Chapter Text
Ten minutes left before 12 PM, and Wanda Maximoff will clock in for her final shift after working part-time for three years to support herself in university. One more and it was over. That was all she could think about as she ascended through the escalator to reach the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria.
The clack of her heels on the marbled floor as she headed to the elevator somehow cut through the bustling noise of the hall. As she rode the elevator alone to the 14th floor, she gazed at her reflection, reapplied her scarlet lipstick, and smoothed the fabric of her knee-length pencil skirt, which she paired with her crimson blouse under her dark blazer, her uniform. She stared at the ends of her kitten heels and sighed.
Typically, she met only one client a day. But she couldn't help but bid farewell to her favorite, Bruce Banner, earlier in the morning. She was right to do so, for the man looked visibly disappointed when she told him it would be their last meeting.
She liked Bruce a lot. He was mild-mannered and had good stories. She had not met many nuclear physicists in her career, but she decided that Bruce was probably the best in his field. She had no basis for her declaration but pure fondness.
As always, the doctor was generous with his tip, and though disheartened by their severed business, he wished her well and told her he was proud of her for finally deciding to abandon the path she had tread for three years. He even joked about attending her graduation.
She wouldn't have minded if he did. After all, he was one of her many benefactors.
Wanda stepped into the hallway that led her to her destination, her heart racing just a little more than usual. Her chosen field brought her into contact with a variety of personalities she could and should never be complacent about.
She knocked softly at the door, and a temperate yet baritone voice beckoned her in with a simple, "Come in."
As she pushed the door open, she was taken aback by the sight that awaited her. Sitting casually on the edge of the king-sized bed was a man whose presence radiated both confidence and charm. His stormy sea blue eyes locked onto hers, capturing her attention instantly, and she fought to maintain her composure as she approached him. Placing her Versace tote bag—a thoughtful gift from one of her long-time clients—on the coffee table, she concentrated on the task at hand.
"I hope you didn't find any trouble coming here," the man, whose name was revealed to be Alex, said, a polite smile gracing his lips as he rose to meet her greeting with an extended hand.
Wanda slipped off her blazer before accepting his handshake, feeling the warmth of his grasp. "It was fine. It's nice to meet you, Alex." Of course, she was well aware that Alex was not the name on his birth certificate; anonymity was the game they both played in her world, and she had her own alias to uphold.
"Nice to meet you, too, Scarlet," he replied, his voice smooth and pleasant. He turned towards the mini-fridge and poured her a drink, surprising her again with a glass of orange juice instead of the expected alcohol. She chuckled lightly as he handed it to her.
"Thanks." A smile crept onto her face, an instinctive reaction to his mirth.
"You're amused," he observed dryly, yet his grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, revealing a playful side beneath his composed exterior.
For a moment, she simply admired him—strikingly handsome, yet far younger than the age he professed when they had arranged their meeting. It was a first for her to see his face, and while she had never been overly concerned with her clients' appearances, it was hard to discount the appeal of such striking features.
"And you look nothing like fifty," Wanda replied, taking a sip of her juice, the sweet tang refreshing against her lips.
He chuckled, the sound warm and alluring. "I lied, I'm sorry."
"Everyone lies." She shrugged nonchalantly, her demeanor casual despite the weight of her words. "But I've never met anyone who decided to age up instead of down." With that, she settled into the chair, legs crossed.
"Yeah, everyone lies," Alex echoed as he leaned back against the bed. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and surprisingly mellow. "You look too young to be over 25." Something about the way he looked at her made Wanda want to look away, yet she found herself caught in his gaze, an invisible thread pulling her in.
The playful banter sparked between them like a fire, igniting a chemistry that she had not expected. As Wanda settled into their conversation, she felt an ease envelop her, and the tension of the meeting slowly dulled. Perhaps the encounter would be different from the rest.
"I'm college-aged, old enough to drink alcohol in this country," she assured him with a hint of defiance. Alex nodded, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed her words. "I know that we've already discussed the terms and that you've already agreed, but I still need to know if we're clear?"
"Yes," he replied with a firmness that resonated in the quiet room. "No kissing on the lips, no anal, no activity that would leave you bruised—even hickeys. I'm all good with that." There was a certainty in his tone, yet Wanda caught the slight flush creeping onto his cheeks, a subtle blush that betrayed an underlying chagrin.
Wanda could have easily charged more if she were willing to broaden the scope of her work. Agatha Harkness had reminded her time and again that pushing boundaries could lead to greater rewards. But Wanda didn't desire more; she had enough. Three clients a week was her self-imposed limit, a number that allowed her to balance her financial needs with her academic goals. The cash was sufficient to cover her living expenses, and her priority was always her education at NYU, where she was determined to earn her credits and graduate on time.
"You have pretty eyes," Alex observed, breaking the silence. "There's melancholy in them; it's almost poetic." His words made her crack another light smile, an ephemeral moment of warmth that stood in sharp contrast to the coldness of their arrangement. He had chosen his words carefully, hitting on a truth that was both uncomfortable and beautiful.
She refrained from pointing out that his gaze held sadness, too. Men would talk if they wanted to, she had learned. They opened up when she made them feel better than they anticipated. For her, that was a tactic—a way to earn gratuities from those who were willing to be charitable. Nevertheless, there were always those who would try to provoke doubt, questioning whether she charged too much for what they deemed mediocre performance.
She sighed inwardly, reminding herself that she was in control. That was her world—a fragile balance of vulnerability and strength, of truth and deceit. And with every client, she navigated the line between connection and distance, always seeking the threads of humanity amid the complexities of their lives.
Wanda had mastered the art of emotional detachment long ago. Agatha had been her mentor, teaching her not to internalize the barbs and jabs that were often flung her way. Instead of letting the insults pierce her heart, she learned to catalog them like business cards, ensuring she wouldn't make the mistake of inviting those toxic energies back into her life.
She watched as Alex fidgeted nervously, his handsome features betraying his unease. "I have a confession to make. This is my first time to... uhm..."
"Hire a prostitute?" she interjected, a wry smile plodding across her face.
The moment she stepped through the door, she sensed he didn't quite belong in the world he was tentatively stepping into. With a face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine, he seemed to have no shortage of options, and yet there he was, all flustered and awkward, akin to a puppy lost in a crowded city.
He cleared his throat, his posture stiffening slightly as if he were preparing for a confrontation. "It's in my best interest to know that I'm not doing anything more illegal here. I need you to confirm if you're really of legal age."
"What are you proposing?" Wanda asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Show me your ID. I'll show you mine. Don't try to give me a fake one either; I'll know." His earnestness countered nattily with the folly of his request.
Wanda let out a breath, her amusement bubbling beneath the surface. Save for Bruce, Alex was the only one who had bothered to find out whether they were about to engage with a child. Most of her clients didn't even talk to her; they didn't have to, but the gesture was so rare that it was almost precious for her. What were the odds that on her last day, she'd find herself a somewhat law-abiding man?
She licked her lips, stifling a laugh that threatened to escape. "No. That violates our company's terms. It's on the website too." She stood up, a subtle shift in her demeanor as she began gathering her belongings. "I'll request the refund for you, but you'll only receive 50% for the restocking fee."
"Restocking?" Alex sputtered, laughter spilling out unexpectedly. Wanda had braced herself for bitterness, but the lightness of his laughter astonished her.
"I made arrangements to be here; it's my compensation for my time that could have been spent on another client," she explained, finishing the chore of collecting her items. With their dance of negotiation complete, she was ready to reclaim her afternoon.
"I'll be extra willing with your tip; I can give you double."
Wanda's temples pulsed as she weighed her options. The room's dim light flickered above them, casting shadows that danced on the walls, mirroring the calculations within her. Alex stood before her, the embodiment of conviction, with a relaxed posture that belied the tension in the air. His blue shirt clung to him, accentuating his build and making it hard for her to maintain her poise.
"Triple it." The words had escaped her lips before she'd fully processed the gamble she was making. She aimed to shock him, to throw him off balance. But instead, his response sent an adrenaline rush through her.
"Deal." Not a moment of hesitation, not even a flicker of wonder crossed his features. He leaned in, and Wanda felt the boundaries of her carefully constructed world shift.
She glanced around the room, half-hoping for some divine intervention, some signal from the universe that would allow her to retreat from the precarious ledge. But the walls closed in, and the implications of the agreement tied her hands. Her service in exchange for anonymity felt like a trade on a treacherous path.
"Not that you should trust me," he continued, "we've only just met. And the nature of our encounter isn't a call for safety either. But I can assure you that I won't cause you trouble. When you find out who I am, you may even find that I don't want trouble either."
Wanda felt his words settle on her like a heavy cloak. She had to remind herself that she couldn't afford to trust him. He was a stranger in every sense of the word, and yet, she felt an undeniable pull toward him.
But the reality of her situation loomed larger than Alex's charisma. The fear of discovery gnawed at her; the thought of being uprooted and sent back to the chaos of Sokovia was unbearable. Her life, precariously balanced on the edge of secrecy, was nothing short of a tightrope walk. A refugee working as a prostitute wasn't exactly the makings of an exemplary aspiring citizen.
In that moment of indecisiveness, she caught sight of his dimples, the quirk of his lips as he studied her. There was a mischief in his eyes, a challenge that only made her pulse quicken. Was it really that easy to lean into the moment? To surrender to the attraction that simmered just below the veneer?
With a tenacious breath, she found herself nodding, her instincts combating the impulse to leave. She reached into her purse, fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold plastic of her university ID. Every second felt like a step further into danger, but the promise of the afternoon loomed like a siren's call, tempting her to dive deeper.
__________
Her real name was Wanda Maximoff, a finance student of NYU, where Steve Rogers was an alumnus. To her credit, she was being truthful about being able to drink alcohol. Yet, they were still separated by ten years. Steve didn't consider himself a prude, but in his book, she was still too young.
Their worlds orbited differently. He was a man shaped by experience, a working adult with stories etched into his skin, while she was just beginning to unfold her own tale, still innocent and vibrant with potential. The ten-year gap between them loomed large, a chasm that suggested caution and safety—but her emerald green eyes shone with a charm he couldn’t ignore. Her clothes failed to hide her elegant curves, which made his mouth dry. Too bad kissing her soft, luscious lips wasn't allowed.
As he leaned back on the plush hotel bed, trying to mask the growing interest inside his pants, the familiarity of his reservation and uncertainties felt smothering. He wasn’t a prig by any means, but there was a whisper in the back of his mind, a question of whether the situation was right. But as she stood quietly, dainty and tempting, all his precautions began to dissolve.
"Is there anything you want to do? Steve?" Her voice slid over him like silk, kindling an impulse he had been desperately trying to control. Maybe it could be a fleeting moment, a brief escape that wouldn’t linger beyond the hotel walls. Perhaps he could satisfy his craving—for her presence, for her touch—and simply walk away afterward.
He knew he was convincing himself of a lie wrapped in sweet temptation. But the nagging urge to lean into the moment, to taste what lay just beyond the tip of his tongue, was intoxicating. Just as she stood there, radiating an unspoken promise of flight, his mind sprinted with possibilities, every thought clinched around the vision of her lips—so soft, so hypnotic.
"Have you had lunch yet? I can order room service," he found himself offering, his voice carrying a blend of tension and hope. What did he honestly want? The answer felt blurrily clear—it was her, and all that came with her. But as those thoughts swirled in his mind, he remained anchored by the heavy weight of what was deemed right and wrong, teetering on the edge of a delicious yet forbidden seduction.
Wanda chuckled, a warm sound that swathed around Steve like a soothing blanket, as she settled beside him. The heat from her presence seeped into him, stirring something deep within that he hadn’t felt in ages. "You don’t have to feed me, Steve. If you’re nervous, which I’m sure you are, I can give you a head start."
Clarity struck him. That was why he had sought her out, why he had leaped to hire her. After a prolonged period of emotional emptiness, he finally felt something—something real. Yet, a shadow of uncertainty lingered. Had he made the right choice?
As desire clouded his vision, another thought ground at him. What if it was more than just a brief encounter? What if, after their tryst, he found himself addicted to the feeling of being with Wanda? He wasn't the kind of man to flit from one woman to another, and the fear of becoming engrossed with her, of getting too close, bombarded his mind—reminding him painfully of Peggy Carter.
"Steve?" Wanda broke through his spiral of reflections.
"Yeah," he murmured, his epicenter quaking. "I think it would be best if you, uhm, give me a head start."
Without a hint of hesitation, Wanda stood before him. His gaze locked onto her as she began to peel off her blouse gracefully, unveiling a tantalizing glimpse of her form beneath a sheer bra that clung to her mounds. His throat went dry at the sight of her, her rosy pink nipples barely concealed, making him swallow hard.
"You can touch me, it’s alright," she murmured, her encouragement torching the fire of longing for contact inside him. As his eyes roamed over her figure, salivation pooled in his mouth, and with each passing juncture, the enchantment of what lay before him became incomprehensible to resist.
He did as she suggested too quickly, his palm resting on her chest while the other grazed the small of her back, pulling her close to him so that she stood between his legs. Her lithe fingers worked on the zipper of her skirt, and as it fell to her heels, his eyes darted to her panties, also sheer and exposing the bare skin between her thighs. The image of his mouth making merry on her folds sent shivers down his spine.
He took a moment to drink in the sight of her, a vision that felt as if it had been plucked from his wildest dreams. "You look perfect. I could draw you in my sketchbook." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Wanda smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. "If you're any good, maybe I'll let you." Her breath, sweet and fragrant like candy, teased his senses. He tightened his grip on her tiny waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
His gaze wandered over her curves, lingering on each dip and rise of her silhouette as if memorizing the contours of a masterpiece. The sight of her alone could send him bursting before he was even inside her, but he wanted to marvel at her longer. The thought of her with previous lovers sent a pang of envy through him, a reminder that a goddess like her was free and unattached. She was there for a purpose; he was just a client of a whirlwind of passion.
God, he wanted to assault her lips so much. The temptation to nibble on them and scour the heat hidden within her mouth surged like a powerful wave. Lost in the fantasy of the moment, he hadn’t even noticed that he had laid her on the bed, his elbows framing her arms as he hovered above her, drawn in by a compelling gravity. Time seemed to suspend as their eyes locked, and the world outside faded into nothingness, leaving only the electric tension that crackled between them.
Her face was prettier up close, her scent of roses making Steve feverish. He gasped when Wanda caressed his erection, rubbing on it invitingly that he almost lost his balance and toppled over her.
"Are you just gonna stare at me?" Wanda's voice was like a seductress's, baiting him into the abyss of ardor.
"I wanna taste ya lips, ya know?" he responded, his Brooklyn origin slipping through in a husky mumble. The words plunged out before he could stop them, raw and unfiltered. Wanda's giggle was sweet, inebriating, as she cradled his face in her hands, and he found himself leaning into her warmth, lost in the moment.
"Alas, you can't," she whispered, searing him further. He saw the heat radiating from her cheeks, a warmth that matched the burning intensity of his own yearning.
It may be his own lust making him see beyond reality, but the thought of her potentially returning his attraction sent him soaring as he dipped lower. The exhilarating scent of her skin enveloped him, drawing him closer as he breathed in her essence. He pressed his lips against the delicate curve of her neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that kindled a spark inside him. Her gasp was music to his ears, and he felt her body submit to the weight of his affections, a summons he couldn’t resist.
With each kiss, her soft breaths altered into soft moans, a sound that spiraled him deeper into a haze of eros. He knew that she was merely feeding his fantasies, but that thought did little to quell the storm brewing within him. As his lips trailed lower down her body, the tension built, and he concentrated on the rhythm of their connection, his tongue flicking against her skin, teasing yet fettered.
The feel of her nails grazing against his scalp sent electric currents through him, almost enough to drive him wild. A part of him craved to tear away the barriers between them, to indulge in the physical manifestation of his desire, but another part curbed him, urging patience.
The girl was digging the depravity out of him, and if he didn't control himself, he would end up breaking the terms she levied. If he wanted to see her again, he had to bury every bit of yearning that was slowly blinding him. With every nerve of his body protesting, he sat up and reached out for his wallet to fish out the condom he'd been carrying around for months.
"Is there a problem?" Wanda asked, propped on her elbows as she regarded him questioningly.
"Nothing, doll. I realized I have to be somewhere, so we have to finish soon." The lie slipped from his lips with ease, a familiar mask concealing the turmoil inside. Steve hated deceiving her, but maintaining his sanity felt like a worthy trade-off for the beat.
Standing up, he felt the rubble of his decision pressing down on him. Each step towards the light switch felt monumental, a retreat into the shadows of his mind as he fought against the mounting urge to give in. If he could just block her from view, maybe he could regain his elusive grip on control. He didn’t want to see the bewilderment on her face—he hoped she wouldn’t feel the sting of rejection.
Why would she care? A part of his brain asked him. He held on to the thought as he fumbled with his trousers to free his aching member as he slid the offending rubber to his length. He didn't dare take off his clothes; that would be detrimental.
In his own time and excruciatingly so, Steve felt around the bed, and when he felt her, he gently tugged the band of her underwear to slip it off her. He was no saint, so to him it made sense that, the moment the small fabric was in his grasp, he brought it to his face and inhaled it. It was a terrible decision, soaked with her substance, her spice-scented scent making his head spin with a new rush of hunger to taste her.
"Do you want me to do anything?" she asked, her voice laced with innocence, unknowingly provoking the inner conflict raging within him.
"No, just lie there," he commanded, his tone heavy with authority, even as it betrayed the tempest he fought to conceal. The mask of dominance was the only thing that silenced her, at least for a time.
Against all logic and his better judgment, he found himself grasping her thighs, gently parting her legs so he could position himself between them. As he reached out, his fingers brushed against her center, and the warmth he felt sent tremors through him. She was so undeniably ready for him, wasn’t she? Sopping wet for him, for him, right?
But as quickly as the thought surged, it was met with his own hesitation, and he withdrew his hand, gripping her thighs firmly instead and dragging her down to the edge of the bed. He wiped away the slickness on his fingers, fighting the desperate urge to lick on his digits to have a taste of her, to succumb to the impulse thumping inside him.
"Just stay still, don't touch me," he added, needing the distance to maintain some semblance of authority, to ensure her bewitching existence didn’t shatter his already flimsy resolve.
"I understand." She said coldly. It pricked him even though that's what he needed at the moment.
He held his cock and aligned himself to her entrance, holding on to the back of her thighs, he unhurriedly penetrated her. Slow immediately became hasty the moment her heat embraced him. The velvet flesh clutching him tightly momentarily knocked the air out of his lungs. The second he was fully inside her, all the hair in his body rose. She was too tight that he wondered if he hurt her. Wanda said nothing, which, again, was in his favor.
Before he could fully descend into insanity and tear the condom off himself so that he could feel her freely without restrictions, he started pummeling her.
Grunts escaped his lips with every push and pull. His eyes fell closed, his mouth agape, and his head raised to the heavens as he continued to drive himself deeper. She felt fucking good. He wanted to be inside her over and over again until he melted and became nothing, as nothing as his emotions before he foolishly decided to give in to his needs and hired a woman who would give him what he desired without strings attached.
He wanted to rue his decision, but as his hips pounced on her, all he could think of was more. He wanted, no, he needed more of her. He was like a frivolous youngster infatuated by the first girl who smiled sweetly at him.
When the compulsion to explode travelled from his spine to his dick reared, he almost wanted to groan. It was too soon; he could have amended it by stalling or pulling out for another position, but his nether regions had grown a mind of their own. He couldn't stop slamming in and out of her.
He reached his inevitable climax and almost fell on top of Wanda, had he not quickly leaned on his arms as he spilled all his longing. Now lighter and panting as he remained one with her, the question of how soon he could be inside her again hounded him.
Realizing that he was still gripping her roughly, he precipitously let her go and pulled out, already missing the condensed feeling. He almost didn't want to turn the lights back on in the fear of finding her delicate skin bruised from his eagerness.
For the first time in a very long time, Steve Rogers felt something again; woefully, it was dangerous.