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reidmarieprentiss · 11 months ago

Text

Textual Tension

Summary: You accidentally send a very suggestive text to your awkward coworker, and he replies...

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: smut (18+), fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, awkward tension

Word count: 6.1k

a/n: has anyone ever sent a sext to the wrong person?? i've only ever sent them to my friends on accident and for that i am so thankful

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (fem receiving), mild breast play, soft dom spencer

You sit on your bed, the soft glow of your phone illuminating your face as you type out a rather suggestive message to the person you've been casually hooking up with. A smirk tugs at your lips as you hit send, confident that the message will hit its mark.

I've been thinking about you… Can't stop imagining what I'd do if you were here right now. I want to feel your hands all over me, the way you’d make me moan… Let’s make fantasy a reality?

But within seconds, your heart stops as you realize the terrible mistake you've just made.

You’ve sent the message to Spencer.

Spencer.

Your coworker. The brilliant, kind, and awkwardly charming genius who you’ve always had a friendly, professional relationship with. And, of course, the one who has been harboring a massive, secret crush on you. A fact that, unbeknownst to you, has led to countless daydreams and wishes that you might feel the same.

The blood drains from your face as you stare at your phone, horrified, praying that somehow the message didn’t actually go through, or maybe, just maybe, Spencer won’t read it and will simply delete it. But you know better—Spencer is meticulous about everything. Of course, he’ll read it. You’re absolutely mortified, every worst-case scenario flashing through your mind.

Meanwhile, in his apartment, Spencer is settling down with a cup of tea, ready to dive into the book he’s been reading. When his phone buzzes, he picks it up absentmindedly, assuming it’s just a work-related message or something mundane. But as he reads the words on the screen, his eyes widen in shock, his breath catching in his throat.

His thoughts run wild, heart pounding as he rereads the text, each time wondering if it could possibly be real. Could you, the person he’s admired from afar for so long, actually want him in the way he’s secretly yearned for? The idea is intoxicating, and before he can second-guess himself, he responds with a message that matches your energy, his pulse quickening at the boldness of it.

Wow… I didn’t know you were into me like that. I’ve been thinking about you too. If you want, we can definitely make that happen.

The moment you see his reply, your stomach drops. You can't believe this is happening. You’re completely mortified, your mind spinning with the implications. How could you ever face him again? You don’t respond, the fear and embarrassment paralyzing you, leaving you in a state of panic.

The next day at work, you’re a bundle of nerves. Every step you take towards the bullpen feels like you’re walking to your own doom. When you finally arrive, you try to act normal, but the tension is palpable. You can’t even bring yourself to make eye contact with Spencer, every interaction feeling like it’s laced with the humiliation of last night’s mistake.

Spencer, on the other hand, is caught in a whirlwind of emotions. At first, he’s elated, thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance you were into him. But as the day drags on and you remain distant, the excitement turns to confusion, then a sharp sting of rejection. Did he misread the situation? Was it all just a mistake? He’s left feeling awkward and exposed, unsure of where he stands with you now.

—

The tension between you and Spencer had become a nearly tangible thing, a thread pulled taut between the two of you, ready to snap at any moment. At first, your glances in his direction were purely out of necessity—quick, fleeting looks to gauge his mood, to see if he was as affected by this as you were. But as the days passed, those glances became more frequent, more lingering.

It started innocently enough. You’d look over and notice how effortlessly his hair seemed to fall into place, the soft waves framing his face in a way that made him look almost ethereal. You’d never paid much attention before, but now you couldn’t help but admire how it suited him, how it added to his charm.

Then, it was his forearms. You’d catch him pushing up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, revealing the sinewy strength beneath the fabric. There was something about the casual way he did it, the way the muscles in his arms flexed ever so slightly as he worked, that made your heart skip a beat. It was such a simple thing, but it had a profound effect on you, stirring something deep within.

And then there was the way he licked his lips when he was focused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he concentrated on whatever task was in front of him. You couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have his attention focused solely on you, to feel the intensity of that gaze as he looked at you, not with confusion or uncertainty, but with desire.

The more you noticed these little things, the more conflicted you became. This was Spencer—sweet, brilliant, and awkward Spencer. The idea of seeing him in a different light had never really crossed your mind before, but now… now it was all you could think about. The memory of his bold response to your accidental text played on a loop in your mind, taunting you with the possibilities.

What if you responded? What if you stopped overthinking everything and just… saw where it could go? The idea terrified you, but it also excited you in a way you hadn’t expected. There was something thrilling about the thought of exploring this new dynamic, of seeing if there was something more between you and Spencer than just a shared workspace.

You found yourself daydreaming about it, wondering how he would react if you sent him a message, if you matched the energy of his reply. Would he be as nervous as you were, or would he surprise you with a confidence you hadn’t seen before? The thought of it made your pulse quicken, a flush of warmth spreading through you.

But with the excitement came doubt. What if this was a mistake? What if you were reading too much into things, and responding to his text would only make the situation worse? The fear of making things awkward again, of possibly ruining your work life further, held you back. Yet, the thought of doing nothing felt like a missed opportunity, like you were letting something potentially amazing slip through your fingers.

As the day dragged on, you found it harder and harder to focus on your work. Every time you saw Spencer, every time you noticed another little detail about him that you hadn’t before, the urge to reach out grew stronger. It was like there was a tug-of-war going on inside you, with one side urging you to take the risk and see what could happen, and the other holding you back out of fear.

Finally, as the workday was winding down, you made a decision. Maybe you were overthinking this—maybe it was time to just go for it and see what came of it. After all, Spencer had responded positively, hadn’t he? There was a chance, a real chance, that he felt something for you too, something more than just a workplace friendship.

Sitting on your couch with your heart pounding in your chest, you pulled out your phone, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you debated what to say. You didn’t want to be too forward, but you also didn’t want to be vague. After a few moments of contemplation, you typed out a message, your hands trembling slightly as you reread it.

Hey, about that text… Maybe we should talk. Or… you know, not just talk. If you’re still interested.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, your heart racing as you watched the message deliver. There was no going back now.

The rest of the evening was a blur of anxiety and anticipation. You couldn’t stop thinking about what his response might be, what it could mean for the two of you. When your phone finally buzzed with a new message, you hesitated for just a moment before opening it.

I’m definitely interested. Let’s talk… or not just talk, whenever you’re ready.

The words were simple, but they held so much promise. You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you read them, a mixture of relief and excitement flooding your senses. This was happening. You and Spencer were about to cross a line, to explore something new and thrilling.

Just as you were contemplating what to say, how to navigate this sudden and unexpected turn in your relationship, another notification lit up your screen.

Come over? Now?

The message was short, simple, and completely electrifying. It sent a jolt through your system, leaving you momentarily speechless. The implications of it were clear—Spencer wasn’t just thinking about this; he was ready to act on it, to turn this accidental confession into something real and immediate.

Your mind raced as you considered what to do next. Just minutes ago, you were agonizing over whether or not to even respond, and now he was inviting you over, as if the decision had already been made. The sheer boldness of his message left you breathless, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

You couldn't help but imagine what it would be like—showing up at his place, the air thick with the unspoken tension that had been building between you all day. The thought of being alone with him, of crossing that line from coworkers to something more, sent a thrill through you.

You took a deep breath, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. This was a pivotal moment, and whatever you decided now would set the course for what happened next.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of internal debate, you typed out a response, your heart racing as you hit send.

I'll be there in 20 minutes.

—

You parked outside Spencer’s apartment building, your heart racing as you took a deep breath to steady yourself. The 20-minute drive had been filled with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions—excitement, anticipation, and a lingering thread of uncertainty. You weren’t entirely sure what to expect when you arrived, especially considering how different Spencer had seemed over text compared to how he usually was in person. The Spencer you knew was shy, adorably awkward, and hesitant when it came to personal matters. But his texts had shown a side of him that was bold, confident, and unafraid to take charge.

As you approached his door, your nerves started to get the better of you, but there was no turning back now. You lifted your hand to knock, hesitating for just a moment before finally letting your knuckles rap against the wood. The seconds that followed felt like an eternity, your mind racing with possibilities of how this night could unfold.

When the door finally opened, you were taken aback by the sight that greeted you. Spencer stood there, shirtless, the soft glow of his apartment’s light highlighting the lean lines of his torso. He wore nothing but a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants, the waistband slung low on his hips, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the defined muscles and trail of hair beneath. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run his hands through it moments before opening the door, and his eyes, usually filled with a mix of curiosity and gentle kindness, now held a smoldering intensity that you had never seen before.

For a moment, you couldn’t find the words, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the sight of him. This wasn’t the Spencer you were used to—this was the man who had responded to your accidental text with a confidence that had both surprised and intrigued you. The awkward, hesitant Spencer you knew seemed to have taken a backseat, making way for someone who knew exactly what he wanted.

And what he wanted, it seemed, was you.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched your reaction. There was a heat in his gaze, a silent challenge that dared you to step inside, to see just how far this newfound confidence could take him.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m glad you came.”

You swallowed hard, trying to gather your thoughts, but the sight of him standing there like that—so effortlessly confident, so unapologetically enticing—made it difficult to think of anything but the rush of desire that was quickly building within you.

“Hey,” you managed to reply, your voice a little breathless. “You… uh, look different.”

Spencer’s smile widened slightly, his eyes never leaving yours as he stepped aside to let you in. “Well I should hope so,” he said, his tone teasing, but with an underlying seriousness that sent your heart racing even faster.

You stepped inside, feeling the warmth of his apartment wrap around you as the door clicked shut behind you. The atmosphere between you was charged, electric, every moment filled with unspoken possibilities. Spencer moved closer, his presence almost overwhelming in its intensity. The scent of him—a mix of something clean and masculine—filled your senses, making you even more acutely aware of the heat radiating from his skin.

“I’ve been thinking,” Spencer began, his voice soft yet steady, as he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “About what was said...”

Your breath hitched at the light touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had just been. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid that your voice might betray just how much his presence was affecting you.

“I don’t want this to be awkward,” he continued, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. “But I also don’t want to pretend that nothing’s changed… because it has.”

He was right—everything had changed. The air between you was thick with tension, with the unspoken acknowledgment of what you both wanted but were too nervous to voice. And yet, here he was, standing so close, shirtless and confident, laying it all out in front of you.

Taking a deep breath, you finally found your voice. “So… what happens next?”

Spencer’s lips quirked up into a small, almost mischievous smile. “I think that depends on what you want.”

His words hung in the air between you, a challenge and an invitation all at once. You could feel the pull, the magnetic attraction drawing you closer to him, and in that moment, you knew there was no turning back.

With a boldness you hadn’t known you possessed, you stepped even closer, your body nearly brushing against his as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “I want to find out what happens when we stop pretending.”

The last remnants of hesitation melted away as Spencer’s smile turned into something more—something hungry and determined. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips descended on yours in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was fierce, consuming, a release of all the tension that had been building between you.

As his hands roamed your back, pulling you closer still, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you had only begun to scratch the surface of the side of Spencer Reid you were about to discover tonight.

The world around you blurred as Spencer’s lips moved against yours, his kiss deepening with every passing second. Time seemed to lose all meaning as you lost yourself in the warmth of his touch, the taste of his lips, and the way his hands gripped your waist with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. It felt like you had been kissing for an eternity, and yet when he finally pulled back, you found yourself gasping for breath, your mind spinning, and your body aching for more.

Spencer’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, filled with a heat that made your pulse quicken. Without saying a word, he took your hand, his grip firm yet gentle, leading you down the hall towards his bedroom. The anticipation thrummed in your veins, every step heightening the tension between you. But just as you reached the doorway, Spencer suddenly stopped, turning to press you against the doorframe. His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing kisses that made your knees weaken and your breath hitch.

You barely had time to process the sensation before he pulled back again, a playful gleam in his eyes as he gently but firmly guided you into the bedroom. With a swift motion, he pushed you onto the bed, and you bounced slightly, a surprised giggle escaping your lips. The unexpected shift in his demeanor—this newfound confidence, this playful dominance—left you both intrigued and a little off-balance. You’d known Spencer as the quiet, reserved, and somewhat shy genius, but this side of him was something entirely different, and you couldn’t help but be captivated by it.

As you lay there, still trying to wrap your head around this change, you found yourself blurting out a question that had been lingering in the back of your mind. “Do you do this a lot, Reid?”

Spencer chuckled, the sound low and deep, sending a ripple of warmth through your body. He shook his head with a smile that was equal parts reassuring and teasing. “No, not ever really,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady, as he reached for your ankles and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, positioning himself between your legs. His hands rested on your thighs, the warmth of his touch seeping through your clothes, grounding you in the moment.

“Call me Spencer,” he added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, his gaze locking onto yours with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. There was something intimate about the way he said it, as if this wasn’t just about physical attraction, but about letting you see a side of him that no one else had.

Your heart skipped a beat at the request, the simple act of calling him by his first name in this context making the moment feel even more personal, more real.

“Spencer,” you repeated, the name slipping from your lips like a secret, a promise. His smile widened, a spark of something almost wicked flashing in his eyes, and you realized that you were about to discover a side of him that you’d never imagined existed.

Spencer leaned in, his hands sliding up your thighs, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “I’ve been wanting this for a long time, you know. I just never thought…” He trailed off, as if realizing that words weren’t enough to express what he was feeling. Instead, he captured your lips with his again, his kiss searing and insistent, as though he were making up for lost time.

Spencer's hands, warm and steady, slowly trailed up your sides, his fingers grazing the soft fabric of your t-shirt as they moved. When he reached the hem, he hesitated, his touch gentle but deliberate as he curled his fingers around the edge. He looked up at you, his expression a mix of desire and tenderness, but there was something else too—a careful consideration, a need to ensure that you were just as willing as he was.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. The intensity of his gaze held you captive, his eyes searching yours for the reassurance he needed.

For a moment, you were too caught up in the heat of the moment to respond, your heart pounding in your chest. The way he looked at you, with such raw want and yet so much care, made it hard to think clearly. You nodded quickly, your eyes wide with anticipation, but Spencer didn’t move.

His grip on your shirt tightened slightly as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “I’m going to need you to use your words, sweetheart.”

The way he said it—his voice rough, almost gritted out with barely restrained desire—made your head spin, the sheer force of his need for you sending your pulse into overdrive. There was a command in his tone, but also a gentle reminder that this was your choice, that he needed to hear you say it.

You swallowed hard, your voice catching in your throat as you tried to find the words. The air around you felt thick with tension, every second stretching out as you stared up at him, the look in his eyes making it impossible to deny him—or yourself.

“Ye—yes, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice a little breathless, but full of the same want that you saw reflected in his eyes.

Spencer’s eyes darkened with satisfaction at your response, a small, almost predatory smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he began to lift your shirt. The fabric slid up your torso slowly, the cool air of the room hitting your skin as he revealed more of you. He took his time, savoring the moment, his eyes never leaving yours as he pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside.

For a brief moment, you felt exposed, vulnerable under the weight of his gaze. But the way Spencer looked at you, with a mixture of awe and hunger, made all your insecurities melt away. His hands roamed over the newly exposed skin, his touch both soothing and electrifying, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity and desire, as he leaned in to press a kiss to your collarbone, his lips lingering against your skin.

You had forgone a bra that night, thinking nothing of it when you slipped into your comfy clothes after a long day at work. After all, you hadn’t planned on anything like this happening. But now, with Spencer’s hands on you, his eyes filled with something that looked a lot like awe, you found that you didn’t care in the slightest. If anything, it added to the intimacy of the moment, the rawness of it, making you feel closer to him than you ever thought possible.

His touch was slow, deliberate, almost as if he was savoring every moment, every reaction he elicited from you. His fingers brushed over your skin, exploring you with curiosity and desire, as if he was trying to learn every detail, every response, to what he was doing. When his hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped your lips, your body arching towards him instinctively, craving more of his touch.

“Spencer…” you breathed, your voice barely more than a whisper, but filled with so much emotion that it felt like a confession. There was something in his name, in the way it rolled off your tongue, that made the moment feel even more intimate, more real. It wasn’t just a name anymore—it was a declaration, an acknowledgment of what was happening between you, of the connection that was quickly forming.

Spencer’s eyes flicked back up to yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race even faster. There was something almost primal in the way he looked at you now, a hunger that was barely restrained, but also a tenderness that made your chest tighten with emotion. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this… how long I’ve wanted you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting to the sheer weight of them. It wasn’t just lust in his voice—it was something deeper, something that made you feel cherished, desired in a way that you hadn’t felt in a long time. The realization that Spencer had been holding back, that he had wanted you for so long, made your heart swell with emotion, your need for him growing even stronger.

He kissed you again, his lips capturing yours in a way that was both gentle and demanding, his hands continuing their exploration of your body. Each touch, each caress, was filled with passion and care, as if he was trying to show you just how much you meant to him without needing to say the words. And with every kiss, every brush of his fingertips, you found yourself falling deeper into the moment, your own desire for him becoming overwhelming.

You reached up, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to feel the heat of his body against yours. The way he responded, the way his hands gripped you tighter, as if afraid to let go, made it clear that he was just as lost in the moment as you were. There was no more hesitation, no more awkwardness—just the two of you, finally giving in to the feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

Spencer’s hands were warm against your skin as he gently laid you back on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he hovered above you. The intensity in his gaze was almost overwhelming, his pupils blown wide with desire, but there was something else there too—curiosity, maybe even a hint of vulnerability. His fingers trailed down your sides, the touch sending shivers through your body as he slowly leaned in, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your chest.

“Tell me, Y/N…” His voice was a low murmur, filled with an edge of something deeper, as he kissed his way down your chest, taking his time, savoring the feel of your skin beneath his lips. “Did you think about me too?”

The question hung in the air, making your breath hitch as you squirmed beneath him, the sensation of his kisses igniting a fire deep within you. Your mind was spinning, every nerve in your body on high alert as you felt his breath ghost over your skin, his lips moving lower, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“I did,” you admitted, your voice a little breathless as the confession slipped out. It was the truth, after all—you had thought about him, more than you ever wanted to admit. The idea of Spencer, sweet, awkward Spencer, being the one to push you to this point had always been a secret fantasy, buried deep within you. But now, with him here, in this moment, it was no longer just a fantasy—it was real.

Spencer’s lips curved into a smirk against your skin as he reached your hip, his teeth nipping playfully at the delicate flesh, making you gasp. The sensation was a mix of pleasure and surprise, and you couldn’t help but arch your back slightly in response. His hands moved to your shorts, his fingers hooking into the waistband as he tugged them down slowly, teasingly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he did.

“That text wasn’t for me though, was it?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement as he watched your reaction. The smirk on his face was something you’d never seen before—confident, almost cocky, as if he knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

You froze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat as the realization hit you. You hadn’t expected him to catch on to that detail, but of course he had—Spencer was nothing if not observant. The thought that he knew the text wasn’t meant for him, but was still here, still wanting you, made your pulse quicken even more.

“Uh, no, it wasn’t,” you admitted with a whine, the words slipping out before you could stop them. There was no point in lying—not when he was looking at you like that, his gaze full of heat and understanding. “But I’m glad I sent it to you,” you added quickly, your voice filled with sincerity and a hint of desperation.

Spencer’s smirk softened into a small, almost tender smile as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your navel. “Maybe your subconscious wanted you to,” he suggested, his voice low and smooth, each word making your head spin. The idea made you dizzy, the thought that some part of you had always wanted this, had always wanted him, even if you hadn’t fully realized it until now.

“Uh huh,” you breathed out, your voice floaty and airy, your mind clouded with desire. The sensation of his lips on your skin, his hands on your body, was intoxicating, making it hard to think clearly. All you could focus on was the way he made you feel—alive, wanted, and completely lost in the moment.

Spencer’s fingers continued to work on removing your shorts, sliding them down your legs with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something almost worshipful in the way he touched you, as if he was savoring every second, every inch of skin he revealed.

As he finally discarded your shorts, leaving you completely exposed to him, he took a moment to just look at you, his gaze filled with a mix of desire and admiration. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

The words made your heart swell, a wave of warmth washing over you as you reached out, your fingers tangling in his hair. There was nothing left to hide now, nothing left to hold back. This was exactly where you wanted to be—where you were meant to be.

“Do you always skip out on bras and panties, Y/N?” Spencer’s teasing comment sent a ripple of laughter through you, the sound mingling with the rapid beat of your heart. The playful banter between you only intensified the electric connection that was already sparking between you both. His bite on your inner thigh was both a tease and a promise, igniting a fire that made every nerve in your body come alive.

“N–no, only at home,” you managed to scream out, the sensation sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. The combination of his touch and the vulnerability of the moment made it impossible to hold back any longer.

He chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, echoing softly in the room as his fingers continued to explore your skin. “But you didn’t put any on before coming over?” His tone was light, yet there was an undeniable edge of desire that underpinned his words.

You took a moment to catch your breath, the playful challenge in his eyes urging you to respond. “Are you–are you complaining?” you asked, your voice wavering between breathless laughter and the growing urgency of your emotions.

Spencer shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Not at all, although–” His sentence was cut short as your hands found their way into his hair, pulling him fully into you. The sudden, decisive movement left no room for hesitation, and the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you, entwined in each other’s embrace.

“Oh my god, Spencer, just shut up,” you laughed, the sound filled with a mixture of amusement and desire. “Put your mouth to use.”

His response was immediate, his lips finding your core with a fervor that matched the intensity of your own longing. The way he ate you out was everything you had been waiting for—passionate, deep, and downright filthy. His hands left their place on your thighs, tracing the contours of your body with a reverence that made you feel both cherished and desired.

As he sunk his mouth deeper, sucking your clit into his mouth, Spencer guided you gently but firmly onto the bed, the softness of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between you.

“Spencer,” you moaned, the name slipping out like a sacred vow, sealing the moment between you. His response was a dirty smile, his mouth shining with your juices, making your pulse throb.

He paused for a moment, just enough to look into your eyes, “You’re fucking delicious,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

As Spencer’s mouth continued to work its magic on your core, a whirlwind of sensations overwhelmed you. Each touch, each stroke of his tongue, sent waves of pleasure radiating through your body, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the intense feeling of being completely consumed by him. The way he moved, so skilled yet so attentive to your every reaction, left you breathless, your hands clutching at the sheets as your head swam in a sea of ecstasy.

But amidst the pleasure, a fleeting thought crossed your mind—how close you had come to letting this moment, this incredible opportunity, slip through your fingers. You couldn’t believe that you had almost dismissed the idea of responding to his bold text, that you had almost let fear and hesitation keep you from experiencing this side of Spencer. A side that was confident, passionate, and utterly devoted to your pleasure.

How could you have been so close to missing out on this? On him? Spencer, who had always been there, quiet and thoughtful, had somehow managed to unlock a part of you that you hadn’t even known existed—a part that craved the connection and intimacy he was now offering with every caress of his lips.

You let out a soft moan, your hips arching towards him as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable level. The sounds you made only seemed to spur him on, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulled you closer, his tongue working with a precision that left you teetering on the edge. Every nerve in your body was alive, the world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you, the heat of his breath against your skin.

“Spencer,” you gasped out, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. It wasn’t just the pleasure he was giving you—it was the realization that this was Spencer, the man you had known for so long, who was now showing you a depth of care and passion that you had never imagined.

The way he responded to your every movement, the way he seemed to know exactly what you needed, made you feel cherished in a way that went far beyond the physical. It was as if he was attuned to your very soul, using his touch to communicate something deeper, something that had been building between you for far longer than either of you had realized.

As you felt the tension within you coil tighter and tighter, ready to snap, you couldn’t help but marvel at how easily you had fallen into this moment with him. All the hesitation, the uncertainty, had melted away, leaving only the pure, unfiltered connection between you and Spencer. A connection that had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to be brought to life.

And now that it had, you knew you could never go back to the way things were. Spencer had opened a door to something new, something beautiful, and you were ready to step through it with him, no matter what the future held.

With a final, skillful flick of his tongue over your clit, Spencer sent you tumbling over the edge, your body trembling with the force of your release. The world around you seemed to dissolve into a haze of pleasure and warmth, your mind barely able to process the overwhelming sensations that flooded through you.

As you came down from the high, Spencer’s hands and mouth softened, his touch becoming gentle, almost reverent, as he coaxed you through the aftershocks. When he finally pulled back, he looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and tenderness that made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured, his voice soft but filled with a sincerity that left no doubt about how much this moment meant to him. He crawled up the bed to join you, his body pressing against yours as he captured your lips in a slow, languid kiss, allowing you to taste the remnants of your own pleasure on his lips.

You smiled against his lips, a sense of contentment and excitement washing over you as you whispered, “I’m glad I’m here too, Spencer. So glad.”

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sadesluvr · 6 months ago

Text

Exposure

You can’t shake the feelings you have for Friedrich Harding, your father’s business partner.

It all started when Friedrich Harding had walked through the door.

It was an autumn night, not dissimilar to the others. You were sat on the lush upholstery of your parlour, in your designated spot amongst the grand piano and ornaments that decorated the walls and floors, lost in thought as you flew a needle and thread between fabric. It was one of the moments where your house lay quiet, practically coming to a standstill since the death of your mother.

The house had been an empty nest for a while. You were the youngest, the sole daughter of a wealthy ship merchant who’d had three sons prior. They’d all since grown; moved into estates and had families of their own, whilst you, still in your early twenties, were left at home waiting to be courted. Well, that was most of your life anyway.

Naturally, your family had been extremely protective, and naturally that meant you were lonely. Days whilst your father worked was spent wandering the halls of your home, making idle conversation with Berta, the maid, or occasionally going for a walk amongst the shore or a local garden.

Nights were more sociable, but only so as the man would parade his colleagues into the dining room, but not before showing you off. You always earned a compliment or a kiss on the back of a hand, but it made you feel like a porcelain doll in a shop window. Enticing to look at, but not truly loved.

Only you really knew how to love yourself. You found love in the works of Wilde and Hardy – though lately you’d turned to the dusty books at the back of the shelf, the ones where women were nothing but harlots and the men ravenous. Was it your fathers? Your mothers? Berta’s, even? Either way it didn’t matter; as nights were spent with your head in a book, curled up by a small lamp falling asleep to vivid, distant images. You weren’t like them.

You hadn’t looked up when the door had opened, and two men had marched in, already laughing. In a sense, you’d learnt to zone out.

“Darling, why don’t you come over and meet Herr Harding? His father used to come over for pool.”

When he’d kissed the back of your hand, you thought you were sick. His eyes were a striking blue, with a strong, well-groomed moustache and sideburns, with his clothes tailored to match. You’d felt your heart drop to your stomach and your body suddenly run clammy. It was naive of you to think that he could've transferred some kind of illness so soon, but it was never impossible. You hadn’t a clue what went on at times.

“The pleasure is mine. Your old man told me how stunning you were – I always knew he didn’t have it within him to lie.”

He was whisked away with a glass of port in his hands, and that was as brief as the first interaction had gone. Until he’d been around the following night. Then the next. And thereafter.

Friedrich wasn't like your fathers’ other business partners. He was younger, yes, but still significantly older than you. Though you made yourself scarce, you’d somehow catch his gaze from across the room or down the corridor, puffing mindlessly at the stick of smoke as his eyes subtly roved your body.

Conversations became longer, more frequent, and you found yourself making excuses for why you couldn’t stay – for every time there was a discomfort, an excitement that was overwhelming and peppered your skin with goosebumps.

He made you sick, so much so that you’d stopped reading at night, finding your mind replaced with restlessness...the urge to be touched, satiated from your illness. You hoped it would go through eating more, prayer – anything that meant you wouldn’t have to see a doctor.

You’d heard things, horrible things.

The last time you’d seen one was when your mother died.

One day, Friedrich, fresh off a new deal outside of his business with your father, had shown up at the door. Seeing that it was Berta’s duty to be useful, but ultimately inconspicuous, you made yourself as polite as possible, offering to show him the new artwork in the hallway by your bedroom.

“I’m afraid you’re rather early. Father has not yet returned from work,” you sighed, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you spoke. “It’s poor practise, but I can call Berta to fix you a meal — “

“That won’t be necessary unless you intend in dining with me,” Friedrich nodded. “You must be hungry. It’s passed the hour.”

“It’s unfortunate that I must turn you down. My appetite alludes me.”

“Goodness…Are you ill?” He replied, raising a thick brow as he stepped towards you.

“Must we talk about this here?”

“There’s no one to witness the conversation, love,” he said, somewhat confused. “Though your secrecy worries me. Let us sit.”

You could hardly protest when he opened the door to your bedroom, his bright eyes scanning your features as he sought an answer.

“I must. But I haven’t told anyone – I fear they may send me away if I were honest about the onset of my condition…”

Friedrich paused, and with pursed lips took a deep breath.

“I may only be your father’s business partner, but I can assure you that you have my upmost discretion, Madame,” he began, inching closer to you as he placed his hands gently on your arm, guiding you to sit on the edge of your bed. “Do speak to me.”

The reality of your situation fell upon you as you fixated your gaze towards the ground, unable to avoid the pounding of your heart and the heavy rise and fall of your bust. You were alone with a man – one who was a protector, no doubt – alone in your room for the first time in your life, and you weren’t even married.

Essentially, a respected name made you no different to a common whore. Your mouth was putty, but you found it within you to speak.

“I haven’t been able to sleep through the night,” you began, breath hitching in your throat. “I’ve felt faint, clammy. I can hardly focus on my embroidery.”

Friedrich hummed.

“When did you begin feeling this way?”

You swallowed, wringing your fingers as you glanced up at through your lashes.

“Months ago, when you first visited.”

The man furrowed his brows, and shock rang throughout your body at his reaction.

“Well, I can assure you that I haven’t brought some kind of illness. Perhaps it may have been the material of my clothes?”

You shook your head.

“I feel it’s something deeper, like a pull, almost. I have not felt this way for any man…I’m afraid that if I feel it for you, then I never will about future husband.”

Something about the line caused him to perk up.

“So, this sudden hysteria is about me?”

Biting your lip, you fiddled with your necklace and slowly nodded, suddenly aware of how tight your corset felt. You were seemingly floating between life and death; as if you could drop dead at any moment yet still felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation – there was something in the horizon, seconds away from being tangible.

Friedrich dropped his head, caressing your chin as the cool metal of his pinkie ring pressed against your warm skin, angling you to look at him. His hands were large, veiny and slightly calloused, but were the mark of a great man, as he was. The smell of tobacco and port lingered on his breath as he drew you close, his face atoms away from placing a kiss to your lips.

“Do you want for me to make love to you, child? Caress your body and please you in the ways you’ve read about in your father’s books? Is that what you wish?”

A lump bobbed in your throat.

“Friedrich…I’m not yet a bride…”

“If that’s something you’d like to wait for, I can make it happen, my love,” he began, words clear, yet not forceful. “But you should know that I cannot resist you. My old man raised me otherwise, but I won’t deny my desire to bed you as you are. I simply cannot wait until we are wed.”

“You’d marry me?”

“I’d do a lot more than that, darling.”

It was natural for you not to protest once Friedrich laid his lips upon your own, hands dropping to your waist as you danced your fingers along his sideburns. His smoky musk consumed you, quite literally leaving you breathless as you whined against his body, desperate to rip yourself from your corset and allow him to consume you.

His lips moved in tandem with your own, occasionally making a wet noise amongst the sound of his own laboured breaths. Pulling away, you were met with air for only a short few moments before Friedrich laid you back onto the bed, body straddling your own as he peeled off his layers; not totally nude, but enough for him to move around.

You paid no attention to the slight ache in your back as you wriggled against the bedding, for the man’s lips were now attached to the nape of your neck, kissing and sucking your collarbone, as if he were trying to consume every inch of you. His moustache tickled your skin as his hands pawed at your dress, skilfully making their way up your undergarments.

In another life, this moment would’ve come far more domestically, perhaps with you on your wedding night - but there was something far more devilish about being taken now, in your bedroom of your family home. You were almost certainly going to hell.

“You’re quivering, love,” he said softly, watery blue eyes staring into your own. “You shouldn’t be scared of me.”

You weren’t - well, not entirely – more scared about how your body was reacting; your heart and mind in overdrive as his fingertips made their way down your thighs, thumb ever so gently grazing your labia as it did.

The bustle of your dress bothered you greatly, though Friedrich didn’t seem phased by it; intent on devouring you even through the layers of fabric, causing the material to flap about in a crude manner. In his passionate haste, the man unbuttoned his trousers and poked his manhood through his briefs before lining himself by your entrance. Breath hitched in your throat as you felt his warm, slightly sticky tip poke at your sensitive hole, knuckles brushing against your folds as he pushed into you without hesitation.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he did, earning a concerned glance from the man.

“I’m sorry to hurt you, darling,” he breathed. “It’ll only be a minute. I want nothing more than to make you feel good, believe me.”

With your teeth between your bottom lip you nodded, spreading your legs as wide as the dull ache in your thighs could let you as the moustached man began to buck his hips into you.

Whether it was because he was your first (and only), or the fact that his frequent likening to a horse had rung true - Friedrich had a suitable length and girth to truly fill you up, ceasing the emptiness that your ‘sickness’ had brought almost in an instant.

“Herr...” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. You desperately wanted to moan; to cry out even, but found yourself too worried that Berta would see your ecstasy as a cry of distress. “Herr Harding, I can’t --”

“Hold onto me, love, and open your eyes,” he ordered, though the softness of his voice made it so it could barely be read as an order. “I want to see you.”

You obeyed.

A twinge of a smile formed on his lush pink lips as he kissed you again, this time desperate to bury his head between the tips of your cleavage.

His mind was blank and dumb as he rutted into you, a drabble of drool ever so obscurely dripping its way down your skin and leaving a wet patch on the neckline of your dress. Your chest looked delectable, pronounced and wobbling with every motion he made on top of you, that the thought of them rounded and swollen with the glow of pregnancy was enough to send him over the edge.

He let out a deep groan, and with furrowed brows he angled your leg upwards to dagger into you, causing your dress to bunch around your waist.

Clamping your hand over your mouth, you couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped your lips as his cock stretched you, hitting you in places you hadn’t even known existed. It might’ve been your euphoria or sheer breathlessness, but you could certainly feel it in your stomach.

“That’s it, darling,” he cooed. “Just hold on a little longer. By God, you’re so sweet, as if you were made for me...I cannot wait to wife you, my love, you must wish for me to bear you a child...”

A child.

The world went white. Your parents had always spoke to you about the presence of the afterlife, a place where a divine being would take you into his arms and cleanse you of sin...but you’d never imagined it to be so soon, underneath the man your father had often referred to as a second son.

Humorously, you only felt grounded once a sheer liquid dripped down your leg. Whether it was blood, his seed, or a mixture of both, you knew that you were forever impure, and naturally tied to him.

Forever.

#reader def got burnt at the stake after this #florence writes!!#friedrich harding x reader #friedrich harding smut #aaron taylor johnson x reader #atj x reader #atj smut #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

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aventurineswife · 21 days ago

Note

Dan heng, caelus, Aventurine, ratio, sunday, anaxa, jing yuan and Jiaoqiu who are sirens (cuz I'm not a fan of mermaids and they're not mischievous enough) with their s/o who they try to coerce/play with them into pulling them into the water (or any silly or cute mer games/gifts frm sly boys)

Fast forward the next day, they see their fish boyfie is now walking on land and talking to their colleagues or friends and their interactions with their s/o for them keeping this secret from them and the relief of being able to see them out of water whenever they want. Me just want to see fluff

(I apologise if there's too many boys in this request. If it's a lot, you may remove sunday, jing yuan and caelus)

-🍭

Seabound, Lovestruck, Yours

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Fluff, Fantasy AU, Siren!Men, Humor, Established Relationships, Slight Angst (Very Mild), Soft Boys Being Menaces, Sweet Teasing, Gifts, Secret-Keeping, Bittersweet Longing, Happy Endings.

Warnings: Light suggestive teasing (nothing explicit), Minor emotional whiplash (from shock to fluff), Aquatic puns and chaotic flirting, NOBODY drowns, Crabs may or may not have been weaponized.

A/N: I hope you don't mind me removing Jiaoqiu and Anaxa... 🧍‍♀️

The waters were unnaturally calm that afternoon, kissed by golden light and scattered feathers floating gently along the tide. Sunday waited at the edge of the shallows, half-submerged, halo glimmering under the surface like a sunken relic. His wings shimmered beneath the clear water, feathered fins catching the light.

“You never come in,” he said softly, eyes golden and distant. “You stand on the edge like a poem never read.”

You laughed, barefoot on the sun-warmed rock, dangling your feet above him. “You say that every time.”

“And I will continue to,” he murmured, “until you finally do.”

Sunday never tugged—he only invited, tempted with serenity rather than storm. That day, he offered a gift: a scarf made of woven pearl-thread and glinting sea glass, soft as seafoam and cool to the touch.

“For you. To remind you of the peace I see in you... and the chaos I hide beneath.”

You almost slipped. Almost dove in.

But before you could say anything more, he vanished beneath the surface, halo gliding like a moonbeam underwater.

The next morning, you nearly dropped your coffee.

There, standing beside Mr. Yang and engaging in perfectly normal conversation about Star Rail protocol, was Sunday. In a tailored coat, scarf gently draped over his shoulders, halo now a subtle glow behind his head.

He turned and caught your stunned expression with a small, amused smile.

"You kept the secret well," he said gently, brushing a wet strand of hair behind his ear. "Now I don’t have to choose between sea and sky."

You threw your arms around him.

He smelled like salt and warmth and something like lavender tea. And he smiled against your shoulder, wings gently fluttering beneath his coat.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aventurine purred from the water, swirling just beneath the surface like a living mirage. “Just a little toe in. I won’t bite—unless you're into that.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s what you said last time, and I ended up being chased by a literal school of sea-snake eels.”

“Hey! That was a group activity. I don’t control extracurriculars.”

Today, he offered something new: a pearl dice set, carved with tiny numbers and the tiniest gold inlay. “Lucky charm,” he said, twirling one between clawed fingers. “Bet you can’t roll a seven.”

You scoffed. “There is no seven on a six-sided—”

Splash.

You were in.

He laughed, bright and chaotic, tail flicking like a gambler’s flourish. “That’s my lucky number. And looks like I just rolled you.”

The next day, you nearly choked on your sandwich.

Because Aventurine—your siren boyfriend, glittery-eyed, smug and soaking wet—was now in human form, lounging on a bench outside your workplace in a slick suit.

“Didn’t recognize me without the tail, huh?” he teased, adjusting his rose-tinted glasses.

You blinked. “You—walk now?”

“Oh, honey, I strut.”

And strut he did—right up to you, leaning in close. “I missed the fun. But don’t worry. I can cheat gravity now. You and me? High tide or low. Your call.”

He slipped one of those pearl dice into your hand.

It was a seven.

Ratio did not coerce.

He challenged.

“Statistically, you're overdue for a spontaneous decision,” he remarked, hovering just beyond the tide’s reach, violet hair slicked back, fins glinting like obsidian. “Come in. Observe the sensation. Collect the data.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re making swimming sound like a math test.”

“And yet... you're curious.”

He handed you a shell. Inside was a small, reflective gemstone that glowed faintly in your palm.

“I compressed starlight into a prism for you. Hypothetically, it should shimmer brighter if your heart rate increases in my presence.”

“Ratio, is this just your way of asking if I have a crush on you?”

He smirked. “Hypothetically.”

The next day, you spotted him arguing with The Herta at the café—on dry land. His sculpted features weren’t hidden behind alabaster this time.

You approached, baffled.

He looked over his shoulder, lips twitching into a smile. “There you are. I’ve adjusted my environment to accommodate the subject of my interest.”

“I am not a research subject!”

“You were never just one,” he replied softly, pressing the starlight prism into your palm again. “And now I can verify... you glow even brighter in daylight.”

The moonlight shimmered across the waves, silver trailing like stardust behind the quiet form in the water. You sat by the rocky edge, feet dipped in the cool sea, when a familiar ripple broke the surface.

"You're late," you murmured, but your tone was teasing.

Dan Heng’s dark hair fanned out behind him as he surfaced silently, eyes glowing faintly beneath the night sky. "You came again."

"You make it sound like I have a choice," you replied, playfully nudging water his way. “You always leave that dumb scale on my windowsill.”

He tilted his head slightly. "You kept it."

"You always know when I toss it," you grinned.

Tonight, he was more playful, flicking water at you with a graceful flick of his tail. “You should come in tonight. The moonlight’s strong—we can race the reef edge.”

“I can’t outswim you,” you laughed, leaning closer. "You cheat by being faster."

His eyes softened. “Maybe. But I like catching you.”

He reached out, brushing your hand gently. The water felt like home when he touched you—but still, you hesitated.

The next day, you nearly dropped your drink.

There, calmly browsing books and chatting—chatting!—with March and Himeko, stood Dan Heng. Dry. Walking. Wearing actual clothes.

You stormed over, whisper-shouting, “Are you serious?!”

He turned, calmly sipping tea. “I was going to tell you.”

“Since when do sea cryptids walk on land?!”

He paused. “Since always. I just liked seeing your expression when I pretended I couldn’t.”

You blinked. “You jerk.”

His mouth twitched in a rare smirk. “Want to race the reef again tonight?”

You punched his arm. “Only if you let me win.”

His hand found yours, fingers twining. “I think I already lost.”

You sat on the sun-warmed dock, watching tiny fish flicker below, when a burst of sparkling bubbles tickled your toes.

“Hey!” you gasped.

Caelus popped up with a wide grin, fins catching the sunlight like shards of pearl. “Got you.”

“You splashed me!”

He blinked innocently. “I’m a siren. Mischief is in the job description.”

You leaned over. “What’s in your job description is singing eerie lullabies and luring me underwater.”

“Well, maybe I wanted to try something new.” He offered you a strange, shimmering shell. “It whistles when you blow into it. Took me three coral storms to find one that doesn’t summon eels.”

“...That's romantic?”

“For a fish-boyfriend? Extremely.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you tucked the shell into your pocket. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The next day, he was there—talking with Dan Heng and Welt like it was normal.

“YOU WALK?” you whisper-yelled as he wiggled his fingers at you across the room.

“Hi!” he beamed. “I’m learning dry land stuff. I tripped over a vacuum cleaner earlier.”

You dragged him aside. “You’ve had legs this whole time?”

“Well, they’re a little awkward but—yeah? I didn't want to spoil the mystery!”

“I swear—”

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your hand and twirling you playfully. “Now you don’t have to wait for low tide to see me.”

You melted a little. “Okay, that’s unfairly sweet.”

“Also, I brought more whistling shells.”

“...You’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace.”

It always started the same. You’d walk the shoreline, hear a soft hum on the breeze, and suddenly—

“Caught you again,” Jing Yuan purred, his tail gleaming like polished moonstone as he lounged across a tide-washed rock. “Were you trying to avoid me?”

“Only a little.”

He pretended to pout. “After all the sea glass I gift-wrapped in kelp for you?”

“You wrapped it?”

“With claws. It’s impressive.”

“You left me a crab last week.”

“A proud guardian of the seas. He’s named Clawbert.”

You groaned.

“Come now,” he chuckled. “Let me braid seaweed in your hair again. You looked magnificent.”

“You looked like you were going to eat me.”

He winked. “Only figuratively.”

The next day, in the plaza, you saw him. Golden eyes. Snow-white hair. Tall and handsome as ever.

You stared as he chatted with Yukong and laughed at something Yanqing said. His gait was graceful, no trace of water to be found.

“You.”

He turned smoothly. “Ah, beloved landwalker. Fancy seeing you out of your tidepool.”

“You’ve been able to do this the whole time?”

“It’s harder to be mysterious when everyone knows you eat dry toast,” he said, brushing his hair back. “Besides, I liked making you wait.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you still came to the water.”

You huffed. “...Fine. But if you bring me one more crab, I’m putting it in your bed.”

He grinned. “Then I’d better make room.”

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ameliahiatt · 3 months ago

Text

location: wherever they are with their phones status: closed // molly & metzli @errantesadas

Molly sat cross-legged in her oversized armchair in the living room of her little cottage, staring at the beautiful business card in her hand. She wasn't sure of why she was feeling the way that she was. A part of her job as a librarian was to contact people, to invite them to the library, to invite them to chat with her, etc. So she was so fucking confused by the fact that she was nervous about contacting someone.

During her shift a few days earlier she had introduced herself to a newer face in town. It wasn't the first time she had done this and she knew it wouldn't be the last. But something about the interaction felt like home. Something about every interaction she had with someone who was from out of town felt like home, but this one was different.

There was a look in Metzli's eyes that hadn't gone unnoticed to Molly. Was it pain? It might not have been the same kind of pain that Molly found herself in, but there was something. It felt like grief. And she couldn't stop thinking about it, about them.

Molly thought about people a lot. It wasn't uncommon for her to come home from a long shift in Nashville after meeting someone who was looking for a place to sleep for the foreseeable future and wish she could open her own home for them. She kept a purse stocked with band aids, granola bars, stickers, and toiletries. Roger rolled his eyes once when he had seen her restocking her stash and tried to remind her that she can't save everyone. Of course she couldn't, but she could help someone.

She meant it when she said that she would offer her tea recommendations to Metzli, and she wanted to see them again. After letting out a long sigh, she picked up her phone with her free hand. Her fingers moved across the screen of the phone carefully as she typed the number. It took another slow breath, and her placing the card carefully on the chair-side table to free another hand, before she was ready to continue crafting her message.

"Hey! It's Molly!" she typed, but quickly hit the backspace because the explanation points were screaming desperate right off the bat. "Hey, it's Molly." Better. "I meant what I said the other day. I love this bedtime tea blend. Thistle and Thread carries it. I'd be happy to pick some up for you and drop it off." What the hell, no! That's weird. she scolded herself and deleted the entire message. After another release of a breath she settled on her message. "Hey, it's Molly. Do you want to meet me for coffee at Jumpin' Beans tomorrow? If not, I'm free the next day." There was no use overthinking this. Finally, she hit send.

#a good story to tell * thread #thread * metzli #(ignore my novel pls)

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kittenan · 3 months ago

Text

Just For Tonight

Author: KittenAnn

Genre: enemies to lovers; fake dating; Superstar au

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader (f)

Rating: 18+; explicit sexual content

It all started with a contract.

You weren’t supposed to be here—getting all of the global attention, walking red carpets next to Kim Seokjin, South Korea’s beloved superstar. Your indie film had been a passion project, something intimate and messy, filmed in dingy apartments and cheap motels. Then it hit the festival circuit, and everything changed.

The world became obsessed with your character’s chemistry with Seokjin’s. The fan edits. The conspiracy threads. The shippers. It spiraled out of control fast—especially when Seokjin’s past relationship scandal reared its head again.

That’s when his PR team reached out with an offer.

A fake dating contract. Three months. Mutually beneficial exposure. Rules: 1. Attend public events together. 2. Interact on social media. 3. Appear affectionate but not obscene. . No real intimacy. No real feelings.

You signed it with a shaky hand and a bitter taste in your mouth.

Photoshoots were the worst.

You hated the way his hand rested too low on your back. How the stylist always wanted you leaning into him like you were already halfway in love. How he never broke character.

“Can you arch your back a little more?” the photographer asked.

Seokjin leaned in close. “He means press your ass against me, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

He smirked and groaned a little, voice low. “Don't move much unless you want trouble”

You turned your face for the camera, smile sweet. Your fingers dug into his side.

Every interview blurred the line.

“We have amazing chemistry,” Seokjin said easily, his hand warm on your thigh. “Don’t we, Y/N?”

“Unfortunately,” you deadpanned. The crowd laughed. So did he.

But behind the scenes, it was different.

After one particularly flirty panel, he cornered you in the dressing room.

“What is it going to take for you to admit you like this?”

You scoffed. “Like what? Being your fake little plaything for the cameras?”

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“You really think I’m faking the way I look at you?”

You left before you could answer.

One evening you attended the gala that ended late. Your feet ached. You were exhausted.

And the suite only had one bed.

“Don’t worry,” Seokjin said, loosening his bowtie. “I won’t bite unless you beg.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He shrugged. “And you’re staring.”

You were.

The tension had been building for weeks. Every staged kiss. Every fake giggle. Every time his fingers slid just a little too low on your waist.

Tonight, you snapped.

You turned around. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

He stepped closer. “What if I do?”

You kissed him.

Seokjin groaned against your lips, pushing you back toward the bed with careful control. You fell with a soft gasp, your dress bunching around your thighs as he loomed over you, breath hot and unsteady.

“Say it again,” he whispered, kissing down your neck.

“You want me,” you repeated, almost smug.

His eyes darkened. “You’ve been a brat since day one.”

“And you’ve been dying to ruin me since day one.”

He growled softly, sliding your dress up over your hips. His fingers ghosted over your panties, finding them soaked.

“God,” he murmured, pressing kisses to your inner thigh. “You’re soaked for me.”

You whimpered as he hooked a finger into the waistband and pulled them down, baring you to his hungry gaze.

He spread your thighs, hands gripping firmly as he lowered himself between them. You gasped as his mouth met your core—warm, wet, and insistent.

His tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit, and then he sucked gently, pulling a ragged moan from your throat.

“Fuck—Jin—”

He groaned into you, the vibrations making your legs tremble.

He sucked harder, flicking his tongue rapidly, then slowing down to tease you until you were writhing.

One hand held your hip still, while the other slipped two fingers inside you, curling expertly.

You were undone, whining his name, thighs squeezing his head.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you panted.

He didn’t. He kept sucking, licking, thrusting his fingers until you shattered, body arching, vision going white.

He rose slowly, mouth glistening, gaze dark.

“You taste so fucking good,” he said, voice wrecked.

He dropped his pants, positioning himself between your trembling legs.

He entered you slow, letting you feel every inch, every stretch.

You both moaned.

He moved deliberately, hips rocking deep, grinding in circles that had you keening.

His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. “So perfect for me.”

You came again, sobbing his name, body trembling.

He followed with a deep groan, collapsing beside you, panting.

You woke in his arms.

You should’ve pulled away. Instead, you burrowed closer.

He stirred, voice low and gravelly.

“Morning.”

You met his gaze, vulnerable.

“Last night was a mistake,” you whispered.

He brushed hair from your face and leaned in, lips hovering over your cheek.

“No,” he murmured. “Last night was the beginning.”

You blinked. “But the contract—”

“Fuck the contract.”

His hand slid under the sheet, finding your bare thigh, then your core.

“You’re wet already,” he whispered. “Been thinking about me since you opened your eyes?”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed you deeply, slowly, then pulled the sheet back.

“I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

He settled between your legs again, this time slower, deeper, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds.

You whimpered. “Jin—”

“You said it was just for tonight,” he growled, sinking into you inch by inch. “But you’re mine now.”

And then he fucked you.

Slow. Intense. Grinding against your most sensitive spots until you were shaking.

He bent to suck your nipple, fingers pressing against your clit again.

You came hard, gripping his back with nails, chanting his name.

He chased his own release, whispering your name like a prayer.

This time, it was more than lust.

This time, it was something real.

Imp. Update: Please check out this post and support.

Follow my backup account : @kittenan2

#seokjin fanfic #seokjin smut #jin fanfic #jin smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #seokjin fanfiction #jin fanfiction #seokjin fic #jin fic #bts fic

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leriexoxo · 3 months ago

Text

Between The Lines 3 (Chan x Hyunjin)

PART THREE

This work contains mature themes (boyxboy), MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

prev | next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter three

“Then let’s stop pretending.”

Hyunjin’s voice was low, trembling—but his eyes held fire.

And that was all it took.

Chan kissed him like he was starving.

Like he’d spent days choking down restraint, and now it was tearing its way up his throat like something feral. Tongues collided, lips bruising, breathless gasps melting into each other as hands roamed like they were memorizing.

Hyunjin’s back slammed against the mirror again, but he didn’t care. He groaned into the kiss when Chan grabbed his thighs and hoisted him up—legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, grinding down against him with shameless friction.

Chan hissed, voice raw. “Fuck—Hyunjin—”

“You want it,” Hyunjin panted, nails digging into his shoulders, “just like I do.”

“Worse,” Chan growled. “So much worse.”

Their hips met in a punishing rhythm—clothes still on, but barely. Chan’s hands were everywhere, sliding under Hyunjin’s shirt, up his back, gripping his waist like he could anchor himself there.

And Hyunjin—fuck, Hyunjin was gone.

His head tilted back, exposing his throat, breath hitching as Chan latched on. He kissed, bit, sucked—leaving fresh bruises that bloomed across his skin like ink spills. Hyunjin whimpered, one hand threading into Chan’s hair, the other pulling his shirt off in one desperate tug.

Chan’s shirt followed seconds later, hitting the floor without ceremony.

Their bodies collided—skin to skin, slick with sweat, heat radiating like a furnace between them.

“Need to see you,” Chan rasped, fingers fumbling with Hyunjin’s waistband. “Need to feel you.”

“Then take me,” Hyunjin breathed, hips rolling forward. “Right fucking now.”

Chan snapped.

His hand slid into Hyunjin’s pants, and the younger boy gasped—eyes fluttering shut, thighs tightening around him as Chan gripped him firmly, stroking slow and deep, savoring every twitch, every shudder.

Hyunjin’s head dropped against the mirror, lips parted, already trembling.

“Chan—fuck—”

“Look at me,” Chan whispered.

Hyunjin forced his eyes open—and the heat that met him burned.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Chan said, voice breaking. “I’ve wanted this since the second I walked away.”

“Then don’t walk away again.”

He didn’t.

Chan dropped to his knees like it was worship, yanking Hyunjin’s pants down just enough to free him, pressing a kiss to his hip before taking him in with aching, slow intent.

Hyunjin cried out, one hand slamming into the mirror behind him, the other tangled in Chan’s hair like a lifeline.

“Holy shit—fuck—Chan—”

Chan’s mouth was sin, hot and wet and perfect, his tongue teasing, sucking, devouring like he couldn’t get enough.

Hyunjin bucked helplessly, moaning louder than he meant to, but he couldn’t stop it—not with the way Chan moaned around him, fingers digging into his thighs, worshipping like this was where he’d always belonged.

And when Hyunjin came—loud and wrecked and trembling—Chan didn’t move away.

He swallowed it down like it was sacred, eyes locked with his the entire time.

Hyunjin slumped against the mirror, chest heaving, completely undone.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, eyes glazed. “You… you didn’t have to…”

Chan stood, wiping the corner of his mouth, voice low and hoarse. “I wanted to.”

Hyunjin grabbed his wrist—pulled him in—and kissed him hard, filthy, grateful.

Then he slid down to his knees.

“My turn,” he whispered, eyes flicking up through his lashes. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

Hyunjin kissed him like he meant it.

No hesitation now. No shame. Just heat—pure and unforgiving—dripping from his mouth as he slowly pushed Chan back, letting him fall to the practice floor with a soft thud.

“Let me see you fall apart” Hyunjin murmured, straddling him in one smooth movement.

Chan growled, deep and needy, his hands already skating up Hyunjin’s sides as he rocked against him, hard and aching beneath his sweats. “I’ve already fallen.”

Hyunjin smirked.

“Then let me finish you off.”

He kissed his way down, dragging his tongue across Chan’s chest, his abs, his hip bones—teasing every inch until Chan was squirming beneath him, a low string of curses falling from his lips.

“You’re such a tease—fuck—”

“I’m making it last,” Hyunjin said, breath hot against his skin. “You deserve to be ruined.”

He yanked Chan’s pants down, slow and deliberate, watching his cock spring free—thick, flushed, desperate.

Hyunjin’s eyes went dark.

“God, you’re pretty like this.”

Then he devoured him.

One fluid motion—deep and wet, tongue curling just right as Chan let out a raw moan, his hand flying to Hyunjin’s hair like it was instinct.

“Shit—Hyunjin—fuck—”

Hyunjin took his time, sucking him down to the base, bobbing his head in slow, sinful rhythm, hollowing his cheeks until Chan was panting, hips bucking, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Please—please, I can’t—” Chan’s voice broke, wrecked and desperate.

Hyunjin pulled off just enough to whisper, “You’re not allowed to come yet.”

Chan nearly sobbed.

“Let me fuck you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, voice guttural, so unlike the composed leader he was supposed to be.

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked up—lips swollen, mouth shiny, eyes feral.

“Then do it.”

Chan surged forward, flipping them with a growl, pinning Hyunjin to the floor with his body. Their lips crashed again, frantic and messy, and within seconds, Hyunjin’s legs were hooked around him, their bodies grinding together, hot and slick and ravenous.

“Tell me you want this,” Chan whispered into his mouth. “Tell me it’s not just heat.”

“I want you,” Hyunjin gasped. “All of you.”

Chan reached for the lube from his bag—thank God it was there, leftover from sore muscle massages they used way too often for non-massage purposes—and slicked his fingers before reaching between them.

Hyunjin moaned when he was breached, head falling back, mouth parted in pure bliss. Chan worked him open with trembling fingers, careful but needy, his lips kissing every part of Hyunjin he could reach.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, forehead pressed against his. “Fucking perfect—mine.”

“Yours,” Hyunjin echoed, breath shaky.

And when Chan finally slid into him, slow and steady, it was heaven.

Hot, tight, and intimate in a way that neither of them had prepared for.

Their foreheads touched. Noses bumped. Breaths mingled.

They moved together—slow, then faster, then desperate, like every thrust was a confession they hadn’t been brave enough to say.

“You feel so good—fuck, Hyunjin—” Chan was gone, fucking into him like it was salvation.

Hyunjin clung to him, thighs trembling, moaning his name over and over until—

The door creaked open.

“Hyung, did you leave your water bott—”

Dead.

Silence.

A beat.

Then a voice.

“…What the actual fuck.”

Chan froze mid-thrust.

Hyunjin’s eyes flew open, blood draining from his face as he turned his head slowly—

Jeongin stood there, jaw dropped, face cycling through shock, confusion, and horror.

“I—I—I didn’t see anything!” he yelped, slamming the door shut so fast it bounced off the frame.

Hyunjin covered his face with both hands and screamed into them.

Chan rolled off him like he’d been struck by lightning, pulling his pants up, breathing so hard he was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

“We are so screwed.”

—-

The silence was deafening.

Hyunjin sat with his knees pulled to his chest, still shirtless, cheeks flushed for all the wrong reasons now. The air around them felt heavy, like the walls of the practice room were closing in.

Chan paced.

Back and forth. Shirt tugged halfway over his head, then thrown back off again, like fabric alone was suffocating him.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Shit.”

Hyunjin didn’t speak.

He couldn’t. His throat felt like it’d closed up.

“Jeongin saw us,” Chan finally said aloud, voice low and sharp like a blade. “He saw everything.”

“I know,” Hyunjin whispered.

“And now what?” Chan’s voice cracked. “What the fuck do we do now, Hyunjin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because what could he say?

There was no backup plan. No press statement for this kind of scandal. No way to pretend that what happened between them was just a mistake anymore.

“You shouldn’t have let me—” Chan stopped himself, face folding into something devastated.

“Don’t,” Hyunjin said hoarsely. “Don’t you dare say you regret it.”

Chan looked at him, chest heaving, eyes wide and rimmed red.

“I don’t regret you. I regret getting caught. I regret that we can’t have this—not really.”

Hyunjin’s heart splintered.

And still, he nodded.

Because he already knew.

That didn’t make it hurt less.

⸻

Back at the dorm, things were weird.

Jeongin hadn’t said a word. Not to Chan. Not to Hyunjin. Not to anyone.

But his eyes—God, they said everything.

Chan hadn’t looked him in the face once since it happened.

Neither had Hyunjin.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. Even Seungmin had noticed.

“Did someone die and not tell me?” he asked mid-chew, glancing around.

Chan flinched.

Hyunjin stared down at his rice like it held the answers to the universe.

Only Felix looked between them with narrowing eyes. He always noticed too much. The tension. The avoidance. The way Chan’s hand clenched when Hyunjin walked into a room.

Later that night, Hyunjin stood outside Chan’s door, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, throat aching.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t have to.

The door creaked open on its own.

Chan stood there, eyes hollow, like he hadn’t slept in days.

Hyunjin stepped in without a word.

They stood there, too close, not touching.

“I don’t want to lose this,” Hyunjin whispered.

Chan shook his head slowly. “You might not. But we could lose everything else.”

Hyunjin’s lips trembled. “Then lie to me. Just for tonight. Tell me it’s gonna be okay.”

Chan closed the distance and pulled him into his arms.

“Okay,” he said, holding him like he was the only thing left holding him together. “It’s gonna be okay.”

But the quiver in his voice told a different story.

—

The next day, The hallway was too quiet.

Chan should’ve known Jeongin was going to break eventually. He’d been watching him all week—shoulders tense, lips tight, eyes darting every time they were in the same room.

But nothing prepared him for the knock.

Three sharp taps on his door. No hesitation.

Chan opened it, already bracing himself.

And there was Jeongin. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

“We need to talk.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Drama time 😭😭 the angst lover in me is waking UPPPPPP!!!! I’m excited omg, jeongin sawwwwwww!!!!

Reblogggggggggg!!!!!!!

#skz imagines #bang chan #bang chan smut #bang chan angst #bang chan skz #chan smut #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x chan #m/m fiction #m/m romance #hyunchan #escape mv #skz fanfic #skz escape

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just-dreaming-marvel · 2 months ago

Text

Crimson Ties ~ 22

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,665ish

Summary: Weeks pass and you're getting better... Then it all caves in around you.

Warning(s): talk of rape, talk of abuse, death, mental health, violence

Note(s): I just cannot stop. Honestly, at this point, the series will probably wrap up in the next week or two.

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

You nervously played with the hem of your sweatshirt as your therapist studied you. It had been a few weeks since you started therapy now and things were looking up, though you were waiting for the next bomb to drop.

“Is there something else on your mind today, Y/N?” Your therapist asked, reading you easily.

“I… I’m struggling with what I’m feeling towards Tony,” you admitted softly.

“Oh? Tell me more.”

You kept your gaze on the thread you were pulling. “I don’t really understand it. It’s not what I expected… And I don’t know what to do with it.”

“What exactly is it that you’re feeling?”

You hesitated. “It started small… Like before everything that happened. He was attentive and asked questions and tried to get to know me… No one has ever done that. I thought that would go away after the attacked but it’s only multiplied… He reads me to sleep almost every night because it helps the nightmares. He always is careful when he moves around me, not to spook me… He never makes me talk… But I want to talk to him because no one has ever listened to me like he does… And he listens to not just what I’m saying, but what I’m meaning. Even when I struggling to get it right… I catch myself looking for him, hovering near his office. I feel like I can fully take breaths when he’s around… I think I’m starting to care about him. Like… really care… and it’s terrifying.”

“What do you think it’s so scary?”

Your eyes begin to sting as you bite your lip, the words rushing around in your head. “Because… what if this is him just doing his duty? Like… what if he’s just doing this because he thinks he’s supposed to? If that’s true, them I’m setting myself up to get hurt… Again… And this time, it won’t just be my body and mind… my heart would be involved too… I’m not used to someone like him… Someone who doesn’t expect anything from em, who just… stays. Even when I’m drowning.”

“It sounds like he’s become a safe place for you.”

“Yeah… He is… Sometimes, I catch him looking at me like… Like I’m not broken. Like I mater… I don’t know how to trust that. And he thinks that I haven’t noticed, but he calls me sweetheart and honey. Like it’s so natural… I like it.”

“You’re allowed to want that, Y/N. You’re allowed to feel something good. And you don’t have to apologize for it.”

“But what if this is all because emotions are running high?”

“If this all started before the incident, then trust it, Y/N. Trust yourself. You are allowed to.”

~~~

You stepped out of therapy feeling like a heavy weight was lifted off of you. Tony was there in the waiting room, another bouquet in his hand as he still tried to find you your favorite flower. He stood immediately, soft smile on his face. You smiled back.

“How’d today’s session go?” He asked.

“Good,” you nodded. “Really good.”

“That’s great, sweetheart. Should we go to lunch to celebrate?”

“Can we go somewhere close? I— I want to walk.”

“Of course.”

He held the door open for you and the two of you were soon walking down the street. Tony still had your bouquet in his arms, wanting to carry it for you. You kept stealing glances at Tony. You wanted to reach out to him, but didn’t know how. Tony caught sight of your fingers nervously tapping against your leg.

“Is everything alright?” He wondered.

“What? Yes,” you quickly responded.

He lifted a brow, unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Mhm,” you nodded.

“There’s a diner just another two blocks from here. Is that okay?”

“Mhm.”

You let out a long breath before you slipped your arm through Tony’s. He tensed for a brief moment before stepping closer to you to make sure there wasn’t much strain on your arm. The two of you walked in silence the rest of the way to the diner. Happy, Natasha, and Bucky were following in the cars while Steve and Yelena were close behind you.

The bell above the door jingled as you and Tony stepped inside the little diner. The place was quiet— just a few booths filled, the scent of coffee and fried food hanging in the warm air. Tony glanced around before guiding you to a booth in the corner. His arm slipped from yours, his hand moving to hover near you back, not touching you, as you sat down. He sat across from you, resting the flowers off to the side. A waitress brought by two menus for you and you began looking it over.

“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, focused more on you than his own open menu.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered.

“Take your time, honey. No pressure. Order the whole menu if you want. I don’t care.”

The waitress checked in two times before you felt somewhat comfortable with making a choice. Tony silently urged you on as the waitress waited patiently for you two tell her your order. You didn’t even register Tony’s order, too busy processing what you had just done. Once it was just the two of you again, you risked looking at Tony. He was smiling— not in a smug or surprised way. It was soft, like you had just done something so monumental and changed the world. And maybe, in some way, you had.

~~~

“And your sure it was her?” Tony asked, staring at the documents in front of him.

“Yes,” Rhodey responded. “Pepper was the one who put the video footage on the screen.”

“And there’s still no sign of her?”

“No.”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “And Obadiah?”

“No movement.”

“He’s planning something again. We cannot be unprepared like we were last time.”

“We’re trying.”

“I need better than trying. Are all the safe houses renovated and ready to go?”

“Yes,” Peggy answered. “And they’re stocked with food and clothes.”

Tony nodded, fingers tapping on the desk as he turned to look at two photos framed on his desk. One of his parents and a candid one of you that he snuck a week ago while you had your hands deep in clay.

“I want this over,” he mumbled.

“We all do,” Rhodey agreed.

A hand ran down Tony’s face as he sighed. “She’s doing better but I can tell she doesn’t trust it fully. She’s still looking over the shoulder for the next shoe to drop.”

“We’re trying our best, Tony.”

“I know… I just wish that was enough.”

~~~

You often left your new studio door open, mostly for comfort. In the weeks since Tony gifted it to you, you hadn’t finished many projects but you were content with that. You focused more on feeling the clay in your hands and how it seemed to cause all your troubles to go away. Tony leaned against the open door, watching as you worked the clay on the wheel, pushing it up and down. You could feel eyes on you, but you were scared. Tony’s stare had become something you could sense and allowed you to feel safe. You glanced up with a small smile.

“Hey, Tones,” you greeted. “You done for the day?”

“Unfortunately, not,” he pushed himself off the door and began walking towards you. “But I came to check on you. You working on something?”

“No. Just feeling the clay.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes. Yelena had the cook put something together. I think there’s leftovers in the fridge if you want any.”

“I’ll check it out. Do you need anything before I’m busy again?”

“No,” you shook your head. “Do you?”

“Huh?”

“Do you need anything Tony?”

He could have melted right there. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll let you know if it’s anything different.”

“Yeah?”

“I promise.” Silence grew between you two for a bit. “I’ll let you continue working.”

“Okay… Please don’t work too hard, Tony. You need to rest too.”

“I’ll head to bed soon, as long as you do the same.”

“Come get me when you’re done and I will.”

~~~

Tony quickly took care of things within the hour as to make sure that you don’t stay up too late. He came back to your studio to find you cleaning up. He helped you with what was leftover before walking you to the bedroom just a few steps down the hall.

“Are you going to be alright?” Tony asked softly. “Do you need anything before bed?”

You shook your head. “I’m tired, so I think I’ll fall asleep easily.”

“Good… good. I’ll just be down the hall if you need anything.”

“Thank you and… goodnight, Tones.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

~~~

You knew that a storm was coming, there was still a tension in the air and Tony was busier than ever. But you were feeling better about things and everyone was doing their best to let you focus on your healing.

Another two weeks passed and you were in your therapist’s office again for another session. The session had gone well so far.

“You’re doing much better than you give yourself credit for,” your therapist said with a small, encouraging smile. “Like, have you noticed how much calmer your body is today? You’re holding yourself differently.”

“I feel it,” you responded. “It’s… It’s easier to breathe lately… Especially when he’s nearby.”

Your therapist nodded. “You’re trusting more. That’s good.”

~~~

Outside in the waiting room, Tony already had your flowers sitting beside him as he read a book you recommended. Happy was outside with the car while Yelena, Natasha, Bucky, and Steve were stationed around the office. Bucky was closest to the door when he heard a thud outside. His brows furrowed.

“Something’s wrong,” he mumbled.

Before anyone can move, the windows in the waiting room crashed open, small explosions activating. Smoke filled the room as objects and debris went flying. Before any of them could get their bearings together, armed men came filing through the door and immediately began fighting your bodyguards and Tony. Guns began firing.

“Get to Y/N!” Steve shouted.

~~~

You jumped from the couch when you heard the windows break. Your therapist stood up as well.

“Get behind the desk,” your therapist ordered.

You couldn’t move as the sound of guns firing and shouts filtered through the door. Your heart was pounding. Your therapist grabbed your wrist and dragged you to the other side of her desk. She shoved you under.

“Stay here,” she ordered.

~~~

“Someone get Y/N out of here!” Tony shouted.

But no one could focus on getting to you. There were too many men. Before anyone knew it, Natasha was knocked out, Yelena was shot on the side, and Bucky had a knife through his arm. Yelena and Bucky were still fighting, but their movements were slower now. Steve and Tony were trying their best, but they were coming up short.

Tony’s focus was you. He needed to get to you. To make sure that you were safe and okay. But as he turned, he was whacked in the head with a thick baton. He fell to the ground, knocked out cold.

“Tony!” Steve shouted as Tony was tied up and began to be dragged out of the office.

~~~

Your heart stopped when you heard Steve shout Tony’s name. You curled under the desk further, shaking. Tears were sliding down your cheeks. Was Tony okay? Were any of them okay?

Steve burst through the door, frantically scanning the room for you. Your therapist motioned to under the desk as she took in the ruined waiting room. Steve’s long strides made it possible for him to quickly get in front of you.

“Y/N?” He softly called your name. There was blood splattered across his face. “I need to get you out of here. Rhodey and Peggy and others are on their way. But I need to get you to a safe house.

“Where’s— Where’s To—Tony?” You stammered. You couldn’t quite figure out the look on Steve’s face. “Steve… Where is he?”

“I promise that will will get him back, Y/N.”

“No.” You shook your head, curling into yourself further. “No!” Sobs wracked your body. “He’s gone! He’s gone!”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. But we have to go.”

Steve didn’t waste another second. He grabbed you and picked you up. You were crying and shouting for Tony as he carried you through the fight scene. Bucky, Natasha, and Yelena had helped each other into one of the cars. You gasped when you saw Happy’s body, bleeding out into the streets. You began to cry and shout more, thrashing in Steve’s hold. He stuffed you into the back of the car and rushed around to the driver’s seat and took off. The others stayed close to the therapists office, waiting for Rhodey to arrive.

“No! No!” You cried. “Tony! Tony!”

Steve gripped the steering wheel tight as he sped towards one of the safe house. Your cries where making it hard for him not to just pull over and hold you. But he had to get you somewhere safe. Tony would never forgive him if he didn’t.

~~~

Tony stirred awake with a groan, every bone in his body protesting. His vision swam, a dull throb in his head where he had been hit. His arms were cuffed behind him, now shackled to a metal chair bolted to the floor. The room was dim, concrete walls cold and dripping.

The heavy door creaked open before Obadiah stepped in. His presence filled the space like a poison. His hands were tucked behind his back.

“You could’ve just called,” Tony couldn’t help but tease.

Obadiah didn’t respond right away. He circled the chair, like a vulture, finally stopping behind Tony. “I always wondered what would finally bring you to your knees. Turns out it wasn’t business. Wasn’t power. Wasn’t even the death of your parents.” Obadiah moved around, a smug look on his face. “Turns out, it was my daughter.” Tony’s jaw clenched. “She’s made you soft.”

“She’s made me human.”

“Human,” Obadiah repeated, like the word offended him. “She was supposed to a burden. She was also supposed to be a snake in your midst. But she’s weaker than I ever realized. You somehow gained her trust. Made her believe that she’s matters.”

“She does matter. Far more than you ever deserve to understand.”

“Do you know what weakness looks like, Stark? It’s loving someone who can be taken from you. Who can be broken, again and again. It’s why I’ve never loved her.”

Obadiah crossed the room to a small table. He picked up a tablet and turned it on. He faced the screen towards Tony. A paused security feed filled the screen: you under the desk, sobbing with Steve crouched in front of of you. Tony’s whole body tensed.

“You see that?” Obadiah taunted. “She’s already unraveling.”

“If you dare go near her again—“

“Oh, Stark, I already have. And I will again and again. You think you’re protecting her? All you’ve done is make her more important. Now she’s not just my pawn. She’s yours. Because what I’ve learned is that if I kept her broken, I keep you weak. And you feed into that.”

“I would never use her like you have!”

“Clearly. Or she would already be with your child.”

“If you touch her—“

“You’ll what? You’re bleeding. Cuffed. Kidnapped.”

“They will find me.”

“Not in time.”

Obadiah slammed the door shut as he left. Tony leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He pictured your face. The way you looked at him before you went into your session. The way your eyes lit up as you worked with the clay. You had become his anchor. And if you were out there, still breathing, he would survive. Not because he had an empire to return to run. But because you needed him to.

next chapter >

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justarandomreaderxoxo · 29 days ago

Text

Shadows of the Heart: Chapter 7

Soft Hands, Hard Shadows

Summary: Your intimacy deepens, threading tenderness and truth together, just before a brutal attack shatters their peace and exposes the danger shadowing your name. Now, with vengeance in motion and war at your doorstep, you must confront both the blood in your past and the woman who’s seen you at your most unguarded—hoping she’ll still hold your hand when the smoke clears.

Word count: 9915

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 24

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: Graphic violence, Explicit sexual content, Gun violence, Near-death experience, Hospitalization, Injury, PTSD implications, Emotional trauma

A/N: This my first time writing smut guys, i don't know if it's good or not but it felt good so i've included it. Minors Do Not Interact.

Previous Chapter | Important Flashback | Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The sleek black car rolled to a stop outside a discreet glass-walled building tucked between Rotterdam’s canals and modern high-rises. The driver stepped out and opened the door. You adjusted the cuffs of your blazer as you climbed out, sunglasses shielding your tired but focused eyes.

Tony was already waiting by the entrance, his hands in the pockets of a perfectly tailored suit, a lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he said as you approached. “I thought billionaires were all about punctuality.”

You shrugged, stepping beside him. “I was saying goodbye to someone important.”

Tony tilted his head slightly, then let it go. “Come on. We’ve got a lot to cover, and this city is full of people who don’t wait.”

Inside, the lobby was quiet and minimalistic. The air carried the scent of fresh coffee and something faintly metallic. You followed him past a secured entrance and into a private elevator. He swiped his keycard and leaned against the mirrored wall as the elevator rose.

“So, first things first,” Tony said, glancing at you. “The new logistics arm in Hamburg hit a snag with customs. Nothing serious, but I want your read on it before I start throwing legal grenades.”

You nodded. “I’ll take a look. What’s the real reason you called me here though?”

Tony didn’t answer right away. The elevator chimed and opened into a sleek penthouse suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. His tone dropped a little as he walked toward the long table already scattered with files and tablet screens.

“I got wind of someone poking into our clean accounts. Not the dirty ones. The legit ones. Rotterdam, Vienna, maybe even Dubai. Whoever it is, they know what they’re doing.”

You took off your sunglasses, your gaze sharp now. “And you need me to help flush them out.”

“I need you to handle it the way only you can,” Tony said. “Quietly, efficiently.”

You moved to the table, scanning the data laid out before you. Something flickered in the corner of your mind, a name you had seen once. You leaned closer.

“I’ll need access to a few servers,” you said. “And no distractions.”

Tony crossed his arms. “You sure this is the best time? Shouldn’t you be off sipping wine with your mysterious suitor?”

You glanced at him, then back at the files. “She’s not a distraction. She’s the reason I want everything else under control.”

Tony raised his brows slightly but didn’t push. Instead, he tossed you a tablet.

“Then let’s clean house.”

You caught it one-handed and got to work.

The next few hours passed in a blur of surveillance feeds, rapid phone calls, and cross-branch communications. The energy in the war room remained high, the hum of tension vibrating beneath every keystroke and muttered update. You stood with your arms folded, eyes scanning a live stream from Marseille, watching every second of footage with sharp focus.

Then the update came in.

“Miss Fury,” one of the analysts called out, swivelling from her screen. “We’ve confirmed it. The flagged equipment? Turns out it belonged to a contracted maintenance crew. They updated their tech and hadn’t filed the proper change with our systems.”

You blinked, then slowly turned to face her. “You’re sure.”

She nodded. “Positive. Triple-checked. No breach. No external tampering. Just bad paperwork and a lazy report.”

You let out a breath. “Alright. Good work.”

Tony turned from where he’d been pacing and raised an eyebrow. “False alarm?”

You nodded. “Looks like it.”

He grinned, already half amused. “And here I thought we were about to start another fire.”

You gave him a look. “You still might if you don’t stop pacing like an anxious raccoon.”

Tony held up his hands in surrender and dropped into a chair. “Well, on the bright side, it means I don’t have to cancel my stupid board meeting tomorrow.”

You smirked, then turned to the rest of the room. “Thank you. All of you. Run final verifications, log everything, and send me the summaries by morning.”

As the team got back to work, you leaned against the table, the weight of the morning slipping from your shoulders. Tony tossed you a bottle of water, which you caught without looking. Your gaze drifted out the tall glass windows. Rotterdam stretched quiet and grey beyond the glass. Your mind was already halfway back to the smile you left behind.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Guess I am.”

You stepped out of the conference room, leaving the quiet hum of Stark’s ops centre behind. The hall was empty at this hour, a soft morning haze pouring through the tall windows overlooking Rotterdam.

You leaned against the wall and pulled out your phone, scrolling past the endless updates and messages until you found the number labelled simply: Dad.

The line clicked almost immediately.

“Talk,” came the familiar gravel.

“It was nothing. False alarm.” you said, voice a little softer than usual.

A pause. Then a breath on the other end. “Took you long enough to call.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, the tension still lingering in your chest beginning to ease. “I wanted to be sure before I said anything. Everything’s fine. No breach, no threat. Just a systems error that flagged the wrong gear.”

There was a rustle, like he’d shifted in his seat. “You know I trust you, right?”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “I know. But I also know you didn’t sleep while this was going on.”

“That’s my job. Same as yours.”

“Yeah, but mine comes with better coffee,” you teased, letting the quiet between you settle in a familiar, steady rhythm.

After a moment, he said, “Tony with you?”

“Yeah. He’s grumbling about missing a board meeting.”

Fury grunted. “Tell him he still owes me a drink for that time in Milan.”

“I’ll put it on the tab.”

“You headed back?”

“Not yet. I figured I’d stay in the city a while longer.”

There was another beat of silence before he asked, “You seeing her soon?”

You smiled, almost despite yourself. “Yeah. I’m sending the jet for her. Planning a weekend.”

His voice lost the rough edge for a split second. “Good.”

“I’ll call again before we head out.”

“Take care of yourself, kid.”

“You too, Dad.”

You ended the call, slipping the phone back into your pocket. The city stretched ahead of you, clean and quiet. You stood there for a few moments longer, your thoughts already drifting back to Wanda’s voice and the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. Then you pushed off the wall, headed for the rest of the day, just a little lighter on your feet.

The bar had a rustic warmth to it, all amber lights and worn wooden beams. Jazz hummed low in the background. It was the kind of place that made you forget the outside world for a while, and maybe that was the point. You nursed a drink near the corner booth, back to the wall, keeping one eye on the door out of habit. When Nat slid in across from you without much fanfare.

"Still got the same taste," she said, raising an eyebrow at your drink before flagging the server for her own.

You gave her a small smirk. "You flew all the way here just to check my taste in whiskey?"

"I flew here for the crisis that solved itself." Her lips curved slightly. "The whiskey's a bonus."

She took her drink when it arrived and leaned back, watching you. "So, you called Dad. You’re calm. Stark is calm. Which means I can ask the real question."

You raised a brow. "Which is?"

"Why do you look like you're halfway floating?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a slow sip, letting the silence speak for a second.

"I went on a date," you finally said.

She leaned forward a little, resting her forearms on the table. “Alright. Spill. Because last time you said, ‘it’s casual’ and now you’re here, sipping whiskey like you’re composing poetry in your head.”

You chuckled under your breath. “It's still early. We’ve only gone out a few times.”

“Uh-huh.” Natasha tilted her head. “And you’ve told me exactly nothing. No name. No occupation. Just that they exist. Which is very unlike you.”

You traced your finger along the rim of the glass, thinking. “I didn’t want to jinx it. Or overthink it. Or... I don’t know, make it heavier than it is.”

Nat gave you a look. “Y/N. You overthink everything. That’s your brand.”

You laughed quietly. “Fair.”

She took a sip of her drink, then set it down. “So, what’s different about this person?”

You paused. Looked down. Then met her eyes.

“Doesn’t ask what I do or what I own or how I fit into the city’s twisted hierarchy. She just... talks to me. Like I’m not the Fury heir or the strategist or the woman with her face on a magazine.” you said softly

Nat didn't speak, but something in her expression softened. Encouraged, you went on.

“She makes me feel like I could be someone else. Someone... normal.”

A moment passed.

“Do you want that?” Nat asked, voice gentler now. “To be normal?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe not forever. But it’s nice to pretend for a little while. To sit in a cafe and talk about movies or music or how she likes her coffee. It’s peaceful. Not something I thought I’d want. But I do.”

Nat sipped again, then smiled faintly. “You sound like me when Maria started staying over.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I was still sleeping with a knife under the pillow. Still waiting for her to leave one morning and not come back.” She met your gaze. “But she stayed. Because I let her in.”

You sat back in your seat, turning those words over in your head.

“I keep waiting for the moment she finds out,” you admitted. “Not just about what I do, but who I really am. The whole picture. And I don’t know if she’ll still look at me the same.”

“Do you want her to?”

You hesitated.

“I want her to know, eventually. But I want to give her more of the real me first. The part that’s not built out of blood and fire.”

“That part exists,” Nat said, without blinking. “I’ve seen it. She will too.”

There was a silence after that, the kind that didn’t need filling. You were both staring into your glasses, jazz spilling through the air between you like a secret being kept.

“I asked her to join me here for a weekend,” you said quietly.

Nat smiled, a rare open thing. “Then stop overthinking and do it. We’re allowed good things too, you know.”

You let out a breath, like a small weight had slipped off your chest. You raised your glass, and she clinked it with hers.

“Alright,” you said.

“don’t forget to warn her that we’re all crazy.” She said.

You laughed, and for a little while, the bar, the city, and all the weight of your name felt just a little bit lighter.

MEANWHILE IN NEW YORK

As the door closed and the soft click of the lock echoed through the apartment, Wanda stood there for a moment, her fingers still tingling from where they’d held yours. The space felt a little too quiet, a little too still, but she smiled to herself anyway, the corners of her mouth curling with the warmth you left behind.

She turned back into the kitchen, finishing off the last sip of her coffee before rinsing the mug and setting it on the rack. The scent of breakfast still lingered faintly in the air - eggs, toast, and that hint of cinnamon she always added when cooking for you.

With a hum under her breath, she padded to the bedroom to change, trading her sleepwear for her usual workday attire: a cozy cardigan over a soft blouse and dark jeans. She pulled her hair up in a quick twist, slipped on her shoes, and grabbed her keys from the hook by the door.

The walk to the café was only a few blocks, familiar and quiet in the early morning. A few neighbours waved, and she greeted them with a polite smile, her thoughts still lingering on you. She caught herself smiling at nothing, that silly grin she only wore when thinking about you, how you looked so serious when you tried not to be late, how your voice dropped when you leaned in close.

Once inside the café, she flicked on the lights, the space warming instantly with its soft, golden glow. Chairs were still stacked, the counter was spotless, and the faint smell of roasted beans welcomed her like an old friend.

Wanda moved easily through her opening routine. Grinding fresh beans, prepping pastries, checking the ovens, all while her phone sat nearby, just in case your name popped up on the screen. And it made her heart feel light, knowing you were out in the world doing something meaningful, yet still finding ways to make room for her.

She glanced toward the one corner table you liked when you first walked in and smiled. Maybe she’d reserve it for when you came back.

The bell above the café door jingled as Pietro stepped inside, ruffling his silver-blond hair and shaking off the morning breeze. He scanned the room until he spotted Wanda behind the counter, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted lightly with flour.

"Smells like heaven in here," he said, strolling up with a crooked grin. "You saving any of that for your favourite twin?"

Wanda glanced up with a playful eye roll. "You're my only twin, Pietro."

"And still your favourite," he said, leaning on the counter. Then his eyes narrowed as he studied her. "You look... suspiciously chipper for this early. Spill."

Wanda hesitated for just a moment, but the smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it. "I’m going away this weekend."

Pietro raised both brows. "With her?"

Wanda nodded, unable to contain the smile this time. "Y/N invited me to join her in Rotterdam once she wraps up some work. Said she'd send a jet for me."

Pietro blinked. "A jet? As in, a whole private jet?"

"Da," Wanda said lightly, wiping her hands on a towel. "Like it's no big deal."

"Because to her, it's not," Pietro muttered. "Wands, you’re dating an international mogul. Are you even aware of the kind of money she’s sitting on?"

"I know enough," Wanda said, then paused. "But she doesn't throw it in my face. When she offered the jet, it wasn’t to impress me. It was so I could be with her without any hassle. That's just who she is."

Pietro gave her a long look, then leaned back with a sigh. "Just making sure you’re not being swept off your feet into a whole other stratosphere."

"I’m still me, Pietro," she said softly. "And she's still her. She listens. She cares. She doesn't treat me like a trophy."

"And you're sure about this trip?" he asked, quieter this time.

Wanda nodded. "I want to see her world a little. Not the fancy stuff. Just... how she lives. And we’ll explore Rotterdam together. No rush, no pressure. Just the two of us."

Pietro’s shoulders dropped a little, some tension leaving his frame. "Alright. But if she forgets to feed you or makes you walk in heels all day, I'm flying over myself."

Wanda laughed, reaching over to swat his arm. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re in love," he teased, backing away with a wink. "I'll take a cappuccino before I go. To calm my nerves."

Wanda turned to the machine with a soft smile. "Coming right up."

The car rolled to a slow stop on the tarmac, and the driver stepped out to open the door. Wanda slipped her phone into her purse and stepped out, immediately hit by the rush of wind and the quiet roar of jet engines in the distance.

But her eyes locked onto that jet.

Sleek, black, with an unmistakable shine that caught the light like it had been polished just for her. It looked like it belonged to someone who wore power like a tailored suit. The Fury family crest was discreet, but present, etched near the entry stairs in silver.

Wanda blinked, then actually laughed to herself. “She really sent a private jet,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

The stairs descended smoothly, and the crew member at the base offered a polite nod. “Miss Maximoff, welcome aboard.”

As she stepped inside, Wanda's breath caught.

Plush leather seats with deep cushions, arranged in pairs. Touchscreens and panel lighting. A glass partition between the cabin and cockpit. A minibar that looked better stocked than most restaurants. There was even a soft tray of fresh fruit and pastries already laid out, along with an envelope on the table that simply read: W.

She dropped onto one of the seats, sinking in like it was made just for her. Her fingers ran along the stitching, the way you’d touch something too good to be real.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered with a grin. “Ridiculous... and kind of amazing.”

She got up, wandered a bit-curious. Touched a button and watched a screen rise silently from a hidden panel. Opened a drawer that held silk blankets and high-end headphones. Every corner had a quiet kind of elegance, like someone had personally curated the space to make it feel warm instead of just rich.

Wanda let out a stunned little laugh, looking around like she still couldn't believe it.

“I cannot believe I’m flying like this,” she said to herself. “Is this what she meant by ‘a little comfort’?”

She dropped back into the seat and kicked off her shoes, grinning up at the ceiling. There was still a flutter of nerves because traveling alone, visiting someone she wasn’t even technically dating yet she was wrapped in this strange, thrilling warmth.

And as the engines began to power up, she could only think one thing:

She really went out of her way for me.

The jet hummed beneath Wanda’s feet as she settled deeper into the leather seat, still marvelling at how everything around her felt like stepping into another world. Before she could reach for one of the pastries, a soft knock on the side of her seat drew her attention.

A flight attendant, dressed in a perfectly tailored uniform, offered her a gentle smile. “Miss Maximoff, would you care for a glass of champagne to start your flight?”

Wanda blinked. “Oh... sure. That sounds lovely.”

The attendant reached for a sleek bottle chilling in a silver bucket nearby, then poured the pale, golden liquid into a crystal flute with a practiced hand. She placed it on the table in front of Wanda along with a small dish of luxury chocolate which was rich, dark, and dusted with gold leaf like something out of a dream.

“Champagne pairs well with this,” the attendant said, gesturing to the chocolate. “Miss Fury always insists we keep the good ones stocked in case of special guests.”

Wanda gave a quiet chuckle, touched by the thought. “She really planned all this?”

“She did,” the attendant replied. “Every detail.”

Wanda took a sip, then glanced up. “If you don’t mind me asking... what’s she like? As a boss, I mean.”

The attendant’s smile turned fond, almost proud. “She’s firm. Brilliant. But always respectful. She knows every crew member’s name, asks about our families, makes sure we’re taken care of. People really like her and respect her, because she earns it.”

Wanda let the words settle into her chest, as warm as the champagne sliding down her throat.

“She’s one of the good ones,” the attendant added. “Not just powerful. Good.”

Wanda bit back a smile, her fingers grazing the edge of her glass. Her heart beat a little faster, not from the alcohol, but from the quiet confirmation that maybe - just maybe - her instincts were right.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

The attendant gave a polite nod and moved back toward the galley, leaving Wanda alone with her thoughts.

She looked down at the chocolate, then out the window at the clouds waiting above. And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel uncertain. It felt like something she wanted to run toward.

As the wheels touched down with the soft thud of expertly handled landing gear, Wanda pressed a hand to the window, watching the ground blur into clarity. The sleek black car parked at the edge of the tarmac caught her attention immediately, it whispered luxury, understated but unmistakable.

She stood as the flight attendant approached once more with that same warm smile.

“Thank you for everything,” Wanda said sincerely.

“It was a pleasure flying with you, Miss Maximoff. Enjoy your time in Rotterdam.”

Wanda stepped down the stairs into a gentle breeze, sunlight kissing her skin. The pilot offered a respectful nod from the bottom of the steps, and she returned it with a smile and a polite “Thank you.”

Then her gaze landed on the figure waiting by the car, and her breath caught in her throat.

You leaned casually against the matte black sedan, sunglasses shielding your eyes but not the quiet curve of your smile. The black polo hugged your shoulders in a way that made Wanda’s face warm, and the relaxed slacks paired with those soft loafers completed what she quickly dubbed the Y/N Fury vacation edition. Still effortlessly elegant. Still entirely you. But the shift in tone was clear - this wasn’t business.

This was just you, waiting for her.

Wanda walked over, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Hi.”

You pushed off the car smoothly, tugging your sunglasses down just enough for your eyes to meet hers. “Hi yourself.”

You opened the door for her and Wanda slid inside, heart fluttering just a little. When you joined her on the other side and the car eased into motion, she glanced at you again.

“You know,” she murmured, “I think this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

You gave her a sidelong smile, voice low and teasing. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Wanda laughed, warmth spreading through her chest. Maybe she should’ve been nervous flying across countries to spend the weekend with someone she was still getting to know but sitting next to you, it just felt right. Like she’d landed in more ways than one.

Rotterdam greeted Wanda like an open secret, with the sunlight brushing the curve of the canals, petals caught mid-air in the breeze, and warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

But it was your hand, warm and steady as you guided her inside the sleek black car, that made the city feel like something more. Something alive.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was. Wanda sat beside you with her fingers linked through yours, watching the city unfurl as the car drifted through winding streets. Tulips bloomed along windowsills. Bicycles zipped past. The water shimmered with late afternoon gold.

“I’ve never been here,” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the view.

You turned your head slightly. “Then let me show you my version of it.”

The boutique hotel loomed quiet and elegant as the car slowed to a stop. Staff greeted you both with practiced deference, but not a single soul lingered longer than necessary. Wanda noticed that. She noticed everything.

You led her through a private entrance, straight to the sun-drenched suite with canal views and scarlet tulips. She stood in the centre of the room for a long moment, just looking.

“You remembered,” she whispered, touching one of the petals.

“Of course I did.”

That Evening

Wanda stepped out of the bathroom in a soft sundress you hadn’t seen before, it was forest green, hugging her waist, the straps delicate. Her hair was still damp at the ends, curling slightly against her skin.

Your eyes found hers across the room, and you didn’t even bother hiding the way your gaze moved over her.

“You’re staring,” she said, a touch amused, a touch breathless.

“Blame the dress,” you replied, standing. “And the woman in it.”

Dinner wasn’t formal, but it was perfect. A canal-side restaurant that opened its patio just for you. You let Wanda choose the wine, and she surprised you with a confident pick. It was a crisp white with a finish that tasted like pears and citrus.

“You’ve done this before,” you said after the first sip.

“I read the menu while you were distracted,” she said with a smirk. “And maybe asked the waiter.”

You laughed, fully, and Wanda looked triumphant.

By dessert, she leaned forward, chin in her hand, eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Is this your idea of relaxing?”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“All this,” she said, gesturing at the table, the view, the soft live violin playing in the distance. “It’s beautiful. But it’s... curated. Intentional.”

You were silent for a moment. Then, softly: “I didn’t always know how to slow down. But lately, with you... I want to.”

Wanda blinked. Her heart skipped.

She reached across the table, lacing her fingers through yours again. “Then let’s slow down together.”

🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

You stood in the dimly lit hotel room, the air thick with anticipation. The evening had been perfect - a seamless blend of laughter, deep conversation, and an unspoken connection that had grown stronger with every passing moment. Now, as Wanda emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a plush white bathrobe, her bare feet padding softly against the carpet, you felt the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Her green eyes met yours, and in that gaze, you saw the same unspoken awareness: something significant was about to happen.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. Wanda’s bathrobe hung loosely, her fair skin glowing softly in the warm light. You felt a pull, a magnetic force drawing you toward her. Your heart raced, but your voice remained steady as you asked, “May I kiss you?” The words hung in the air, a question that felt more like a declaration.

Wanda’s lips curved into a soft smile, her eyes never leaving yours. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but filled with certainty. You took a step forward, closing the distance between you. Her scent - a mix of lavender and something uniquely her - wrapped around you as you reached out, gently cupping her cheek. Her skin was warm under your fingertips, and you felt her lean into your touch, as if she’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had.

The kiss was tender, a slow exploration of lips and breath. You moved with care, as if afraid of breaking the spell. Wanda’s hands found your waist, her touch light but firm, grounding you in the moment. The kiss deepened, and you felt the tension melt away, replaced by a warmth that spread through your chest. This wasn’t just a kiss - it was a turning point, a shift in the balance of your relationship.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, Wanda’s eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. You nodded, your thumb brushing her jawline. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

She smiled, a soft, knowing smile, and took your hand, leading you toward the bed. The room felt intimate now, the air charged with possibility. You sat beside her, your legs brushing against each other, and felt the electricity of her presence. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Wanda confessed, her fingers intertwining with yours. “But I wanted it to be right.”

“It’s right,” you assured her, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “It’s more than right.”

The moment stretched between you, a silent agreement to take the next step. Wanda’s bathrobe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, and you found yourself drinking in the sight of her. Her body was a canvas of soft curves and delicate lines, her fair skin kissed by the faintest hint of freckles. Her breasts were full and inviting, her nipples already tight with anticipation. Your gaze lingered on the light dusting of hair between her legs, a subtle contrast to her smooth skin.

You reached out, tracing the curve of her shoulder with your fingertips. “You’re beautiful,” you murmured, your voice thick with admiration. Wanda blushed, her eyes dropping to the floor before meeting yours again. “So are you,” she replied, her hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The exploration was slow, deliberate, as if you were both afraid of rushing something so precious. You helped her remove your t-shirt, her fingers brushing your skin as she revealed more of you. Your bra followed, and you felt her breath catch at the sight of your breasts, full and heavy, your nipples pebbled with desire. Her touch was gentle, reverent, as she leaned in to kiss your collarbone, her lips trailing down to your chest.

You let out a soft sigh as her mouth closed over your nipple, her tongue swirling lazily. Her hands moved down your body, unbuttoning your pants and sliding them off your hips. You were naked now, exposed and vulnerable, but with Wanda, it felt safe. Her eyes drank you in, her expression a mix of awe and hunger.

“Your turn,” you whispered, reaching for the tie of her robe. She nodded, and you carefully undid it, letting the fabric fall away. She was stunning, her body a work of art. You traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

“I want to taste you,” you confessed, your voice hoarse with desire. Wanda’s eyes widened, but she nodded, spreading her legs slightly as you knelt between them. Her scent was intoxicating, a mix of soap and something uniquely her. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her inner thigh, feeling her shiver beneath your touch.

Your lips brushed her core, gingerly at first, as if testing the waters. Wanda let out a soft gasp, her hands tangling in your hair. Encouraged, you deepened your exploration, your tongue tracing the outline of her lips before delving inside. She was wet, her arousal coating your tongue as you tasted her fully.

Wanda moaned, her hips arching off the bed. “Y/N,” she breathed, her voice a plea for more. You obliged, your tongue flicking her clit with deliberate precision. Her walls clenched around your tongue, her breath coming in sharp gasps. You sucked gently, then harder, her cries filling the room as she teetered on the edge.

“Cum for me, Wanda,” you murmured against her skin, your words sending her over the edge. She cried out, her body trembling as her orgasm washed over her. You drank her in, savouring the taste of her release, your fingers pressing into her thighs to keep her grounded.

When she finally stilled, you kissed your way back up her body, her eyes glazed with pleasure. “Your turn,” she whispered, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. You laughed, a soft, breathless sound, as she pushed you back onto the bed.

Her mouth was hungry, her kisses demanding as she explored your body with the same reverence you’d shown her. Her tongue traced your nipples, her hands roaming over your curves, before she settled between your legs. You were already wet, your body aching for her touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, her breath ghosting over your core. You shivered, your hands tangling in her hair as she leaned in, her tongue dipping into your folds. You moaned, your hips bucking against her mouth as she sucked your clit, her fingers sliding inside you with ease.

The pleasure was overwhelming, her touch sending sparks through your body. You cried out, your voice echoing in the room as you chased your release. Wanda’s mouth was relentless, her tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony. You felt the tension coil inside you, tighter and tighter, until you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you like a storm.

Wanda drank you in, her lips pressing gentle kisses to your sensitive skin as you came down. You pulled her up, your lips crashing together in a desperate kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. “I need more,” you gasped, your hands roaming over her body.

She smiled, her eyes dark with desire. “Anything,” she promised, her voice a husky whisper.

You rolled her onto her back, your lips trailing down her body as you settled between her legs again. This time, you took your time, your tongue mapping every inch of her, from her thighs to her clit, her moans fuelling your hunger. You sucked her clit between your lips, teasing her with your tongue, until she was squirming beneath you, her cries filling the room.

“Y/N, please,” she begged, her voice desperate. You obliged, your fingers sliding inside her as you sucked harder, her walls clenching around you as she came apart. She screamed your name, her body trembling as she squirted, her release coating your face. You lapped at her, savouring the taste of her ecstasy, your heart swelling with the knowledge that you’d brought her this pleasure.

When she finally stilled, you kissed your way back up her body, her eyes shining with love and desire. Her hands pulling you closer. You laughed, a soft, breathless sound, as you rolled onto your back, inviting her to take her turn.

She didn’t hesitate, her mouth devouring yours as she kissed her way down your body. Her tongue was magic, her touch sending you spiralling into another orgasm. You cried out, your body arching off the bed as she ate you with abandon, her fingers and mouth working in perfect sync.

The room was a blur of moans and gasps, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction. You pulled her up, your lips crashing together in a desperate kiss, your bodies pressed flush against each other. “I want to feel you,” you murmured, your hands guiding her leg over your hip.

Wanda nodded, her eyes dark with desire as she pressed against you, her clit rubbing against yours. You moved together, your bodies sliding in perfect rhythm, the friction sending sparks through your core. You moaned into her mouth, your hands gripping her hips as you continued, the pleasure building with every thrust.

The room was filled with the sound of your cries, your bodies moving as one. You felt the tension coil inside you, tighter and tighter, until you both shattered, your orgasms colliding in a burst of pleasure. You screamed each other’s names, your bodies trembling as you squirted, your releases mingling on the bed.

When you finally stilled, breathless and dazed, Wanda collapsed on top of you, her lips pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her close as you caught your breath. The room was quiet now, the only sound your ragged breathing and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

You turned your head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were soft, filled with love and wonder. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you,” you replied, your voice just as soft.

You kissed her then, a gentle, tender kiss that spoke of everything you couldn’t put into words. It was a kiss that said I love you, I’m here, I’m yours. And as you held her in your arms, the world outside fading away, you knew that this was just the beginning.

🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

The soft rustle of linen is the first thing you notice.

Then warmth.

Not just the kind tangled in the sheets or the lingering heat of shared sleep but the kind that roots itself in the chest. Slow. Safe. Real.

Wanda shifts beside you, barely awake, her arm draped across your waist, her forehead nestled against your shoulder. Her breath is steady; her lips parted in sleep. A single sunbeam cuts across the room, falling over her bare back, painting her in gold.

You don’t move. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.

Your hand finds hers under the covers, fingers curling instinctively. Her skin is warm, soft, familiar now in a way it hadn’t been yesterday.

Last night was...

No, it wasn’t just anything. It was everything.

Every wall you'd built around yourself softened in her touch. Every part of you that lived in shadows had been coaxed into light.

You turn your head just slightly, enough to press a kiss to her temple. Wanda hums quietly at the contact, stretching like a cat before her eyes flutter open.

“Mm… good morning,” she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep.

You smile. “Morning, sunshine.”

She smiles too, but it’s slower, more vulnerable like she’s checking to see if last night really happened. Like part of her expects you to be gone.

But you’re here.

Still beside her.

Still holding her.

“Do you always wake up looking this smug?” she asks, squinting at you with mock suspicion.

You raise a brow. “Only when I have good dreams.”

Wanda lets out a low laugh and buries her face against your shoulder. “God, we’re gross.”

“Disgusting,” you agree, grinning as you tighten your arm around her. “Should probably never leave this bed.”

“Agreed,” she says without hesitation, her hand now tracing idle patterns on your stomach beneath the covers. “Although... I promised Pietro I’d text him. He’s probably pacing back and forth somewhere.”

You chuckle. “Let him pace.”

She peeks up at you then, serious all of a sudden. “Last night…”

You meet her gaze, steady and sure. “Was real.”

She nods. “Yeah. It was.”

Neither of you rush to fill the silence that follows. It’s comfortable. Earned. A rhythm the two of you fell into without ever really trying.

But even as you breathe her in, her scent, her presence, you feel it.

That tug.

That quiet reminder that your world is still out there. Waiting. Watching.

Wanda doesn’t know yet.

She doesn't know about the shadows. The syndicate. The weight you carry with every calculated move.

But she will.

Eventually.

And when she does... you hope nights like this will be enough to hold onto.

The quiet hum of the morning is broken by the sharp buzz of your phone.

You almost don’t move. Wanda’s still curled against you, the warmth of her skin grounding you in a world you never want to leave. But the sound persists, vibrating with urgency on the nightstand.

You reach for it with a reluctant hand, hoping it’s nothing.

It’s not.

The caller ID reads Clint.

Your stomach tightens.

You answer, already moving to sit up.

“What happened?”

His voice is tight. Controlled. But you know him too well.

“It’s Nat. She’s in the hospital.”

The breath leaves your body.

“The official word is Car accident.” But you both know it wasn’t just that.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your mind already racing through scenarios, enemies, and unfinished business. Your body moves faster than your thoughts. You’re on your feet before the call ends.

“Send me everything. I’m leaving now.”

Wanda sits up behind you, the sheets falling from her shoulders, concern etched across her face.

“Y/N…?”

You turn, your phone already at your ear again as you call your crew.

“Prep the jet. We’re leaving within the hour. Medical crew standby. I want our people at the hospital before I land.”

You hang up, then face her.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s Natasha. She’s been hospitalised.”

Wanda steps off the bed and crosses the room to you. Her hands reach for yours, steady and sure.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You don’t have to explain. Family comes first.”

You search her eyes for anything- hurt, frustration, hesitation. But all you find is quiet strength. Understanding.

The engines are already humming when you arrive. Your jet sits sleek and silent, the crew in motion as your world prepares to shift again.

You and Wanda, walk across the tarmac side by side, her coat wrapped tightly around her frame, your hand lightly resting on her back as if to remind yourself she’s real.

At the steps, you pause for a moment, your gaze drifting to the horizon. You can feel it already, the storm waiting on the other side of the sky. The war at your doorstep.

Wanda’s hand finds yours. She squeezes once.

You turn to her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

She leans in, her voice close to your ear. “Where you go, I go.”

And with that, you both board the jet.

The sky waits. So does the truth.

The jet touches down just after sunrise. The city feels sharper than it did when you left, like everything you had managed to soften for a moment has returned with edges. You drive straight from the airstrip to the hospital, your jaw tight, your grip on the wheel like a lifeline.

Wanda sits beside you, quiet but steady. You glance at her once during a red light. Her hand is resting on her lap, her eyes fixed on the passing city.

“You don’t have to come in,” you say gently.

She turns to you. “I want to.”

No hesitation. No fear. Just understanding.

The moment you step into the hospital lobby, you are already in motion. You leave instructions with your people to secure the perimeter and head to the ICU wing, pausing only long enough to speak with the lead physician. Wanda stays where you asked her to, just past the waiting area near a line of windows washed in morning light.

She doesn’t look nervous. She just waits.

Someone steps into her line of sight a few minutes later. Tall. Measured. Eye patch. Sharp coat and sharper silence.

Nick Fury.

He stops a few feet from her, his gaze steady.

“Wanda Maximoff,” he says.

She nods, straightens slightly. “Yes.”

“I know who you are,” he continues. “You’re important to her.”

Wanda’s lips part, unsure if it’s a question or a statement.

Nick doesn’t smile, but his tone softens. Just enough.

“I’m her father.”

A breath catches in Wanda’s throat, but she doesn’t flinch.

“I figured,” she says softly. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to make things complicated.”

Nick studies her for another moment, then nods once. It’s not approval. It’s something quieter. Permission, maybe.

“She wouldn’t have brought you here if you weren’t already part of this,” he says. “And I trust her judgment.”

That’s all.

He steps past her, disappearing around the corner as silently as he arrived.

You return shortly after, your expression unreadable but your presence grounding. Wanda rises to her feet the moment she sees you.

“She’s stable,” you say. “Bruised ribs, broken wrist, concussion. It could have been worse.”

Wanda nods, brushing her fingers gently against your sleeve.

You don’t say anything more as you lead her down the hallway. Clint sees you in passing and gives a small nod. Bruce looks up from his chair and offers a quiet glance in acknowledgment. No one questions who she is. No one needs to.

You reach the room. The door is cracked open.

You step inside. Together.

Inside, the room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. The lights are low, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging faintly in the air. Natasha lies pale against the white sheets, her left wrist wrapped in bandages, a bruise blooming along her collarbone.

Yelena is seated beside her, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees. Her head is bowed, hands clenched. Her eyes are red. It’s the kind of look she would punch someone for pointing out, but you see it clearly. You see all of her.

The moment her gaze lifts and meets yours, she stands and crosses the room in two strides. Her arms wrap around you without a word, and she buries her face against your shoulder.

"Ty zdes', spasibo Bogu," she mumbles into your neck.

You hold her close, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other steady on her back.

"Vsyo khorosho, Yel-bear. Ya zdes'. Ya s toboy," you whisper.

Yelena tightens her grip for a second, then lets go with a sharp breath and wipes her face. She nods toward the bed and steps back, keeping her eyes on Natasha.

Wanda stays quiet beside you, her expression unreadable. You can feel her watching you, and you know the moment she starts piecing things together. When you spoke Russian, it wasn’t with hesitation. It was fluent. Familiar.

Her voice is soft, curious. “You speak Russian?”

You glance at her. “I do.”

She looks at you a little longer. You know she is thinking back. Sokovian. The night on the rooftop. Every sweet, vulnerable thing she said in a language she thought was hers alone.

“You understood all of it,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

You nod. “Every word.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again, the flush on her cheeks blooming fast. You see the storm of embarrassment rising behind her eyes, but you reach for her hand.

“I never wanted to take that from you,” you say. “I just liked hearing you speak what felt like home.”

Wanda nods slowly, lips parting with a quiet exhale. She doesn’t say anything more, but she walks over to the side of the bed and places a small bundle of tulips by Natasha’s bedside. The stems are wrapped in ribbon, trembling slightly in her hands.

Natasha’s eyes flutter open. She blinks at the light, then focuses slowly on the three of you.

Her gaze slides to Wanda, then to you, and a weak smirk curves the edge of her lips.

“So,” she rasps. “She’s real.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer. “Told you.”

Natasha’s smirk deepens just a little. “Didn’t think you’d bring her to a war zone.”

“She wanted to be here.”

Wanda turns to you, but before she can speak, you gently touch her arm.

“Can I have a minute with her?”

Wanda glances at Natasha, then at you, and gives a small nod. “Of course.”

You look at Yelena.

“Take her to get some coffee. I won’t be long.”

Yelena hesitates, eyes flicking to her sister, then to you. She gives a small nod and walks over to Wanda. The two of them leave the room without a word.

You watch the door close behind them, then pull the chair closer to the bed and sit.

You reach out and brush a few strands of hair away from her forehead. Your fingers are gentle, slow, the way they never get to be when it comes to her. There’s a pause before your hand settles against her cheek.

“Why are you always scaring me, sestra moya?”

Natasha closes her eyes for a moment at the sound of it, like the words are heavier than she expected. Her face leans into your palm, just a little.

“I didn’t plan it,” she murmurs, voice low and dry.

You let your thumb trace along the edge of her jaw. The bruises look worse in this light, but she is alive. That is all you care about right now.

After a quiet breath, your voice shifts.

“Tell me who.”

Her eyes open again, sharp and clear despite the pain.

“Castillo.”

The name drops like lead.

You sit back slowly, letting it settle.

“He’s out for revenge,” Natasha continues.

You nod once. You don’t need the details. The message is clear.

Your voice lowers, colder now. “He’ll regret this.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. She knows better than to doubt it.

You stand, pulling the blanket a little higher on her shoulder, your fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“Get some rest,” you say softly. “I’ve got the rest.”

Her eyes follow you as you move toward the door.

“I know you do.”

You glance back at her once, the promise already burning behind your eyes.

Then you leave, ready to make good on it.

Night swallows the skyline as you step into the dark.

The cold metal of your weapon rests against your thigh. Your coat moves like a second skin. There is no wind tonight. Just silence, hanging thick above the city like a warning.

You give the order. One word.

“Now.”

Your team spreads through the city like fire through dry brush. Clint on overwatch, his scope sweeping rooftops with machine precision. Yelena moving between shadows with two blades strapped across her back. Bruce rides co-pilot with the muscle, already tense with rage waiting to be unleashed.

The location comes in. An abandoned meatpacking plant in Queens, repurposed as a supply hub for Castillo’s crew.

You arrive first.

The metal door swings open with a groan. The inside smells like blood and grease. You can hear boots scuffling. Laughter. A low radio buzz. They don’t know you are here yet.

The first man turns the corner and never sees it coming.

You bury a blade under his jaw, twist, and pull it free. His body folds with a wet thud.

Another appears, raising a pistol. You shoot him clean through the skull. Bone cracks, and he drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

Screams rise. Confusion spreads. That’s when it starts.

You move through the hall with deadly rhythm. One shot to the chest. Two to the face. A throat slit so deep the sound gurgles wet and slow before silence falls again. You step over twitching limbs. You fire into movement without blinking. A hand reaches for a weapon, and you crush it under your boot before pulling the trigger into the man’s neck.

Yelena appears on your left. Her knives are red already, her expression blank.

“They were still laughing,” she says flatly. “Not anymore.”

Clint’s voice comes in through the comm.

“Upper level clear. They ran straight into me.”

You enter the back corridor. The hallway is narrow. The men packed together.

Bad choice.

You unload six rounds into their legs first, watching them fall, broken and screaming. You walk past the ones who beg. Your aim is flawless. One bullet each. Eyes. Mouths. Hearts.

By the time you reach the center of the compound, blood coats the floor in thick streaks. It clings to your boots, seeps into the soles. You do not care.

Castillo is not here. The coward ran.

But his people didn’t. And now they will never leave this place.

Bruce and your clean-up crew arrive last. There is nothing left to secure. No survivors. No doubts.

Fifty-three confirmed dead.

Your side? Not one scratch.

You walk through the aftermath in silence. The orange glow of fire from the upper office reflects in broken glass. Ash floats through the air like dirty snow.

You reach the central support beam near the back wall. Blood still drips nearby, pooling beneath the shattered remains of Castillo’s second-in-command. The stench of gunpowder and death clings to everything.

You pull a knife from your belt. It’s the same blade your father once carried. Heavy. Balanced. Sharp enough to slice through bones.

You drive it into the wall and start to carve. Each stroke is deliberate. Deep. Rough.

You do not write Fury.

You write your name.

Your original name.

Y/L/N

The name that once ruled this city before you were old enough to hold a gun. The name whispered with fear behind closed doors. The name that should have died with your parents.

It didn’t.

You kept it alive.

Now they will remember.

Not just who did this.

But where you come from.

You don’t look back as you walk out.

Let the city whisper.

Let it kneel.

It had been three days since the warehouse burned.

Three days since you signed your name into blood and concrete. Since you reminded the city that you were not your father's shadow, but something sharper. Louder. Deadlier.

The café is unusually quiet when you step inside. The air is warm, the scent of vanilla and sugar still clinging to the walls. Sunlight filters through the windows, soft and golden. Wanda stands behind the counter, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She looks up the moment you enter, and her smile is instant.

You walk up to the counter, letting your hands rest on the edge as she finishes frothing milk into a small ceramic cup.

“You okay?” you ask.

She pauses for just a second before nodding. “Yeah. It’s just... been quiet today. Feels strange.”

You nod slowly. That strange feeling? It has been sitting at the base of your neck since you got out of the car.

You glance at the front windows. The street outside looks the same as always. Clean. Calm. But something scratches at your instincts.

“Maybe it's the weather,” Wanda says, her voice soft.

You don’t answer. Your eyes are still on the glass.

Then you hear it.

Tires. Screeching. Fast. Too fast.

Your hand is already reaching for the holster inside your coat.

Three black cars come flying around the corner, engines roaring. They slam to a stop outside the café. Doors fly open.

Then everything explodes.

Gunfire erupts like thunder. Bullets slam into the windows. Glass shatters inward. Screams. Splinters. The coffee machine explodes behind Wanda. You grab her without thinking and throw her to the floor just as bullets rip through the air where she had been standing.

Her breath hits your neck. Your arm wraps around her head, shielding it with your body.

She doesn’t scream. She just clutches your shirt with trembling fingers.

Outside, the shooters reload.

Your rage is already boiling.

You are going to kill every last one of them.

The second the last shot rings out, you are already moving.

Your hand pulls the pistol from inside your coat. The safety clicks off with a metallic snap. Your pulse pounds against your skull like war drums.

But before you can fire, the cars screech again. Tires peel against asphalt. Engines roar as the shooters dive back into their vehicles and vanish down the street.

Gone.

Cowards.

You rise from where you had shielded Wanda, gun still in your grip, finger still near the trigger.

Your blood is boiling.

You want to chase. You want to hunt. But something worse holds you in place.

You turn to her.

Wanda is sitting upright now, her back pressed against the counter, hands shaking where they clutch her knees. Her eyes are wide. Not with fear of the attack, but with something else.

Her gaze drops to your hand.

Your weapon.

You freeze.

Slowly, carefully, you lower the gun and place it on the counter. Your breath is ragged, your voice low.

“Are you hurt?”

She doesn’t answer.

You reach out, your fingers aching to touch her, to ground her, to reassure her.

But the moment your hand nears her shoulder, she flinches.

Your heart cracks so cleanly it feels like it echoes in your chest.

You pull back immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Wanda shakes her head once, but still does not speak. Her lips press tightly together. Her chest rises and falls too fast.

You do not ask her to understand. You just help her stand, gently, carefully, like handling glass already cracked.

You decide to drop her at Pietro’s Apartment. The car ride is quiet. She says nothing. You do not fill the silence.

Pietro opens the door before you even knock. His eyes snap between the two of you, instantly alert. He sees the tremor in his sister's hands.

“What happened?” he asks, voice sharp.

You place your hand lightly on Wanda’s back, guiding her inside.

“I need you both to leave the city. Tonight. Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Just for a few days.”

Pietro looks like he is about to argue, but something in your tone keeps him silent.

Wanda finally speaks. “Y/N-”

You step back from the doorway, the distance already beginning to burn.

“I’ll call when it’s clear.”

You turn before she can say another word. Before you see anything in her eyes that might stop you.

The door shuts behind you.

You slide into the driver’s seat, your hands gripping the wheel before the door even shuts. The engine hums low beneath your feet, but you do not pull away just yet.

You pull out your phone, hit a number you know by muscle memory, and press it to your ear.

Clint picks up on the second ring.

You do not waste time.

“One question. Who?”

There is a pause. Not hesitation, just confirmation.

“Castillo,” Clint says. “He put the order in last night. Hired guns, all local. We’re tracking the license plates now.”

You nod slowly, staring ahead through the windshield.

“I want everyone in. Now.”

“You mean-”

“All hands-on deck.”

You end the call and finally start driving.

Later at SHIELD Upper Level, War Room

The room is full when you arrive.

The table is long, steel, cold. Every chair around it is filled.

Maria Hill stands with her arms crossed, eyes sharp as glass. Yelena sits beside her, jaw clenched, still in her tac gear. Clint nods at you from the far side. Steve Rogers is already reviewing satellite feeds on a tablet. Tony taps impatiently on the edge of his chair. Bruce says nothing but looks like he hasn't slept in two days. Kate Bishop leans against the wall, her arms folded across her chest, silent for once. Thor stands near the windows, posture rigid. Loki lounges nearby, unreadable but present. Even that means something.

At the far end, Natasha sits upright in a chair brought in for her. Bandages wrap her wrist and ribs. One eye is bruised, but her stare is steady.

You step to the head of the table.

No greetings. No pleasantries.

“This morning, Castillo made a move on me. He tried to hit me where he thought I’d be vulnerable. He missed.”

You pause, letting the weight of your words settle.

“But he hit close. Too close.”

The room stays quiet, watching.

“He did not just attack me. He attacked the café. He’s made it clear he does not fear consequences.”

You look around the table, eyes locking with each of theirs.

“He’s about to learn the price of that mistake.”

The strategy continues around the table, voices moving fast, plans overlapping like loaded chambers. You let them work. Let them sharpen the edges.

But you know this won’t be enough.

This needs more than precision.

It needs brutality.

It needs finality.

You step away from the table, further into the shadows of the upper level, where the hum of electronics fades behind concrete and distance. You reach into your pocket and pull out the old phone. No biometrics. No apps. Just a number pad and one saved contact.

You press call.

It rings once.

Then silence.

No hello.

No breath.

Just waiting.

You speak.

“Castle?”

Ty zdes', spasibo Bogu - You are here, thank God

Vsyo khorosho, Yel-bear. Ya zdes'. Ya s toboy - It's okay, Yel-bear. I'm here. I'm with you.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mafia au #female reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #lesbian #lgbt #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #clint barton #pietro maximoff #maria hill #yelena belova #tony stark #kate bishop #frank castle

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re-toji · 2 months ago

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Blog Bulletin, May 4th Edition.

Hello, my good Tumblr folks! Life is starting to pick up on my side again as more and more students are registering to enroll in my tutor classes starting next week. On top of that, there is a very high possibility that I will be called to undertake my position in civil service in the near future—I've already received my offer letter back in March and I am just waiting for confirmation on my posting. This means that I will be working two jobs while studying for a bachelor's degree as a dual-income rabbit parent. (Yes, I am a father of three rabbits, and no, one of them is not named Megumi because I do not know who that is.) So what does this means for this blog? Well... 1. THREADS WILL BE DROPPED. Unfortunate, I know, but this is inevitable because it is simply unrealistic for me (or anyone at all tbh) to undertake more writing when I no longer have the capacity to dedicate time and energy to do so. I've had the great fortune of wrapping up three to four threads in the past weeks, and I am truly grateful to those who have participated in writing with me. I am certain that I am caught up with all of my replies, but some of the threads which have not been responded to by the other party for weeks had simply grown stagnant to be kept around. I still retain some threads that are short and manageable in length, however, and also a very special few because of prior plotting. You guys know who you are. 😉 2. MORE DASH SHENANIGANS & ASKBOX SILLIES! Not everything has to be sad, of course! By foregoing larger threads in general, I am able to partake in more short-form writing which expands to the dash, asks, prompts, and more! Threads in the future will most likely be a spin-off of comedic interactions produced by serendipity and the heat of things. I am excited already at the prospect of this. So let's all have some fun and be clowns together! 🤡 3. A SHORT BREAK TO CATCH UP AND RESET EVERYTHING. Because the upcoming week is going to be hectic, I will be taking a short break from Tumblr for a week. I have been consistently writing and replying every single day so I think this break is rightfully deserved. I can still be reached on Discord and plotting can still be carried out ahead of my return. Please do keep in touch with me because I do so dearly enjoy everyone's warm company. ❤️ Guess that is all from me. I wish everyone well and may the fourth be with you!

#ʙᴜʟʟᴇᴛɪɴ (ʙʟᴏɢ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ)

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juwbywrites · 2 months ago

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Why the Chunin exams have been difficult to write for me.

So I've been in the chunin exams arc of my fic for the last 15 chapters, making it half of my fic so far, and it's been challenging for me to write. It was self-induced, though, since I thought it was not only a good idea to make it a massive event, with teams from every village, but also decided to throw a billion plot points. So now I'm stuck trying to manage like 15 characters. Luckily, my next chapter should be the end the actual fighting; if I never write another fight scene again, it will be too long. While it's been fun, it's been so difficult to balance character interaction and story vs the battles, since I don't want to stay in the chunin exams for another 20 chapters 😭.

But since it's ending soon I'll like to share a portion of my favorite fight I've written this arc, TenTen vs Omoi.

Using the opportunity TenTen dropped the staff and dashed backward dropping smokebombs in her path as she did. Omio regained himself as his mind analyzed the smoke, hesitant on whether he should pursue her or retreat to gain distance and avoid an attack.

His question was answered for him as a barrage of weapons emerged from the smoke; Omoi's eyes widened at the immense variety in shape and size, from battle axes to spears, sped at him,

Omoi managed to come out of the barrage upright as he deflected and maneuvered around the weapons. His eyes darted; why were the angles so off? Then it hit him; they weren't aimed to hit him but to pin him down.

As the barrage stopped, Omoi made the decision not to allow her any more time to form her plan, and he charged forward to put an end to the fight.

TenTen put her hands in a seal, ready to unleash her new technique, as she activated the dozens of hidden chakra binding tags.

Weapon Prison Formation

Suddenly, threads of chakra emerged from the weapons as they began to connect and lift the weapons up, repositioning them around Omoi as he encircled him, making him stop his advance and face a wall of sharp steel.

Kankuro's eyes went wide.

"No way" was the thought that there was no possible way a leaf ninja could figure out that technique. As he examined the strings closer, he realized that they were more akin to a lasso than the precise strings puppeteers use, and the origin of the strands came from the seals, not the girl. He huffed at the cheap imitation of his practice.

Jiraiya kept a low profile in the crowd and gave an impressive whistle. "What an interesting use of binding seals; girl's got talent."

Neji studied the barrier closely with his Byakugan, his face downturned slightly.

"That's our TenTen; show them what the power of youthful study can do!" yelled Gai.

Omoi quickly looked around and saw that a spot in the barrier had yet to be filled; he made a dash toward the opening, but as he closed in, weapons near it shot toward him. He deflected a shuriken and dodged an axe, but a senbon managed to pierce his shoulder as he retreated to the center of the barrier.

"So it's like a bear trap snapping shut if I get too close," Omoi mused as he looked for any weaknesses in the barrier.

TenTen yelled across to Omoi, her voice steady, but her hands trembled slightly, trying to control the flow of chakra going into the seals. "Surrender now; you won't be able to escape without risking yourself getting killed."

Omoi clicked his tongue; she was right, but why did she have to state it? It was obvious, wasn't it, unless… just then, his eye caught one of the charka threads flicker as a spear wavered slightly from its position.

The technique is unstable

#ao3 #fanfic #naruto fanfiction #fanfiction #naruto #tenten #team gai #fic writing #ao3 fanfic

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measuringbliss · 6 months ago

Note

So, now that you're done with Season 2, how do you feel about it?

Are you looking forward to watching Season 3?

...So let's talk about Gossip Girl (GG), Pretty Little Liars (PLL) and Bridgerton. There aren't going to be spoilers in this post, don't be afraid.

What do these shows have in common? A lot, actually.

Someone has a secret identity. Gossip Girl, A and Lady Whistledown. The shows imply it's someone we know, and incite us to try and solve the mystery.

The shows are critically contentious. They're noticed for their cultural impact, but reviews aren't raving.

The actual mystery touted as the premise takes a backseat to the characters' relationships.

The mystery is what immediately attracted me to these shows, and I dropped two of them for years because it just wasn't up to my hopes, and the soap was repetitive. That was Gossip Girl and Bridgerton. If you're wondering, I kept going with PLL both because it was still airing (I started it during the airing of 6A, and it finished with 7B) and because I have bad taste. One of my favorite movies is Madame Web, for Goodness's sake!

I resumed my watch of Gossip Girl by switching to my local dub (much less boring voices), and Bridgerton after months of @spaceorphan18 campaigning for the show around here. Godspeed, by the way.

In each case though, I also knew the answer to the key mystery. PLL is a complicated case and makes no sense (let's say I knew a reveal, but I was still trying to figure out the mystery), but Gossip Girl is pretty straightforward (still makes no sense), and Bridgerton is probably the best realized version of the mystery, notably because it gives you the answer after only one short season and it makes perfect sense.

The thing is, these shows put the soap at the forefront, and the search for clues is unsatisfying. At least, with Bridgerton, you get to see the mysterious Lady Whistledown try to stay inconspicuous, and then the threat of seeing their identity revealed to the rest of the cast becomes an interesting plot thread in its own right (possibly the most interesting one).

So if you know where it leads, you can ignore the mystery side of these shows and focus on the rest. That is, appreciating the romance and betrayals.

So I think that Bridgerton S2 is more compelling by its premise alone: you know who Lady Whistledown is. Nobody else knows (for now).

And I think it starts really well, too. Jonathan Bailey has chemistry with anyone, and Simone Ashley is just as much of a powerhouse. And really, the entire cast is gold. Good for them! The romance is different from the previous season, perhaps a bit more classical in its development, but for, I'd say, 4 or 5 episodes of this 8 episode long season, it's really fun.

But then it drags. It really drags. The actors try their very best, but the characters keep going through the same beats every other scene, and you can feel the writers overplay their hand. It's not just the main relationship either (how many times can you watch Kate suppress her feelings before it becomes boring?).

The Eloise vs. Lady Whistledown storyline is so, so obviously brought to a halt to postpone her discovering the truth, but even her interactions with everyone are identical from one episode to the next. Eloise doesn't come with her family to this event, to that event and to this one too. Penelope keeps begging her again and again to not see Theo. There's characterization, dynamics setup, and then there's this padding. Ironically, Eloise's relationship with Theo is her best scenes in the season (and then the last episode, but we shan't talk about that).

The Featheringtons storyline is alright, I have no complaints.

The Madame Delacroix dynamic with You-Know-Who is similarly repetitive. She keeps saying "ooh I didn't plan for this to get this far, I should stop".

The show is brilliant when it shows new and fun dynamics: the Bridgertons welcoming the Sharmas to their home is a fun moment! You see more of the ensemble cast together, with some dynamics you don't necessarily expect, and their acting can shine. But most of the time, I think the acting and pacing are disappointing. Padding is definitely an issue. For every great scene there is (the flashbacks), you get another scene where Kate or Anthony lie to themselves.

You can blame this on the 1 hour long episodes, on the 8 episodes long seasons, on Netflix forcing them to release the seasons in multiple parts and account for this, or anything else, but the fact remains that for all its nice production value and quality acting, Bridgerton as a show is extremely repetitive. Individually, the episodes are well done, but I was suffering a burnout by episode 7 and pushed through them.

I'll watch season 3 in due time. Not now, though! I'm interested in the storylines, be it Lady Whistledown's saga or Penelope and Colin's relationship. Also, more of Newton!

Baby.

(About the failures of those shows regarding their core mystery: A is a threatening presence in PLL, but Gossip Girl rarely actually says interesting things and is mostly inconsequential. As for Lady Whistledown, imo it's a failed concept. She's interesting at first glance, but her lines we hear never say anything that saucy. Her interventions are few, fast, and overall disappointing. She's much more interesting once we get to see who she is and how she behaves.

The A mystery was drenched in inconsistencies and too complex plots, and there were far too many red herrings. Gossip Girl was simple, to its credit. But she also was just a cute framing. I think she works as framing. It's cute to hear her lines. But she's not compelling most of the time. A real shame, considering that the concept, in the right hands, is absolutely fascinating, but making The Secret Peddler a backdrop and not a driving force of your show is, imo, a mistake.

Those shows are not mystery shows, and it's a shame they're sold as such. They're soap operas supported by their mysteries. The quality of the mystery can be excused with this context, but the soap needs to be really solid then, and I think none of these shows really measure up to this.)

#bridgerton #gossip girl #pretty little liars #discussion #meta #lady whistledown #bridgerton netflix #bridgerton season 2 #eloise bridgerton #mystery #suspense #opinion #long post #thoughts

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bahbahhh · 2 years ago

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begin again

a lot of change happens in between Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom. let’s fill in the gaps. zelda pov | zelink | totk spoilers | rated T zelinkweek2023 | @zelinkcommunity [first] [last]

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Two chapters left. There will be a little break in posting for now. I’m on vacation and will start working on the next chapter when I’m back. There is loads of great content over on @zelinkcommunity if you are eager for more. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reboots. Seriously. I love interacting with members of this fandom. It seriously makes my creativity explode.

Chapter 5

for prompt “by a thread”

“Is that a golden horse?”

The road from Kakariko to Gerudo Town is long. Link refuses to push his horses unless he absolutely needs to and the golden horse she’s riding, that she has yet to name since the Sheikah gifted it to her when they left Kakariko almost a week ago, isn’t technically his, but it follows him like it is. So, when he turned north in the shadow of the Great Plateau instead of continuing southwest, it followed him happily in the direction of the Outskirt Stable, despite her pulling back on the reins and muttering commands under her breath.

“It would appear so,” Zelda answers, trying to adjust her gear casually so it covers the violet and gold saddle. Impa insisted Zelda take the Royal gear, along with the golden horse, for “luck”. Zelda wanted to protest, but stopped short when she caught Impa’s eyes. This was all her former guardian could offer her now. The last of her protections, presented under a gentler veil: gifts.

“Would have thought you’d be riding the white stallion, Princess. What did you end up calling him, Link?” The old stable hand asks.

“Storm.” Link drops a handful of rupees onto the counter.

“Strong name.” The old man tugs off his hat and bows his head. “My name’s Toffa, by the way. My grandfather was head groom for the Royal family a century ago, Princess. His name was Talon.”

Zelda presses her lips together. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Grandfathers, grandmothers, great aunts – only two generations separate these Hylians from her time. While she is an enigma, the people who filled her castle, who tended to her horses, who made her bed—all the people who died instantly when the Calamity emerged, evaporating every living thing inside the castle’s walls, are still remembered distantly by those who survived them.

And the only way Zelda feels like she can truly honor them is by knowing them.

But Talon, like the rest of the names she’s heard in the details people toss at her, like coins in a wishing well, doesn’t pull a single memory forward. In their reverence of her sacrifice, people have forgotten how devastatingly isolated she was for most of her childhood.

Her father never allowed her to enter the stables.

“Toffa helped me find Storm,” Link says, breaking the tension. He eases it further by helping Zelda off the horse.

“Beautiful horse. As is this one!” Toffa takes the horse's reins from Link. “Probably once every hundred years you’ll see a horse like this,” he chuckles. “Seems like you are made for each other, Princess.”

“Hm, thank you.” Zelda pulls her hood over her head and turns away from the inn where there is a small crowd forming inside. She tells herself it's because of the horse with the golden coat, but when she sits in front of the cooking pot, and sneaks a glance back at the stable, they all stare at her.

“What’s its name?”

A child, no older than eight, is suddenly seated beside her. She’s got dirt on her face, blonde hair in two short plaits, and she’s missing her front teeth. It sounds like there is a whistle at the end of every word. Zelda immediately smiles.

“You know, I haven’t named him yet,” Zelda says.

“How come?”

Because I’m avoiding anything that communicates ownership. “We are…still getting to know one another, I suppose.”

“How do you get to know a horse?” Another child appears out of thin air, a little boy with sandy hair and freckles, and drops into Zelda’s lap. The little girl, who is probably his sibling, scoots so close to Zelda that their legs touch. The sudden lack of personal space is alarming for someone who is used to her title forcing a wide berth, and yet, she knows this to be common with young children. Distance has to be taught.

“That’s a really good question. What do you think?”

“Sing him songs?” The little girl says.

“Pet his nose,” says the little boy.

“Feed him!” A third kid, who is wrapped around Link’s ankle so Link has to use his entire body to take the last step into their camp, rolls away from Link and sits cross-legged in front of her. Link quickly busies himself with unpacking their food. He might be smirking, but his face is just shadowed enough, she can’t be sure.

“Those are some really great suggestions. What do you suppose a golden horse would like to eat?”

“All horses like carrots.”

“Very true.”

“I bet this one would like carrots with honey,” says the first girl.

“Perhaps, that sounds yummy to me.” Zelda nods.

“Can we feed him?” The little boy in her lap clasps his hands together and shakes them in her face.

“Of course. I bet he’ll love that.”

“Do you want a honey carrot, too?” the little boy in front of her asks.

“Me?” Zelda blinks.

“You said it sounds yummy. Do you want one, too? Mr. Link travels all over Hyrule. If you are an adventurer like him, you should probably eat now while you have the chance. Mr. Link always eats like he’ll never see food again.”

Link stands up straight and flashes the kid a look. All three of the children giggle.

Zelda eyes the stable in her peripheral. The crowd is still there. “Do…do you know who I am?”

“A lady!” The boy at her feet shouts the answer with urgency.

“A pretty lady,” says the boy in her lap.

“With a cool horse for adventures?” adds the little girl next to her. No titles, not even her name. They have no idea who she is. Zelda could cry.

“I’d love some carrots, but only if you have some with me.” All three of the kids burst forward, scrambling over each other back to the stable to retrieve the ingredients. She doubts they will have the honey, but a roasted carrot does sound nice.

Link drops a honeycomb on her lap. He settles down across from her and continues to sort through their gear. His back is to the Great Plateau. He didn’t look up at it once as they rode by. If she squints, she can just make out the tip of the mountain the Shrine of Resurrection waits inside. To the left, the Sheikah Tower is dark against the sun. The blue energy seems dimmer than she remembers, only shining halfway up the tower, like the blue is slowly draining down into the base.

“You're good with them,” Link says. Zelda snaps her attention back to him and laughs nervously, trying to scatter her vision points like she is surveying and not gawking at the Great Plateau. He doesn’t need any added pressure from her.

Clearing the shrines remains his task to complete once the Divine Beasts are buried. Purah took the Slate back with her to Hateno for now, but it will be in his hands soon enough. She and Robbie are to stop in Zora’s Domain on the way to update the Zora about the delay in the shrine clearing and the plan to move forward with the Divine Beasts. A messenger, a tall white Rito wearing goggles Robbie repeatedly admired named Penn, appeared shortly after the rain stopped and agreed to take the same message back to Rito Village. Link volunteered to make the journey to Gerudo Town. Zelda asked to join him and the Sheikah surprisingly didn’t object. They just gave her a ridiculously flashy horse.

‘First time I was here, they stayed in the stable the entire time,’ Link continues.

“Well, you didn’t have a golden horse.”

‘True. But you also speak to them differently than I do.”

“What do you mean?”

He slowly rolls his fists, thinking. ‘You get them to listen. Really listen. You speak to them like a mother does. That could come in handy, right?’ he signs and then sets to building the fire up enough to cook. Zelda pulls out her water, but by the time she sets the jug to her lips, her mind is already spinning. Does he think she acts like a mother? Is he also imagining that for her? During their early travels, before the Summit, Impa and the Zora individually mentioned the importance of an heir should someone assume the throne. She blatantly ignored the comments at the time, tucking them away with all the other Royal duties she was in no hurry to resume, but Link was there, as always, listening.

Was he trying to imply this could be her purpose? Speaking clearer than what was done for her, to the next little Princess in line to inherit this fate? Even worse, was he trying to shake her loose from his side? The Master Sword is gone. He hasn’t worn his Champion blues since defeating Calamity Ganon. He’s known more for his aid than his failure now. All that is left from his past is…

His face had been unreadable when she asked to join him. Not enthusiastic, no hint of the same person who had written all those wonderful letters—flat.

Like she is unanticipated, but manageable cargo. A golden horse.

—

Kara Kara Bazaar buzzes to life with activity around dusk. There is a nice breeze off the oasis and the air is cool enough that people start to drift away from the safety of the shade. All the merchants also heavily discount the food at risk of spoiling overnight in an effort to make a final sale. Zelda has never seen Link so giddy. He grins at her over his arms, both full of freshly roasted meat, goat butter, six roasted bass, and an entire hydromelon. It’s enough to feed a family and yet when a small group of researchers asks to join their camp, he sulks, and turns back to the merchants for more.

The group calls themselves “the East Gerudo Desert Survey team”, formally, “the West Gerudo Desert Survey team”, and soon to be “the North Gerudo Desert Survey team” once they learn all they can about the Seven Heroines. They are led by an exceptionally muscular and enthusiastic Hylian named Tauro, who tells Zelda he started off exploring ruins on his own.

“I met Gagaim and Grunyon in the Shadow Hamlet Ruins in Eldin and then we rescued Wordsworth from the Forgotten Temple in Tanagar Canyon. Zazul joined after we explored the Ancient Columns in the Rayne Highlands. As you can see, we’ve gathered a few more along the way, mostly in Faron.” He gestures to the rest of his crew. They don’t try to bow to her or avoid her gaze. Formalities and forms fade away the longer you stay on the road. She remembers this well. Fondly.

Link returns and hands Zelda a skewer of steaming meat with a thick slice of hydromelon. Zelda accepts it and immediately sets it aside to continue speaking to Tauro. “You’ve researched the Zonai Ruins?”

“Oh yes, multiple times. It’s a fascinating site. I make a new discovery every time we go.”

Link lingers in front of them long enough to tug her gaze back to him. He’s looking between the plate of food she set down and Tauro. What was it Robbie used to say one hundred years ago? The way to a man’s research is through his stomach, right? She wants to keep him talking, keep them from packing up, and taking their data with them. Zelda retrieves her plate and hands it to Tauro. “Here, have mine. You must be hungry.”

“Thank you! This looks delicious. Yes, we hardly stopped for lunch. I could probably eat ten plates!” He tears into the meat with his teeth and groans. “So good.”

Link moves away finally. Probably satisfied that the food is being eaten. Tauro continues, “I started logging all the ancient Zonai artifacts several years ago. A bit of a passion project. They aren’t just in Faron. You can find them all over Hyrule.”

“Really? That’s fascinating. May I see?”

“Of course, Princess! Here, do you mind?” Tauro gestures to the spot next to her. Zelda nods enthusiastically and he slides next to her and pulls out a green notebook he keeps buckled to his belt like a dagger. He flips it open and hands it to her. The pages are filled with rough sketches of Zonai Ruins, impressions of carvings, and endless notes deciphering the contents.

“This is remarkable,” Zelda says.

“I had heard you were a bit of a researcher yourself, Princess. This is an honor.”

The fire that has been slowly dying inside her with every shrine that blinks off the Sheikah Slate map suddenly ignites. “Uh, well, yes. I mean, it was never officially sanctioned by my father, but I did study Sheikah Technology and Hyrulean wildlife.”

“You do not need authorization if you have the heart of an explorer! No one officially approved my travels and yet, I have had many! Though, it can be quite dangerous work. We ran into a molduga the other day in the West Barrens. And a few of us recently fella ill; too much time in some of the ruins that go underground. Bad air, contaminated water, dark magic.”

“I’ve been told there are lots of old places in Hyrule people should avoid.” Zelda glances over at Link. He is hastily handing out plates of food, but he catches her eye. It feels natural to want to pull him into the conversation, but then she reminders the Sword is gone and people are reaching for him. This is an opportunity to get someone to reach for her. Link’s literally handed it to her on a plate. She turns her attention back to Tauro and commits to staying there.

“Sure. Loads of them. But what’s the fun in that? To my knowledge, no one else in Hyrule boasts an expertise in Zonai linguistics like me. You think this happened playing it safe? Ha!”

Zelda smiles. “I suppose that is true. Researching requires courage in my forms.”

“Precisely! You get it! We dare to push the boundaries of what is known and go wherever in Hyrule that takes us. You should join us in an exhibition, sometime. You defeated a demon, Princess. Nothing hiding in a cave could stop you.”

Warmth glows in her ears. She smiles and flips a few more pages. There is a full page sketch of a statue resembling an owl. Two giant eyes stare through her. Underneath it, the sentence ‘Zonai deity for wisdom?’ is scribbled.

It always manages to find her.

She sighs and closes the book. “Where will you go next once you see all the ruins in the Gerudo Desert?”

“I was thinking maybe the Thyphlo Ruins.”

Link appears before them, makes a short sound through his nose, a lot like a horse, and hands Tauro another skewer. Tauro takes it and tilts his head.

“I take it that means you’ve been?”

Link nods.

“R-really? I have reason to believe they are connected to the Zonai Ruins in Faron!” What are they like?”

Link drops down beside Zelda with two plates of food. He sets one in her lap, ignoring Tauro completely until Zelda picks it up. He’s unusually close. There is a strange edge to him; she feels it along the long line of his thigh against hers. Like she's thumbing the edge of a blade. It sends a shiver through her body when he looks through his bangs across her at Tauro and signs a single word:

‘Dark.’

—

Zelda liked Riju when they met over a year ago at the Summit. Now, on her second week inside the walls of Gerudo Town, as she sits on the edge of Riju’s bed with a pink sand seal stuffed animal across her lap, and watches the Chief of the Gerudo jump back and forth across her bed giving her best impersonation of a lizalfos, Zelda decides she might just love her as much as she loved Urbosa.

The late Chief has been with Zelda from the moment she stepped into Gerudo Town. Zelda hears her deep laughter echoing in the alleyways, sees flashes of her beauty in the ceramics and gems embedded into sandstone walls, and feels her love in the warmth of her welcoming people. They permit Link to enter the village and immediately confiscate his sirwal and veil. He’s allowed to wear the corresponding voe set to help with the heat during their stay, but they tell him that it would be staying with the Gerudo when he leaves as well.

He’s training with Teake now. He’s cooled off since the awkward encounter with Tauro in the Bazaar, and although he seemed genuinely disappointed to lose both of his Gerudo sets, any gloom lingering over him disappeared when he was invited to barracks to train.

Zelda remembers it was one of the first things Urbosa would do when she met them anywhere a century ago.

Test your strength, Hero? If you’re going to be protecting my little bird, you had better be prepared.

Zelda has tears in her eyes when Riju finally stops hopping and collapses onto her stomach. The tears don’t stop when the laughter dies off. Vah Naboris will disappear into the endless sandsea in the morning and it’s like they are finally burying Urbosa’s body, too. Daruk is already resting. Revali and Mipha may already be gone, too.

Zelda pressing her fists against her eyes so hard it hurts. She feels Riju move beside her. There is a warm hand on her shoulder. For a second it almost feels like—

“I miss her so much,” Zelda whimpers.

“I was told how close the Hylian Queen and Lady Urbosa were. And when the Queen passed, Lady Urbosa vowed you would always know a mother’s love,” Riju says softly.

Zelda pulls her fists away from her eyes and wraps her arms around herself to contain the sob that threatens to shake her entire body. She sees the way Link held his hands when he told her about the Champion’s gifts. Zelda chokes and sputters out the words, paraphrasing him for the second time in a week. “I-I have to let her go. All of them.”

Voices carry up from the barracks through the open windows into the adobe. There is a mighty clash of metal and a lively and familiar call that means Link is engaged in a sparring match. Without the Master Sword, without the Sheikah Slate on his hip.

She has a vision of the Great Plateau Tower completely drained of its power and a map of Hyrule without any shrine left to clear. Link crosses Hyrule Field without passing a single guardian shell, no longer haunted by the glowing eyes that hunted him a century ago. Nothing mechanical and towering looms over the towns and cities and villages that survived Calamity's corruption.

It’s beautiful and necessary and yet, all Zelda feels is grief.

“It’s hard to explain, but a hundred years doesn’t feel like enough time. It passed through me differently than the rest of you…in some ways, I felt every agonizing second of time, and in others, with this, it only feels like it’s been a year. One year since I lost them.”

“Princess,” Riju gently takes Zelda’s hands and pulls them away from the crushing hold she has on her body. “Just because you let them go, does not mean all that love goes away with them. You can still carry it with you. In fact, I hope you do. Grief is a reminder of connectedness; of the endurance of true love. It means Lady Urbosa kept her promise to your mother.”

Link kept his promise, too. Fulfilled his oath. It would be unfair to hold him to words they never had the chance to speak out loud. Who knows, given her track record recently, it could have all been a gross misinterpretation on her part. The pull of duty and devotion feels a lot like the inescapable gravity of love. He’s changed now, and in many ways, for the better. And with the Master Sword gone, his burden will be eased moving forward. He is as free as the Wild that saved him.

As long as she can let him go.

“You’re right.” Zelda wipes her face quickly and nods a half dozen times. “Okay, yes. Thank you, Riju. Urbosa would be so proud to know you are protecting her people.”

“I don’t know about protecting just yet. Whether Urbosa’s Fury remains within me or not once Vah Naboris is gone, my official training begins tomorrow. And I plan to, well, I guess why not just- well- hold on.” Riju scrambles off the side of her bed in a careful pattern so as not to disturb her collection of stuffed seals. She disappears into a side room and then emerges a second later with a pair of scimitars.

“Buliara had these made for me. They are an exact replica of Lady Urbosa’s. The original sword was given to–”

“Link. Yes, I’ve seen it,” Zelda says, taking one of the scimitars from Riki’s outstretched hand. He keeps all the Champion’s weapons mounted in his house in Hateno. The memory of the first time she noticed it punches her square in the chest.

How is she supposed to stop loving him? He’s here, thank the Goddess, he’s still here, but that means there is no closure. She can’t bury this love. Maybe she can channel it, take this pain and pour it into something new? Tauro did invite her to join an exhibition. Maybe he will let her join his crew or she can follow in his footsteps and set off on her own to rediscover Hyrule. If she must remain alone in the past, the least she can do is learn from it.

“You should cut your hair,” Riju says.

“W-what?”

“Vah Naboris’ time is ending. My training begins. I will be focusing all my energy, all my time on becoming a fierce warrior for my people. I can’t do that with all this unnecessary weight .” Riju flips the massive braid of thick copper hair over shoulder. “It’s time to shed what we do not need. Start fresh. Be lighter. You should do it with me!”

“What–now? With this?”

“It is the sharpest blade in Gerudo Town.”

Zelda glances between Riju and scimitar. The emerald laid into the gold of the folded guard is the exact shade Urbosa’s eyes were. In the candlelight, they flash. Wink.

Zelda takes a breath, gathers her hair up away from her face in one hand, and swipes the blade with the other in a sweeping, cathartic, and incredibly impulsive arch.

The length of her hair drops down next to her. Instantly, Zelda can draw breath deeper. The release of weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying makes room for laughter. Deep and rich and exactly like her Geurdo mother’s.

Riju squeals and kicks her feet out in front of her. “Amazing! Amazing! Okay, me next, me next!”

—

Riju’s scimitars are sharp, but they are not well suited for hair cutting. And although Riju told Buliara of her intentions to chop off her hair, a spontaneous, uneven cut with a sword is not what her personal bodyguard and guardian regent of the Gerudo tribe had in mind. Thankfully, all of the warriors have secondary skills, and surprisingly, captain Teake happens to be proficient with scissors.

Zelda turns her head back and forth, testing the feeling of hair just brushing her shoulders. Teake had to take more off to correct Zelda’s lopsided cut. Riju had been more thoughtful, using her braid as a guide.

“What do you think?” Zelda asks Link suddenly. Since the cut, she’s felt a little bolder. Courageous.

He gives her a thumbs up.

“Your hair's getting long. Do you want Teake to trim it?”

He shakes his head, pulls the thin blue headband from his wrist and wiggles it between his fingers. He gathers his hair back into a messy knot and nods.

“Yes, I suppose it’s rather convenient to still be able to do that. Hm.” She attempts to do the same, testing the new length in her hands. Thick pieces of blonde immediately fall around her face.

‘You’ll figure it out. It looks good short,’ he signs. His cheeks glow pink faintly. She tucks the hair behind her ears a few times to soothe the longing in her chest. She’s grown wise enough to know it's just the sun.

“Excuse me?” A Gerudo child tugs on the seam of Zelda’s sirwal. Zelda crouches down so they are eye level. The girl has eyes like amber stones.

“Yes?”

“Are you the same princess we met before? The one from the castle?”

Zelda hesitates, the opportunity to recreate herself, even temporarily, dangles like a carrot dripping with honey. “I am.”

“You look different. I like it.” The girl eagerly hugs Zelda around the neck and then takes off in the direction of the market.

“Children like you, yes?” Riju sets her hands on her hips.

Zelda stands and fixes her hair again. She thinks about the stable children and smiles. “I suppose they do.”

“You should teach. It’s a gift not many are blessed with,” Riju says.

Something clicks into place in her head. She looks at Link, whom she saddled with assumptions a week prior over a similar comment. Thinking the worst of it and him since.

He’s smiling. It’s almost painful how handsome he is when he looks so casually sure of himself.

The resolve to release him hangs by a thread.

‘See?’ he signs.

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