went quiet, and then there was a soft command. Ilsa nodded, looking at you.

“You’re coming with me.”

“Like hell I am, my mother taught me about stranger danger.”

You stood your ground, arms firmly crossed one over the other. Ilsa looked at you tiredly, seeming to mentally prepare herself for some gargantuan task.

“Do me a favor and pretend to be drunk.”

You frowned, not comprehending. Ilsa lunged forward, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you over her shoulder.

“Hey! I’m not a child, and this dress is short!”

Ilsa let out an annoyed huff, reaching up to pull your dress down.

“Sorry, princess.”

You heard commotion, what sounded like men running. Their shouts and mixed dialect could be heard from somewhere a half block away.

“Now is not the time to tell me you’re a bad actor.” Ilsa whispered.

Under threat of exposure, possible abduction and Alanna probably, definitely strangling you should she catch wind of this, complying was the only option. You went limp, arms and neck dangling as the men drew closer. They didn’t give you or Ilsa a second glance. She was mostly overlooked in favor of your bottom, of which you were begrudgingly aware of.

“Good girl.” Ilsa murmured once the men had passed, patting your rear.

“Oh.. Hey!” you blushed.

“Sorry. I was aiming for your back.”

“Yeah, my ass. Literally.” you retorted.

Ilsa let out a startled bark of laughter, amused. But she was quick to set you down, and noting the flimsy nature of your shoes, did so gently. You looked at her, a bit dizzy from the sudden rush of blood from your head to the rest of your body.

“You okay?”

“Give me a second, dizzy.”

But you two had little time. A com from Benji came through on Ilsa’s headset. Ilsa’s face went white, and she proceeded to grab you by your arm, booking it through the winding streets of Venice.

“I’m in heels, you will break my ankle if you keep pulling!” you sourly informed her.

“This is a matter of life and death. Kindly quiet yourself.” Ilsa snapped back.

A matter of life and death? Why was it always one of those? Two figures came into view, both stood atop of a canal bridge. You recognized neither of them, a tall man with salt and pepper hair and another brunette woman. He was stalking over to her, knife in hand. Her breathing was irregular, labored. But Ilsa was faster, approaching Gabriel, assuredly drawing forth a large sword. Gabriel brandished Grace’s switchblade, leaving the woman to pass out on the bridge.

“I hoped it'd be you.” Gabriel smiled.

“...”

You admired Ilsa's silence, her quiet appraisal of the man. The sparring began almost immediately, and it didn’t take a trained eye to see that they were evenly matched. But something was wrong. He was pushing her into a corner, and then the sword was gone. They fought over the switchblade, each getting a few slashes in. But Ilsa was getting weaker, or clumsier. A brief thought flashed over you. What if she died? What if he saw you? What if he saw you and you didn’t have anything to fight with? You needed that sword. This woman... She'd said that this was a matter of the Entity, and your sister had taken pains to ship you out to Berlin on short notice. You'd taken even larger pains to make it appear as if you had. If you weren't supposed to be here, then maybe you had an advantage over this man, over this Entity. But you had to think fast.

“Hey, asshole!” you shouted, hurling a small, fractured chunk of cobblestone at the man.

The rock hit Gabriel’s forehead just as he looked up, stunning him. It was a good hit, and it bought you time, but not enough. You lunged for the sword, but he was faster. The scuffle that ensued was brief, he was better equipped, and stronger. His eyes went wild as he snatched the switchblade again, aiming for your heart. The switchblade cut into your shoulder, and pain bloomed as the blade wedged itself into the socket. He’d missed. A scream tore its way out of your lungs, and white hot pain flashed through your mind’s eye. A grunt came from above as Ilsa landed a kick to his chest. The sword was knocked loose, toppling over the bridge. And with that the only remaining weapon was the switchblade lodged in your shoulder. Both Ilsa and the mystery man lunged for it, but both pulled back before grabbing it, seemingly for different reasons. The man’s eyes went wide with fear and recognition, and he stalked back quickly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Metropolis.” he paled. “You were supposed to be in Berlin… You’re not… The Entity didn’t..”

He landed one more kick to Ilsa before running. His footsteps were quick, and he disappeared into the veins of the city, his footsteps dying away as if he was a ghost, as if he was never there. Ilsa watched him, breathlessly speaking to Benji about the semantics of the encounter. She was breathing heavily, and it was difficult to understand her. Both she and Benji devolved into thick, almost indiscernible Midlands accents as they spoke and often interrupted one another. Benji’s voice was so loud that you could hear whispers of it through her headset. Ilsa crouched over you, examining the wound and cussing. She appeared just as frazzled as your mystery attacker, mumbling something about innocents and bloodlines.

“Fuck me, kid. Just had to get stabbed.” Ilsa mumbles, pausing her complaining to briefly tear off a bit of your dress, “And I’ve got another head trauma to deal with, and Ethan is off the fucking grid.”

A man broke through the street, panting heavily, eyeing the slowly awakening Grace and the incoherently mumbling Ilsa as she secured the knife wound to prevent it from escaping. He’d run from the opposite end of the city, as if he’d been running in circles.

“Where’s Gabriel?” Ethan asked. “And who is… Baby Metropolis?”

Ilsa eyed him, nodding. She was busy tying the fabric of your torn dress around your shoulder. It must have been precaution, the knife prevented excess blood from escaping.

“He stabbed baby Metropolis?”

Ilsa nodded again, gently picking up your now shivering frame. It was cold in Venice tonight, and without the rush of adrenaline it was very clear just how cold it was. Ethan, or John Lark as you knew him, stumbled forward, hastily taking you from Ilsa.

“It’s going to be okay, it’s all going to be alright.” Ethan says, in his signature ‘I’m saving the day’ voice.

The voice didn’t help. He was John Lark to your eyes; a madman.

“I know, Jesus. Get off!” you protested, trying to get away from the short, scary man.

Ilsa chuckled a bit at this. It appears Ethan’s usual charms wouldn’t work on you, and for good reason. A boat sped through the canal, and you recognized the driver by his voice. Benji? There was another man on the boat, large and equipped with a fedora. Both looked a bit shell-shocked, seeing the aftermath of the commotion on the bridge.

“Luther, get her in the boat.” Benji needlessly directed the other man as he was already pulling Grace in.

Luther examined Grace’s head for signs of abrasion while Ethan and Ilsa lowered you into the boat. Ilsa held you steady, your back pressed against her front, one of her arms wrapped around your midsection, the other cradling your head as the boat sped through the canal once more. Ethan was hastily gloving up, and a brief concern over sterility dawned on you, but it wasn’t as if you had a choice.

“This is a hospital wound.” Ethan sighed.

“We can’t go to the hospital, Ethan.” Luther warned.

“I know that.” Ethan snapped back. “Cover her mouth.” Ethan directed Ilsa.

Ilsa’s hand fitted firmly over your mouth, her other arm holding your torso against hers. You tensed immediately. What the hell was Lark going to do to you?

“Breathe in and…” Ilsa directed.

Ethan pulled the switchblade out as you exhaled, the scream dying off as you ran out of air. The noise that was ultimately muffled by Ilsa’s hand was that of a high pitched wheeze. Ilsa’s hand remained, a wordless understanding between Ethan and Ilsa. Blood gushed from the wound immediately, and Ethan mumbled something about missing major arteries and cut tendons. Not like it mattered to you, Ilsa’s hand kept your head up, your mouth covered.You couldn’t see the damage for yourself.

“Breathe in, and out. In… Out…. In….” she continued.

With another quick jerk, Ethan pushed your shoulder back in its proper socket. This time your scream was much more audible, even with Ilsa muffling it. Grace winced as she watched. The blade had wedged itself into the socket, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Good girl, good job.” Ilsa whispered, breaking the tension. “I know it hurts, it would have been worse if you knew it was coming.”

Her hand left your mouth, fingers gently pulling through your hair, a soothing motion. Ethan moved on to stitching up the knife wound, or so you thought. The needle went deeper.

“Oh Jesus Christ…” Grace paled.

You tilted your head to look, but Ilsa was faster, not letting you see. The needle bit in, and you winced. Ethan had a skilled hand, but it was clear he was stitching something deeper.

“Ethan, is that really necessary?” Benji asked. “You’ve got her whole shoulder airing out in this dirty city.

“The tendon was sliced, it needs to be stitched up.”

Luther appeared just off to the side, gloved up and gently dabbing iodine all around and in the wound. It stung like a bitch, and you clenched your teeth as you hissed in pain. Your natural instinct directed you to look again, but Ilsa kept your head in place.

“Don’t look. If you look you’ll get hysterical or ill.” Ilsa murmured. “Now stay still.”

You wanted to stay still, you really did. But you didn’t have a pleasant sight. Grace looked practically green, from both her concussion and the sight of your open wound, and Luther had a worried look on his face. Benji wasn’t better, with that permanent anxious frown on his features. The biting sensation in your shoulder only continued as Ethan worked on stitching up the various tendons that had gotten cut. It was Ilsa who noticed your rapid, panicked breathing.

“No, no.” Ilsa protested, tilting your face to look at her. “Look at me, breathe in and out, none of this ragged panting you’re doing. You’re not going into shock, we don’t have time for that.”

Her stern, authoritative approach was what you needed to stay afloat in the midst of Ethan’s suturing. She had this soft frown on her face, her hand firmly holding your head in place as she murmured to you.

“Benji is driving us to the safehouse. You’re coming with us, you hear?”

Ilsa outlined the plan, the various things she was going to do, baths, medicine, sleep, food. All the things you would need to get better. By the time Ethan started suturing the skin, her nose was barely touching yours, her words floating over you like mist. She kept your head in place, murmuring softly as her blue eyes twinkled in the dim light. It was… Intimate. More intimate than other things you’d experienced. Why was it always the barrier between life and death, ailment and health that always brought forth the most romantic moments. It was something your mother had said… All friendships are romantic. Perhaps all beginnings of friendships could be interpreted as such.

“Iodine.” Ethan curtly directed

The yellow antiseptic stung, and you winced. Luther had a gentle hand, and he’d used it throughout the process, but it was the freshly sutured skin that burned the most. Ilsa stroked your cheek, shifting her other arm to hold your injured shoulder in place. You hadn’t even noticed that you’d been trying to move it.

“No moving this, you hear?”

“Wasn’t gonna.” you mumbled.

The boat stalled. Benji stood up, gesturing everyone to leave the boat, but his words died in his throat. His eyes bulged, a shocked expression on his face. The shot had been so quiet, the whizzing was all that had been audible. Benji jerked, and red bloomed at the front of his chest. Ethan was quick to support him, still gloved up from his work on you. The quiet moment of the canal was broken. Everyone was moving except you. There was arguing, many voices crumpled into one echochamber of chaos, Grace holding Benji as Luther held Ethan back. For a little man, Ethan was vicious when angry, intending to follow the unseen sniper and mercilessly deliver his body to the canal. The boat rocked violently, and Ilsa shouted continuously, mostly at Ethan to calm down. Her grip on you was tight, her hands placed over vital areas on your abdomen. She was protecting you should another shot fire. Benji met your eyes, his hand held over the gunshot wound. He looked gray, as if life had been sucked out of him the moment the bullet hit its target.

“Gabriel was going to send a message either way.” Benji rasps, his voice bringing sense back into Ethan.

Ilsa left you on the boat as she helped Grace carry Benji into the safehouse. It was clear that there would be no second shot, and you were safe in the belly of the boat. Ethan breathed irregularly, the muscles in his neck tensing and relaxing as he seemed to be pushing aside his anger. He too left the boat, leaving Luther to attend to you. There was an uneasy stillness in the air, and Luther moved to pick you up, pausing at the brief fear that appeared in your eyes.

“I’m… You don’t know who most of us are, do you?” he asked, intuitive in more ways than one.

You shook your head, taking a breath in to steady your nerves before answering.

“I know… Ilsa. Ilsa Faust, yeah? Umm.. Then there’s Lark. John Lark.”

You’d heard all of their names at least once, but you couldn’t list them in the aftermath of Benji’s snipe attack.

“That’s Ethan.” Luther corrected. “The brunette is Grace, Benji is the Englishman who’s been injured, and I’m Luther. Now let’s get you out of this boat.” he softly finished.

You pegged him as the gentle giant of the group, and he was. Gentle, at least. He carried you off of the boat, up the stairs into the Venetian safehouse. It was as still as the water outside. Why was it so still? Such a large city, and yet it felt like a ghost town. There were no arguments now. Grace sat in a corner, a bag of peas on her head. Ethan and Ilsa were in a separate room, quietly conversing as they treated Benji, as you presumed they were doing. No hospitals, they’d said. What kind of people couldn’t go to hospitals?

“Here’s some of Ilsa’s clothes. Tank top, and sweats. Bathroom’s over there.” Luther pointed.

He stepped into the room with his other friends. It was the only room with light in the stone house. The clothes looked fresh, and your dress was dirty and torn. You didn’t see the point in maintaining your privacy with Grace staring off into space and the others presumably holding vigil over Benji. But it was difficult, grabbing the zipper. Gabriel had struck you in your more flexible, left shoulder. You couldn’t grab the zipper with your right hand.

“Here.” Grace murmured, getting up to unzip your dress. “It’s just us girls, let’s get you into these.”

Grace gently pulled off your dress, working the tank top over your injured shoulder and sliding the joggers up your body. You noticed her tired movements. She’d suffered a pretty decent blow to the head. Concussions were no joke. From this distance you could clearly make out the lines around her mouth as she pursed her lips, helping you to dress.

“Thanks. Grace, right?” you quietly asked, breaking the unnatural stillness.

She nodded, brown eyes losing their glassy look.

“Yes. You’re Baby Metropolis?”

“Oh, no my name is (Reader) Metropolis. I’m the baby of the family.” you explained.

“Ah.”

Grace settled beside you on the couch. Her shirt was half unbuttoned. But it didn’t matter. It was just us girls.

“He’s not going to make it.” Grace murmured. “If he was going to live, they should have taken him to a hospital the moment he was shot.”

You looked down at your hands, the constant pain in your shoulder contrasting with the numbness everywhere else. Benji. He’d… Somehow he was important. A piece of the puzzle, someone who struck you as innocent. Perhaps that was why his death seemed so irrational.

“Are you in pain?” Grace realized. “That’s a dumb question, of course you are.”

She got up, rummaging through an open medical bag until she found what she was looking for. Her footsteps were soft, bare feet delicately navigating the creaky floorboards with practiced agility. She was a con of some sort. No one else would instinctively avoid the creaky floorboards of an old house.

“Take two of these.” she says.

“Extra strength tylenol?” you joked.

“Stronger.” Grace murmured, half-smile on her face.

You nodded, taking the meds. There was nothing in your stomach, so the meds dissolved quickly, taking away the pain in as little as fifteen minutes. They came with a distinct drowsy side effect, as if the world was a bit floaty. Grace wasn’t the only one who was anxious to sleep, and the two of you crept into the larger bedroom after finding a few croissants to snack on. Two king beds and empty dressers, divided into girls and boys, or so you presumed. The two of you settled under the covers, closing your eyes. Sleep came quickly. Somewhere in the twilight of the early morning, Ilsa slid into the bed behind you, an arm draped over your abdomen as you laid on your back. You didn’t need the answer to why she was so clingy. Or perhaps you had it wrong. But you wouldn’t protest this stranger’s touches. No, there was a bond there now. You’d survived such an ordeal together, such a crisis as the one you were bound in. And it felt nice, to be sandwiched in between Grace and Ilsa. You were safe here.

Morning broke, but the sun did not break this quiet. There wasn’t a word spoken. The atmosphere in the room was somber. No one needed to say it, Benji had passed. Ethan’s dead look as he sat on the couch confirmed any suspicion. Luther cooked breakfast for everyone, maintaining a sense of normality. Ethan wouldn’t accept any of Ilsa’s soft attempts to bring him food, and he wouldn’t accept her beside him, either. The Entity had taken a divergent route in its predictions. Grace and Ilsa had been failed targets, so the Entity chose to take Ethan Hunt’s friend instead. And Ethan, being the savior he was, took it hard.

“Over here.” Grace murmured, gesturing Ilsa over to where the both of you sat.

Ilsa settled on the rug, predictably taking a seat next to you. She didn’t outright drape an arm over you, but her knee touched yours. It was a soft, innocent gesture. She wanted closeness, and you did too. Your knees stayed touching. Grace noticed the little dynamic between the two of you, shifting a little closer so she could get in on it too. Her knee came into contact with yours on the other side. Three pairs of feet lined up, three legs nestled close, shoulders flanking yours on both sides. It was cute, and you giggled, triggering Grace’s laugh too. Ilsa smiled, humming in amusement. And for a brief moment, Ethan’s eyes flickered with something other than sorrow. He picked up the plate Ilsa had left on the coffee table. And he ate.

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#rebecca ferguson x you #rebecca ferguson x reader #rebecca ferguson #ilsa faust x you #ilsa faust x reader #mission impossible #mission impossible dead reckoning part one #wlw #lesbian

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