Chapter Text
First is the tobacco. Before sunlight, before her voice, before the fog in your head clears. The tobacco comes first, because Langley wakes first, always.
Second is the realization. It comes with the smell of tobacco. You are not alone and not in your own bed. There is a person next to you, and this is their lair.
Third is the fear. You try to tell yourself it is only paranoia, that it is irrational. She gains nothing by killing you. She is shackled and under your control. She has other ways of taking you out in her own bed. She could have killed you in your sleep if she wanted. But you also know that the Director of the 9th Agency have and will kill for reasons you cannot conceive of, that her loyalty is uncertain to say the least, and that her gun is lethal and always within her reach.
Fourth is the shame. It overrides the fear. You chose to be here. You put yourself in this situation. She is your boss (on paper), or your charge (in theory). And here you are, in her bed, naked and no doubt covered in hickeys. You came to her, and not her, you. Like a moth to folly's candle, you came. And you came many times after. You who they call Chief, who is to be their warden, came to this woman to fulfill a shameful need. You ought to not be such a schoolgirl, but you are her captive, just as she is yours. Perhaps more so. You want to curl up and burrow deeper into the bed, her bed, shielded with her blanket, until she leaves to work, leaving you to wallow in peace.
"Don't make me late, rookie."
Finally, her voice. In the early heartbeats of your waking hours, Langley does not speak with Langley's voice, but some other's more distant one. Blonde. Tall. A relentless touch. A sultry voice. And cruel. There was someone like that once, before you lost your memories. They are gone, leaving a gap in your chest. All that you have of them is a distant echo, less than a memory, but more than a void. You would be better without, but lovers always leave something behind, whether you want them to or not.
"What's wrong?"
Then the fog clears, and she sounds like herself again, not some distant echo of someone who left long ago. You wait for your eyes to adjust to the darkness and find her gaze upon yours. She, too, is naked. You had sex. Yes, you feel ashamed now, but it happened. And will again, because you are drawn to her, drawn to the way she makes you feel like someone you must have once been, and drawn to Langley herself, a cruel, covetous woman who takes from you until you have no more to give, whose fingers work you until you come apart at the seam. It is humiliating to think of now, the things you say when she leaves you on the knife's edge between stupor and climax, and which way you fall will depend entirely on whether your pathetic begging pleases her sadistic whims. It is deeply worrying, how she had taught you to enjoy something that ought to fill you with dread, how your climax is both painful and sublime when she has one hand upon your neck and the other between your legs. It is mortifying, these memories, but in time, the shame gives way to need, and you will come again, and again, moth to a candle, butterfly into a spider's web.
You jump when her finger finds its way to a bite mark, still fresh and sensitive, and you just know will fill you with embarrassment when you remember its presence as Nightingale asks where you've been later today. Then you remember you hadn't answered her.
"Just... still out of it. I guess."
She does not answer, nor give anything that indicate she had accepted or doubted your words. You will not discuss with her how she reminds you of a lost lover. This cannot happen. Not with Langley. She cannot know while this is probably less than love, it is definitely, definitely more than physical needs. Maybe even more than a deeply foolish infatuation. You hold her gaze, giving nothing away, which, of course, to a seasoned spy like Langley, gives plenty away in its own way.
But she does not press, only turns, slides down beside you and takes a puff of her cigarette. You breathe in in relief, before stupidly breaking into coughs.
"Too delicate, rookie."
"You know I don't like the smell, Langley."
"And if I had come to your room, I'd respect your laws. But this is my bed, rookie, and if you didn't want the smell of nicotine in the morning, you should not have spent the night."
You know that she knows that is an impossible ask, because this woman does not stop until you pass out.
"That thing will drive us into an early grave." You say, glumly.
She finds amusement in that. You learn to hear the little laughter behind her lips and see it in her eyes, even when they never leave her mouth.
"That's precious."
"What? That it's bad for your health?"
"That you think we'll live long enough for poor health to be a factor in our death."
You hate to admit that she has a point there. It seems a ludicrous notion that either of you would live into old age now. Perhaps for a spy, this had always been true, and when every day could be your last, a life without gratification or pleasure is truly a waste. Nicotine. Sex. The little vices that grease the wheel. When one lives a life filled with unpleasant yet necessary works, one must find distractions.
Perhaps that is what you are: Distraction.
Like you're the victim here. What is she? A replacement? Because Langley is tall, blonde, with a relentless touch and a sultry voice, and cruel as a spider with a prey in her web? You have a type, clearly. Or perhaps you are using her to fill a gap in your heart. Like she is no more than a shadow to you. You are using her. There is no denying this. She may be in control, but you know you are in safe hands, or your rational mind does, even if your emotional mind often fails to see it. She, on the other hand, fulfills an emotional need that is no part of the implicit contract between the two of you, because she happens to look like someone you half remember. You feel awful. You ought not to, what you have is purely physical, you both agreed, but you do feel awful.
A sigh breaks you out of your melancholy.
"Don't ruin a good thing, rookie. I had hoped for another round or two to start the day, and now I'm left enjoying my cigarette instead of enjoying you."
You flush at those last words and try not to let the embarrassment creep into your voice. "I'm here, you know."
"Wherever you are, you're not here." She exhales and watches the smoke fades, bored. "There's no enjoyment to take from you when you're having one of your little moments."
So she noticed your morning moods. Of course she did. It is her job to see things she's not supposed to. Your hope had been foolish.
She continues before you can think of a response.
"I won't ask, rookie, but I'll say this. Guilt is a poor fuel, for your work or for sex. Bury it in a little box and throw it into the furnace. In our line of work, we do not repent. We do not regret. Take what you need and make no apologies. That is our way."
That is her way. Your lips tighten. You know that whatever you say here would be unwise. You would reveal too much of yourself, and she would use it against you. Because whatever else you two may be, you are not lovers. You cannot trust her with your heart, even when you trust her with your body.
She does not mind the silence. You two lie there in the dark, lit only by the light of her cigarette, before its light dims and dies. By then, your eyes had already adjusted, and you pass the time by counting the movements on her face, what little there is. There is silence. Silence is what you have come to expect on early mornings in her bed like this, but you would like to think that by now you have managed to identify the different silences. There is "basking" silence, which tells you you've done particularly well in bed, even though it's Langley who always does almost all the "doing". There is "awkward" silence, which you now suspect occurs on mornings when your mood is worse than usual. There is "thinking" silence, on days when your odds of survival are less than certain, and at least one of you is considering whether it is time to give voice to that feeling in some vault of your mind before it is too late. This is "bored" silence, slow days, when Langley expects a routine check in an hour or two and little urgency in the foreseeable future and enjoys the fleeting privilege of being able to feel bored, for it is a rare privilege in this line of work. Perhaps it is inevitable to sleep with a spy so many times and not pick up a little of the trade yourself. You ought not to feel so proud.
And what is infuriating is how little discrepancy there is between the Langley you work with everyday and the Langley who lies naked next to you right now. She is a steady wall, unflappable and unchanging. What difference is there between this arrangement and the one she makes daily as Director of the 9th Agency? It is something you initially found to be a comfort, as romance was the one thing you wanted to avoid, but have now come to increasingly view as a source of vexation. There is a power imbalance. Your needs eclipse hers, both physically and emotionally. You hate it, being a needy pillow princess, while she’s like a contractor who you call now and then to relieve yourself and pay her with… whatever she gets from this arrangement. Is it so much to ask? You just want her to feel about you how you feel about her.
You stomp that thought underfoot as swiftly as you can. If you follow it, you fear you may never come back emotionally. You are too invested in this relationsh- this arrangement. Whatever. This is why you hate the silence. Your mind goes to places it’s not supposed to when it’s just you and her. You need a distraction.
"Hey." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Your boss-in-name (you insist on keeping the last two words glued to the first, for it is one of your last remaining dignities, and you refuse to let go of what little you still have) does not move, but her eyes do fall upon yours. She waits, something you find she often does when you do something she had not entirely expected.
You smack your lips quietly, as if contemplating if you really should continue. Continue with what? You're not sure yourself, but you do feel... foolish, unwise, brave, whimsical. Bad signs. But you do not heed the signs. "You finished your cigarette."
"Yes." There is a second of delay, as if Langley is trying to see where you're going with this.
You gulp. "And you said, you'd enjoy your cigarette, or me."
She did not say that. "I said..."
"Since you finished your cigarette..." You gulp again. "How about..." You feel a flush creeping up to your face. You should have heeded the signs. "I... ah..."
You should have continued, but the way her the corner of her lips curl kills your word dead in its track. "Going to make me late after all, rookie?"
"I'll be quick."
"I'm sure you will be."
Considering you've been such a pillow princess, you should have guessed that did not sound like the boast you intended it as. "I mean..."
"You mean..."
She is teasing you. You hate it. Well, actually, you love it, but that's beside the point. You will not win with words, so you elect to show her what you mean instead. You slide beneath the blanket and awkwardly shift yourself into position.
"Oh."
You hate how you can hear the smirk in her voice, but you try not to let it distract you. God what is coming over you? Just minutes ago, you were feeling shit, feeling lost, feeling ashamed. Now you nest yourself between her legs like you belong there. You've never done this before, or if you had, the memory is now lost. Every time you've been with her, it's her fingers between your legs, or her leg, or her foot, or her cane. You try to give as good as you get, now and then, but she is better, and almost seems to enjoy watching you beg for release more than actually getting it herself. The woman is a sadist, and you are an easy mark. You want to do to her what she does to you, but you are not a match for Langley's damned fingers, or her leg, or her f-... whatever.
So, perhaps in an attempt to salvage whatever ego you can, you elect to do to her what she had not done to you. You open your mouth and, before courage fails you, or wisdom finds you, you bring your tongue between her legs.
You can almost hear an intake of air, and it fills you with more joy than you care to admit. She never reacted so. Your fingers brought her pleasure, yes, and she was generous with her praise, but you feel as if she barely lost control when she reached her climax. It makes you jealous. Ashamed. You want her to lose herself like you lose yourself. If you scream her name a dozen times and moan two dozen other shameful things you have tried desperately to scrub from your memories, she should at least moan your name once. But it's always "there, rookie", "good job, rookie", "consider us even". It's so... unromantic. God, you hate that that word crossed your mind. This arrangement is supposed to be no more than physical gratification. But physical gratification demands emotions too, surely. A little. Whatever. The point is that it is unfair for you to lose all of yourself to her if she isn't going to lose at least 10% of herself to you, right? Right?
"Mm... Unexpected... What brought this on, r-... Ahh..."
Your heart is like a drum. This is working. This is working. Your tongue grows less timid and finds its rhythm. Long, slow movement. Tender, deliberate drags. But breaks the pattern, now and then. Be predictable, until you are not. Keep her on her toes. If she lets her guard down, you will surely drag the most amazing orgasm of her life out of her. These are perhaps the most ridiculous, stupid thoughts you ever had in your life, but you don't care. Because she is moaning. Because she is not bothering with words anymore. Because you have her. You can't remember when you last felt so… accomplished. You'll feel mortified later, surely, when you realize that the most accomplished you feel is when you are eating out Langley. But damnit, you are eating out Langley well, you are making your boss(-in-name) moan, you are stealing those wise, sadistic words from her mouth, and you'll ride this wave for as long as you can.
"Gracious... Ah... Rook-..."
You redouble your effort before she can complete that word. You hate it. You don't want her to call you 'rookie' when she's fucking you. It's not hot. It's not romantic. Surely, after all this time, you're not a rookie anymore. It's just... not fair, right? Your tongue takes on a more aggressive edge, and your heart leaps when you find that her voice rises alongside your effort, even if only a little. You'll make her cum. This time, you'll have her. She'll...
You freeze. You freeze, because in the space between one heartbeat and the next, the blanket is thrown off, and you realize how much you needed it, how much you needed that layer between you and Langley. You freeze like a deer in the headlight, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, except you're not eating cookies, you're eating Langley, whose eyes are upon yours, and whose smile pins you in place more surely than her gun might have. Her face is flushed. You think she may even be sweating. And, as you had hoped, she had lost herself a little, no longer in complete control, no longer the ever-unflappable Langley. But you had not realized what that meant until you saw the craving in her eyes. She wants you, more obviously than she had ever wanted you before, and it fills you with fear and jubilation in equal measure.
And when she speaks, the fear momentarily triumphs. "Hands behind your back."
Up until now, you had used your hands to better guide your tongue, but you find it impossible to even hesitate before the authority in her voice. You fold your arms behind your back like they are tied together with a rope.
"On your knees."
You try to sit up, but a hand catches your head, pinning you in place. Langley holds your head between her legs, not allowing it to move an inch.
"I said, on your knees."
You gulp, and shift awkwardly, your hands still behind your back. With her hand holding your head down, you are forced to prop your backside up on your knees. You gag, realizing what a lewd position this is, with your hands behind your back, your ass in the air, and your head bowed as if in supplication, which, you may as well be.
Your submissive position pleases Langley greatly. Her hand, previously firm as a rock, gently lifts your chin and brushes a strand of hair from your eyes. Her thumb idly plays with your lips. Her face is flushed and her teeth dig lightly into her lips as her eyes eat you up from head to toe. "Good girl..."
You squeak, dumbly.
"Now, continue."
And you do. Whatever rebellious thought you had had been taken out back and shot in the back of the head for insubordination toward your boss, Langley (screw dignity, honestly).
This is a victory, you would realize later. She had never been this, controlling, aggressive, dominant. She called you good girl. She looked at you with undisguised lust. She was forced into this position, because you had started to impress her enough to take away her control, over herself, if not over you. This is a victory.
But right now, you do not realize this. Right now, you are her good girl, and you serve. You move your tongue, and you look at her, and if she looks pleased, you continue. And if she runs her hand from the top of your head to the back of your neck and call you 'good girl', you whimper and redouble your effort.
"Look, at, you." She drawls, each word like a drop of wine upon your lips, though right now your lips are wet with something far less decent. "Needy, submissive, hard-working. You are perfect... My. Little. Whore..."
The word is punctuated by the way she grabs a fistful of your hair. It stings. She is not gentle. Your eyes water. You make a fist with each hand, trying to withstand the pain. Some treacherous corner of your heart swells with joy. 'Her little whore'. It should not make you so wet, but it does. She had almost growled the words, like a predator circling her prey. Prey, is that what you are? You should be so lucky. Preys run. You have no such sense. You offer up yourself willingly to this, glutinous, uncaring woman, and she does to you what a spider does to a butterfly in its web: She eats your heart whole and demands more, and you will offer it and more on a silver plate. Why? Because you are Langley's little whore. Whatever else you may be when the sun rises, right now you're her good little whore.
"Look at you..." She growls, again. You do not dare to look in her eyes, but you can hear the smirk in her voice. "'Chief'... What a joke... They should see what their 'Chief' does in my bed. Does that make you wet, ma salope? To have what authority and credibility you built so fast be brought to little pieces even faster because you couldn't help but be such a needy slut?"
It does. God... it does. What is wrong with you? You hate that it makes you so fucking wet to be talked down like this. You hate how being called these indecent names fills your chest with pride. You hate how your hands are kept behind your back and you cannot relieve yourself right now and you especially hate how they are only like that because you are compelled to barks on command if it's Langley and her order keeps your hands pinned there more surely than a handcuff might have. You hate how you'll remember this moment, how when you are out there, negotiating, making demands, leading your people, being their steady wall upon which they can imagine a semblance of security, a treacherous part of your mind will surely recall this moment, and you will be reminded of what you really are: Langley's little whore.
"Fuck... How are you so much better with your... Fuck." She nearly mutters the words. You've never heard anything so beautiful. What is wrong with you? But it's true. Dispassionate, implacable Langley, brought down to curses and grunts, because you're just that good. "I thought you were such a pillow princess... Damn... Fuck it..."
Your eyes widen in shock, because now you are on your back, with Langley straddling your face. From this angle, you cannot help but look into her eyes. Her smile is full of teeth and her eyes are hungry for more. She is done receiving. Now she takes. It is terrifying, beautiful and fucking hot.
She uses your face like a piece of rag, grunting with every movement of her hip. You were skilled enough to bring her to this point. Now your skills don't matter. Once more, it is in her hand. Perhaps to someone saner, she would be a poor lover. But you only look up and see a goddess. You love it. The way she takes control. The way your hair is used like a handle. The way you are treated like a thing to be used by Langley to get herself off and tossed aside. You know she won't, not like that, but it makes you wet. Having your face practically fucked by her in this manner awakens some animal part of your brain that swoons at the aggression she affords you. Unflappable, immaculate Langley, affording you the privilege of receiving her aggression. It makes you feel positively electric. It is in the way she bears her teeth and the way her lips curve. It is in the way sweats roll off her body and the way her eyes make you feel more naked than you actually are. It is in the way she moans and growls and especially the way the words her 'little whore' smack you like a slap to the face and makes you wet like you actually received one too. What is WRONG with you? You don't know. You don't fucking care. You will when all is said and done, but right now, you're her little whore, and there's nothing anyone can do about that.
With her increasingly aggressive movements, perhaps you should have seen the climax coming, but you didn't. You are so lost in the intoxication of submission to Langley that you miss all the signs. It comes all the same. Her legs shake, one hand holding onto your face for dear life, the other balling up the bedsheet. Langley reaches climax while grinding your face into the bedsheet. Her moan is long and delectable. You've never felt so accomplished from lying back and doing nothing.
She slows. Her breathing lowers to a steady rhythm. Her head slowly rolls forward until her eyes are upon yours again. They are still those of a predator, but not so aggressively, not so immediately ravenous. They have settled down from a need to a desire, to not immediately wish to fuck you through the bedsheet, but rather to own you, possess you, have you at the tip of her fingertips, at least for the next few hours.
She opens her mouth, and you expect her to return to 'rookie', but she closes it again without uttering it. Not here, not while you're in her bed. You've surely graduated from rookiedom. "Good girl..." She brushes a strand of hair off your face. You can't imagine how indecent this ‘good girl’ of hers must look, panting with your mouth open, your face soaked, your eyes glazed. What happens next is perhaps even more humiliating.
"Please..."
Perhaps it was forgotten in the rush of adrenaline that is getting your face fucked by Langley, but your own needs now return like a battering ram. She still straddles you, looking at you with more desire than you had seen her looked at anything. There is not much you can do to relieve your own needs, and right now, you would not even dare to do so without her permission. So, you beg for it.
"Please... May I..."
"No."
Her smile is as cruel as her answer. In that moment, you think you nearly cry, if not for what she does next. In less than a minute, she is atop you and has you screaming her name, your hands holding onto her like you could fall into the deepest abyss if you let go, and her hand between your legs moving like a piston. Her thumb is upon your clit, not allowing you one moment of reprieve. You are hurled toward the finishing line in record speed. You cum shamefully fast. No, that is putting it lightly. You squirt like a fountain. Your brain fizzles out, leaving you babbling incoherently, your arms leaving scratches on her back, your lower body leaving a mess on her bedsheet.
She brings her face next to yours. You don't know if she's using her words to degrade you further like she always does or if she's actually whispering sweet nothings into your ear this time for being such a good little whore. A wasted effort, because you've blanked out on her and the rest of the world. When your hands slide off her back, you really do slide into that abyss, falling upon the bed like a marionette with her strings cut.
But even sinking into that stupor will not keep you from this sight, because the last thing you see before unconsciousness claims you is Langley's lips closing in upon yours. No teeth. No sadism. Just, tenderness and yearning. They taste, like Langley. With your fading thoughts you think how indecent you must taste, but she does not care. It is so unlike the spider, but it traps you in her web all the same.
And then sleep takes you once more.
You wake with your back against Langley. Her arms are around you and her lips are upon the back of your neck. You groan. Your hands find hers on instinct, because if your rational mind had been in charged, you would not have been so careless or foolish, so open with your heart. She does not mind.
"You really did make me late."
You whine in response, because if she is talking to you, she is not necking you, and in the last ten seconds of consciousness you have grown addicted to it.
She laughs airily. It is so unlike her usual confident smile, or her sadistic chuckles. "Well, enjoy it while it lasts."
Her hands massage the sore spots on your legs. You cannot imagine how much worse they would be had she not been working at them. That session was… intense. More so than usual, even. You are thankful that Langley is not one to neglect aftercare.
Your whine turns needier when her teeth close lightly upon your neck. They dig, not harshly, but firmly and slowly. It will leave a mark, like an animal making her claim. Is that what you are? Yes. God yes. In this room, this moment, that is what you are. Hers to claim.
It's not that Langley does not do morning cuddles. It surprised you the first time too. She really does seem to be the type to kick you out of bed after she's done abusing your body, or at least leave you by yourself in her bed the next morning, disappearing in a wisp of smoke in the night. But she doesn't. You brought up your bewilderment to her once, to which she only scoffs. 'Poor manner is not to be tolerated'. It sure sounds like her, to make something so sweet sound so haughty.
But she had always been there. Her morning cuddle manners could use some work, because few things make you feel like no more than a convenient lay than waking up to your partner having a post-sex cigarette, which you suppose you both are, but... whatever. The point is that at least she's there, and she's not shy about praises and frivolous flirting either, but she was never this... intimate. It ought to remind you even more of that shadow in the back of your mind, that other lover, now gone from your life. But it doesn't. It's just Langley. It's a pleasant knowledge, to know that you can still see others as more than resemblances of things you used to have. If you follow that thought to its natural conclusion, you know you won't like the mess you'll have walked into, but while your rational mind is still out of commission, you can indulge that bliss for just a while longer.
The bliss lasts for all of five minutes before your rational mind returns like a brick to the face.
"You're late..."
"We are, yes." Her voice is steady, her amusement barely noticeable, though it is there. "By fifty-two minutes now. You have been out for some time."
She is so blasé about this. Meanwhile, panic creeps into your voice. "They’ll suspect! What... What do I tell them?"
"Whatever you want, dove. They work for you."
"They'll know... If one of us was late, I could come up with a story. But if it's both you and I... Why did you stay? You could have... You could have..."
You cut yourself off with a whine. Her teeth dig deeper. Not quite drawing blood, but definitely leaving another mark upon your skin. The words die in your throat.
"Would you rather I have left you? I am offended my generosity had not been taken in the spirit it was meant, girl."
She even made coffee, you noticed. You imagine it's cold now, with how long you've been out.
"Langley..." You whisper. "I... This is lovely. It really is... It's so..." You choke back words too earnest to share. "... love...ly." Even you realize how dumb you sound.
"Mhm?" She awaits the 'but'.
"But... But... They'll know..."
She sighs, pulling you into her. Your head rests just beneath her chin.
"Well, since it's bothering you. My people probably already know. They are spies. They can put two and two together. Listen to me, dove. Nobody cares in this business. We all indulge our vices in our own ways, and they are loyal. You will not get trouble from them."
"But..."
"But your people, they are not so well disciplined. For a detainment facility you sure do run a loose ship. I won't tell you how to conduct your business, but this is a natural consequence of your manner of leadership. But if it's any consolation, I'm sure that girl already covered for you."
It takes you only a few seconds to figure out who she means. "Nightingale?"
"Quite."
"She knows?"
"Of course she knows. Everything about you."
You can't say you hadn't suspected. You are foolish, but not stupid.
Langley continues. "Word of advice from a professional liar: Don't lie to that one."
You crane your neck to look at her. "Why do you say that?"
"Firstly, because you cannot. And secondly, because loyalty like that is not to be squandered on frivolous deceptions. Of course, if necessity demands, you ought to employ whatever deception you need. But not for this."
You take a deep breathe. "Nightingale... she..."
She knows what you are thinking. "Sure. But she would not think less of you or subvert you. The rest is her business."
You sigh. Of course she would think that. But perhaps you are the worse person here. There is something to be said about her uncaring frankness compared to your hypocritical subterfuge.
But that is a problem for later. She is probably right. Though Nightingale should not be taken for granted, the problem, such as it is, is likely greater in your head than it really is. Even if they find out? So what? It's not like the two of you are dating. What are they going to do? Put you in jail?
Though if you are to be honest, the two of you are surely not just fucking either, whatever it is you have going on here.
"You are a poor partner to wake up next to, you know that?"
... You do, actually. "Sorry." You mutter, hugging your knees. You don’t know why it bothers you so, having her give voice to it, but it does.
"If it's not angst it's anxiety. What if they find out? What will Nightingale think? What will the girls think? What will change? What, indeed, rookie?"
"Don't call me that." You say, glumly. "Not when we're... doing, this."
"Is that not what you are?" She mocks, her lips running against the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "What will change? Nothing. Everything. It is in your hand. You have power, and yet you fret and worry about every little thing. Only a rookie could be so meek."
She has a point. You cannot agree entirely with her or her way of doing things, but she has a point.
"Or would you rather I call you my little whore again?" Her teeth nibble on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Ma salope? My pillow princess? Good girl? Which one do you fancy, 'Chief'?"
You feel heat rising to your cheeks. It takes considerable effort to get snarky with her. "I think I graduated from pillow princess after today." You sound so proud it ought to be embarrassing.
"Mmmmm." Her purr, low and sultry, forces you to suppress a tremble. "Yes, you surprised me, dove. Let none fault you for a lack of talent. I should think you will put your mouth to good use again."
"I didn't say that..." You mutter, though you both know it's little more than bluster. This addiction is a two-way street, and you now see why she finds it nearly as pleasurable to bring you to orgasm as it is to receive it herself. Maybe it's ego. Maybe it's the desire to bring pleasure to others. Or maybe you are just that much of a sub to Langley, that any pleasure you bring hers is multiplied twofold upon you. Whatever. It'd be more embarrassing to not own it at this point. You're a huge sub, yes, but if you can do that to the Director of the 9th Agency, then you'll wear that badge proudly. This shamelessness will return to shame when you're done riding this high.
Waking up twice in one morning in Langley's bed, what a strange way to start the day. You'll have no doubt it'll stay strange, having to sort out this messiness with your people. You envy her position, being able to afford to not care, but such is the ship you run. Such is the consequence of the choice you made.
And what choice will you make now? Have you considered, perhaps, that this is overstepping some kind of barrier you both have respectively propped up? Implicitly, if not explicitly. Is it wise to get attached in this business, get attached to one who is by trade mired in lies and treachery? Sure, perhaps a degree of morning cuddle could be considered, in Langley's word, simply good manner. Sure, the things you scream or the things she whispers in your ears don't count outside her bed and neither of you can hold each other accountable for those sweet nothings. Sure, you may do this perhaps thrice a week at least when one of you isn't on some kind of potentially fatal operation, but that's just sex. But this? Skipping work to cuddle long after the sex is over? That's edging dangerously close to matters of the heart, and that's twice as dangerous as any Black Ring operation you undertook and potentially thrice as painful if experiences are any indication.
"Dove?"
The line of thought dies where it stands as a shiver runs up your spine. It seems you have really graduated from 'rookie' to 'dove', at least while you two are behind closed door. You like it. It's sweet. Less spicy than the other names she called you and no doubt will continue to, but a name for every occasion, no? You can be rookie out there and her little whore while tumbling in the sheet, but right now, you're her dove. You squeeze her hands.
"That's better. Quit fretting. We'll have to go soon, and I'll be terribly disappointed if you fail me now, after you performed so well. To be here with me and elsewhere with yourself, that is poor manners in any girl of mine, you understand."
You understand. You slide further into her embrace, allowing Langley to leave kiss marks and bite marks and whatever else down your neck. Mark your body. Make you feel possessed. Allow you to see what lies at the end of this path. You won't be so cowardly as to run now. Only a rookie could be so meek.