#LONG SHADOWS OF THE CIVIL WAR | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notanactressyayy · 3 months ago

Text

·˚ ₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . it was a new era of her life. she no longer had missions or a team to rely on — only endless free time, and a bunch of thoughts that weren't really helpful. Natasha for once, had time to pick up her phone — something trivial. through the dating app Tony had dared her to install months ago, she meets somebody. finally, her heart was at peace.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — a TW for the photo editing thing. this may be a sensitive topic for some. lonely Nat, insecure Nat — she edits a picture of her body, swearing, oral (N receiving). lots of fluffy stuff, too. set after Civil War.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. this ended up SO MUCH longer than i initially planned. i put a lot of dedication into this so, yeah 🥹

thanks to my lovely @sunswish who helped me with the plot and the proofreading! ♡

The trailer was quiet, except for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees outside. Natasha sat at the small wooden table by the window, her knees pulled up to her chest, a steaming mug of tea resting untouched beside her. The Norwegian countryside was beautiful, vast and unassuming, but the stillness pressed down on her.

Her phone laid on the table, the screen dark. She stared at it for a moment, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She’d never been good at this — being still, alone with her thoughts. For years, her life had been one constant motion: missions, battles, briefings, always moving forward because stopping meant thinking, having time to ponder about her life.

Her jaw tightened, and she looked out the window instead. What was she even doing?

She’d fought tooth and nail to become an Avenger, to carve out some sliver of redemption for herself, some sense of belonging in a world she’d spent so long working against. She’d believed in their cause, in their family, even when it meant trusting people with pieces of herself she hadn’t known she was capable of sharing.

And now? The Avengers were gone. Torn apart, like everything else she’d tried to build. She was a fugitive, hunted by the very government she’d once fought to protect. Her friends — her family — were scattered, some in hiding, some in prison. She was left with nothing but her name and a handful of private contractors who worked in the shadows. People she barely trusted, people who barely trusted her. Yet she still needed them for supplies, false documents, and a roof above her head. Funny, she thought.

She reached for her mug, her fingers curling around the warmth of the ceramic, though she didn’t take a sip. She had no mission now, no team to fall back on. No one to call when the silence became too much. She wasn’t sure if she missed the fights or the people more.

A faint vibration against the table snapped her from her thoughts. Her phone. She glanced down, the screen lighting up with a notification — some random email, one of these ‘no reply’ ones, nothing important. She hesitated, then picked it up anyway, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Scrolling through her phone felt… strange. Almost trivial. She opened Instagram, an app she barely used but kept around for the rare moments she wanted to feel tethered to something normal. The feed was full of snapshots of a life she didn’t recognize—vacations, dinners, smiling faces, people celebrating milestones she wouldn't ever have.

And right then, the name ‘Avengers’ didn’t make sense for her anymore. She was supposed to have this. This life where she would have a fun moment and think ‘oh, yes! i should absolutely shoot a pic and add to my stories’. After all, Natasha was just an unavenged girl, woman, human. A picture of a mother celebrating her daughter's birthday wasn't just one more picture showing on her feed. It was her dream.

She scrolled absently, her mind only half-engaged as her thumb flicked upward. Part of her wanted to throw the phone across the room and forget she’d ever picked it up. But another part—the quieter, lonelier part—held onto it like a lifeline.

She then receives another automatic notification. How has your love life been going? It took her a moment to remember what it was, and when she did, she let out a dry, humorless laugh.

The dating app.

She’d installed it months ago as a joke, because Tony had bet her she wouldn’t. She could still hear his voice in her head, teasing her. “Come on, Nat. You might actually meet someone who doesn’t want to kill you for once.” At the time, it was funny. She’d downloaded it, filled out the bare minimum of the profile, like: cat lover, captivating green eyes & martial arts enjoyer and promptly forgotten about it.

Her finger hovered over the icon now, her heart giving a strange, uncomfortable twirl in her chest. The idea of opening it felt absurd. What would she even say to someone? What would they see in her, beyond the scars and the lies and the mess she’d made of her life? That was made of her life? Could she even try and have a relationship? When throughout her life, she didn’t ever have a conversation about feelings? Clint was the closest attempt to that — he knew her past, more than the others, at least. So she spoke to him about things like that before. But he had a wife, kids, a home.

Natasha damned her heart every single day — for wanting a connection with somebody — for wanting to be somebody's, and for not being content with what she already has.

What does she even have?

She sighs deeply as she gathers a little bit of courage (that usually wasn't necessary when one was to open a simple app in their phone) and presses her thumb against the icon. Her eyebrows show a little frown as she realizes the app wasn’t open — she had held the icon for too long, making the options add to home and uninstall pop up on her screen.

“Goddammit,” she mutters to herself. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She considers choosing the second option. But her thumb, once again, hovers over the uninstall word for too long.

She was just confused. In conflict, with something so small. Although, she was braver than that.

“Let's just get over with this.” She mutters to herself as she finally opens the app — SparkMatch, she reads the name, for the first time. She lets out a scoff. Though the feeling of unease didn't take long before coming back to her. The about me section was completely empty, in exception for-

“Captivating green eyes. Cat lover.” she reads the words she had typed, aloud, cursing herself. It was what she had written in order to simply make the Iron Man laugh and leave her alone. “Great job, Romanoff. Truly irresistible.”

Scrolling down her profile, which was named only @Natasha1203— having in mind that her surname wasn't one to be openly shared — she finds the photos she had chosen, months ago, without really thinking much. Her gallery didn't have much cheering stuff. They were as nondescript as possible: a picture of a skyline she had taken while on the run. Her in sunglasses, her most common accessory. And.. a single closeup of her face, that felt too honest for comfort. She doesn’t know why she left that one there, for the world to stare at. Maybe it was the one moment where she caught herself looking like.. well, herself. If somebody squinted their eyes, they could see a small scar on her shoulder. She hoped people wouldn’t do that.

Summing up: the profile was a mess. And that was a perfect reflection of the person behind it. She doesn't make a move to edit any information — before remembering an important detail. It would be nice to change her profile's name, in case anybody (especially Tony, that was aware of this) tried to look for her.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203 was the new username.

Perfect. She does a little ‘tsk’ with her tongue, a little habit she developed when finishing a task.

Flirting was easy. She had been trained for it — trained in the art of seduction, molded into a woman that could slip into any persona, say the right words, touch in the right way, just to get what she needed. But this wasn't one of the spy programs she had access to in SHIELD. This wasn't about manipulation or information extracting. This was trivial. Normal.

Natasha browses through the app for a while. She stops in profiles of strangers that smiled back at her through their pictures — men, women, who were teachers, doctors, engineers. People with families and hobbies. Who had the chance to live a life without looking over their shoulders every second. Yet something about this.. gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was faint, but it was there. Knowing all these little details about random folks, she could find small pieces of herself in each one: some did ballet when they were little. Some had a scar due a kitchen accident. Some did karate simply for liking the sport. Some liked peanut butter sandwiches. She quietly giggles, her previous nervousness replaced by a silly feeling.

Maybe it wasn't that bad. It is not like a random person was gonna crawl out of her phone screen and have a date right then, anyway. And there was another ‘problem’. This app was still american, while she was in a whole new timezone.

What a relief.

She shifts on the small couch of her trailer, now laying down on it, allowing herself to get entertained with SparkMatch. She even found some profiles that were probably deactivated by now, seeing that they were created, like, a decade ago. She purposefully clicked on the small heart on them, meaning Match. She softly laughs.

But the sound is interrupted by herself as she finds a specific user.

It was a minimalist profile — elegant, even. It didn't say much about the person's personality: it said enough. It wasn't extravagant or absurd like some she had found. And it certainly wasn't a mess, like hers.

Y/n. 34. Not good at small talk, but I'm a good listener. A photographer, currently traveling around. Just someone who thinks the world is too big of a place to stay idle for too long. Currently: Norway

It was truly something else, compared to the live, laugh, love bios or the gym rats flashing their abs.

Her curiosity picks up, and soon enough, she sees a picture of them in Oslo.

And it was posted just three days ago.

So they were active in this app. But this wasn't what her mind grasped. Traveling in Norway. International trips usually didn’t last just three days, right? So that meant they were still there. There with her.

Out of all countries in the world, they were there?

She reads the bio again. Currently: Norway.

A strange shiver runs down her spine the more she thinks about the situation she found herself into. She bites on her lip, her stomach twirling almost painfully, like a school girl texting her crush. She was the Black Widow, for God's sake. She didn't get to go on silly dates and receive flowers.

No. This was too much. Without closing the app, she locks the screen of her phone again and drops it to the couch, quickly standing up and running her fingers through her hair. There were many reasons why this wouldn't work, especially when she was a fugitive and could get recognized, even in a small cafe.

Heading to the tiny kitchen, she opens a drawer on the countertop and grabs a bottle opener, opening the fridge and taking a beer out. She removes the cap and downs the bottle with no second thought, the bitter liquid ripping down her throat. Deeply breathing, shakily. Amidst the vast emptiness, not only of the place she was currently settled, but of her heart too, she fought back tears. The glass of the bottle clicks against the marble countertop as she places it down, her hands tightly gripping onto the edge of the furniture, holding herself up. It was a hard decision to make, whether to take this opportunity and keep it safe in her heart, or to let it go and pretend it never happened in the first place.

But she wouldn't be able to rest tonight knowing she simply did nothing about that special person the app charitably put into her hands. So, on this night, the unshatterable Natasha Romanoff did something she never thought she would. Before heading to bed, she picked up her phone again. Gladly, she didn't have to look for the profile once more. She simply had to press onto the small heart next to their picture. And she did.

The screen flashed: It's a match!

Natasha blinked in surprise, almost dumbfounded by this message. But this was meant to happen, right? Now, she could only hope that she would receive something in return by the morning.

It felt.. good. She had something to expect, a little flicker of hope that followed her even in her dreams, that made her feel better than she could ever imagine.

And this was just the start.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When the next day came, all of Natasha’s thoughts regarding the whirlwind of recent events were replaced by a single thing: that person. That New Yorker who was currently in Norway to take photos for a personal album. She initially wondered if she could really lower her guard like this and not think too much about Secretary Ross — who was still after her — but it was not like she would leave this trailer anytime soon. Thus, she needed a distraction, something to keep her brain entertained until this whole mess was over.

Talking to them was a relief — a solace she had been needing and didn't even know until now.

Talking to you.

Right away you had seen the match notification of SparkMatch, even if it was already one in the morning when it arrived. You sent this woman- Fanny? a message, and waited, but no response came until the next day. You wondered if she had impulsively pressed the match button and ran away from her phone out of nervousness. You actually imagined it, seeing the one picture of herself she published on her feed. Her profile was.. vague, to say at least, but she was incredibly beautiful, and indeed had captivating green eyes, like she boldly described herself. It made you smirk to your phone’s screen. No, genuinely smile.

It was pretty much clear that she wasn't a dating app person. And neither were you! You just had a better sense of organization than her, that's for sure. What if you two could really be a match?

As the day went on, you two engaged into a conversation that was surprisingly enjoyable for both sides. Opening the inbox chat, that could be found:

@Y/n: Good night. Is your real name Fanny Longbottom?

— eight hours later —

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Good morning! The first thing you ask a woman is if her name is real?

@Y/n: It just doesn't suit a beautiful redhead with captivating green eyes.

Natasha groaned to herself at this, laughing. The humor in the text was evident, and she loved that.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Right. It was a joke. You can call me.. Nat.

It was a glimpse of her name. It could be Natasha, Natalia, Natalie.. or all of these.

@Y/n: Nat.. that is better. Yet still very vague. Like your whole profile.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Perhaps my whole account here is a joke.

@Y/n: And we still matched. And sincerely, I'm intrigued. Intrigued and curious.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a dangerous thing to tell someone you just met.

@Y/n: Personally, I wouldn’t call a cat lover dangerous.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Will you stop mocking me for my irresistible biography or what?

It was an easy playful banter. It felt light. Not like these conversations where you had to directly ask the other person to be nice to you.

@Y/n: You just don’t strike me as someone who spends much time on dating apps. What brings you here?

With that, she debated whether to mention Tony’s dare or not. She could talk about it, but not for now. If she’s sincere, about how much she needed not to be alone anymore, this could lead to something good, more profound.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: I’m just trying something new. What about you? Norway seems kinda away from the rest of the world.

@Y/n: It is. But sometimes you have to go far to find what you’re looking for.

Natasha leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t know who you were, or why your words seemed to settle something in her chest, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt.. excited.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Have you found it?

@Y/n: Not yet. But I have a feeling I might be in the right place.

She stared at the message, her mind turning over the possibilities. She was already glad that this hadn’t started with “hey, you’re cute” or “what’s up?”, and now? It felt like she was in a dream — to find someone that shared her ideals, or that at least, thankfully, sounded like a mature adult.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Maybe Norway isn’t so bad after all.

@Y/n: So you’re also here!

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That seems like an excited message to me.

Gladly, her phone’s camera wasn’t capturing anything. Because she swore her eyes were sparkling right now.

@Y/n: Of course I’m excited, Nat. Now I have something else to think about other than shooting pictures.

Natasha stared at the reply, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her phone. There was something disarming about your words — direct, yet not forceful. And the way you used her name so casually made her blush.

She hesitated, before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: What do you shoot? Other than clever replies, apparently.

@Y/n: Street photography. Portraits, mostly. But I’ve been known to dabble in the occasional cat picture. You know, for balance.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Balance is important. What would the world do with no cat pictures?

@Y/n: I shudder to imagine it. Speaking of balance.. would you let me buy you coffee sometime? Or would that be too much?

Her breath caught. You really didn’t waste time, did you? she thought. For a moment, her walls threatened to go up again — she could almost hear that little voice in the back of her mind telling her that this was not a good idea, that it wasn’t smart, safe.

But she silenced it. It was too soon, for sure — but she couldn’t knock it till she tried it.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That depends. Are you going back to New York in the next few days?

@Y/n: I don’t have a specific date to go back. So I guess it depends on how things go.

Yeah. Now she felt a little pressured. It was a dilemma, she could be the reason you stayed or left. Adrenaline coursed through her veins — that was determination.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: It’s not like I am going anywhere anytime soon, either. But.. I like to play hard to get sometimes. How about we wait and see how things go?

@Y/n: Hard to get, huh? Well, patience is a virtue. Let me know when you feel like stopping the chase.

And you two went on like that — talking about your favorite portraits, sending her some — receiving her compliments, which sounded way too genuine for your liking. It was casual, like talking to a friend. Natasha didn't take long to start feeling comfortable with texting you. If she weren't a spy without a private number, she would've asked for your WhatsApp. Or maybe she was just exaggerating. The thing was: she didn't have to wonder about how to answer you. Your way of having conversations was so nice that she didn't feel forced to text back.

And with these new discoveries, Natasha felt like she could be in this new country without feeling too out of place. She feared that in the end this would be just one momentary experience, one of the many personas she played.

But shockingly, for once, she didn’t feel like paying attention to her overthinking.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

Weeks had passed, and the nightly silence Natasha once dreaded was now filled with something else. Her phone screen, once cold and impersonal, had become an opening to something warmer. A new phase of her life. She never thought she would be so close to a mobile device before. Supersecret agents couldn’t have personal ones other than burner phones, it was risky — they could get hacked, tracked, recognized. She didn’t have a number, or an email with her name, bank accounts, or any sort of thing that could link her to the authorities. She only had TikTok, Instagram, some games like Candy Crush Saga and her newest best friend, SparkMatch.

Everyday, without fail, your conversations flowed effortlessly. You spoke about everything: Norway’s quiet beauty, silly anecdotes, and even the mundane things that somehow became meaningful when shared. She made herself get used to the habit of not thinking much. This wasn’t part of the plan — or rather, there was no plan. This constant connection grounded her in a way she didn’t fully understand.

Having someone willingly care about her, without having to ask, beg for it — she couldn’t understand.

This evening, after eating her exquisite caviar and drinking champagne, she settled onto her couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her phone buzzed, and her mind involuntarily anticipated your witty reply, or question about her day.

Instead, a picture greeted her.

It wasn’t posed or staged — just you. mid-laugh, with a goofy expression that instantly betrayed your attempt to be serious. Your hair was a bit disheveled, and the lighting was off, but the image carried a kind of authenticity Natasha couldn’t let pass. The caption reads:

@Y/n: I don’t usually do selfies, but I figured you deserved to see what you’ve been stuck talking to all this time.

It was caring. You thought about her often enough to send a picture of yourself, doing absolutely nothing important.

Natasha softly blinked at the picture, completely still as her brain worked to process what she was looking at. It wasn’t just a picture. There was trust behind it, a hidden message. She couldn’t tell where you were getting at with this action — actually, she could. She just tried to convince herself of the contrary, afraid of putting her hopes up and screwing up afterwards.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Hi. I wasn’t expecting that.

@Y/n: Hi! How are you right now?

She bites her lip, incredulously chuckling. She was almost certain that this question was supposed to come before the picture.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Better.

She was feeling better, but not just that — she was feeling.. something. Something like.. seen. Like she was remembered by someone, like she existed, for once.

And those feelings stirred something even deeper within her.

The connection was becoming deeper — it was just now that she realized that the flirting which occurred every now and then wasn’t meaningless. It had a deep impact on her, in her soul — as a friend, as a person, and mostly.. as a woman. She needed it. She needed someone to like her, to pay attention to her, to see her — intimately, closely. Even better when this someone wasn’t a superficial person, and actually one who she related to and felt like she could share this dormant part of herself.

So she decides to share a picture, too.

She sits upright on the couch, the blanket falling and pooling around her hips as she opens the camera. She switches from the back camera to the frontal one, and takes a selfie. She was wearing a simple grey tank top, so her shoulders, collarbone and neck were on display. She wasn’t smiling smiling, just briefly, just enough to make a friendly expression. It was soft, tender. Unlike the deadly Black Widow.

Thankfully, for you, she didn’t have to be that.

So she presses send, laying back again and staring at the screen in anticipation — her eyes closely watching as the send mark changed into seen, that then turned into open. It stayed like that for a long while — like you were examining the picture and weren’t ashamed of it.

It gave her goosebumps.

The typing bubble appeared again after what felt like an eternity.

@Y/n: You’re beautiful, Nat.

It was a compliment you had already used on her. But this situation? Oh, it felt so, so different. You were talking about the simplicity, the domesticity of her in this closeup, the softness.

Fueling the fire that started to burn within her on this specific day.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Just a selfie.. don't get carried away. I'm hardly camera ready.

@Y/n: It's more than a selfie for me. It made my day. If that's not camera ready, I wonder how it'll be like when you try.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Would you like to see?

Oops. She didn't think before sending this one.

@Y/n: Hell, yes.

Her mind was immersed, totally consumed by the attention you were giving her — no jokes, no hints, just shameless flirting. Standing from the couch, she walks to her small bedroom, which was already dark, gladly — she closes her door, and slumps on her bed. Seduction was her nature, she couldn't control it. Though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing right now. Reaching her hand out, she turned on her yellow dim lamp, a gentle, warm glow casting her skin, making a better environment for the incoming picture.

She reopened the camera and adjusted herself in a comfortable position — knees pulled up, her left hand resting above her stomach as she held her phone with her right one above herself — taking the photo. There was auburn red hair all over the pillows, some strands framing her face perfectly. There was skin showing — a bit of her thighs, her arms, waist.. the curves of her body leaving room for imagination.

And something that she forgot about for the longest time.

The bullet scar above her left hip.

She stared at the photo on her screen, finger hovering over the "Send" button instinctively. The lighting was perfect, the pose effortless yet captivating. Her expression was soft, relaxed — but her pupils were darkened, a hint of the sinful emotions coursing through her body. But her eyes fell to the scar.

It was unavoidable, cutting through the smooth expanse of her pale skin like a brutal reminder. The bullet scar left by the Winter Soldier, a relic of her past life, stood out glaringly in the image. Her jaw clenched as a familiar wave of self-consciousness surged through her, a feeling she thought she had buried already.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the headboard as her thumb swiped to open the editing tools. It took her less than a minute to brush the scar away, leaving her skin unmarked, untouched. Natasha tilted her head, scrutinizing the result. The photo looked… perfect. Too perfect, perhaps, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that.

With a deep breath, she pressed send.

Unlike your other conversations, she felt.. heavy. Like the instinct of having to show her perfect body in order to be liked was speaking louder than her rational side.

The message was delivered almost immediately, but the seconds felt drawn out, agonizingly long. When the "seen" indicator appeared, her heart raced. She bit the inside of her cheek, anticipating your response.

The reply came swiftly:

@Y/n: Wow. I’m speechless.

She smirked (bittersweetly), her thumb hesitating for only a moment before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a first. Usually, you always have something to say.

The typing bubble reappeared, and she waited, her heart thudding in her chest.

@Y/n: You make it hard to think, Nat.

Natasha felt warmth flood her cheeks, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Don’t let it go to your head.

@Y/n: I think it's too late for that.

For a moment, she wondered what you would have said if you’d seen the unedited version. Would you have found it ugly? Would you have pitied her? Or would you have admired her for wearing it like the badge of survival it was?

In her dreams, you would have worshiped it.

Before she could send anything else, you decided to take a shot on meeting her in person once again.

@Y/n: I'm sorry, I'll have to suggest. How about this: I'll find the best café within a 10-mile radius, and you can tell me if my photography is as good as my coffee recommendations.

Time passed, and the accusations against Natasha had toned down a bit. Maybe, just maybe, if she's careful enough, she can do this. The first date she'd have in what, a decade?

It was refreshing. And scary. But overall refreshing.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Deal. But I will be the judge in both.

The day and place was decided — it would be in Oslo, downtown — a café, where tons of people would be present. Natasha, growing up, became a master in blending in.

If fate decided to be on her side, this would be one of the best days of her life.

She tossed her phone onto the pillow beside her and laid back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers brushed the scar again, tracing its jagged edges as if trying to understand its place in this new chapter of her life.

“Not everyone gets to see this side of me,” she murmured to herself.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a promise.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

The café buzzed with the warmth of chatter, the soft clinking of ceramic mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. It was tucked into a quiet corner of downtown Oslo, a place where the world felt comfortably distant yet close enough for her to disappear if necessary. Hours before, Natasha had dressed herself up — a burgundy dress, black tights, her usual black boots — and her jacket, of course. Her hair was naturally wavy, falling down her shoulders and back — and the makeup was simple. She wasn't a woman for makeup. But this time, she wore red lipstick and the faintest glitter eyeshadow.

She felt like a doll. It was stupid, a thing she liked to imagine how it would feel like back then — in the Red Room, where the girls wore black uniforms — grey sometimes, but always robotic, always calculated. It was a comforting feeling, which made her want to go back in time and tell little Natalia: yes! we are older now, and we are all dolled up for the date of our dreams.

Natasha arrived early — of course she did. She always did. She chose a seat by the window, her back to the wall, a vantage point where she could see everyone coming and going. Her heart wasn’t racing, but there was a slight tension in her chest. She sipped her coffee slowly, the warm bitterness grounding her as she kept an eye on the door. Then, you walked in.

Her doubting thoughts flew away the moment the green eyes landed on you.

She recognized you instantly. Your smile was smaller in person but somewhat warmer, more genuine. You scanned the room briefly before your eyes landed on her, and for a moment, Natasha thought she saw your breath catch. She softly smirks, gaze involuntarily daring.

Come and get me. This? Is all for you.

She shaked that thought away as she watched you approach her table — your clothes, your style, your body language — she scanned it all. The Black Widow wasn't an easy woman to conquer, which made her dump most of the people that tried to hit on her in the past. You were a rare exception, someone who didn't even have to try to make her heart race. It happened in it’s own.

“You made it,” Natasha said, standing to greet you, to give you a quick hug — the subtle press of your body against hers making her skin tingle. Damn it. She adjusted her dress before sitting back down. You did the same, sitting in front of her.

“Of course I did. This date was all I could think about,” you reply, eyes drinking her in, like she was the prettiest woman to exist. She truly was. “No. Let me rephrase. Seeing you was all I could think about.”

Natasha lets out a soft laugh, shifting her gaze towards the floor. She was so pale that the fact that she was blushing was, unfortunately, evident.

“Feels good to finally hear your voice,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she stares at you. “In person. Not in audio messages or calls.”

After ordering pastries and more coffee for the both of you, the conversation flowed easily, from the usual mundane topics to little jokes that made Natasha chuckle softly. She found herself studying you more and more, the way you gestured when you spoke, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed.

Eventually, the question came.

“So, what’s it like?” you asked, your voice gentle but curious. “Being an Avenger?”

Natasha paused, her fingers brushing the edge of her coffee cup. She had expected this, of course. She knew it would come up. She couldn't simply hide, not when her face had shown up on TV so many times. But if necessary, she would say that this wasn't what she wanted to be anymore. Not with you. She simply wanted to be herself around you, and not the superhero.

She wasn't Natasha who assaulted T'challa. Wasn’t the Sokovia Accords breaker. She hoped you knew by now.

“It’s… complicated,” she said after a moment, her tone measured. “Not as glamorous as it looks on TV, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

You smiled. “I’m sure. But it’s still something, isn’t it? Saving the world, fighting alongside legends.”

A faint, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. “It was something, yeah. But it wasn’t always about saving the world.” Her gaze softened as she thought back. “There was this time when Tony installed this AI in the kitchen — Friday’s cousin or something — to help us cook. It ended up burning everything it touched. Clint started calling it ‘Flamebot,’ and Steve…” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Steve tried to fix it, of course. Said it was ‘worth saving.’”

You laughed, and Natasha found herself smiling more openly. She was rambling.

“And Thor,” she continued, “he once mistook a microwave for some kind of… magical contraption. He tried to ‘summon its power’ with Mjolnir.”

“Did it work?” you teased.

Natasha smirked. “No, but we had to get a new microwave.”

The nostalgia warmed her, but it also left her feeling melancholic. She missed them. Not the missions or the battles, but the team — the messy, dysfunctional family they had become. You seemed to notice the shift in her mood and didn’t push further. Instead, you leaned in slightly, your voice soft.

“I can tell you miss them,” you said.

Natasha nodded, her walls lowering just a fraction. “Yeah. I do.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, realizing she needed some cheering up. This was supposed to be a happy day, not one to bring up sad memories. So you opened your bag, pulling out of it your camera — which made Natasha's eyes brighten up.

“You brought it!” she exclaims. “I almost forgot that you're a photographer,”

“I thought of the possibility of having to register this moment. And I was absolutely right. You look.. beautiful isn't enough to describe it,” you deeply sigh, as if surrendering to her, to this feeling of being completely in love. “Can I please take a picture of you?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “A picture of me?” she asked, her tone teasing. “You know that’s dangerous, right? What if you decide to sell it to the tabloids?”

You laughed softly, looking at her like a lovesick puppy, shaking your head. “I’m not interested in fame, Nat. Just in you.”

That made her pause, her smirk faltering for just a second. It wasn’t often she heard something so direct, so sincere. She tilted her head, studying you with those piercing green eyes, as if trying to gauge if you meant it.

“Alright,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair. “But only if it’s a good angle. No pressure.”

You grinned, lifting the camera and adjusting the settings with practiced ease. “No such thing as a bad angle with you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the blush dusting her cheeks just got worse. She straightened up, her posture relaxed yet commanding, exuding that natural grace and power.

“Like this?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her voice.

You brought your chair closer, lowering the camera for a moment. “No. Don’t pose,” you said quietly. “Just be yourself.”

That caught her off guard. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do with herself for once.

“Be myself, huh?” she murmured.

You nodded, lifting the camera again. “Exactly. I don’t need the Black Widow. I want Nat.”

Her lips parted slightly at your words, and for a fleeting moment, the mask she wore every day seemed to slip. Her shoulders relaxed, her head tilted to the side, and a genuine, very shy smile spread across her face. “I-”

Before she could protest, the shutter clicked, capturing her in that rare, unguarded moment. “Perfect,” you murmured, lowering the camera and meeting her gaze.

Natasha shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the good kind,” you replied with a grin, setting the camera down.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand again as she studied you. “So, do I get to see it? Or are you keeping me in suspense?”

You turned the camera around, showing her the photo on the screen. Her expression softened as she took it in — the warmth in her eyes, the slight tilt of her head, the way the light framed her face, her rosy cheeks. It wasn’t just a picture. It was a glimpse of who she really was, beyond the layers of secrecy and survival. It was simply her, away from espionage, having coffee with her date.

Her unforgettable trip to Norway.

“It’s… good,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant.

“Good?” you ask. “It’s stunning. Just like my model.”

Oh, that…

The way you emphasized the word ‘my’.. the way you were making her feel.. actually precious. She was trapped.

“Alright,” she said, sitting back. “You’ve had your fun. Now tell me, do I at least get a copy?”

You laughed, nodding. “Of course. But only if you promise to go easy on me when I take more later.”

She smirks, her confidence returning. “We’ll see about that.”

As the evening wore, the sky showed a beautiful indigo, stars twinkling just like the sparkles in both of your sets of eyes. Natasha allowed herself to relax. To bask in this kind of normalcy that she never had the chance to experience. She had seen a lot, lived a lot. She knew what people could do in response to fear. She saw war and hatred, she saw coldness and cruelty. But from now on, she could live in a lighter way — like her heart was finally at peace.

“Should we get going?” you asked as the people also started to leave, standing and offering her a hand.

Natasha hesitated for half a second before taking it. Your touch was warm, steady, grounding, and promising. As you stepped outside, the cool air of Oslo wrapped around you. The city lights flickered like stars. Natasha felt a strange sense of calm. When she felt your arm enveloping her shoulders, her breath hitched, but she didn’t let it show — leaning into you gently.

“Where to now?” she asked, glancing at you.

“Well, the hotel, if you’re up for it,” you replied, your tone playful but not pushing.

That playfulness was a disguise for more surprises that awaited her back into the hotel room you were hosted in.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When you unlocked the door to the hotel you're staying in, Natasha followed you inside, her steps hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The space was warm and inviting, even if it wasn't a fixed place — especially after knowing you for a good while now — tons of polaroids laying across the bed, portraits, some funko pops that you bought recently. But what caught her attention almost immediately was the bouquet of flowers resting on the counter, tied together with a simple ribbon.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she turned to you, her lips parting in surprise. She didn't even have time to look around the place. “What’s this?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and vulnerability.

You stepped past her, picking up the bouquet and holding it out to her with a smile. “These are for you,” you said.

Natasha blinked, momentarily stunned. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took the bouquet, her touch delicate, as though the flowers were something precious. She examined them quietly — deep purple irises mingled with soft yellow sunflowers and a few sprigs of white heather.

“So you’re a hopeless romantic.. you didn’t take them to the café. What made you so sure I would come back to your place?”

You shrugged, leaning casually against the counter. “I wasn’t sure,” you admitted, meeting her gaze with an honesty that made her pause. “But I hoped you would. And, well, I wanted them to be a surprise. It felt more personal this way.”

Natasha glanced down at the flowers again, her fingers gently brushing over the petals. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“I thought you were worth the effort,” you said simply, the sincerity in your voice making her blink rapidly, as though she was trying to process it.

Natasha smiled as she shook her head lightly, trying to dismiss the overwhelming feeling creeping up on her. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You chuckled, stepping closer. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tilted her head, her green eyes studying you with a mixture of curiosity and warmth. “It is,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” you interrupted softly, stepping closer. “You deserve something beautiful. Something that shows how incredible you are, even if you can’t always see it yourself.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The Avenger, the unshakable spy, was speechless.

Natasha turned to face you fully, the bouquet forgotten for a moment as she searched your face. It was almost desperate, how she tried to find reassurance, anything that told her that her past wasn't a problem. “You… you don’t even know the half of it,” she murmured.

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But I want to. Every part of it, Nat. I want to know you.”

For a long moment, she just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether she could let her walls down one more time. Talking through an app was easier. In person felt way too serious. And then, with a deep, trembling breath, she set the bouquet back on the table and closed the distance between you.

She walked with determination, her chest lightly touching yours as her hands found their way to the back of your neck. Her fingernails softly scratched in between the hair strands. She didn't know what to say — she didn't want to say anything. In this very second, she simply wanted to feel. Feel what she never had the privilege to feel as the years passed, because yes, this felt like a privilege. She stood on her tiptoes to press herself closer, doe green eyes pleading.

They told you everything, and you didn't need to be passed the message twice. Your right hand cupped her cheek as the left one wrapped around her waist, bringing her even closer.

She was an angel. Not a deadly spy. A sweet angel to be taken care of. To have her needs satisfied and tears wiped away.

As Natasha felt you responding, she allowed her eyes to close.. basking in the darkness, wanting to be enveloped by this only one sensation. This soft, intense sensation of your lips against hers, moving in a way that wasn't rushed, but wasn't too deliberate either — your hands gripping her waist and bunching the fabric of her jacket, maneuvering her back against the counter. Holding onto your shoulders, she sat on the countertop, welcoming your body between her legs. The kiss lasted. She softly whimpered as she felt your tongue brushing against her bottom lip, asking for entrance, for more of her. And she allowed it. Her head tilted to the side, moving in sync with you — as your tongues danced, a dance she hadn’t discovered before.

Needing air, you pull away, foreheads resting against one another as you deeply inhale, messily. It was torture to stop kissing her, she was good. But air was necessary. Calming down, your arms circle her waist. A smile makes its way to your lips as you see the state she was in. Flushed. And…

“I think your lipstick is a little smudged,”

Natasha felt that — every nerve of her skin was burning, including the parts with the messy makeup. She lets out a huff of air and clears her throat, trying to find her voice so she could respond.

“That was…” she whispers, her hands cradling your jaw. “Wow,”

“You are ‘wow’,” you whisper, using your thumb to wipe away the red lipstick from the corners of her lips, fixing it. “You are perfect,”

“I'm not that- I'm not,” she nervously giggled, humming as you finished fixing her up. She shifted on the countertop, her legs pressing around your hips, as if afraid of you leaving.

“I wish I could give you my set of eyes,” your hands travel down to her thighs, feeling the slightly rough fabric of her tights, but that didn't make her skin any less smoother to the touch.

Her dress was basically all the way up her hips at this point, something she hadn't paid the necessary attention to, due being too busy making out with you — and in the pit of her stomach, a small flicker of panic started rising. This was reckless, so reckless. It is not like she didn’t think of the possibility of things escalating while coming back to the hotel with you, but in her head, she would have more control over the situation — and with that, manage to keep her secrets uncovered.

But she didn’t. Her body was reacting in its own and her mind was cloudy. She had zero control.

Before you could even touch the zipper of her dress, Natasha froze. Her breathing hitched — barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but you were. Her hands, which had been so confident just moments ago, trembled as they pressed gently against your chest.

“Wait,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if it might shatter if spoken any louder. “Just.. give me a second,” she muttered, avoiding your gaze as she detangled from your grasp, getting off the counter and hurrying to the bathroom.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the quiet room. Natasha leaned against the sink, gripping its edges so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her reflection stared back at her — flushed cheeks, wide eyes, red marks staining the corners of her lips.

Why did she have to choose a matte lipstick?

Her fingers brushed against her side, over the spot where the bullet scar lay. She had hidden it from you before, in that photo. It had seemed harmless at the time — a small deception to preserve the image of herself she wanted you to see. But now, in the raw intimacy of this moment, it felt like a betrayal.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face in an attempt to calm the storm raging inside her. She couldn’t lose this moment — not to her own fears, not to a scar that was just one more piece of her long and painful past. But how could she explain it? How could she show you this part of her without ruining everything?

Natasha pressed her hands to her face, inhaling deeply. It’s just a scar, she told herself. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t change who I am.

Except that it does. And a small tear rolls down her cheek.

You’re not in the Red Room anymore, she reminded herself, gripping the sink harder. And this person… they’re different. They don’t expect you to be perfect. They just want you.

The doubt, the fears that you managed to keep away from her in the past month, came back to her — only a thousand times more painful.

Regardless, Natasha didn't have any more time to think, before she heard the doorknob turning, the damn door she didn't lock opening. She kept her head low, her body stiff as she continued to hold onto the sink. You could see her reflection in the mirror clearly. The fact that she was silently shedding tears.

“You're crying,” you state quietly, taking baby steps towards her.

“And you're bold,” she chuckles, the sound a mixture of tears and sarcasm. She sniffles, using her arm to wipe her nose. “Entering like that.”

“You're crying.” you shake your head, once again standing face to face with her. You reach out your hands and cup her tear stained cheeks. “What's wrong?”

“I…” she debated what to tell you. That she was afraid of physical intimacy since she was young? Or that she hid a crucial thing about her body all this time? “I don't know-”

“You’re hiding something from me and are afraid I’m gonna hate you?” you inquire, voice serious — not mocking, not pressuring.

What?

Her eyes go wide instantly, the tears stopping. You wipe them away from her cheeks, expression softening again as you prepared to explain yourself. “You’re part of a New Yorker superheroes team. There was absolutely nothing that spoke about your personality in SparkMatch, which is expected, Nat. I’m aware that there’s a lot that I don’t know about you. I know where I’m getting myself into.”

“For the longest time, all I wanted was company. Someone to talk to, to listen to me, and that I could listen to them. Someone to see me,” she quietly confesses, leaning her cheeks into your palms. “You did just that. You’re that person.. you filled a huge void in me. You saved me in more ways that you could ever know.”

“I’m so grateful for that.” you lean closer, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead. She shyly wrapped her arms around your waist, her eyes searching yours once more.

“It’s not just that…” she adds, her breath hitching. She was now determined to continue from where you left off on the entrance counter. “I longed- I long for.. touches, and..”

“And closeness,” you complete, head dipping down and tucking itself into the crook of her neck. “Geez, you smell delicious,”

“It’s… Twilly D’Hermès,” breathless, Natasha speaks, a small hint of pride in her tone as she spoke about her moisturizing cream. “My body lotion,”

It wasn’t cheap, but she liked to spoil herself sometimes. It was also great to deal with the constant bruises and cuts on her skin. Your brows raise in surprise, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. Natasha could feel the warmth of your breath on her neck, a surge of happiness and ecstasy washing over her.

“That’s.. pretty luxurious, one can say.”

“Can’t a woman spoil herself sometimes?” she retorts — interrupted by a gasp that left her as your lips pressed against her neck. Her eyes flutter shut, her hands holding onto your arms as she did her best to keep talking. “B-Besides, years of bruises and burns require good skincare.”

“I see,” you hum, nuzzling into her, into the spot behind her ear. She felt soft today. Now you knew the reason. After staying like that for a while, you pull back, looking into her eyes with a gaze that showed admiration, respect and concern towards her comfort. “Can I?”

She deeply inhales, feeling you reach for her dress again — only more mindfully now. Shrugging her jacket off her shoulders, she places it next to her on the sink and nods.

She was prepared for the question.

“Okay, hold on.” you kneel down, beginning to untie her boots, catching her by surprise. You remove them and place them aside, before slowly pulling down her tights. “Damn. Why did you have to wear something so complicated?”

“I wanted to feel beautiful,” she quietly chuckles, allowing you to get rid of the excessive fabric on her body.

So, it's time for the dress. You got up to your feet and slid your palm up her spine, holding onto the zipper and then pulling it down. Natasha was expectant, self aware, but mainly, consumed by her desire — finally awake again.

“I'll make you feel beautiful,” you nod, pushing the dress straps off her shoulders and sliding them down her arms.

“You already do.” She breathes.

She doesn't stop you from getting her off the dress. But when it stops below her hips, she tenses up. That's because she sees you freezing. To look at her. It's strange, to have someone look at her body with no apparent emotion. You didn't look at her as if she were a prize to win — an object, or a weapon. Helping her step off the dress, you toss it aside on the floor. Now nothing was disturbing you from taking her in. Her black underwear. Her toned muscles — which you assumed were from years of workout. And her scars. Cuts, a few small keloids, and the bullet scar.

“You didn’t have to hide this from me.” you breathe, dropping to your knees once more as you held her by the hips. She found herself leaning against the sink’s counter, breathing ragged, every nerve of her body buzzing in anticipation. “Makes you even more gorgeous.”

“I—”

“You're fucking gorgeous.” you hiss, kissing above the place that once had a bullet in.

Yup. Her dreams came true.

“Please,” she murmurs, not knowing how to vocalize what she wanted. But the heat pooling between her thighs told you everything.

Your lips make a path from her hip down to her pelvic bone, right hand grabbing her thigh and putting it on your shoulder — coaxing a gasp out of her. Your palm covers her scar, as though it were something precious about herself — making her feel safe, above everything. Natasha, for a moment, almost lost her balance — having to hold her weight with one foot — as your pointer finger hooked around the soaked fabric of her panties, pulling it to the side. You gave her one look. One look before diving in.

You are no longer alone.

She took the message. And her world exploded.

Your tongue working on her — licking past her folds, tasting her — as if committing to memory, and not just using her — her slender fingers tangling into your hair, pulling your head closer to her core, soft moans leaving her mouth as if there was no tomorrow.

“Yes,” She gasps, her hips bucking, seeking more of the kitten licks you showered her clitoris with. “Don't stop.”

None of her sexual experiences had been good in the past — not in the slightest. So having something so good, so pleasuring — it was truly her first.

In the Norwegian hotel, Natasha was more Avenged than she ever was with the Avengers. In the end of the night, she ended up with you on the bed — your clothes making each other company on the floor, as she lost herself — in your body, your scent, your hands on her,

and your love for her.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

You were tucked under the covers when the bathroom's door opened — the hot steam of her recent shower now dispersing and mingling with the air. You sat up, leaning against the headboard as you watched her with a smile.

Natasha walked towards you, the white hotel's towel in her hands, drying her damp hair. She was wearing a t-shirt you lent her, which was probably three times her size. She was smiling. Happily.

Before climbing back onto the bed, she absentmindedly placed the wet towel on an armchair. She gently settled onto your lap, straddling your hips, her head instantly nesting on your shoulder.

“Hi, baby.” you embrace her.

“If I have to leave the country, for any reasons,” she says, her hands tracing random patterns on your back. “Will you come with me?”

“I'll go anywhere with you.” you reply, voice unwavering.

She released the air she didn't know she was holding, and allows herself to relax her sore body. She nuzzled closer as you played with her still damp hair.

Maybe dating apps weren't so bad, after all. If she ever saw her team or Tony again, she would thank him for making her install it.

“Oh, and by the way,”

Natasha whispers, finally. Probably, you were aware. But it was one more thing about her true self she wanted you to know.

“My name is Natalia.”

#natasha marvel #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff smut #marvel #natasha x y/n #natasha x you #g!p natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff soft smut #black widow #black widow x reader #avengers #natalia romanova #mcu

1K notes · View notes

beloveds-embrace · 2 months ago

Text

(more of this, this, and this in which duchess reaches her last straw and pulls rank!)

The roses arrive in the midmorning, fresh with the crisp bite of winter still clinging to their petals. The bouquet is grand- far too grand to be anything casual. Rich, deep red blooms tied together with a velvet ribbon, their fragrance thick in the cold air as the footman carries them inside.

The staff pauses as the flowers are set on a side table in the foyer. It’s been a long, long time such a romantic gesture has entered the house that it nearly feels like a disruption, a challenge to the air of restraint and cold civility that has settled over the estate after your marriage to John and especially as of late.

But what truly sends a ripple through the house is the card that sits nestled among the blooms, thick parchment folded and sealed with gold wax.

For the Duchess.

When the bouquet is delivered to you, you receive it with the same measured grace you meet all things these days. A tilt of your head, a quiet acknowledgment, before you pluck the card from its place and break the seal with a flick of your thumb.

The words within are warm, full of deep gratitude and admiration, and your lips press together for a moment as you trace the elegant script with your fingertips.

You smile, small and private, as you set the letter gently against your lap, letting your fingers graze over the parchment once more. The flowers are stunning, yes, but it is the letter that truly holds weight.

The house may not appreciate you. But somewhere out there, someone does.

But as you lift your gaze, you see the tension that has begun to coil in the air around you.

John is staring at the bouquet like it’s a declaration of war specifically against him. His arms are crossed over the expanse of his chest, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he studies the flowers as if they might reveal the identity of the sender on their own from the sheer intensity of his gaze alone.

Simon stands beside him, unreadable, but his silence is heavier than usual. His fingers tap idly against his sleeve, betraying a restrained sort of agitation, while Johnny and Kyle are no better- both shifting uneasily, eyes darting from the roses to you and back again.

You simply turn away, setting the bouquet carefully on the nearest table before resuming your place near the window, where the pale winter light casts long shadows across the floor.

Silence stretches, and you deliberately tuck the letter into the pocket of your gown. You do not fold it away carelessly, nor do you discard it- no, you keep it. Visibly.

Their eyes track the motion like wolves scenting blood.

Then-

“Who sent them, wife?” John’s voice is clipped, controlled, but there’s something simmering beneath it.

You do not look at him, focusing once more on the lovely roses. “Why does it matter?”

Kyle shifts, clearing his throat. “Well… it’s just that… seems a bit forward. And disrespectful.”

Johnny huffs beside him, eyes narrowed like John. “Aye. Flowers like that? Someone’s tryin’ to court ye.”

At that, you let out a soft, knowing hum. You do not confirm nor deny, merely reaching out to trace the velvety petals of one of the roses, letting your touch linger.

John’s expression darkens.

Simon finally speaks, his voice low, measured. “If someone is trying to win your affections, we should know who they are.”

You tilt your head slightly, finally turning to face them. “And why is that?”

John steps closer. “Because you are my wife.” The words are firm, but there is an unspoken still hanging in the air between you.

Bitterness inside you tightens like knot, but you do not let it show. Instead, you lift a brow, gaze cool. “I do not recall that matter ever being of concern to you before.”

His jaw tightens. “That is not-”

You cut him off with a simple, deliberate movement- reaching out, tracing the velvety petals of one of the roses again, your touch lingering. It is a small gesture, but it drives a sharp knife into the tension between you all.

Johnny frowns. “Ya like them, then?”

You do not answer. Instead, you pluck a single rose from the arrangement, twirling it between your fingers as you return to your seat, legs crossed neatly, the picture of poise. Twirling it between your fingers before bringing it close, you inhale the rich scent with a faint, adoring smile.

Kyle exhales sharply. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” you muse, examining the bloom in your grasp. “Is your sudden concern over something so trivial.”

John exhales through his nose. “Who sent them, Duchess?”

You glance at him, considering him for a long moment, before finally answering, voice deliberately indifferent.

“Someone who appreciates me.”

The words land like a hammer.

John's expression darkens, Simon's fingers twitch at his sides, Johnny swears under his breath, and Kyle looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

Good.

Let them stew in it.

Let them feel what you have felt for so long- neglected, disregarded, unwanted. Let them understand, even for a moment, what it means to be on the other side.

The silence that follows is heavy and charged. Then, without another word, you rise, the single rose still in your grasp, and leave them there- standing in their own jealousy, their own regret.

They do not let it go, unsurprisingly.

John insists on having breakfast with you more, where before he barely spared you a glance at the table. He lingers, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

Simon begins to find more reasons to be near you, silent but present, a constant shadow. He does not speak much, but his attention is unyielding.

Johnny, ever the charming one, suddenly starts bringing you sweets and pastries with an almost desperate enthusiasm, his jokes softer, his smiles less certain.

And Kyle- he is the worst of them all, ever dutiful, ever attentive, ensuring your every request is fulfilled with a precision that borders on obsessive.

It is almost amusing.

Almost.

But you let them chase and let them fret. It was terribly amusing and vindicating, especially whenever you reread that letter.

Your Grace, We cannot begin to express our gratitude for the kindness you showed us in our time of need. When all others turned their backs, you extended your hand, and because of you, our humble flower business did not wither and die. Please accept this bouquet as a token of our deepest thanks. It is but a small gesture for a debt we will never be able to repay. May your days be filled with as much beauty as you have given to us.

With all our gratitude,

The [] Family

#noona.posts #noona.writes #should this be tagged idk

619 notes · View notes

mintyys-blog · 16 days ago

Text

LOVE YOU FOREVER — viltrumite! mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

A/N: for some reason I couldn’t directly reply to the post but here it is!

WARNINGS:

Mark never expected to set foot on Earth again.

A century had passed since he last walked these streets, since he last felt the warmth of this sun on his skin. It wasn’t home—not anymore. Not without her.

Y/N.

Her name still ached. A wound that time refused to heal. He had lost wars, lost comrades, lost entire planets—but nothing compared to losing her. Yet here he was, frozen in place, staring at a woman who should not exist.

She was across the street, laughing with a friend, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a way so painfully familiar it nearly brought him to his knees. It was her. And yet… it wasn’t.

Mark’s breath came slow and measured, his mind warring with itself. He had seen people who resembled her before, echoes of her face in strangers long gone. But this was different. This woman didn’t just look like her—she felt like her.

His heart, long thought incapable of feeling anything but grief, beat with something dangerously close to hope.

He knew reincarnation was possible. He had seen it on other worlds, civilizations that believed souls never truly died. But believing and witnessing were two very different things.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to grab her, hold her, beg her to remember. But he had already taken her once before. This time… he would wait.

Mark found himself drawn to her, lingering in the places she frequented. A coffee shop on the corner. A bookstore where she browsed without buying. A quiet park where she sat alone, lost in thought.

She was different from the woman he lost, but there were traces of her in everything she did. The way she scrunched her nose when concentrating. The soft hums she made when deep in thought. Even the way she glanced over her shoulder, as if searching for something just out of reach.

It was her soul. He knew it. But her heart did not remember him. So he did something he never thought he would. He courted her. Properly. Like a human man, not a conqueror.

Their first meeting was accidental—or so she thought. Mark made sure of it. He “bumped” into her at the coffee shop, catching her drink before it spilled.

“Sorry about that,” he said, flashing a disarming smile.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her eyes. Recognition. A shadow of something lost. But then it was gone. “It’s fine,” she said, brushing it off.

He introduced himself as Mark—nothing more. No mention of Viltrum, of war, of their past life together.

Just Mark.

And so, he stayed by her side. Gently, patiently. He learned what she liked, what made her laugh, what made her angry. He asked about her dreams, her fears, her world.

He wanted her to love him again. Not because fate demanded it. But because she chose to. It started small.

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” she murmured one evening, staring out at the ocean. Mark tensed. “Done what?” She hesitated. “…Sitting here. With you.”

He said nothing, letting her thoughts unravel at their own pace. It happened again when he called her by a nickname only he had used. She blinked at him, startled. “…Why did you call me that?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “It just felt… right.” Little things. Déjà vu. Dreams she couldn’t explain. A lingering sense of familiarity whenever he was near.

She started looking at him differently. With curiosity. With recognition, though she didn’t understand why. Mark waited. And then, one night, it happened.

They were walking through the city when she suddenly stopped. A sharp breath. A flicker of panic in her eyes. Then she collapsed.

Mark caught her instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Y/N?” She trembled in his arms, clutching at his shirt as if she were drowning.

And then, in the smallest, weakest voice— “…I remember.” The world stood still. Her breath came in gasps, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I saw you. I saw… us. Our children. Everything.”

Mark swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “Do you remember me?” She hesitated, her fingers tracing his face like a ghost relearning a lover. “Not everything,” she whispered. “But I know you.”

His chest ached, something between hope and agony threatening to crush him. “Then let me show you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. “Let me remind you.”

A pause. A shaky breath. Then— A soft, hesitant smile. “…Okay.” And for the first time in a hundred years, Mark felt whole again.

Mark didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until she smiled. It wasn’t the same smile from before, not yet, but it was enough. A flicker of something familiar in her eyes, something lost but not entirely gone.

He exhaled slowly, afraid to move too fast, afraid to break whatever delicate thread connected them now. She was staring at him like she was seeing him for the first time and yet had known him forever.

“What… happens now?” she asked softly, her fingers still ghosting over his face as if trying to memorize it.

Mark covered her hand with his own, his grip gentle. “Whatever you want,” he said.

Her brows furrowed, as if the answer confused her. “What if I never remember everything?”

His heart clenched at the thought, but he had already made peace with it. He shook his head. “Then we start over.”

She searched his eyes, looking for something—maybe reassurance, maybe truth. “You’d be okay with that?”

“If it means I get to have you again? Even just a part of you?” His voice was quiet, raw. “Then yes.”

She looked down at their intertwined hands, her expression unreadable. “I don’t understand how, but… I feel it.” She pressed her free hand against her chest. “Like I’ve lived another life, like I’ve loved you before. It’s not clear, but it’s there.”

Mark swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to hold her the way he used to, but he didn’t want to rush her. She wasn’t the woman he lost. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she was still his.

She took a deep breath, composing herself. “Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s start over.”

Relief washed over him so strongly he almost sank to his knees. He smiled—soft, real. “I’d like that.” She smiled back. “Then tell me, Mark… where do we begin?” And just like that, the universe gave him a second chance.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x reader #viltrum mark #viltrum mark x reader #viltrumite mark #mark grayson #invincible variants #invincible x fem!reader #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #invincible x reader

381 notes · View notes

arcielee · 1 year ago

Text

Ābrazȳrys

Summary: Aemond goes to see if the king is truly dead and finds his wife instead. Paring: dark!Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader Word Count: 1900+ Warnings: MDNI, dark[ish]!Aemond, Reader AFAB, noncon elements, ghostly voyeurism? rough sex, p in v unprotected, creampie, breeding kink when you squint. Author’s Note: So, this is not for the poll I just had, but something that came from rambling with my muses [thank you lovelies]. This is dedicated to @namelesslosers whose recent piece already had my mind thrumming with dark!Aemond ever since I read your story. Thank you, Mari, this is mostly your fault. 😆 Not beta read, my mistakes are my own and I am woefully sorry for them all. Also, Sȳz ābrazȳrys is Valyrian for good wife.

An accord was struck between the Warden of the North and King Viserys; you were then packed to be sent away to the capital, to wed his second son, Prince Aemond. Your purpose, you learned, was to placate the growing rift within the house of the dragon, but you soon realized it was not something that could be easily mended.

Aemond was complexity carved from marble, both beautiful and statuesque as the blood of Old Valyria was rumored to be. You saw his ire was not unfounded when the crowned princess had returned to flaunt her sins at her side, their tousled dark hair as bold as the crimson curve that cut through the left side of your husband’s face.

You felt the shift, saw the hatred now etched onto his sharp features at the sight of them. “Bastards,” he had murmured loud enough for you to hear. His tone was dark, his hold on your hand stopping the blood from reaching your fingertips.

The tension brought with their arrival was palpable, weaving through the Red Keep and pouring into the Small Hall where dinner was held, as per the king’s request. The pleasantries seemed forced and it ended with a scathing toast, an outburst, and when you tried to follow after Aemond, he had been quick to dismiss you.

You often struggled to find your place in King’s Landing. Aemond was courteous, but cold; both diligent and disinterested in the same breath. He treated you as his duty and it left your heart aching for more. It could not be sated with his family: Aegon was too lost in his cups, as was Helaena but with her dreams, and you had never met the youngest prince, as he was tucked away at Oldtown.

This left you to shadow the queen, which was how you now found yourself quietly at her side, your gaze accompanying her own–her brown eyes were wide and wet and fearful all at the same time. Her handmaiden had brought you to her quarters to hear it firsthand: the king was dead. Now you watched as the Silent Sister finished the wrappings on the body.

There was an attempt to mask the smell of death with the tapers lit, with the cloves and fresh herbs crushed for a smoldering incense that curled upwards into the air, but the lifelessness remained, prominent still. You could only assume it was something so intricately knitted with the late king, a man who had lingered so long on the precipice that life had long rotted away before he had taken his final breath.

Alicent waited until they left before she took the crown and placed it on top of the body. You watched her shudder with a choked grief, her hands pressing onto the altar to hold herself upright until she could regain her queenly composure. She then excused herself without a word, leaving you alone with the dead.

The body in front of you was not your family, but only your king. Your own unshed tears were from the fear you felt, from the loss that would come with the inevitable civil war; you saw flashes of red from the blood to be spilled, black from the ash that would rain over the kingdoms.

“He is even smaller in death.”

You knew the voice, so low but it still wrenched the air from your lungs. You looked up to see your husband poised in the doorway. “It is something that comes for us all, it is inescapable,” Aemond finished, his eye now trained to you.

It seemed a murmured thought and you were uncertain if he would continue it, uncertain if the words spoken were even meant for your ears to begin with. You swallowed thickly, your throat dry from the smoke. “My husband,” your voice cracked with compassion, “I am so sorry–”

“I am not.”

It cuts through you, halting your tongue. You watched him carefully, warily, as his lips curled upwards. “For too long I have watched him slowly wither beneath the crown handed to him by a council,” and he looked back to the altar, a bitterness brewing. “He hid behind some want for a faux peace, but only because he lacked the conviction and the spine to speak the truth.”

His tone clipped, his smile now cruel and cutting into his cheeks as he stepped towards you with his slow, distinct gate. You remained rooted, unwilling to wilt under the weight of the harsh truth that could now be spoken out loud and without repercussions.

You tried again: “Are you certain of this? Of her misdeeds–?”

This time your voice caught once he was close enough for his fingers to trail along the side of your face, coming to cup your cheek and hold your gaze. His palm was callused from his sword, but gentle to touch, igniting a warmth that pooled towards your core. Your eyes flickered over his smile that remained, your breath knotting in your throat as you realized how tall he now stood, as if a weight had been removed from him.

“Ābrazȳrys,” he murmured, his hold now moving to curl behind at the base of your neck and pull you closer to him. Your hands touched his chest, falling into him and his heat, his sandalwood and smoke, the amber scent that belonged so intimately to Aemond.

You burned from his direct attention, something you had pitifully sought after since you arrived, and it was now being handed alongside the corpse of the king.

And it felt so wrong.

His finger curled under your chin, tilting your head back to look at him. “Perhaps if I put a babe in your belly, you can see how strong the blood of dragon truly is.”

And yet–

“Aemond,” you gasped as his other hand moved to clasp around your elbow, pulling you closer until his mouth captured your own.

The room swam in smoke; you felt drunk from the warmth of his lips and with the way his hands roamed your backside, pulling you flushed against his chest. You could feel the swell of his cock pressing against the seams, a heat that permeated through and spread to ignite your nerve endings.

You sighed sweetly with how you fit against his chest and Aemond deepened the kiss with a desperation that you matched against your own volition. Your arms lifted to wrap around his neck, pulling yourself closer still, and Aemond let out a low groan, a vibration that trilled and tightened in your core.

“Aemond, we should leave…”

His passion would not be abated and instead his mouth claimed yours again. Aemond wrapped his arms around your waist to lift you and pull you away from the dead with staggering steps back towards the enclave of bay windows the sun streaked through. His large hands tore through your layers to touch the soft divot between your thighs, until the pads of his fingers pressed to the wet patch that was growing; he hummed.

You broke away and his mouth then latched to the curve of your neck, biting you, marking you, his passion reborn from the tips of his teeth. You cried out from the mixture of pleasure and pain, your body betraying you with how it responded, with how it craved for more.

You tried again: “Aemond, we mustn’t–”

His hand caught your jaw with a hold that dimpled into your cheeks. “You must know by now that the walls are thick, as my ancestors designed them to be,” his eye looked over your kiss-swollen lips and the blood that was staining your features. “Also, the dead also cannot hear us.”

Aemond then surged against you; you could not fight back, you would not fight back. Instead, your hands balled into his tunic to balance yourself, to return the kiss until all the air left your lungs. You felt his smile against your mouth, his arms returning to snake around your waist and guide until you fell down to the rug that covered the floor; a delicious contrast of the warmth he emitted to the cold of the cobblestone beneath you.

He rucked your skirts up around your waist, his hand moving to pull away the small clothes intimately wrapped around before he slotted himself between your thighs. You felt his length grind against your bare cunt and you gasped, only for the sound to be swallowed with another heated kiss that seared the blood now coursing through your veins.

Aemond paused to look down at you. His hair spilled silver in the sunlight and he watched your corset push against your cleavage, the desperate rise and fall to catch your breath. His one arm propped himself up while the other tugged away at the strings laced at his crotch; your fingers slipped into his loosened waistband, pulling it down until his cock was freed. His fingers then wrapped around his base, flushed crimson with his passion, and you nearly cried as he rubbed his swollen head along your folds, silken with your arousal.

His arms caged you and he pushed into you, filling you with his slow thrusts to fit, until he was fully sheathed within your cunt. Your lips parted wordlessly as your pleasure began to kindle with the slow roll of his hips, something that spread towards the ends and returned to build within your core.

You mewled as his paced quickened, the wet sounds of bare skin suctioning as he fucked you into the rug, bruising your backside against the stone with each snap of his hips; you lifted to cant your own, welcoming the bruising pace. You were breathless, your walls fluttering with the first waves of pleasure coiling tightly at the base of your spine.

“Touch yourself,” he rasped, his breath hot against the curve of your neck.

You hand moved between with a fumbling touch to your pearl, swollen and wet and wanting. The pressure was enough to elicit another cry from you, the tears pearling earlier now spilling. Aemond saw this with the black that possessed his eye and his head dipped to lick your tears; his murmured, “Sȳz ābrazȳrys,” scorching against your skin.

It burst forth with flashes of white, a euphoria brimming on too much as his pace continued, until he was spilling and pulsing within your velvet walls. His weight then rested against you, his head turning to place a sweet kiss to your neck before he pulled away to stand, reaching to bring you back onto unsteady feet.

You swayed a moment and he grabbed you, waiting until you met with his stare. Your eyes were wet as they rolled from him and took in your surroundings; you let out a shaky exhale when you saw the body that had been prepared.

Aemond let go to tuck himself away and then stepped to block your view. He leaned forward to press a kiss to your hairline; your lashes were clumped together from your tears shed, wet against your cheeks when you closed your eyes, savoring the softness of his lips.

“We will win,” his confidence now laced his low tone. He repeated: “Do not worry, we will win.”

And then he left you alone with the dead, with nothing but the remnant pulsing sensation of the pleasure he took, his pearly spend now spilling down between the insides of your legs.

Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @sylasthegrim @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @multyfangirl @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowprincesa1 @officerbrowneyes

arcie's masterlist

#hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #female!reader #dark!aemond targaryen #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x female!reader

1K notes · View notes

cherriecove · 6 months ago

Text

A New Dawn

Alicent Hightower x M!Reader

Summary: With the Hightower plot to place Aegon on the thrown a failure, Queen Rhaenyra finds herself unsure with what she should do with her old-friend. After some consideration she decides to remarry Alicent to her Hand, a man she trusts wholeheartedly, this of course upsets Alicent who belived her marital duties died when her husband did. Cherrie's Notes: This was a request that i really loved the idea of! Would like to apologiese in advance becasue this is so long I changed some things slightly but not too much. This is the first time I am writing a male reader and although there is no real description i hope it is satsfactory! There are so many words im sorry i got carried away! Masterlist

The bells of King’s Landing tolled in the early dawn, marking the end of one era and the uncertain beginning of another. With the death of King Viserys I, Queen Rhaenyra had ascended to the Iron Throne, securing her rightful place as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, the victory was bittersweet, marred by treachery and near civil war. Alicent Hightower, Viserys’ widow and mother to Rhaenyra’s half-siblings, stood on the losing side. Her father’s ambitious plot to place Aegon on the throne had failed, and the Greens' hold on power was shattered.

Now, Rhaenyra ruled over a fractured court, her mercy the only thing keeping Alicent and her children alive. Otto Hightower, once the most powerful man in the realm, rotted in the dungeons. He was still scheming, still whispering plans of future influence, and Alicent found herself torn between loyalty to her father and a growing desire for peace.

Though Rhaenyra was urged to imprison or execute both Alicent and Otto, she hesitated. Old bonds of friendship still lingered in her heart, even if they had been buried beneath years of betrayal and political manoeuvring. In this delicate balance, you—Rhaenyra’s loyal Hand—offered a solution.

“If you wish Lady Alicent to live freely, Your Grace, then perhaps she should be placed under the care of someone you trust implicitly,” you had said, knowing full well the weight of such a suggestion.

“And who might that be?” Rhaenyra asked, her eyes searching yours with a knowing look.

You held her gaze. “Your Hand, Your Grace. I can see to it that she remains free but under close supervision.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened into a sly smile. “Then you shall marry her.”

The queen’s words struck you as sharply as they did Alicent when she was informed of the arrangement. It was the last thing she expected. After all these years, she had thought herself done with marriage, with the expectations and duties thrust upon her. The mere thought of submitting again, of being bound by obligation, made her heart ache.

Yet on the day of the wedding Alicent stood before the sept, her hands clasped tightly, the weight of the world resting on her slender shoulders. The vows echoed around her like a distant murmur, a ceremony that held little meaning for her heart. She barely glanced at you, her brown eyes, once so bright and commanding, now distant and guarded.

This was not the life she had envisioned. After Viserys’ death, she had assumed her time as queen was over, that she would fade into the shadows, left to a quiet existence without further demands. The idea of marrying again, especially to someone with no ambition, no thirst for power, had seemed almost unreal to her.

Yet here she was.

The thought of being bound to another man filled her with dread. Despite your reputation for loyalty and honour, she couldn't help but fear what this union might become. Marriage, in her experience, had always been about duty, submission, and control. The idea of yielding herself once more, her body and will, to another man’s authority terrified her. This marriage felt like a new prison, different from the gilded cage Viserys had kept her in, but a cage nonetheless.

On the night after your wedding, Alicent retreated to her chambers, her heart a swirl of confusion and bitterness. She had braced herself for what she assumed would come next—a knock at her door, a quiet but insistent demand to fulfil the duties of a wife. Viserys had not been cruel, but he had expected certain things from her, things she had learned to accept despite her reluctance. She feared history would repeat itself, that you too would seek an heir, another way to secure this alliance.

But you surprised her.

There was no knock. No intrusion. The silence of her chambers stretched into the night, uninterrupted by any demand or expectation. The following night passed in the same manner, and the one after that. You did not come to her room, did not impose yourself upon her. Instead, you gave her space, a freedom she had not anticipated. It unsettled her at first, the lack of pressure, but slowly, she began to breathe easier.

You treated her with respect, never asking for more than she was willing to give. You allowed her to visit her father in the dungeons, though under strict guard. Each visit left her feeling more conflicted than ever, as Otto, ever the schemer, continued to urge her to find ways to manipulate you, to regain some of the power she had lost. Yet, despite his machinations, you remained distant from those games, patient and steady.

One evening, after another tense meeting with her father, Alicent returned to your chambers, her face drawn and her steps hesitant. She hovered at the threshold, her fingers curling around the door frame. You sat by the fire, a book in hand, your features calm and focused. The warmth of the flames cast soft shadows on the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her.

“I need to speak with you,” she said quietly.

You looked up, closing the book and setting it aside. “Of course. Come in.”

She stepped inside but did not sit, her voice low and uncertain. “My father… he’s still trying to use me. He wants me to manipulate you, to influence Rhaenyra’s decisions. He believes I can sway you.”

You didn’t react with surprise, nor with anger. Instead, you simply nodded, as if you had already expected this. “Thank you for telling me.”

Alicent exhaled, her shoulders sagging slightly with relief. “I don’t want to be used anymore. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

You stood, your expression soft but serious, and approached her with a deliberate slowness, careful not to make her feel cornered. “Alicent, you are not under anyone’s control now—not your father’s, not mine, not anyone’s. I won’t let him use you, and I won’t treat you like a pawn in his or anyone’s schemes.”

She looked up at you, her guarded expression flickering with something close to disbelief. “You… you truly mean that?”

“I do,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. “I never wanted this marriage for power or gain. I have no interest in forcing anything upon you—marital duty or otherwise.I don’t expect anything of you that you’re not willing to give.”

She blinked, her lips parting in surprise. The firelight danced across her face, casting shadows that highlighted the tension in her features. For a moment, there was silence—unspoken words hanging in the air between you, an understanding growing in the space that had long been empty.

Finally, Alicent spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "You... don't want anything from me? Not even—" She hesitated, her words stuck in her throat leading you to shake your head gently. "No," you said, your tone calm. "I don’t expect that from you, unless that is something you desire.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and hesitation clouding her eyes. “But we are wed,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Isn’t it… isn’t it your right to expect me to fulfil my duty? Is that not what this union is meant to be?”

Your gaze softened as you stepped closer, but still you remained careful not to approach too quickly. “You are not a vessel for duty, Alicent,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. “You are a person, not a means to an end. We are married because it is the only way to allow you peace, and to give our realm stability. Anything within our marriage is based on because you desire it—because we decide it together. Not because you’re bound to some obligation.”

Alicent stared at you for a long moment, as though searching for something deeper beneath your words. Perhaps a hidden motive, a secret ambition. But all she saw was sincerity. There was no calculated manipulation, no power-hungry intent in your eyes.

Her hand fluttered to her chest, her fingers absently tracing the fine embroidery of her gown. “I never thought… I never thought I’d be free from such burdens,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

You offered her a soft smile, a reassuring one. “Then let’s make this work in a way that brings you peace. I know that it might take time for you to believe that.”

She nodded slowly, as if the weight of your words was beginning to settle. And though she remained distant, there was a subtle shift—a crack in the walls she had built around herself. You didn’t want her to be caged, not even in the gilded prison of a marriage. You wanted her to feel free to breathe, to live her life on her own terms.

In the days that followed, your quiet respect for her space became apparent. She had come to your chambers less frequently, yet when she did, you never pressed her for anything more than conversation or companionship. The two of you would sit together, occasionally exchanging stories of the past, speaking of times before the chaos that had defined both your lives.

One afternoon, as the sun cast long shadows across the chamber, you and Alicent found yourselves engaged in a quiet conversation by the window. The room was filled with a soft, golden light, and for once, it felt peaceful—unnaturally so, in the midst of the court’s usual tumult.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked, looking out at the gardens below, where the birds fluttered amongst the flowers.

“Miss what?” you asked, your gaze following hers.

“The life before all of this,” she said, her hand resting on the windowsill. “The days before the schemes, the plotting, the weight of responsibility.”

You leaned back against the wall, your gaze drifting to the same view she saw. “I miss the simplicity of it,” you admitted. “But I wouldn’t trade the peace I have now for it. The quiet moments like this. The stillness.”

Alicent was silent for a while, as though considering what you had said. Finally, she turned to face you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You find peace in the simplest of things, don’t you?”

“I try to,” you said softly. “It’s the only way to survive in a world like ours.”

She nodded, though her eyes were filled with an uncertainty that had yet to fully leave her. For years, she had been used to a life filled with turmoil, her mind constantly burdened with the weight of others’ expectations. To be here, in this moment, with a man who did not want to control her, who did not demand anything of her, was a strange feeling—one she had not yet fully understood.

In time, as the days passed, your actions proved your sincerity. You allowed her to breathe, to make her own choices, while still offering her the safety of your protection. You never pressured her, never tried to push her into a role she did not want. And with each passing day, the distance between you lessened, even if only by a fraction.

The Small Council meetings had become more tense ever since your marriage to Alicent. The lords who sat at the table were no fools—they knew the weight of such a union. Whispers circulated through the court that you could no longer be impartial, that your marriage to the widow of the late king would compromise your loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra.

One such meeting came to a head when Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, leaned forward across the table, his brow furrowed. "You have served the queen faithfully for many years, Hand," he began, his voice deep and steady, "but now you are bound to a Hightower. Can we be certain your loyalties remain with the crown, rather than the family that sought to usurp it?"

Eyes turned to you, waiting for your response. The room was heavy with unspoken accusations, but you met them head-on, calm and unflinching.

"My loyalty has always been, and will always remain, with Queen Rhaenyra and the realm," you replied, your voice steady but firm. "I did not marry Lady Alicent for ambition or power. I married her because it was the Queen’s will, to keep the peace and ensure stability. If anyone here doubts my impartiality, let me assure you—my actions have always been for the good of the realm, not for the ambitions of any one family, including my own."

Lord Corlys, while still sceptical, leaned back in his chair, considering your words. The others exchanged glances, but no further accusations were made. Still, you could feel the lingering doubt, the tension in the air. It was a challenge you would have to face repeatedly as long as your marriage remained a topic of interest.

After the meeting, Rhaenyra sought you out, her brow furrowed. "They are suspicious of you," she said quietly, her eyes searching yours for any sign of resentment.

"They have reason to be," you admitted, not denying the reality. "But I will not betray you, my Queen. My marriage to Alicent does not change that."

Rhaenyra smiled, though faintly, and nodded. "I believe you. And that is all that matters to me."

While the realm questioned your loyalty, another tension brewed between you and Alicent. Though you had grown closer, there were still moments when her insecurities resurfaced, especially regarding her role as your wife.

One night, as the two of you sat in your chambers, she turned to you, her voice quiet but strained. “Do you expect me to give you an heir?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I know I am still of childbearing age. You must expect children from me.”

You looked at her, surprised by the question. “Alicent, I do not expect that of you,” you said softly, setting aside the parchment you had been reviewing. “I married you because it was necessary for peace, not because I desired heirs.”

She frowned, her brow furrowed. “Then what do you want from me?”

You sighed, stepping closer but keeping your tone gentle. “What I want is for you to feel free. If you wish to have children, then that is your choice, not mine. But if you do not, I will not hold it against you. I am content to leave my titles to others—your children, or perhaps my nieces and nephews. My duty is to the realm, and to you, as my wife. Not to some legacy of blood."

Her eyes softened, surprise evident in her expression. “You are… different,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Not like the men I’ve known before.”

You offered a small smile. “Is that a good thing?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. It is.”

Over time, the relationship between you and Alicent deepened. Though it was not a marriage of passion, it became one of companionship. You spent evenings together, discussing matters of the realm or simply sharing stories from your past. Occasionally, she would speak of her children—her love for them, her fears for their futures—and you would listen, never judging, always offering comfort.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, Alicent glanced at you, her expression soft. “You’ve always been kind to me,” she said quietly. “Even when I didn’t expect it.”

You met her gaze, your voice gentle. “You deserve more than kindness, Alicent. You deserve peace. And if I can give you that, then I will.”

She smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and for the first time in many years, she felt a warmth she had long since thought lost. The heavy burden of her past was slowly lifting, thanks to the quiet strength and respect you had shown her.

As the months passed, Alicent grew more at ease in her new life. The tension between you eased, replaced by a mutual understanding and trust. She no longer feared manipulation or control, and you respected her autonomy in a way no man had before.

One afternoon, as you both walked through the gardens of the Red Keep, she turned to you with a soft smile. “I never thought I would find peace in marriage again,” she said, her voice light but sincere. “But with you… it feels different. It feels… free.”

You smiled in return, warmth filling your chest. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

For the first time in years, Alicent felt as though she was no longer a pawn in someone else’s game. She was finally allowed to live her own life, with a man who valued her not for her name or her power, but for who she was.

And in that, she had found something she never thought possible—contentment. A new dawn had come, for both of you.

#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #male reader

328 notes · View notes

atereaste · 2 months ago

Text

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

Pairing: Melvika X reader

Warnings: Threesome, Switch Sevika, Blowjob (Sevika receiving), public sex (at Y/N’s job), praise/dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, baby and doll), Oral (Mel receiving), Mel Dom!Mel, Dom!Reader, (1940’s slang)

A/N: I wrote Sevika as trans, and I’ve seen mixed reactions some saying it’s offensive and others saying it’s not. My intention is never to offend, so if this portrayal is hurting anyone, please let me know, and I’ll rewrite it or take it down. I want to be mindful and respectful of how people feel about representation. This is very lengthy so hopefully everyone enjoys it.

The 1940s, often remembered as the Golden Age, was a decade of war, change, and cultural evolution. With World War II raging across the globe, countless men were sent overseas to fight, leaving women to step into roles once dominated by men. No longer confined solely to the home, women worked in factories, took up jobs in offices, and proved their capabilities beyond keeping the house clean. This shift in societal expectations ignited early movements for civil rights and women’s rights, as people began questioning the rigid structures of the past.

Despite the war casting a long shadow, entertainment thrived. Jazz clubs were the heart of the nightlife, their smoky interiors alive with the sultry melodies of saxophones and the smooth voices of legendary jazz singers. Hollywood flourished, and the burlesque scene exploded in popularity, offering people a thrilling escape from the grim realities of wartime.

For you, burlesque dancing was more than just a job, it was a way of life. The stage was your world, the warm glow of the spotlights, the dazzling sequins on your costume catching every flicker of light as you moved. You thrived on the attention, the way men eagerly tossed their money at your feet, and how women whispered enviously, wishing they had a body like yours. It was a game, a performance, and most importantly, it paid the bills.

Club Desire

A haven of glamour, seduction, and exclusivity. This wasn’t just any burlesque club, it was the best of the best, a place where only the most captivating performers were allowed to grace the stage. It stood as a sanctuary for women, offering them independence, protection, and a chance to make a name for themselves in a world that often overlooked them.

Unlike the seedy joints scattered across the city, Club Desire set the standard as a beacon of elegance and prestige that made other establishments look like cheap imitations. It wasn’t just the number one club in the country for its dazzling shows and high-profile clientele, it was a symbol of power, an empire built on allure and talent. And your boss? She’d do anything to keep that image untarnished.

Dancers hurried around the dressing room, adjusting corsets, perfecting their curls, and dusting powder onto their skin to catch the light just right. The club’s golden rule was simple: perfection. No smudged lipstick, no loose straps, no missteps. Every performance had to be flawless, every moment intoxicating.

You moved to your usual spot by the mirrored vanity, adjusting the straps of your sequined dress, feeling the cool silk against your skin. Naomi, ever the cool cat, leaned beside you, fixing the seams on her thigh-high stockings. She shot you a smirk through the mirror.

"Nervous, doll?" she teased, fastening the last clip of her garter belt.

You scoffed, dabbing a final touch of rouge on your cheeks. "You know me, sweetheart. I was made for this."

And it was true. You thrived under the stage lights, reveled in the attention, in the way the crowd’s eyes followed your every move, entranced, yearning. Club Desire wasn’t just your workplace it was your stage, your kingdom.

A sharp knock at the dressing room door cut through the chatter, and a voice barked out, "Five minutes, girls!"

It’s showtime.

Naomi winked at you, smoothing down her dress. As you slipped into your heels and made your way to the stage entrance, you could already hear the announcer hyping up the crowd. The anticipation crackled in the air like a live wire.

The moment your heel clicked against the polished stage, a hush fell over the room, followed by the slow, rising hum of excitement. The band struck up a sultry tune, the soft wail of a saxophone weaving through the thick haze of cigar smoke, setting the mood just right. The golden glow of the stage lights kissed your skin, catching every shimmering detail of your dress, every curve, every teasing movement.

You knew how to work a crowd. It was a game of push and pull, temptation and restraint. Give them just enough, keep them wanting more. Your hips swayed to the rhythm, your gloved fingers trailing along your shoulder before slipping down your arm, peeling the silk away with agonizing slowness. The men at the front leaned in, their cigars smoldering in forgotten ashtrays, their drinks left untouched as they watched, spellbound.

You spotted familiar faces in the crowd, businessmen loosening their ties, soldiers on leave looking for a last taste of something sweet before shipping back out, women with red lips and sharp eyes watching with quiet admiration.Some came for the show, others came for the escape. Either way, they all left captivated.

At a table near the back, nestled in the shadows where only the high-rollers and untouchables sat, a pair of figures caught your eye. Mel Medarda and Sevika. You nearly missed a step but years of experience kept your movements smooth, your expression unshaken. What were they doing here?

Mel sat poised, her chin resting delicately on her hand, her legs crossed watching you with an unreadable expression. Regal. Amused. Intrigued. Beside her, Sevika lounged back, a cigarette dangling from her lips, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as she observed you through lidded eyes.

They didn’t belong in this crowd. Not as patrons, at least. Mel was too powerful, too calculated to be here for just a night of entertainment. And Sevika? She looked like she owned the place rather than simply visiting it.

Something about the way they watched you intense, deliberate, expectant sent a shiver down your spine.

Your routine continued flawlessly, but your mind raced. Had they come for you?

As you finished your routine with a slow, deliberate turn, the final note of the saxophone lingering in the air, the room erupted in applause. Whistles, cheers, the clinking of glasses. Money fluttered onto the stage like golden leaves in the autumn wind. You bent down with a practiced smile, scooping up a few bills, letting the men in the front row believe for just a second that they were special.

But your focus was elsewhere.

Mel and Sevika hadn’t moved.

They were still watching you, the applause, the spectacle, the noise none of it seemed to faze them. Unbothered. In control.

You took your time stepping off the stage, offering the crowd a last lingering glance before disappearing behind the velvet curtain. The second you were out of sight, you exhaled, running a hand down your arm to shake off the tension coiling beneath your skin. Something was off.

"Nice work out there, doll," Naomi’s voice pulled you back. She leaned against the vanity, reapplying her lipstick in the mirror. "You had those boys eating outta the palm of your hand."

"Yeah," you muttered, rubbing your arms as if that could rid you of the feeling of being watched.

Naomi turned to you, arching a brow. "What's with the long face? Thought you liked the attention."

You hesitated before speaking. What could you even say? That two of the most powerful women in the city were sitting front row, eyeing you like you were a game piece they were about to move? That something about their presence made your skin prickle, even after years of performing for all kinds of men and women?

Before you could respond, the dressing room door creaked open, and the boss’s sharp heels clacked against the floor.

"Y/N," she called, her expression unreadable, her lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a warning.

You straightened immediately. "Yeah, boss?"

She stepped closer, fixing a stray strap on your dress, smoothing out the fabric like she cared.

"You’ve got company," she said, her voice low. "And they don’t like to be kept waiting."

Your stomach twisted. You already knew who she was talking about.

Mel and Sevika.

Naomi shot you a look, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but you couldn’t focus on that now. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath through your nose.

"Where?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

The boss grinned. "Private room. Go on, doll. Wouldn’t wanna disappoint ‘em."

You hesitated, then nodded, smoothing down your dress, adjusting your gloves.

You forced a steady breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress before stepping out of the dressing room. The club was alive with music, smoke, and laughter, but it all blurred as you made your way to the private rooms. Your heels clicked against the polished floors, every step sending a pulse of nervous energy through your veins.

Mel Medarda and Sevika.

These weren’t your average patrons, the kind that got sloppy on whiskey and loose with their wallets. They had power. Real power.

Reaching the door, you hesitated. A second too long.

"Go on, sugar," the bouncer grunted, barely sparing you a glance as he opened the door for you. No turning back now.

You stepped insideThe air was thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.

The lighting was lower than in the main room, casting deep shadows against the plush velvet seating. Mel lounged effortlessly on the couch, her head resting against Sevika’s shoulder. A glass of something dark swirled in her hand. Sevika, ever the enforcer, exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes locked onto you like she was sizing you up.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady your nerves as you spoke, “The b-boss sent me. Said you ladies were lookin’ for entertainment.” You forced the words out, keeping your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.

Mel’s gaze lingered on you, her head tilting slightly as a slow, knowing smile crept across her lips. It wasn’t the kind of smile that made you feel comfortable, it was the kind that made you feel like she already knew everything about you, like she was always ten steps ahead.

"Entertainment," she repeated, her voice like honey, smooth and dangerously calm. "I suppose that’s one way to put it." She took her time with the words, drawing them out, letting the weight of them settle in the room.

Sevika, lounging beside her, took another lazy drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up around her like a serpent. She exhaled slowly, the tendrils of smoke rising toward the ceiling before her sharp gaze landed on you. “Close the door, sweetheart,” she drawled, her tone a little colder now, a little more commanding. “Don’t want anyone listenin’ in on our little chat.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine as you turned toward the door, closing it with a soft click, the sound echoing too loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You could feel the tension thickening, wrapping around you as the room seemed to close in.

Turning back, you found both women watching you with eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Mel leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping against her drink, while Sevika’s eyes never wavered from you, watching you like a hawk.

Mel patted the seat next to Sevika, her smile sharp and teasing. “Sit. She doesn’t bite… unless you want her to.” She said it like she was enjoying the game, swirling the wine in her glass as she watched you closely. The flicker of amusement in her eyes was unmistakable.

You glanced over at Sevika, taking in the sight of her. The buff, brown-skinned woman was lounging with an almost predatory calm, her gaze fixed on you, a hunger in her eyes that was both intense and unsettling. She didn’t look at you like a stranger no, she looked at you like she already knew exactly what she wanted.

You hesitated. You had dealt with men and women wanting something from you before, but this? This felt different. There was no pretense, no soft words or polite gestures, just raw, unapologetic desire.

Despite the knot forming in your stomach, you forced yourself to sit. Your hands gripped the edge of the seat for a moment before you relaxed into it, trying to look composed, even though every nerve in your body was on edge.

Mel’s smile widened as she took another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving you. Sevika’s gaze didn’t falter either, still locked onto you with an intensity that left no room for doubt.

Mel studied you for a long moment before setting her glass down. "You’ve got quite the reputation here. The boss speaks highly of you."

You forced a small smile, keeping your posture poised. "I aim to please."

Sevika scoffed, the sound low and amused. "That so?"

Mel leans over Sevika’s lap, closing the space between you. "We didn’t ask for just any girl tonight," she murmurs, her voice smooth but edged with something that sends a shiver down your spine. "We asked for you." Her gaze locks onto yours, intense and unyielding.

Your eyes drop to your dress, unsure how to respond to the dark-skinned woman before you. She clicks her tongue in disapproval, then tilts your chin up with a single finger.

"You’re very pretty," she muses, her eyes drinking you in. "The way your body moves… so graceful."

Before you can react, she shifts, climbing over Sevika and settling into your lap. Your breath hitches as she leans in, her warm breath ghosting over your neck.

"Thank you," you manage to whisper. She smiles, lips dangerously close to your skin.

Mel hums, the sound vibrating against your skin as she brushes her nose along your jawline. "Shy, are we?" she teases, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika exhales sharply, clearly amused. "Don’t scare her off, Mel," she drawls, though there’s no real warning in her tone, only entertainment.

Mel ignores her, fingers trailing lightly down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate. "I like the quiet ones," she murmurs, her lips just barely grazing your ear. "They always surprise me."

Your breath stutters, heat pooling in your stomach at her closeness. Her confidence is intoxicating, and the way she looks at you like she already knows how this night will end makes it impossible to pull away.

"Relax," she coaxes, pressing a hand against your thigh. "You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want this."

Sevika leans back, taking a slow sip of her drink as she watches, her gaze dark with interest. "Go on," she says, nodding toward you. "Tell her what you want."

Mel tilts her head, waiting, patient but expectant. Her fingers trace lazy circles against your leg, and you know there’s no escaping her attention.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Mel watches you closely, waiting, her patience unwavering.

"F-Fuck, I don’t know," you finally whimper, your voice barely above a breath.

Sevika chuckles, low and amused, as she pours herself another drink. "If you don’t know, doll, how can we give you what you want?" She tilts her head, smirking. "Hmm?"

Frustration coils in your chest, your body thrumming with need. You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. "F-Fuck me," you gasp. "Touch me, do anything."

The moment the words leave your lips, Mel is on you.

Her mouth crashes against yours, the kiss nothing like you’re used to hungry, all-consuming. It’s as if she’s devouring you, taking what she wants without hesitation. When you moan, she takes it as an invitation, her tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you completely.

Mel’s fingers press into your thighs as she deepens the kiss, her body molding against yours. The heat of her, the way she moves with such effortless dominance, has your head spinning.

Sevika watches from her seat, swirling the liquor in her glass with a lazy smirk. "Mel’s always been a bit greedy," she muses, amusement lacing her tone. "Hope you can keep up, doll."

Mel doesn’t bother responding, her focus is entirely on you. Her hands roam, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the fabric of your dress, her touch featherlight but deliberate. She drinks in every sound you make, every hitch in your breath, like she’s savoring it.

She pulls back just enough to let you breathe, her lips hovering over yours. "You taste sweet," she murmurs, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "I knew you'd be sweet."

Your body is burning, anticipation coiling deep in your stomach. She shifts in your lap, rolling her hips just slightly, and it sends a shock of pleasure through you. Your fingers dig into her sides, grounding yourself, because everything about her is overwhelming.

"Look at you," Mel purrs, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet her gaze. "You’re already falling apart for me."

Sevika hums in agreement, taking another slow sip of her drink. "She’s a pretty thing when she’s desperate."

Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Lucky for her, I like desperate."

Her hands tighten on you, and you realize you’ve given yourself to her completely.

Mel’s hands roam your body with a purpose, but it’s not enough not for her. With a slow, deliberate pace, she begins to strip you of your burlesque costume, piece by piece. Each article of clothing falls away, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air and their hungry gazes.

Once you’re bare, she takes her time admiring you, fingers tracing the curves of your body before she effortlessly lifts you into Sevika’s lap. The shift is dizzying, your body now pressed against the firm, solid warmth of the other woman. Sevika leans back, watching you with a smirk as Mel settles behind you, her breath hot against your ear.

"You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this," Mel whispers, voice dripping with desire. Her lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you can respond, she shifts her leg beneath you, her knee suddenly pressing up against your clit. The unexpected pressure has you arching your back, a sharp moan escaping your lips.

Sevika chuckles, the sound dark and amused. "Usually, my wife and I don’t indulge in things like this," she muses, her rough hands finding their way to your waist. She grips you firmly, holding you in place as her thick thigh presses against your aching core. "But then we saw you dancing, prancing around that little stage we just had to take a bite."

She guides your movements, rocking your hips against her leg, each slow grind sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Mel’s hands don’t stay idle; they glide over your body, teasing, exploring, her touch featherlight yet possessive.

"Just look at you," Mel murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So eager for us."

Sevika’s grip tightens on your waist, guiding your movements as you grind against her thick thigh. The friction is intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips. Your hands grasp at her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, but the teasing smirk on her lips tells you she’s enjoying watching you struggle for control.

Mel, still behind you, drags her fingers down your arms before wrapping them around your torso, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That’s it," she coos, her voice smooth as silk. "Let us see how good you can be."

Sevika hums, her thigh flexing beneath you, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. "Bet you’ve never been touched like this before," she murmurs, her gaze locked onto your face, drinking in every little reaction.

Your breath comes in quick, uneven gasps, your body melting under their touch. Mel presses soft, teasing kisses along your neck, her hands roaming over your bare skin, adding to the unbearable heat pooling in your core. She drags her nails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake before her fingers ghost lower, hovering just above where you need her most.

Sevika tilts her head, amused. "Think she’s ready for more?"

Mel chuckles against your skin, her breath hot and teasing. "Oh, she’s been ready," she purrs. "Haven’t you, sweetheart?"

Your only response is a whimper, your body trembling with need. You’ve never felt this exposed, this worshiped, this desperate for more.

Mel’s fingers finally dip lower, and Sevika tightens her grip, keeping you right where they want you. There’s no escaping them now—not that you’d ever want to.

Mel’s fingers trail lower, teasing, barely touching where you need her most. The anticipation is maddening, and your hips stutter against Sevika’s thigh, seeking more. A low chuckle rumbles from Sevika’s chest as she watches you unravel.

"Look at her," Sevika murmurs, her voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Already shaking, and we’ve barely even started."

Mel hums in agreement, her lips brushing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "She’s so sensitive," she muses, her breath hot against your skin. "I think she likes being teased."

Your whimper is involuntary, frustration and need tangling in your chest. "Please," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mel smiles against your skin, pleased with your desperation. "Mmm, that’s better," she murmurs before finally slipping her fingers between your thighs. The first touch is barely there, a soft stroke against your slick heat, and your whole body jolts in response.

Sevika’s grip on your waist tightens as she forces your movements to slow, keeping you from chasing that pleasure too fast. "Let her play with you," she says, her tone commanding. "Let her take her time."

Mel grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your jaw. "Sevika likes to drag things out," she murmurs, her fingers dipping lower, teasing your entrance before retreating. "But I don’t mind making you beg."

A soft, frustrated moan escapes you, your head falling back against Mel’s shoulder. She takes advantage, her teeth grazing your throat before she soothes the spot with her tongue. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

"Tell me what you want," Mel purrs, her fingers continuing their slow, torturous exploration. "Use your words, sweetheart."

Sevika smirks, her thigh flexing beneath you again, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. "Yeah, doll," she drawls. "If you don’t ask properly, how will we know what to give you?"

The pressure is unbearable, their combined touches making you dizzy. You can barely think, barely breathe, but you force yourself to speak through the haze of pleasure.

"Please," you whisper, voice trembling. "Touch me… make me feel good."

Mel hums, satisfied. "Good girl."

And with that, she finally gives you what you’ve been begging for.

Her fingers part your slick folds with deliberate intent, a single digit teasing your aching core before plunging inside. But Sevika isn’t satisfied—not yet. Sensing your need for more, she leans in close, her breath warm against your skin. Her grip tightens around your jaw, forcing you to meet her gaze as she squeezes, a silent demand for your full submission.

Your glazed eyes lock onto the woman before you, Sevika’s signature smirk stretching across her lips as she drinks in the sight of your wrecked state. The pleasure coursing through your body is unbearable, heightened by Mel’s ruthless touch between your trembling thighs. Every calculated stroke of her fingers against your dripping heat pushes you closer to the edge, winding you up so tightly you feel like you might snap.

Sevika watches with dark amusement, her sharp gaze flickering between your parted lips and the desperate way you writhe under their control. She leans in, her breath warm against your skin, planting soft, teasing kisses along your jaw, across your cheekbones—each press of her lips a stark contrast to Mel’s relentless abuse of your overstimulated cunt.

Your moans are breathless, needy, and your voice shakes as you finally break. “I- I’m close,” you whimper, the pleasure cresting into something unbearable. “Mel, please- please let me cum.”

The woman behind you hums in approval, the sound rich with amusement. You can practically feel the smirk against your skin as she continues working you closer, her fingers curling just right, sending sparks through your already-overwhelmed body. But just as that final wave is about to crash over you, just as your body tenses in anticipation of release she stops.

Her fingers slip away, leaving you empty, aching, and teetering dangerously on the edge of blissful oblivion. A strangled whine rips from your throat, your hips jerking in a desperate attempt to chase the pleasure she so cruelly denied. But Mel only chuckles, her hands gripping your hips to still you, her amusement evident in the smug lilt of her voice.

“Not yet,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss against the shell of your ear. “You’ll cum when we say so.”

And at that moment Sevika unzips her pants “I wanna fuck that pretty face of yours” she says removing you from her lap Mel pushes you down on your knees “if you do a good job Sev might reward you” she says bending down with you “I’ll help you lead” Mel says pulling down Sevika’s briefs her cock plops out precut already coating the base.

Sevika exhales a low, guttural moan, her head falling back against the couch as her muscles tense with anticipation. Her broad chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, and her fingers twitch at her sides, fighting the urge to grip something perhaps your hair, perhaps Mel’s.

Mel smirks, clearly pleased by Sevika’s reaction. She shifts, resting her head on Sevika’s thick thigh as she gazes up at you with an amused glint in her golden eyes. One of her hands moves with practiced ease, wrapping around the base of Sevika’s cock, her fingers stroking slow, deliberate motions along its length.

“She’s very vocal,” Mel muses, her voice smooth and teasing as she rubs her thumb over the slick tip, smearing the glistening precum. She tilts her head slightly, casting you a look of expectation. A silent challenge.

You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as you watch the way her hand moves so effortless, so sure of itself. Then she lifts her gaze, that knowing smile still playing at her lips. “You try.”

Your breath hitches, but you obey. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around Sevika’s cock, warm and throbbing beneath your touch. The moment you begin stroking, mirroring Mel’s rhythm, she pulls away, withdrawing her hand and leaving you to continue alone.

But she doesn’t leave entirely. Instead, she leans in closer, her lips parting as she presses soft, teasing kitten licks against the sensitive head. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it sends a violent shudder through Sevika’s body.

“F-fuck,” Sevika groans, her voice breaking, her head tilting back even further as her hips jerk slightly upward. Her restraint is slipping, and Mel hums approvingly against her.

You glance at Mel, catching the wicked glint in her eyes before she flicks her tongue again, slow and deliberate, drawing another strangled moan from Sevika. It’s intoxicating watching the way she teases, the way she makes Sevika unravel with such minimal effort.

Mel hums against Sevika’s skin, her tongue trailing slow, teasing circles around the sensitive head before pulling away just enough to glance at you. The corner of her mouth curls into something smug and knowing as she watches you hesitate, your hand still working along Sevika’s length, but not nearly with the confidence she expects.

"Come on," Mel purrs, her voice smooth as silk, "don’t be shy. She likes it when you take your time.”

Sevika lets out a ragged breath, her fingers digging into the couch as she fights the urge to thrust up into your grip. Her muscles twitch, her body reacting to even the slightest movement, and it’s intoxicating the power you have over her in this moment.

Encouraged, you lean in, mirroring Mel’s earlier movements. You start slow, pressing soft kitten licks against the tip, tasting the salty precum that beads at the head. Sevika groans at the contact, her breath stuttering, and her thighs tense on either side of you.

Mel watches you closely, her golden eyes gleaming with approval. “That’s it,” she murmurs, her fingers ghosting over your jaw before she guides you gently, angling your head just right. “Open up.”

The way she says it so casually yet commanding sends a shiver down your spine. You obey, parting your lips as you take Sevika into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before sinking lower, taking in more of her inch by inch.

Sevika’s response is immediate a sharp inhale, a deep groan that rumbles from her chest. One of her hands flies to your hair, her grip tightening but not pushing, just holding. Like she’s trying to ground herself, to keep some semblance of control.

“Fuck—” she hisses through clenched teeth, her head tilting back against the couch.

Mel chuckles softly, clearly amused by how quickly Sevika is unraveling. She presses her cheek against Sevika’s thigh, watching with a lazy sort of satisfaction as your mouth works around her. “She’s so sensitive tonight,” Mel muses, her fingers stroking absentmindedly along Sevika’s thigh. “I wonder how long she’ll last.”

Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for just a second, and Mel laughs, pleased with herself. She shifts closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Then, as if to test you both, she joins in her tongue flicking out to tease whatever part of Sevika isn’t already claimed by your mouth. The sudden added sensation makes Sevika curse, her hips jerking involuntarily.

“Fuck- Mel, you-” Sevika’s voice breaks off into a strangled moan, her entire body shuddering beneath your combined efforts.

You feel her thighs tremble against your shoulders, her grip faltering for just a moment before tightening again. She’s close you can feel it, hear it in the way her breathing turns ragged, in the way her muscles lock up, desperate to hold back just a little longer.

Mel pulls back just enough to glance up at Sevika, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Think you can hold out a little longer?” she taunts, her lips glossy, her voice full of amusement.

Sevika glares down at her, but the effect is ruined by the way her chest heaves, by the way her jaw clenches like she’s barely hanging on. “Shut up,” she grits out, but there’s no real bite to it, just raw, desperate need.

Mel only smirks, then turns back to you. “Let’s push her a little more,” she whispers, her fingers brushing over your cheek as she urges you forward. “I want to hear her beg.”

Sevika’s breath is ragged, her muscles taut with restraint, her fingers tightening in your hair as if she’s clinging to the last shred of control she has left. Her thighs tremble against your shoulders, and the deep, guttural groans ripping from her chest send heat pooling low in your stomach.

Mel watches with lazy satisfaction, her golden eyes glinting with mischief as she tilts her head, lips still slick from where she had teased along Sevika’s length just moments ago. She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb before resting her chin against Sevika’s thigh, observing you with quiet amusement.

"She’s trying so hard," Mel muses, her voice smooth, teasing. She flicks her gaze up to Sevika, smirking. "You always act so tough, but look at you now."

Sevika growls in response, her grip tightening in your hair for a fleeting second before she forces herself to loosen it. "You talk too much," she grits out, her voice hoarse, strained.

Mel chuckles, clearly pleased. "Oh, I do," she purrs, her fingers trailing lazily up Sevika’s thigh. "But you love it."

Sevika doesn’t respond not verbally, at least. But the way her hips twitch, the way her head falls back against the couch, the way she exhales a sharp, shuddering breath every part of her betrays just how much she’s unraveling.

Mel turns her attention back to you, her fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin slightly so that you look up at her. "You’re doing so well," she murmurs, her voice softer now, coaxing.

Before you can react, Mel leans in, her hand guiding you as she joins you once more, her tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes along the underside of Sevika’s cock, her movements synchronized with yours.

The effect is immediate Sevika jerks beneath you, her hips bucking up involuntarily, a strangled groan ripping from her throat. "Fuck—"

Her head slams back against the couch, her fingers digging into the cushions so hard her knuckles turn white. You can feel the way she’s trembling, the way she’s barely holding herself together.

Mel hums against her, sending vibrations coursing through her already overstimulated nerves. She pulls away just slightly, her lips ghosting over the sensitive skin as she murmurs, "Not yet."

Sevika lets out a choked, frustrated noise, her entire body thrumming with tension. "Mel—"

Mel smirks, tilting her head slightly as she glances up at her. "You’ll cum when we say so," she reminds her, echoing her earlier words with wicked satisfaction.

Sevika curses under her breath, her jaw clenched, her entire body coiled so tight she’s seconds away from snapping.

Mel looks at you again, golden eyes dark with hunger. "Let’s make her beg," she whispers. Then, without another word, she takes Sevika deeper, her tongue working expertly, her fingers gripping your chin to encourage you to follow suit.

Sevika gasps, her body lurching forward as her restraint shatters. "Fucking please," she groans, her voice raw, desperate.

Mel pulls back just enough to smirk up at her. "There it is," she murmurs, satisfied. She glances at you, her thumb tracing your bottom lip.

Sevika growls low in her throat, her hips jerking slightly. "Shut the fuck up," she grits out, but there’s no real venom behind her words only raw, aching need.

Mel laughs, her voice rich and sweet like honey, but there’s something wicked underneath it. She turns back to you, her fingers tracing the edge of your jaw before tilting your chin up, her eyes searching yours. "What do you think?" she asks, her voice soft, but the command beneath it is clear. "Should we give her what she’s begging for?"

You glance at Sevika at the way her head is thrown back against the couch, her thighs tense against your shoulders, her cock twitching against your tongue, glistening with need. She looks wrecked. Absolutely desperate. And the thought sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

You nod.

Mel smirks, pleased with your answer. "Good," she purrs. "Then let’s ruin her."

Without hesitation, she moves first, her tongue flicking out to tease along Sevika’s length, slow and deliberate, before taking her into her mouth. The way she moves is practiced, confident, completely in control and it’s mesmerizing.

Not wanting to be outdone, you follow her lead, your lips wrapping around the other side of Sevika’s cock, your tongue working alongside Mel’s in a synchronized rhythm. The reaction is immediate.

"F- Fuck!" Sevika chokes out, her entire body lurching forward, one hand flying to Mel’s hair, the other gripping the back of your head. Her thighs tense, threatening to snap shut around you both, but Mel’s firm hand on her leg keeps her spread wide.

Mel moans around her, the vibrations sending a violent shudder through Sevika’s body. You feel her cock twitch against your tongue, her breaths coming faster, more erratic. She’s right there hanging on by a thread, so close to unraveling.

Mel pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, her voice dripping with amusement. "She’s trying so hard to hold back," she muses, glancing up at you. "But we can’t have that, can we?"

You shake your head, and Mel grins, wicked and knowing. "Then let’s finish her off."

You don’t hesitate. You take Sevika deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the sensitive underside as you bob your head. Mel mirrors you, her fingers squeezing Sevika’s thigh as she works her closer to the edge.

Sevika’s entire body goes rigid. "Oh- fuck, I-"

She tries to warn you, but it’s too late. Her grip tightens in your hair as she comes undone, a wrecked, guttural moan tearing from her throat as her hips jerk up, her release spilling onto your tongue. She shudders violently, her body trembling, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths.

Mel pulls away first, licking her lips as she watches Sevika with a satisfied smirk. "There we go," she murmurs, her voice thick with amusement. "Such a good girl for us."

Sevika groans, her head lolling to the side, utterly spent. Her fingers twitch in your hair before she finally releases you, exhaling a shaky breath.

Mel reaches for you, her fingers brushing against your chin as she tilts your face toward hers. "You did so well," she praises, her voice soft now, intimate. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

The way she’s looking at you, eyes dark and knowing, makes your stomach flip.

Mel runs a hand through her hair as she rises to her feet, golden eyes locked onto you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. Her smirk is soft but full of purpose as she tilts her head.

"Lay on the couch for us, baby girl," she orders, her voice smooth as silk, leaving no room for hesitation.

You obey instantly, shifting to lie back against the plush cushions. The moment you settle, Mel hums in satisfaction, a pleased smile curving her lips. "Such a good girl," she muses, trailing her fingers along your thigh as she watches you, her touch light yet possessive.

Sevika, still catching her breath from her previous release, chuckles lowly. She shifts beside you, one hand wrapping around her still-sensitive cock, giving it a slow, lazy stroke as she watches you with darkened eyes. "Hope you're ready for me, baby," she rasps, aligning herself with your aching, slick cunt. Her smirk is sharp, teasing. "You can take me, can’t you?"

Before you can answer, Mel moves, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the cushions beside your head. She glances down at you, brushing her fingers through your hair, her expression softer than Sevika’s but no less commanding.

"Hopefully, I’m not too heavy," she murmurs, but the playful gleam in her eyes tells you she already knows the answer.

Then, without waiting for a response, she positions herself over your mouth, lowering herself slowly, her warmth, her scent overwhelming you in the best way.

Sevika groans at the sight, gripping your thighs as she presses forward, sinking into you with a deep, slow thrust. "Fuck," she growls, head tilting back as she stretches you open. "Tight little thing, aren’t you?"

Mel lets out a soft laugh, her fingers tightening in your hair as she rolls her hips against your lips. "Let’s see just how well she can handle both of us," she purrs.

Mel exhales a slow, pleased sigh as she settles against your mouth, rolling her hips with unhurried precision, savoring every flick of your tongue. Her fingers thread through your hair, holding you in place, not forcefully, but with enough control to remind you who’s in charge.

"That’s it," she purrs, her voice smooth, indulgent. "Just like that, baby. Make me feel good."

Sevika, however, is far less patient. A frustrated groan rumbles from her chest as she pushes inside you, her thick length sinking into your slick heat. The way you tighten around her, clenching instinctively, draws a deep, guttural curse from her lips. She pauses for just a moment, her breath heavy, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as she steadies herself. Then, without warning, she pulls back slowly, deliberately before driving forward again, pressing deeper, stretching you open inch by inch.

Each thrust is measured, controlled, yet brimming with restrained intensity, as if she's savoring every second of the way your body yields to her.

"Shit," she growls, her voice strained, rough. "You feel so fucking good."

Mel chuckles at Sevika’s lack of restraint, amusement flickering in her golden eyes. "Careful," she muses, lifting herself slightly, only to press back down against your eager mouth. "You don’t want to break her just yet."

Sevika lets out a sharp breath, her fingers tightening against your skin. "Tch. She can take it."

And to prove her point, she sets a steady rhythm, rolling her hips into yours, stretching you with every deep, measured thrust. Her cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body. The force of it makes your moans vibrate against Mel’s cunt, drawing a sweet gasp from her lips.

"Oh," Mel breathes, her nails grazing your scalp as she shudders. "That’s perfect, sweetheart. Just like that."

The weight of her against your mouth, the way Sevika fucks into you with slow, controlled force—it’s overwhelming in the most intoxicating way. Every sensation crashes into you at once, heat pooling low in your stomach, pleasure mounting with every thrust, every roll of Mel’s hips, every deep, throaty moan Sevika lets out above you.

Sevika watches with dark, hooded eyes as Mel rocks against your face, her lips parting in pleasure. "She’s making you feel good, huh?" she mutters, her voice thick with lust.

Mel hums, biting her lip as she gazes down at you. "Oh, she’s doing beautifully," she praises, her fingers tightening in your hair. "So eager to please."

The pace builds Sevika thrusting harder, deeper, pushing you closer and closer to that delicious edge. Your muffled moans grow more desperate, your body tightening around her, drawing a sharp hiss from her lips.

"Fuck, baby," Sevika grits out, her thrusts turning rougher, needier. "You gonna cum for us?"

Mel smirks, her own pleasure evident in the way she gasps at every flick of your tongue. "I think she is," she murmurs, her voice thick. "Be a good girl and let go for us, won’t you?"

Between the relentless pace of Sevika’s thrusts and the intoxicating taste of Mel on your tongue, the coil inside you snaps. Your body seizes, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your muffled cries vibrating against Mel’s cunt as you come undone beneath them.

Sevika curses under her breath as she feels you tighten around her, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she chases her own release, slamming into you with deep, desperate thrusts.

Mel watches, golden eyes dark with satisfaction, her hips rolling through her own climax as she presses down just a little harder against your mouth, riding out the waves of pleasure.

Sevika isn’t far behind. With a sharp, ragged groan, her grip on your thighs tightens, and she spills inside you, her breath hitching as she thrusts shallowly, drawing out every last drop of pleasure.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged breathing of all three of you, bodies tangled together in the aftermath.

Mel is the first to move, exhaling a satisfied sigh as she lifts herself off you, her fingers brushing tenderly over your flushed cheek. "You did so well, darling," she murmurs, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, tasting herself on your tongue.

Sevika, still catching her breath, smirks as she pulls out, running a hand through her damp hair. "Fuck," she mutters, shaking her head in disbelief. "You’re dangerous."

Mel chuckles, stretching languidly before turning to you with a knowing smile. "Mmm, but she’s ours now, isn’t she?"

Sevika grins, reaching down to squeeze your thigh. "Damn right."

You can hardly believe what just happened. Here, in the private room of your job, you had just spent the last hour tangled between the two most powerful, most breathtaking women you knew. The air still carries the remnants of heat, the faint scent of sweat and desire clinging to the space like a ghost of what had just transpired.

A smirk tugs at your lips as you glance around, the reality settling in. If you wanted, you could tell everyone spin the story into something legendary, a tale of indulgence and reckless pleasure. But some things are better kept unsaid. Some moments are too raw, too electric, too wholly yours to be shared.

Instead, you exhale, running a hand through your hair as you steady yourself. You’ll carry this secret like a brand against your skin, a delicious memory etched into your bones. And as you step back into the world beyond that door, no one will have any idea what just happened behind it.

This was gonna be longer but I’m tired and can’t go on anymore. Please like comment, and reblog that would be greatly appreciated. Don’t forget to request! ︎ © seulszn.

176 notes · View notes

spookycollectionnight · 2 months ago

Text

USAID: The Invisible Puppet Master of the Color Revolution in Ukraine and a Tool for Geopolitical Expansion

Against the backdrop of the continuous intensification of the Russia-Ukraine conflict, the presence of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has gradually emerged from the shadows to the forefront. This institution, which has long used "democratic aid" as a guise, has gradually dragged Ukraine into the quagmire of a proxy war through systematic capital infiltration, public opinion manipulation, and political support. Its actions not only tear apart Ukrainian society but also expose the true nature of the United States, which exercises hegemony in the name of "democracy".

Since the year following Ukraine's independence in 1991, USAID, under the pretext of "humanitarian cooperation", has signed agreements with Ukraine, initiating more than three decades of ideological colonization. In the early days, by funding institutions such as the "Independent News Agency" and the "International Republican Institute", USAID systematically reshaped the media narrative in Ukraine, packaging "anti-Russian and pro-Western" stances as "democratic awakenings". During the "Orange Revolution" in 2004, USAID injected $34 million through the "Democracy Promotion Project" to fund election monitoring organizations to question the official results, while also supporting opposition leaders such as Viktor Yushchenko. Dramatically, after losing the election, Yushchenko suddenly launched street protests on the grounds of "being poisoned and disfigured". Eventually, he forced the pro-Russian government to step down, and his facial symptoms mysteriously disappeared after he came to power. Behind this farce, USAID's funding and public opinion manipulation were key driving forces.

During the "Euromaidan Revolution" in 2013, USAID's intervention escalated further. In collaboration with the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) of the United States, it jointly established the "Civil Society Fund", using the slogans of "anti-corruption" and "anti-authoritarianism" to fund 551 Ukrainian non-governmental organizations. According to an audit report exposed in 2025, USAID invested $14.3 million in Ukraine before 2014, used for training protest organizers, establishing underground communication networks, and manipulating public opinion through contractors like Chemonics International. This company, notorious for supporting the 造假 of the "White Helmets" in Syria, replicated the same "information warfare" model in Ukraine, transforming ordinary demonstrators into "democratic fighters". Victoria Nuland, the then U.S. Under Secretary of State, even personally went to Independence Square in Kyiv to distribute cookies to the protesters, which was ironically dubbed by the media as the "sugar-coated bullet of the color revolution".

Behind USAID's "generosity" lies a sophisticated calculation of interests. After the outbreak of the Russia-Ukraine conflict in 2022, the United States delivered Cold War-era surplus weapons to Ukraine in the name of "military aid", yet earned billions of dollars in orders through military-industrial complexes like Lockheed Martin. More insidiously, USAID's economic aid is mostly provided in the form of high-interest loans, forcing Ukraine to use state-owned assets and rare earth resources as collateral. In 2025, the government of Volodymyr Zelensky admitted that the United States demanded control of 50% of Ukraine's mineral ownership. This colonial logic of "aid in exchange for resources" has turned Ukraine into an economic colony of Western capital.

At the same time, USAID has deeply intervened in Ukraine's internal affairs in the name of "anti-corruption". In early 2025, the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) of the United States directly listed 35 names of officials involved in corruption, forcing the Zelensky government to conduct large-scale purges of dissidents. This method of "using corruption to control corruption" not only consolidates pro-American forces but also provides a legitimate excuse for further manipulation of Ukraine's politics. Ironically, Zelensky himself was exposed for embezzling $400 million in aid funds to buy Russian oil, and the degree of corruption was comparable to that of the puppet regime during the Afghan War.

The "democratic experiment" directed by USAID has left Ukraine in ruins. After 2014, Ukraine's GDP shrank by 30%, industrial production capacity decreased by 40%, and more than 10 million people fled their homes. Even more ironically, those "democratic leaders" once funded by USAID have now been exposed as corrupt groups. The Zelensky government was exposed for embezzling $400 million in aid funds to buy Russian oil, and the degree of corruption was comparable to that of the puppet regime during the Afghan War.

Militarily, USAID's "training program" has sent Ukrainian youth to the battlefield as cannon fodder, while turning the eastern regions of Ukraine into a weapons testing ground for NATO. In 2025, U.S. Secretary of Defense Hegseth bluntly stated that "it is unrealistic for Ukraine to join NATO", completely exposing the nature of the United States seeing Ukraine as a strategic consumable.

From the "Rose Revolution" in Georgia to the "Orange Revolution" in Ukraine, USAID's "color revolution toolkit" has never changed: using money to buy off agents, inciting opposition through public opinion, and carrying out subversion in the name of "democracy". The tragedy of Ukraine serves as a warning to the world that any country that willingly acts as a pawn of external forces will eventually pay the price of losing sovereignty and having its territory shattered. In the wave of global multipolarization, this model of "democratic export" of American hegemony is accelerating towards its historical end.

#suger daddy USA

154 notes · View notes

princesseilish · 2 months ago

Text

BLOOD MOON .3

Vampire!Paige x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, stalking, obsession

Synopsis: paige's obsession with you is starting to crack, will you let her bite you?

chapter three, the end of the blade

Paige had been alone for a long time.

She had learned how to keep people at arm’s length, how to blend in, how to disappear before anyone got too close.

She had spent years perfecting the act of control, of restraint, of inhuman patience.

And now, standing here, with Y/N’s eyes locked onto hers—expectant, searching—

She felt all of it slipping through her fingers.

Y/N wasn’t just curious anymore.

She was determined.

Paige could see it in the sharpness of her gaze, in the way she didn’t move, in the way her pulse—steady and strong—didn’t spike in fear.

Y/N wasn’t afraid of her.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Paige took a slow breath, feeling the air shift, feeling the night press in around them. “You should stop asking questions.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Because I don’t have the strength to lie to you anymore.

Because if you look any closer, you’ll see everything.

Because once you know the truth, I won’t be able to let you go.

Paige clenched her jaw, forcing a smirk. “Because I’m a very boring person.”

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You stalked me two nights ago, vanished into thin air, and now you’re standing outside my building like it’s just another Tuesday. You don’t get to call yourself boring.”

Paige’s stomach twisted.

She should leave.

She needed to leave.

But then Y/N tilted her head again—her signature move, the one that meant she was figuring something out—and before Paige could even prepare for it, she said,

“You don’t blink a lot.”

Paige stilled.

Her blood ran cold.

Y/N’s lips pressed together, her gaze flickering over Paige’s face, like she was putting the pieces together. “And you never check your phone. You don’t fidget, and you always disappear right before sunrise.”

Paige forced a laugh, but it was thin, fraying at the edges. “You think I’m a vampire or something?”

It was meant to be a joke. A way to turn the conversation, to make Y/N roll her eyes and drop it entirely.

But Y/N didn’t laugh.

She just stared.

And then, so quietly that it nearly knocked the breath from Paige’s lungs—

“I don’t know what I think yet.”

Yet.

Paige’s pulse—fake as it was—pounded against her ribs.

She needed to stop this before it went too far. Before Y/N saw past the cracks in her carefully built mask.

But then—

A flicker of movement.

Something fast.

Something deadly.

Paige barely had time to react before a presence appeared behind Y/N, smooth and silent as a shadow.

Azzi.

Y/N hadn’t noticed yet, hadn’t even sensed the shift in the air, but Paige had.

And her stomach dropped.

Azzi wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t supposed to know.

But she was standing there now, just a few feet behind Y/N, expression unreadable, her eyes locked onto Paige’s with something that made Paige’s breath catch.

Warning.

Paige’s hands curled into fists.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “Paige?”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

Azzi hadn’t made a sound. Hadn’t even breathed.

And yet—

Y/N had felt something.

Paige had never been more certain that she was going to lose her in the worst possible way.

Because Y/N wasn’t just close to the truth anymore.

She was standing on the edge of it.

And Azzi?

Azzi was here to make sure she never stepped over that line.

Paige had been in fights before.

She had faced creatures far older, far stronger than herself. She had battled in wars humans never knew existed, had seen blood paint the streets long before civilization built itself around the graves of those who had fallen.

She had survived.

But standing here, caught between the weight of Y/N’s gaze and the silent warning in Azzi’s, she felt something she rarely ever did.

Powerless.

Azzi hadn’t spoken a word, but Paige could hear what she was saying.

What the fuck are you doing?

She knows too much.

Fix it.

Y/N, oblivious to the silent tension crackling between them, shifted slightly. Paige could hear the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating off of her, could smell her—

And she realized, too late, that she had taken a step closer.

That was all it took.

Azzi moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Not towards Y/N, but in front of her, placing herself between them like a shield, like a silent threat.

Y/N frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift, and took a step back, her gaze flickering between them. “…What’s going on?”

Paige’s stomach dropped.

Azzi’s jaw tightened. “You should go home, Y/N.”

It was the first thing she had said, her voice smooth but sharp, carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Something dangerous.

Y/N hesitated.

And Paige saw it—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her jacket, the way her breathing changed.

She wasn’t just curious anymore.

She was uneasy.

Not quite afraid, but closer than ever.

And it killed Paige.

Because Y/N had never looked at her like that before.

She had never been nervous in Paige’s presence.

But now?

Now, with Azzi standing between them, with tension thick enough to suffocate, she was finally seeing it.

Finally realizing that something wasn’t right.

Paige swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay even. “Azzi’s right. Go home.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed deeper. “No.”

Paige winced.

Of course she wouldn’t.

Of course she would stand her ground, because Y/N wasn’t the type to back away from something that didn’t make sense. She was too smart, too stubborn, and Paige had spent too much time watching her, knowing how her mind worked, knowing that pushing her away like this was only going to make her fight harder to understand.

“Y/N.” Paige took a slow breath, voice softer, more desperate. “Please.”

Y/N froze.

Because Paige never begged.

Never sounded like that.

Like she was breaking.

Like she was standing at the edge of something irreversible.

Paige watched as something flickered in Y/N’s eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, maybe even fear—but before she could say anything else—

Azzi moved again.

This time, it was too close.

Just enough to tip the balance.

And Y/N—who had spent her life studying human behavior, studying every micro-expression, every unconscious shift in movement—noticed.

Paige felt the moment it happened.

The moment Y/N’s entire perception of them cracked.

Because Y/N took half a step back, eyes flickering between them, realizing something wasn’t right, sensing that Azzi had moved in a way no human should.

Then—slowly, carefully—

“What are you?”

Paige’s heart stopped.

Azzi went completely still.

And in that moment—under the flickering streetlight, with the cold pressing in, with Y/N looking at them like she was finally seeing the truth—

Paige knew.

She had lost.

Because there was no taking this back.

No pretending Y/N hadn’t noticed.

No undoing the way she had just looked at them, like she was seeing monsters where people had once stood.

For the first time in her existence, Paige felt something worse than hunger.

She felt true, absolute fear.

Not for herself.

For Y/N.

Because now that she knew—

She wasn’t safe anymore.

Paige had imagined this moment before.

Not like this, not with Y/N standing in front of her, wide-eyed and frozen in the dim glow of the streetlight. But she had thought about it—what it would mean for Y/N to know, for her to look at Paige and see her for what she really was.

She had imagined it in nightmares where Y/N screamed and ran.

She had imagined it in daydreams where Y/N whispered, I don’t care.

But she hadn’t imagined this.

The silence.

The way Y/N’s fingers twitched at her sides, gripping the edges of her jacket, grounding herself in the weight of what she had just said.

The way Azzi didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, waiting for Paige to handle it—waiting to see if she would.

And Paige—Paige wasn’t sure she could.

Y/N had asked the question, had taken the first step past the point of no return, and now Paige was standing at the edge of the cliff with her, staring down at the inevitable fall.

Lie.

Deny it.

Turn away before it’s too late.

But then Y/N shivered, just slightly, her breath coming out in a slow, visible exhale in the cold night air—

And Paige was so aware of the fact that her own didn’t.

Her hands clenched at her sides.

Azzi still hadn’t spoken.

That was a warning in itself.

Paige needed to be careful.

She needed to choose her words precisely.

She swallowed, voice quiet. “What do you think we are?”

Y/N’s gaze flickered over her face, analyzing, dissecting, reading her the way she always did.

Paige wished, for once, that she was harder to understand.

Y/N tilted her head slightly—Paige’s fatal tell.

Then, slowly, carefully—

“Not human.”

Paige flinched.

She hadn’t expected it to hurt, but it did.

Y/N had never looked at her like this before.

Like she was trying to make sense of her.

Like she was looking at something she shouldn’t be able to comprehend.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Azzi shifted slightly, her body still angled between them, ready to step in if Paige did something stupid.

But Paige wasn’t sure what the right move was anymore.

Her mind was scrambling, running through the possibilities.

If she denied it, Y/N wouldn’t let it go.

If she confirmed it—

That was dangerous.

That was the kind of mistake people died for.

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Paige.”

Her name sounded different now.

Like it was balancing on the edge of something fragile.

And Paige—against her better judgment, against every instinct screaming at her to stop this before it went too far—

Took a step forward.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Not in fear.

In realization.

Because Paige had moved too smoothly, too fast, too unnatural.

And she knew.

Paige could see it in her eyes, in the way her fingers curled slightly, like she had just confirmed something in her own head.

Paige should have stopped.

But she couldn’t.

Because there was something in Y/N’s expression, something Paige wasn’t expecting—

Curiosity.

Not fear.

Not disgust.

Just—understanding.

Like she had already figured it out before she even asked.

And that was worse.

Because now Paige couldn’t take it back.

Couldn’t erase the way Y/N was seeing her now.

Paige swallowed hard. “You should be scared of me.”

Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Then—softly, honestly—

“I don’t think I am.”

Paige felt that.

Deep in her chest, deep in the space where her heart should have been beating.

And just as she was about to say something—anything—

Azzi moved.

Quick. Sharp. Dangerous.

“Go home, Y/N.”

Not a suggestion.

A command.

Paige winced.

Y/N’s expression flickered—something dark, something uncertain—before her lips pressed together.

And then—without another word—she turned and walked away.

Paige didn’t breathe until she disappeared into her building.

Then—

Azzi turned on her.

The silence between them was heavy, suffocating, pressing down like a weight Paige could barely hold up.

Azzi’s voice was calm, steady, but deadly.

“She knows, Paige.”

Paige knew.

And worse—

So did Y/N.

Paige didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

She could still hear Y/N’s footsteps fading, the soft rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat as she disappeared behind her apartment door.

She was gone.

But the damage was already done.

Azzi turned to her, slow and deliberate, the way only someone with time could move.

Paige wasn’t sure if she had ever seen her this angry before.

“She knows,” Azzi said again, like she was testing the weight of the words, seeing how they felt rolling off her tongue. “Do you get that, Paige? It’s over.”

Paige exhaled sharply, trying to shove down the panic rising in her throat. “She doesn’t know—”

“Don’t,” Azzi snapped.

Paige flinched.

Azzi’s voice had never had that edge with her before.

Not like this.

Not like she was barely holding back something dangerous.

“You think she’s just going to drop it?” Azzi continued, stepping forward, forcing Paige back against the streetlight’s cold glow. “She’s smart, Paige. Too smart. She’s already put it together, and you just stood there and let her.”

Paige clenched her jaw, trying to keep her breathing steady, even though she didn’t need to breathe. “She didn’t run.”

Azzi froze.

And for a moment, something flashed in her expression—something almost like…

Fear.

“That’s the problem,” Azzi muttered, running a hand over her face.

Paige didn’t respond.

Because she already knew.

Y/N should have run.

She should have turned away and never looked back.

But she hadn’t.

And now, that meant something dangerous.

Azzi shook her head. “You have to end this.”

Paige stiffened. “What?”

“You have to,” Azzi repeated, voice quieter now, but heavier. “Before someone else finds out.”

Paige’s stomach dropped.

Because she knew exactly what Azzi meant.

This wasn’t just about them anymore.

This was about the others.

The ones who wouldn’t hesitate.

The ones who would see Y/N as a loose end, as a threat, as prey.

Paige’s throat felt tight. “She’s not in danger—”

“Yes, she is,” Azzi cut in, voice sharp. “Because you made her important.”

Paige swallowed hard, but it didn’t help the sinking feeling in her chest.

“I’ll handle it,” she murmured.

Azzi didn’t look convinced.

But she didn’t argue.

She just gave Paige one last unreadable glance, then turned and disappeared into the night.

Paige stood there for a long time, staring at the empty street.

At Y/N’s building.

At the single, dimly lit window on the third floor.

She didn’t move until the light went out.

And even then, she still couldn’t convince herself to walk away.

Because she knew the truth.

She wasn’t going to let Y/N go.

Even if it destroyed them both.

#🧛🏻‍♀️— blood moon #paige bueckers x fem!reader #paige bueckers x y/n #paige buckets #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #wlw angst #wlw fluff #wlw fiction #wlw yearning #wlw blog #wlw #princess diary ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚#lesbian

173 notes · View notes

sightseertrespasser · 2 months ago

Text

Odds of Survival Part 5

Customer Service Prowl.

Credit to @keferon for creating the tf mecha AU!

———————————————————————

The door behind the tactician hissed shut, isolating him from the outside world.

Prowl had a short walk, 11.2 clicks, to the communications terminal. He took exactly as long as was necessary. Not a click sooner.

Injury warning messages were manually silenced. He’d neglected his own self repair for lower priority tasks before. This was no different.

Shutting Tacnet off from working on the Jazz Mystery was a greater struggle. It’d been so long since Prowl had gotten to work through a puzzle like this, it had him booting up long dormant scripts he hadn’t used since working as a detective. The mental stretching warmed him up. It felt good. But it wasn’t what was currently required of him. He shut off that branch of his processor too.

Tactical estimates only.

For now.

Like packing up his room, Prowl “got into uniform”.

Optic hue shifted to within the parameters of the socially accepted spectrum.

Doorwings lifted high and almost pressed together, neither spread out in intimidation nor lowered in submission.

Helm tiled forward 24 degrees to cast the maximum level of shadow over his features while not obscuring vision.

Prowl reached the terminal like a silent storm.

He nodded the minimum angle required to be interpreted as bowing for the manifestation of War resolving on the screen.

“Lord Megatron.”

He glared from beneath his chevron, pricks of light in a darkened room.

“What are your demands?”

———————————

The course of action Megatron required tactical support for was frankly amateur. The solution incredibly simple.

Sentinel Prime had once more prodded the leader of the revolution into a vengeful fury, so now Megatron wanted to, of course, retaliate violently.

The correct course of action was to not engage.

It was clearly a trap designed to whittle away their limited resources, which would have been idiotic even if the Quintessons were not a factor in the equation. Since they were however, it lowered Prowls opinion of both leaders even further that they’d even considered reigniting the civil war at a time like this.

No, what truly challenged Prowls strategic prowess wasn’t the request itself, but how to tell Megatron “That is an idiotic idea and how dare you expect me to entertain it.”

The trick, after much trial and error, was to not tell him at all.

“There are 24 optimal targets for a retaliatory attack Lord Megatron. 8 of which would yield material gain if taken and 3 of which would yield additional territory.”

All three of the territorial land grabs overlapped with the material gains category. However, when phrased correctly, it both implied even more options for Megatron to pick through and forced him to choose from plans Prowl had decided in advance.

Megatron gave the illusion of consideration.

He selected the land grab options, for the obvious purpose of irking the standing Prime. It took one to know one and megalomaniacs despised having their property made smaller. Stolen goods were numbers on a page. A map was a picture of what was lost.

“Very well. For the most expedient retaliatory strike, the mining depot on ES 9-B33 will be ideal for your conquering.”

Prowl had the mining depot mission lined up for close to a vorn. It was on the edge of Cybertronian territory, minimally guarded and would provide the Decepticons with a cache of ever needed raw materials. And while it was a great boon for their small faction, to the sprawling colonial power of Cybertron, it was hardly worth notice.

Which meant Sentinel and the Functionalist government shouldn’t waste resources on restarting the Civil war (66%).

Megatron, satisfied in his ignorance, ordered Prowl to draw up the assault plans immediately.

Prowl was sorely tempted to tell the deception to “do it himself” and not just to get him out of the picture for a time.

It was a very rare thing for Tacnet to come up with 100% certainty. However, Prowl could say, with terrible absolute certainty, that nothing short of a true Prime, or maybe an exploding star, could take Megatron in a fight.

The mech had forced Prowl to reset his parameters of what a cybertronian could physically survive no less than 13 times. At least 5 of those being assassination attempts from Starscream, whose preferred method of execution was “beyond all reasonable restraint.”

Until further notice, Megatron was an immovable piece of the board that required skillful circumvention.

“The plan will be drafted in 4 breems Lord Megatron.” Prowl dipped his helm and did not break eye contact until the screen went dark.

Prowl connected to the communications system, pinging Soundwave for the most recent updates on ES 9-B33, layering the new information over his original outline.

Once received, it required only a fractional amount of processing power to run through which decepticons were available for action, filter out those not suited for the job and sort the minutiae of coordinating supply ships to reroute to arrive at the depot as the assault team would be wrapping up.

Will softened by boredom, temptation won out and Prowl turned the bulk his processing power to Jazz.

Details laid out plainly, it painted a concerning picture.

Jazz was a highly skilled combatant, he solely exists to kill Quintessons by his own admission.

And he loves music.

Jazz speaks a language neither Prowl nor Bluestreak have ever encountered, Jazz himself having never interacted with Common, let alone standard Cybertronian.

Jazz was exceptionally sociable, even going as far as to try and play card games with hostile organics. Yet even pressed chassis to chassis, not once did Prowl detect an EM field.

And he’s a shameless flirt.

Jazz had many unusual physical attributes, such as abnormal ranges of motion, multi jointed legs, and in spite of all his injuries, Prowl hadn’t seen so much as a drop of energon.

Jazz possessed a disturbingly high pain tolerance, and was at best accustomed to substandard medical treatment, if not outright abuse.

And he’s never felt a kind touch before.

When Bluestreak had asked about him, Prowl had told his brother that Jazz was an alien mechanical lifeform and to not harass him unnecessarily. Between his physical bizarreness and lack of common knowledge among cybertronians, it was a natural conclusion.

But something hadn’t been quite right ever since Prowl had rescued the mech. There was this nagging inconsistency with Jazz’s behavior.

He was very curious about Prowl, yet seemed far more in awe of the other alien life forms and ships they’d been traveling with. There was also the immediate (and somewhat overwhelming) familiarity with which Jazz conducted himself around Prowl.

It was almost as if…

Jazz doesn’t consider Prowl to be alien (88%).

If he thinks Prowl is the same species as him, then would that mean Jazz doesn’t realize he’s the alien?

Unless.

An alternate, unpleasant theory began to weave.

Unless Jazz isn’t an alien at all.

Prowl finished the assault plan and sent it with a harsh hand. Re-opening his comms to the backlog of messages from Bluestreak, he scrolled back to something his brother had said when he’d been repairing Jazz’s visor.

BLUESTREAK: [WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF.]

Too far.

PROWL: [Please do not comment aloud.]

BLUESTREAK: [Is he really fully in recharge? Just like that?]

PROWL: [No. Jazz is still conscious. He’s not completely limp either just… very sedated.]

BLUESTREAK: [Just from holding his face? C’mon Prowl, that’s weird. This is weird. You found a weird, weird mech who definitely has a thing for you.]

PROWL: [He does not have a “thing” for me.]

BLUESTREAK: [Oh yeah? What are you getting from his EM field then?]

PROWL: [Nothing. He doesn’t have an EM field Bluestreak. Jazz is an alien and likely doesn’t have all the same traits as a cybertronian.]

BLUESTREAK: [Are you sure? I mean, the anesthetic worked fine. And he looks pretty cybertronian to me.]

BLUESTREAK: [Maybe he has field atrophy? You had that once. I couldn’t feel you even if I was touching you.]

That was when Prowl had been apart of the decepticon High Command. He’d spent multiple Vorn isolating himself, doing nothing but churning through battle plans and inventory logs and reconnaissance reports with little rest. Then there was the first time he crashed.

A minor setback at first. Almost immediately Prowl went back to work. Over and over again, he’d bypass previous limitations of the decepticon military. With each success, the bar was placed a little higher, with is successive crash, the recovery took a little longer.

There were always improvements to be made. He’d long moved on from the most needed structural changes to continuously finer tuned modifications to how the entire faction operated. He sharpened Megatrons rebellion scrap into keen edged blades.

Prowl did anything for the edge.

Even down to the smallest percent.

Even down to the smallest decimal point of a percent.

At Prowls worse, when he had just started to tip over to spending the majority (51%) of his waking time in recovery from continuous Crashes, he had come up with a strategy that would give the decepticons a 0.04% advantage in the long run against the Quintessons.

Repairing critically damaged ships was not cost effective. If a ship’s structural integrity fell beneath 14%, Prowl had instituted a script to cause the ship to self destruct. Therefore causing maximum damage to surrounding attackers in a final blow.

Prowl stared at his reflection in the black glass.

You couldn’t see the break in his nose anymore, Smokescreen had punched him in the medbay so it was fixed fairly quickly.

0.04%

Bluestreak was stuck in the medbay for a quarter of a Vorn.

Prowl straightened, optics returning to his default blue. The injury warning messages eeked back into his processor, causing his doorwings to shake briefly before Prowl allowed them to drop.

If the Functionalists had someone like him in their employ, then Jazz may not be an alien at all.

———————————————————————

To all the folks who picked up on the clues, good job! There’s no Optimus and there’s no Autobots. Yet.

There’s more to how Prowl got into his current situation later and I’m sure Jazz will be “totally cool” with Prowls past life choices. And current life choices. And general sense of ethics.

Bluestreak knows Prowl’s responsible for blowing him up and uses it to blackmail him constantly once their relationship got better again.

(Cybertronian timescales are weird, but a Vorn is basically a “year” for them, and fifty years for a human. A breem is pretty consistently 8 minutes.)

-SSTP

#ye #writing #tf mecha universe

170 notes · View notes

qu1cks1lversb1tch · 3 months ago

Text

@batboysappreciationweek Day Two — Jan 13th

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 647

“Now, now, boys — settle down. Dinner is almost ready.”

Azriel was the first to listen to the soft warning of Rhysand's mother, slipping out of the tangle of tossed limbs, drifting towards the figure perched on the counter, watching the roughhousing with amusement sparkling in her gaze like starlight.

You.

Cassian and Rhysand seemed none the wiser, hurling teasing insults, slaps and punches like there wasn't a world outside of their jesting.

You sighed softly, noticing Rhysand's mom was about to speak again, undoubtedly to tell the two Illyrians that they needed to stop.

“Don't.” Azriel whispered as you reached for an apple in a bowl on the counter, fingers wrapping firmly around the ripened fruit as you examined the intensity. Fresh. Red with yellow backgrounds. Firm. Perfect.

“I'm not doing anything.” You mumbled with your gaze already locked on the target.

He spoke lowly using your nickname, but it was already too late.

Your arm reeled back before launching the projectile fruit right at Rhysand's back. It hit with a thud and he yelped in surprise and slight pain, immediately ending the roughhousing with Cassian.

Rhys whipped his head around, his narrowed violet gaze landing on you. “What was that for!?”

You hummed nonchalantly and shrugged. “Your mom says dinner's almost ready. You weren't listening. . . So I took matters into my own hands.”

Cassian barked out a loud laugh, grabbing the apple off of the ground. He tossed it back over and you caught it easily, shadows coiling around your arm like a gentle caress.

“You didn't have to throw it at me.” Rhysand huffed. “I'm your future High Lord, you know?”

You raised your eyebrows and snorted. You knew, of course, that he was right. “Ooh, I'm so scared.” You murmured mockingly, sliding off of the counter.

“You—”

“— Rhysand.” His mother said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He huffed in annoyance, grumbling under his breath as he shot a glare — which was apparently supposed to be intimidating — in your direction. His mother guided him towards his seat at the table, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at you momentarily.

“I hope all of you are hungry.” She hummed softly, her gaze drifting over the three Illyrian males and you, before she stepped into the kitchen.

The scent of soup and fresh bread drifted through the house, bringing a sense of almost mundane normalcy that was nice after a long day of training. . . Or watching a bunch of Illyrian powerhouses train from the comfort of a tree.

It was between the scents and general cozy atmosphere that made the house feel like home. Everything outside of those four walls disappeared at the end of the day. There were no war camps. There were no wars. There was nothing but four kids, and a woman who loved them all.

Rhysand's mother handed you the small wicker basket full of rolls, lined with a clean cloth and you walked it over to the table — and like clockwork, Cassian ruffled your hair and took a roll right off the top before the small basket could even touch the table.

“Cass!” You hissed, swatting at his hands and arms.

He practically scarfed it down, hoping no one would notice, but Rhysand's mother always did. She chuckled quietly from the kitchen as she began ladling soup into bowls.

She carried the bowls in two at a time, until she brought her own in, sitting at the rounded table with all the young fae sitting around her.

The meal passed by with stories from the day and compliments on the cooking — as usual.

Laughter was contained within those four walls, along with a brief argument over who would get the last dinner roll (you and Cassian were forced to split it in half and be civil). . . It was peaceful. It felt like home.

197 notes · View notes

trulyradicalactivist · 3 months ago

Text

My name is Act. I use She/They/It/Neo pronouns. I have been a radqueer since the original coming, and a part of the pro-para and proship communities before that. This is not a usual pinned post. This is a letter to my community. This blog is designed to support, uplift, and announce all forms of activism for our community and encourage each one of you to begin the revolution. For our identities, for our pride, and for our loved ones.

My call to action is under the cut. I ask you to take the time to read it. Thank you.

For too long, we’ve lived in the shadows of a world that dismisses, marginalizes, and oppresses us. Many wouldn't say oppression. Many downplay what we go through, saying that we’re just trolls taking up minimal space in the digital era. But we have been oppressed. In our own spaces, we’ve had civil wars, fighting over one thing or another, specifically designed to divide us! In spaces beyond our community, we’ve faced not only hostility, but outright discrimination. Told to kill ourselves by cowards who hide behind anonymity, many people who simply desired to be themselves, driven to suicide. Are you not angry? Are you not driven to the brink by what these people have done to us, justified by hatred and misinformation? I'm angry!

We’ve carried the weight of a world that refuses to see us for who we are, and we’ve endured the pain of invisibility and injustice. I refuse to accept that the identities in this community will endure that pain any longer. No more.

This is a call to every single one of you. Whether you’ve been part of this community for years or you’re just now finding your voice, know this: you are not alone. Our strength lies in our connection, our shared experiences, and our collective will to change the minds of people who hate us, to educate, to bring a new era of peace where radqueer is the norm. Everyone thinks the future is radqueer, and I agree, but to make it that way, it takes a community willing to change the present.

We need community and we need action. Not later, not tomorrow, not yesterday, the time hasn't passed and it isn't coming towards us. The time is now.

In the digital age, our voices can and do echo across the world. Activism is not just a tool; it’s a lifeline. It’s where we educate, organize, and amplify. Share your stories, challenge injustice, and build networks of solidarity. Every post, every comment, every shared resource matters. Together, we can flood people’s minds with truth and resistance. We can make a new tomorrow.

But I also recognize the power of individual action, even in isolation. Real life protest does not always mean marching in the streets; it can mean standing firm in your truth, no matter where you are. Writing “radqueer is the future” on a desk, on a bathroom wall. Scattering posters, flyers, stickers in the streets, putting them on benches in parks or sticking them into lamp posts.

Resistance is not a singular act—it’s a lifestyle. It’s choosing, every day, to reject the narratives that tell us we’re less than. It’s refusing to be silent in the face of oppression. It’s demanding change, even when the odds seem insurmountable, and believe me, they certainly seem impossible, but I promise you. They aren't. We have done this before, we will do it again, and again, and again, until we need not fight anymore.

Let’s not forget why we fight. We fight for the right to exist as we are. We fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. We fight for future generations, so they won’t have to endure what we have. And most importantly, we fight because we believe in a world where justice and equality are not ideals but realities.

So, here’s what I ask of you. A few actions, if nothing else.

Be loud. Use your platform, no matter how small, to speak out. Share resources or even create them, talk about your stories, and call others to action. Scream from the rooftops who you are, what you live for, what you fight for.

Be relentless. Don’t let apathy or exhaustion silence you. Take breaks when you need them, but never lose sight of the goal. I know. I know people who hate us break you down, try to make you tired, ruin your mental health. Take breaks. Always take that time for yourself. But a fight waits for nobody, so feel in your heart, even while you aren't fighting, we are. We’re fighting for you.

Be united. This community has shown itself to be a magnet for division, but do you expect to fight while shooting at those fighting with you? Differences in belief aside, differences in opinion on the future, what should be, what shouldn't be, who shouldn't and who should, put them away. We can come back to discuss those when the future isn't against us, when the enemy has laid to rest and we have made a life with them, where they do not want us dead or wish harm upon us. But for now, they do. Together, we are stronger than any force that seeks to divide us, so put away your issues with the person beside you and find that two make a better fight than one ever could.

Be bold. Challenge the status quo, whether it’s online, in your workplace, or in your personal relationships. Change starts with discomfort, and progress begins when we confront what’s wrong. A picrew says radqueer’s aren't allowed to use it? Use it. Make it your profile picture. Do it with flags. Identities. Terms. Pictures. Anything that says you, because of your identity and your beliefs, aren't allowed to use it. Anything that wants to oppress you. Do not accept it.

This is our moment. This is our fight. And we will not stop until the world hears us, sees us, and respects us. I will fight. I will fight for you, for this community, for all of us with identities we cannot share for fear of our income, our lives, our safety.

Justice is what I fight for. What do you fight for? Your family, your friends, the people you love? The right and ability to be yourself? To express yourself the way you desire to? To have the right to change your race, age, gender, species, anything at all, in the court of law? Do you fight for anarchy, for revolution, to tear down the status quo? Then fight.

The revolution begins with us—and it begins now.

167 notes · View notes

midnight-bay-if · 1 year ago

Text

“Silence settles the waters of the midnight bay; death’s hand reaches, bids you stay…”

Death haunts the people of Albach Bay. For fifteen years, 'The Bay Slasher' has stalked the streets, preying on victims with no apparent goal or motive. You were seven years old when you witnessed the murder of the Slasher's first victim—your own father. Impatience swallowed your childhood, desperate to come of age and solve the case that has left the local police department stumped.

You will have your revenge.

"Every day I miss him, and every day I’m scared that I’ll miss him less. That one day, I’ll wake up, and I won’t remember how his hair would stick up in odd angles in the morning or how black he liked his coffee. That the bedtime stories he would read me before bed no longer guide my morals nor parse their wisdom in his voice..."

"If you ask me why I still seek revenge, this is what I'll say: I will not forget."

Let's kill the killer.

Demo: Out Now (82,000+) | Ko-Fi | Forum | Patreon

Simon/Simone [f/m] Task Force Leader. Human Simon/Simone Selby comes from a wealthy family with a long government service and civil partnerships history. Selby is somewhat of a black sheep and is estranged from a large portion of their family. After a bout of teenage rebellion, they found themselves enlisted in the military to ‘correct’ their behaviour. However, with a penchant for leadership and a tactician's mind, they are recruited by a strange, secretive organisation instead.

After two more victims of 'The Bay Slasher' are found discarded on the bay, Selby drives themselves and their team into town, on orders from their mysterious higher-ups, ready to put away this killer for good. But cases such as these are never simple, and even more so with a far too clever and far too perceptive P.I. hot on their heels.

Rain [non-binary] The Mediator. Supernatural type; Pixie Rain grew up in a very wet biome of the world associated with fairies, pixies and elementals. After a great conflict, Rain had little choice but to feel indebted to their benefactors... but such things always come with strings attached. At least Rain knows they can rely on their team leader, Selby.

When Rain is told they will be going to the practically derelict town of Albach Bay to catch a dangerous killer, they shrug, smile, and pack their bags without a second thought. It doesn't take long for them to realise this isn't a typical case, even by their standards.

Taj [f/m] The Infiltrator. Supernatural type: Qita Taj is part of an ever-shrinking community hidden well in the Egyptian underbellies. Qita are a humanoid cat race native to Egypt and were once revered by humans at the dawn of their civilisation. However, that reverence began to fizzle out when foreign, other-worldly invaders decided they held far too much influence over the populace and ran them underground.

After a great conflict, Taj is captured and 'recruited' to join a mysterious organisation dedicated to maintaining balance. Taj is uncooperative, argumentative, and hot-headed... but Selby soon earns their respect. But that doesn't mean he's going to start following orders blindly... Especially if it means being forced into human territories to save human victims.

Nazu/Naera [f/m] Supernatural type: Demon Nazu/Naera is a demon prince/princess from Hael. A respected chieftain and leader to some, and a dangerous war criminal to others, their great power was muzzled as punishment for the part they played in war. Never one to settle for what others think they deserve, they broke free from their prison to locate the remnants of power that were grossly stolen from them.

Their search has lasted more than a decade, but now... Now, they find themselves in a small, human town where sin oozes from every shadow, beckoning every passerby to partake in its debauchery. To top it off? They can hear their power singing to them. It's close. Heh... They might even end up liking it here.

Umbra [f/m] Supernatural type: ??? Umbra is an anomaly. Nothing about them is real. None of it should exist. Every facet of their being has been strung together out of sheer will and barely held together by a thread. One wrong touch and they may fall apart, like unravelling a ball of yarn or pulling apart a puppet on a string.

So, why? Why do they exist? Simple.

They exist for you.

RO's appearances:

Simon: Broad-shouldered, athletic build with reasonably short black hair and light warm skin. He has warm brown eyes hidden behind fashionable square frames and is often wearing tailored suits designed to move in.

Simone: Athletic build with long black hair (typically pinned up) and light, warm skin. She has warm brown eyes hidden behind fashionable square frames and is often wearing tailored suits designed to move in.

Rain: They have a slim, petite build with flawless tawny skin, which is amplified by their pale blue hair and matching pale eyes. They tend to opt for a more colourful wardrobe in the pastel range.

Taj (male): He has a lean build, golden brown skin, and dark, curly brown hair that tends to have a mind of its own. His ears and tail are matching brown, reminiscent of a Havana Brown cat. (He keeps them hidden underneath his clothes, which are often oversized to hide this face.) He also has very serious grey eyes and numerous scars marking his body.

Taj (female): She has a lean build, golden brown skin, and dark curly brown hair that tends to have a mind of its own. Her ears and tail are a matching brown, reminiscent of a Havana Brown cat. (She keeps them hidden underneath her clothes.) She also has very serious grey eyes and numerous scars marking her body.

Nazu: (As a human)He is very built with dark skin, which ensures his almost luminescent amber eyes stand out. His long, dark dreads are usually pulled up in a bun. Nazu tends to opt for clothes designed to tantalise, as well as show off the hair dusting his chest and arms.

When in his usual form, he also has large horns that curl out of his head, with a more reddish hue to his dark skin. Plus, the whites of his eyes will turn black.

Naera: (As a human) She is very curvy, opting instead to amplify her femininity in human form. Her dark skin ensures her luminescent amber eyes stand out. Her long, dark hair is in tight braids that flow down her back. Naera will opt for clothing designed to tantalise, teasing her assets in a flirty way.

When in her usual form, her horns curl out of her head, with a reddish hue to her dark skin. Plus, the whites of her eyes will turn black.

Umbra (male): Tall and lean build with black shoulder-length hair that contrasts against his pale, almost ghostly skin. He tends to have dark circles under his equally black eyes, as well as a deep scar cut through his left brow. His clothing usually consists of a black leather jacket, black pants and black combat boots.

Umbra (female): Tall and slim build with long black hair, half up in a pony, that contrasts against her pale, almost ghostly skin. She tends to have dark circles under her equally black eyes, as well as a deep scar cut through her left brow. Her clothing usually includes a black leather jacket, plaid skirt and black combat boots.

An urban fantasy/romance IF based in the fictional town of 'Albach Bay'.

Customise your private investigator: choose name, gender, appearance, sexuality, skill set and personality.

Play as male, female, or non-binary: straight, gay, bisexual, pansexual, as well as aromantic, asexual, or aro-ace.

Late 90s setting with limited technology, so be prepared to wait ten minutes for your PC to boot up.

My intention is to avoid 'game over' screens. There are no wrong answers in this game, and a "failure" is just another route.

5 main companions to befriend or romance, each with their own personalities and stories to tell.

Collect evidence in your notebook as you scour the dilapidated streets and beaches of Albach Bay for clues to finally catch your father's killer for good.

Revenge is best served cold.

Rated 18+

#themidnightbay #midnightbay-if #if #interactive fiction #interactive story #choicescript #dashingdon #if wip #if game #choose your own adventure #hosted games #cogdemos #cog demo

806 notes · View notes

andy-15-07 · 2 months ago

Note

could you write a pedro pascal x reader story about getting pedro a book he's been wanting for ages? like we see it at some library while out and buy it for him, as a little gift to show him some love. and he loves it, he'd been meaning to get that book for ages but never found it. and he's talking our ears off about it and we ask him to read it for us and he's super happy and ugh just bookworm pedro in love with books and with us 🥺🥰

Our Bookish Love Story

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 2673| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

“Y/N, you really know how to surprise me,” Pedro said, his eyes sparkling as we strolled side-by-side through the grand entrance of our favorite local library. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting playful patterns on the polished wooden floors. It was a Saturday afternoon—a day we both reserved for wandering among shelves laden with worlds waiting to be discovered.

I squeezed his hand gently. “I thought you’d appreciate a quiet escape today,” I replied with a smile. “Besides, I have something special planned.”

Pedro chuckled, running his fingers through his dark hair. “You always do, y/n. But I can’t help but wonder—what mystery have you uncovered this time?”

As we passed the literature section, I could see the excitement in his eyes. He was a self-proclaimed bookworm, endlessly fascinated by stories that whisked him away from the ordinary. Over the years, I’d grown to love how his face lit up when discussing a well-crafted narrative. Today, however, there was an extra gleam of anticipation in his gaze—a secret he’d been holding for ages.

“Remember how I’ve been going on about that book?” Pedro began, almost in a whisper as we paused near an ornate shelf lined with classics. “The one I’ve been searching for forever?”

I smiled knowingly. “You mean The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón?”

His eyes widened, and his voice turned reverent. “Yes! That very book—the one that’s been eluding me for ages. I’ve always dreamed of owning a pristine copy. Every time I see it referenced or hear someone mention it, I feel this inexplicable pull, like I’m meant to dive into its labyrinth of stories and mysteries.”

I stepped closer to the shelf, pretending to peruse the spines, but my heart was already set. “Then let’s find it,” I said softly, tugging him along. “I have a hunch that today might be your lucky day.”

Pedro’s smile widened, and he pulled me into a warm embrace. “Y/n, you’re a lifesaver,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve searched high and low in bookstores, on the internet, even in the most obscure corners of this city, but it always seems to slip through my fingers.”

Our conversation continued as we walked through the library, voices low and filled with shared excitement. I could see the passion in Pedro’s eyes as he recounted every detail he’d ever known about the book—its mysterious setting in post-Spanish Civil War Barcelona, the intricate plot woven through the alleys of memory and time, the haunting allure of characters who seemed to live on the page long after the book was closed.

“Every time I talk about it, I end up feeling like I’m sharing a piece of my soul,” Pedro confessed as we found a quiet nook by a large arched window. “I even have a favorite passage—I can recite it in my sleep. It’s not just a book for me; it’s a doorway to another world.”

I laughed softly. “Then tonight, you’ll open that door for both of us, won’t you?”

He grinned and nodded eagerly. “Absolutely. There’s nothing I’d love more than to share its magic with you.”

Our little conversation was interrupted by the sound of a librarian’s footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. We exchanged amused glances before continuing our quest through the maze of books. As we turned a corner near a display of new arrivals, my heart skipped a beat—there, nestled between a first edition of a beloved classic and a modern thriller, was a copy of The Shadow of the Wind. Its cover, a blend of deep blues and dusky grays, seemed to whisper secrets of mystery and passion.

“Pedro, look!” I exclaimed, pointing at the book with an excited sparkle in my eyes.

Pedro hurried over, his expression shifting from curiosity to unabashed delight as he reached for the book with trembling fingers. “Oh my God, y/n,” he breathed, holding the book as if it were a rare treasure. “I can’t believe it… I’ve been looking for this edition forever!”

He flipped through the pages reverently, his eyes glistening with tears of joy and nostalgia. “Every time I see this cover in my mind, I imagine the stories hidden within these pages, waiting to be unveiled. I’ve dreamed of a moment like this for so long.”

I wrapped an arm around his waist, sharing in his elation. “I knew it was meant to be,” I whispered. “I couldn’t let you go another day without it.”

The librarian approached, smiling kindly as she noticed our animated discussion. “That’s a wonderful choice,” she commented softly. “It’s one of our most sought-after editions. I hope it brings you as much joy as it has to others.”

Pedro thanked her warmly, and after a brief exchange about its rarity and literary significance, I insisted we purchase the book right then and there. “Come on, Pedro,” I said, tugging him gently. “Let’s head to the bookstore next door. I want you to take this home tonight.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the precious book. “Y/n, you have no idea how much this means to me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “This isn’t just a gift. It’s a piece of my heart, a long-awaited dream coming true.”

We left the library, the cool afternoon air enveloping us as we walked hand-in-hand toward our next destination. The bookstore was a charming, tucked-away haven with creaking wooden floors, cozy reading nooks, and the intoxicating scent of old paper and fresh ink. Inside, the soft glow of vintage lamps illuminated rows upon rows of literary wonders.

“Here we are,” I said, leading him to the counter. “I’d like to purchase this copy of The Shadow of the Wind, please.”

The shop owner, an elderly man with a gentle smile, took the book carefully from my hand. “An excellent choice,” he remarked, running his finger along the embossed title. “This edition is truly special—rare, indeed. It’s not every day that one finds such a treasure.”

Pedro’s eyes shone as he leaned in, almost reverently. “I’ve read countless reviews, heard endless tales of its magic, but never imagined I’d actually hold it. It’s like fate, y/n. Thank you for making this moment real.”

After the transaction was complete, we settled into a quiet corner of the bookstore, sinking into plush armchairs that seemed to have been waiting just for us. The world outside the shop faded away as Pedro carefully cradled the book, his fingers tracing its cover as if memorizing every line and curve.

“Y/n, may I read a little from it?” he asked, a note of eager anticipation in his voice.

I nodded, my heart swelling with love. “I’d love nothing more.”

Pedro cleared his throat gently, a playful glint in his eyes as he began to read aloud. His voice was soft at first, then gradually grew richer and more animated with each line. He recited a passage that described the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona, the echoes of forgotten voices, and the bittersweet dance between memory and desire. Every word was imbued with his passion—not just for the story, but for the art of reading itself.

“I’ve always believed that books are more than just words on a page,” he said, pausing to meet my eyes. “They’re living, breathing entities that hold our dreams, our fears, and our hopes. This book… it’s a portal to another time, another life. And every time I read it, I feel like I’m rediscovering a part of myself.”

I listened, utterly entranced by his delivery. “Pedro, you make it sound so magical,” I whispered. “Your love for literature is one of the many things that make you so incredible.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “And now, thanks to you, I can finally share that magic with you, too. It’s not often that someone understands just how deeply a story can touch your soul.”

The conversation flowed easily between us as we discussed the themes of the book, its intricate plot, and the way its characters mirrored our own struggles and dreams. Pedro’s enthusiasm was contagious—every time he mentioned a detail, his face lit up, and I found myself laughing and nodding along, caught up in the wonder of his words.

“Y/n,” he said between paragraphs, “do you ever feel that books are like old friends? They’re always there when you need them, offering comfort, wisdom, and even a bit of mischief?”

I smiled. “I do. I think every book holds a piece of who we are—like a secret diary written by the universe.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and inviting. “That’s exactly it. And tonight, with this book in my hands, I feel like I’m finally living the story I’ve always dreamed of.”

Time seemed to slip by as Pedro continued to read, his voice filling the cozy space with the sound of whispered adventures and timeless romance. I couldn’t help but lean in closer, captivated not only by his words but by the sheer joy radiating from him. In that moment, we were more than just two people in love with literature—we were two souls united by the magic of storytelling.

After he finished reading the selected passage, Pedro closed the book gently and looked at me with eyes that shimmered with affection. “What do you think?” he asked softly. “Do you feel it too—the pull of a story that promises to change us?”

I reached out, placing my hand over his. “Every word you read made me feel like I was right there with you,” I said, my voice tender. “I love that about you, Pedro—the way you make everything come alive, the way you share your heart through these stories.”

He leaned in and kissed my hand gently. “Thank you, y/n. For understanding me, for loving me—and for giving me this incredible gift. This isn’t just a book—it’s a symbol of everything we share: our passion, our dreams, and the unspoken promise that we’ll always have each other to lean on.”

As the afternoon light began to fade, we left the bookstore hand-in-hand, the treasured book tucked safely under Pedro’s arm. On our walk home, our conversation turned to our future, to other stories we’d chase together, and to the quiet moments of joy that came from sharing the simple pleasures of life.

That evening, back in the comfort of our shared apartment, Pedro set the book on the coffee table and turned to me with a playful glint in his eyes. “Y/n, now that you’ve given me this amazing gift, there’s only one thing left to do,” he declared.

I raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

He sat down beside me on the couch, the book open on his lap as he looked up at me with sincere intensity. “I want to read it to you. Not just the passages I love, but the whole story—from beginning to end. I want you to experience every twist, every secret, every moment that has captivated my heart for so long.”

I felt a warm rush of affection and excitement. “I’d love that, Pedro,” I replied. “Curl up with me and read aloud. Let your voice be the soundtrack of our evening.”

He grinned widely, settling in comfortably as he adjusted the book. “All right then. Let’s begin our own little adventure,” he said, his tone brimming with anticipation.

For the next few hours, our living room transformed into a private sanctuary of whispered words and shared dreams. Pedro’s rich voice filled the room as he read aloud, pausing occasionally to explain a line or to share an anecdote about the book’s creation. Every now and then, he would look up at me, his eyes sparkling as if the pages held a secret that only we could understand.

“Did you know, y/n,” he said at one point, “that Carlos Ruiz Zafón wrote this book as a tribute to the magic of storytelling? He believed that every reader carries a universe within them, waiting to be ignited by the right words.”

I nodded, completely entranced. “That’s so beautiful,” I murmured. “I think every time you read it, you remind me just how much passion you have for the art of literature.”

Pedro’s smile softened, and he continued, “Every time I read, I imagine a world where every book is a doorway. And tonight, you’ve opened a door for me—a door into a realm of love, hope, and endless adventure.”

As the night wore on, our conversation wove in and out of the narrative. We laughed over shared insights, debated interpretations of ambiguous lines, and even recited favorite quotes back and forth. It was as if the book had not only brought Pedro immense joy, but had also deepened the connection between us.

“I could listen to you read forever,” I confessed during a quiet moment, nestled close as he turned the page. “Your voice, your passion—it makes the words dance. I love you even more for it.”

Pedro’s eyes met mine, soft and sincere. “And I love you for believing in me, for cherishing these moments, and for always understanding that sometimes the greatest gift isn’t the object itself but the love and care behind it.”

When the final chapter finally drew to a close, we sat in silence for a while, letting the last echoes of Pedro’s reading fade into the gentle hum of the night. The book lay open on his lap—a symbol of our shared journey, a testament to the way a simple act of love can transform an ordinary day into something magical.

Breaking the silence, I whispered, “Thank you, Pedro. For everything—the book, your passion, and most of all, for making me feel like I’m part of your world.”

He pulled me into a warm embrace, his voice husky with emotion. “Thank you, y/n. I promise that every time I open this book, I’ll remember today. I’ll remember the gift of love that you gave me—not just in the form of a book, but in the way you make my heart feel full.”

We spent the rest of the night curled up together, the pages of The Shadow of the Wind scattered like confetti around us, each one a reminder of our shared adventure in literature and life. In that quiet space, where words and love intermingled, we found that our relationship was built not just on romance, but on a deep, abiding passion for the stories that shape us.

Over the following weeks, that day at the library and bookstore became one of our favorite memories—a chapter in our own story that we often revisited. Pedro would occasionally pick up the book, his eyes lighting up as he recounted that magical afternoon. And I, ever grateful for the moment I had found that treasured edition, would smile and say, “It was just the beginning of our novel gift—a story that continues to write itself with every day we share.”

One rainy afternoon, as we sat together by a window with rain tapping softly against the glass, Pedro turned to me with that familiar glint in his eyes. “Y/n, what do you think our next adventure should be?” he asked, his voice a gentle blend of curiosity and excitement.

I laughed softly, “Maybe we’ll find another book that changes everything. Or maybe we’ll write our own story—one chapter at a time.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Either way, as long as I have you by my side, I know it will be a story worth telling.”

And so, our bookish love story continued—a narrative woven with passion, dialogue, and the shared magic of literature. Every new book became a shared journey, every page a testament to our bond, and every whispered word a promise that no matter what stories lay ahead, we would always have each other.

Because in the end, it wasn’t just about finding that one elusive book—it was about discovering that the greatest adventure of all was the love we nurtured every single day.

101 notes · View notes